Stupid Fast

Chapter 33: MUSCLEY BARBARIAN




Oh my God. It’s 5 a.m. There’s every possibility that Grandma is going to wake up and find me awake and then give me the business about not going to sleep. Like I’m trying to stay awake. I’m not!

I’m very muscley.

Very bruised but very muscley.

I worked so freaking hard!

Because if I wasn’t running the big M, I ran pass patterns with Cody. If I wasn’t running pass patterns or running the big M, I lifted weights, getting closer and closer to the school record maxes that jerk Ken Johnson set for all backs and receivers. My shirts got super tight. My stomach muscles got ripply. Extremely muscley, like a barbarian.

Toward the end of the second week of July, Coach Johnson said, “Reinstein, you’re putting on weight. Not fat, son. Don’t worry about that. You’ve got no fat. You’re carrying a lot more muscle though. Let’s get you on the scale.”

Cody, Karpinski, and I all followed Coach down the stairs from the weight room to the locker room. Down there, I pulled off my shoes and T-shirt and got on the scale. Coach adjusted the measures, sliding the stuff around. When it all balanced, the little arrow pointed at 182.

“Yes, sir!” Coach said. “What that’s? Fifteen pounds in a month? Fourteen pounds? Big.”

“You’re going to be 185 by your birthday party,” Cody said.

Then Karpinski said, “Too bad your…”

“Not in my locker room, Karpinski,” Coach said.

“Is so tiny and useless,” Karpinski whispered.

“Shut up, FishButt,” I said like Arnold Schwarzenegger, “or I’ll break you in half.”

Barbarian!