Sleeping Freshmen Never Lie

Scott Hudson’s High School Survival Tips

* Keep away from seniors.

* Keep away from juniors.

* It’s probably a good idea to avoid sophomores, too, since most of them seem to want revenge for what happened when they were freshmen.

* Don’t ever kneel. Especially if there are big kids around.

* Never wear a dorky hat. Especially if there are big kids around.

* Don’t carry your books under your arm in a crowded hall.

* Try to avoid the bus, even if it means catching a ride from a stranger with a chain saw.

* If you’re friends with a girl in kindergarten, try to stay friends with her when you get older because otherwise she might forget she ever knew you, and she might get so drop-dead gorgeous you don’t have the guts to remind her that you once shared a pack of peanut-butter crackers.

* If you’re going to break something, a nose is probably better than an arm, since it heals faster and it makes you look tough.

SPEAK

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Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published in the United States of America by Dutton Children’s Books,

a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2005

Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2007

11 13 15 17 19 20 18 16 14 12

Copyright © David Lubar, 2005

All rights reserved

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED

THE DUTTON CHILDREN’S BOOKS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

Lubar, David.

Sleeping freshmen never lie / by David Lubar.—1st ed.

p. cm.

Summary: While navigating his first year of high school and awaiting the birth of his new baby brother, Scott loses old friends and gains some unlikely new ones as he hones his skills as a writer.

ISBN: 0-525-47311-4 (hc)

[1. Self-confidence—Fiction.?2. Conduct of life—Fiction.?3. Interpersonal relations—Fiction.?4. Authorship—Fiction.?5. Brothers—Fiction.?6. High schools—Fiction.

7. Schools—Fiction.?8. Pennsylvania—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.L96775S1 2005

[Fic]—dc22 2004023067

Speak ISBN 978-0-14-240780-6

Designed by R. Lawrence Amari

Printed in the United States of America

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any
responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

For Walter Mayes,
a giant not just in size, but in heart and mind

My deepest thanks to Michele Coppola, who edited this book through three vastly different versions and talked me out of my foolhardy attempt to do the whole thing the wrong way; to Stephanie Owens Lurie, for taking a risk or two; to Doug Baldwin and Heather Baldwin, for honest and valuable feedback; to Andrea Mosbacher and Martin Karlow, for gentle and accurate copyediting; and to all those brilliant folks who tried to help me in the elusive hunt for the perfect title. And, oh yeah, thanks to my family, my cats, everyone who knows it’s okay to laugh while reading, and to all the good English teachers out there.

Sleeping
freshmen
never lie

W
e plunged toward the future without a clue. Tonight, we were four sweaty guys heading home from a day spent shooting hoops. Tomorrow, I couldn’t even guess what would happen. All I knew for sure was that our lives were about to change.

“Any idea what it’ll be like?” I asked. My mind kept flashing images of cattle. They shuffled up a ramp, unaware that their path led to a slaughterhouse.

“A
Tomb Raider
movie,” Patrick said. “Or
Indiana Jones.”

“It’ll be the same as always,” Kyle said. “Boring and stupid.”

Patrick shook his head. “Nope.
Tomb Raider
, for sure. We’ll get eaten alive if we aren’t careful, but we’ll be surrounded by amazing stuff.”

“Right. Amazing stuff,” Mitch said. He rubbed his hands together as if he were about to dive into a juicy burger. “High school girls. Hundreds of ‘em.”

“Like we have a chance with them,” Patrick said. “I heard the seniors snag all the hot girls.”

“Not when I’m around.” Kyle slicked his hair back with his right hand, then made a fist and flexed his biceps. “Girls melt when I get near them.”

“Mostly from the fumes,” Patrick said.

“What about the classes?” Tasked as Kyle shoved Patrick toward the curb. “Think they’ll be hard?”

“Who cares?” Mitch said. “You just have to show up and you’ll pass.”

We reached my house. Second from the corner on Willow Street. The guys lived on the other side of the neighborhood. I realized that the next time we saw one another, we’d be freshmen at J. P. Zenger High.

Freshmen
. Unbelievable. Fresh? Definitely. Men? Not a clue. I turned toward my friends.

“Bye,” Patrick said.

Mitch grunted a farewell. Kyle’s hand twitched in a lazy wave. I wanted to say something more meaningful than
See ya later
.

There they were, right in front of me—Kyle, who I’d known since kindergarten, Patrick, who I’d met in second grade, and Mitch, who’d moved here in sixth grade. We’d done everything together, all through middle school. The perfect words were so obvious, I couldn’t help smiling as I spoke. “One for all and all for one.”

The phrase was greeted with silence. Around us, I could hear the last crickets of summer chirping faintly. The crickets, too, seemed puzzled.

“One for all …” I said again.

Mitch frowned. “One for all what?”

“Is that like a Marines slogan?” Kyle asked.

“No, I think it’s on coins. It’s that Latin stuff, right?” Patrick said. “It’s
E Pluto Pup
something or other.”

“It’s from
The Three Musketeers
,” I told them. “It’s a famous book.”

Three pairs of eyes stared at me without a glimmer.

“There’s a movie, too,” I said. “These guys stuck together no matter what.”

Kyle looked around, tapped his thumb against the tip of each of his fingers, then said, “But there are four of us.”

“Absolutely. That’s what’s so perfect. There were four Musketeers, too.”

“That’s stupid,” Mitch said. “Somebody couldn’t count.”

“Well, anyhow, let’s stick together tomorrow,” I said.

“You bet,” Patrick said.

“For sure,” Mitch said.

“One for all and all for me,” Kyle said. He turned to go.

“See ya later,” I called as they walked off.

Mom and Dad were side by side on the living-room couch. The TV was on, but it didn’t look like they were watching it. They stopped talking when I walked in.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Hi, Scott,” Dad said. “You have fun with your friends?”

“Yeah.” I noticed his eyes kept shifting from me to Mom. “Is something going on?”

“Tomorrow’s the big day,” Mom said. “You must be excited.”

Now I got it. They were stressed out from worrying whether they were headed for another disaster, which was one of the milder ways to describe my brother Bobby’s high school experience.

“I’m sure I’ll do fine.” I could almost guarantee I wouldn’t skip history seventeen straight days in a row, get nabbed nine times for public displays of affection—with nine different girls—or pull off any of the other stunts that helped end Bobby’s high school experience half a year earlier than planned. “I’m really excited about school.”

“Good.” Mom smiled with way more joy than the situation seemed to call for. “Do you want me to make you a lunch? I bought your favorite rolls.”

“No.” I tried to hide my shudder as I imagined carrying a paper bag into the cafeteria. “Thanks.”

“I think he’d rather buy lunch,” Dad said.

I nodded, shot Dad a grateful look, and headed upstairs. I wanted to get my stuff ready, and they probably wanted to talk more about how there was nothing to worry about because I was different from Bobby.

Man, was that ever true. Bobby was almost as tall as Dad, good with tools, and strong enough to carry two sacks of concrete at once. Eighty pounds on one shoulder. That sort of load would snap my spine. Girls chased him like he was some kind of movie star. He’d gotten all the good genes. I was a runt who had to think hard to remember which way to turn a wrench.

I put my stuff in my backpack. Then I grabbed the books I’d bought last Saturday. Dad and I had gone to the flea market up near Stroudsburg. We go there at least once a month when it’s open. He looks for tools. I look for books. I’d snagged a whole stack of Robert Heinlein novels for two
bucks, and a
Field Guide to North American Game Fish
for fifty cents. Dad had gotten some huge clamps for five bucks. That’s the weird thing about flea markets—books and tools seem to cost about the same amount per pound.

I crammed the novels into one of my bookcases, then sat on my bed and leafed through the field guide, looking at the color photos of smallmouth bass and imagining landing a four pounder while wading in the Delaware.

Before I went to sleep, I called Bobby at his apartment to see if I could get any advice from him about school. Which I guess was like asking General Custer for combat tips. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t in.

That night, I dreamed I was field-testing flamethrowers for the army. In a supermarket. I awoke to the smell of bacon.