The Get Over Read Online Free Page B

A lot of people do one thing or another, but Twig was interesting because he did a lot of stuff. We both played ball, he liked to draw, I liked writing, and we both tried out for the tennis team. Twig made the team and I didn’t, but I practiced with him. We were nine when we met and now we’re both sixteen and we’re still best friends.
    Twig can run. He isn’t much of a sprinter, but he started running the 800 in middle school and moved up to the mile and cross-country in high school. He can run really long distances, and over the summer he ran an open cross-country race against people of all ages. He came in third even though some of the men in the race were in college. Mr. Day, Phoenix’s track coach, was knocked out by Twig’s running and asked him to join the track team. They were going to mention him at the assembly, and I was happy about that.
    â€œBefore I begin talking about our expectations for the new year,” Mrs. Nixon, our principal, started, “I would like Mr. Day, our athletic director, to say a few words.”
    Mr. Day was about fifty, balding, and walked with his shoulders hunched. He was supposed to be half black and half white, but he just talked and acted like a black dude. He came out and started talking about how good the Frederick Douglass Academy teams were and everybody started booing. Frederick Douglass Academy, or FDA, was our biggest rival in just about everything. The fact was, they had got some kind of athletic grant from the city and thought they were special. Anyway, after the booing died down, Mr. Day spoke.
    â€œWe’ve always done well against FDA in track and field,” he said. “We were always neck and neck with them in total point scores, but in the years we were edged out, it was always in the distance races. This year, we are adding a very good young distance runner to our squad, Manuel Fernandez. Manuel, please stand up.”
    Twig stood up and almost everybody gave him a hand. Everybody but Midnight and Tall Boy. Both of them put their hands over their mouths and laughed.
    Why does laughing replace so much for some people? If something wasn’t funny, why were they laughing? It was as if they could somehow make things less important, or people less important, by just laughing at them. Could I write a poem about Tall Boy? How would I avoid the clichés? How would I avoid such adjectives as stupid and gross ? What could I say on Tall Boy’s level that he would understand?
    When Twig sat down, Midnight started kicking the back of his chair again. It really made me mad, but I knew I couldn’t beat Midnight in a fight. Neither could Twig.
    Mrs. Nixon’s talk was all right—how she expected each of us to do our best and how she knew how good our best was. I was just happy with Mr. Day for having Twig stand up.
    If you knew Twig, you would like him. Even if you just met him, you would think he was okay. He looks like an average kid until he smiles, and then his whole face lights up and you just want to smile with him. Twig is two inches shorter than me. He’s five eight and a half and I’m five ten and a half. He’s thin, with light tan skin, dark hair and eyes, and a wide smile that makes him seem always pleased with something. My mom says he would have made a pretty girl. He told me that when he was born, he was premature.
    â€œMy mom said she was expecting me in October and I came along in August,” he said. “I guess I couldn’t wait.”
    â€œYou didn’t have anything to do with it,” I said. “It’s like . . . nature or something.”
    â€œToo many people are born in October, anyway,” Twig said. “You don’t hear about a lot of people being born in August.”
    â€œI saw Midnight and Tall Boy kicking your chair in assembly,” I said.
    â€œThey don’t bother me.” Twig’s voice was low as he looked away.
    â€œThey bother