Zach's Secret

From Matthew W. Grant, the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Semifinalist author of Secrets Of Slaters Falls...

Can a young man come out and find love in a small New England town high school? Find out in Zach's Secret...

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As soon as I walked out of the building, I sighed and instantly felt a fleeting moment of relief. Somehow, I had managed to survive another day at Wellston High School. It was late November and I was a senior so that meant I only had to go through the whole high school experience about 115 more times, give or take a few sick days here and there.

That's doable, I told myself, 115 is about one and a half times the top speed a cheetah can run in miles per hour. Who mathematically analyzes the number of school days left compared to a cheetah's speed? That would be me - Zach Denham, Super Geek.

I finished stuffing my books into my backpack just in time to see a yellow streak of light heading my way. The sun bounced off Meghan Collette's plain gold cross (worn as always on the outside of her blouse) as Meghan herself bounced across the parking lot towards me.

"Hey, Zach, can I hitch a ride with you?" Meghan had a voice bursting with more enthusiasm than a rock concert groupie.

Amidst all the student cars in the parking lot, there stood an old, rusting bike rack with the sorriest looking ten-speed ever created. I pointed at it, "See the one with the big lock over there?" I thought it would somehow make it seem less pathetic if I mentioned the size of the lock. "That's it until I get my car back from the shop."

"Thanks, anyway." Meghan shoved a paper into my hand.

"Another one?"

"You'll love this one. Really," she promised.

"I'll read it, but-"

Meghan was already sprinting towards the bus, which was just starting to close its doors as she yelled back, "Gotta go. Late for Bible study group."

I waved as she and her boundless energy boarded the bus.

I pedaled home and imagined myself as some famous and cool biker - maybe a race winner like Lance Armstrong - rather than an eighteen year old on his junior high bike. I could just picture myself inches from the finish line with crowds of people cheering me on.

Reality quickly caught up with me in the form of a well-worn convertible carrying four Wellston High students.

It was Carl Grainger and his friends. They pretty much made my life a living hell whenever they felt like it.

Grainger beeped the horn and drove close to me on purpose. I tried to look straight ahead and ignore them, but I noticed that they were all smoking and drinking beer.

Grainger yelled first. "Hey, guys. What do we have here? The Wellston High Record's star reporter ridin' his little bicycle around town."

It was Steve Larsen's turn next and he thought it was hilarious to use a fake British accent when he said, "He's no reporter, Sir. He's the Editor-In-Chief."

That set them all off laughing and one said, "Come on, Grainger. Don't be a chicken-shit. Swerve closer to him."

I felt the breeze from the car. I knew if it came any closer, it would brush against my leg and I would lose my balance. Steve hung over the side of the car offering a lit cigarette. "Go ahead, Clark Kent, take a drag."

I saw my only chance for escape - the next corner. I pedaled like that champion biker I only wished I was at the moment. Success! I made the corner, but it was too sharp for the convertible. Grainger had driven by it. I stopped and watched them cruise down the hill toward a green traffic light.

Then the light changed to yellow. Grainger didn't slow down. The engine roared and the guys all whooped and hollered as the car raced towards the intersection.

A truck approached the light from the cross street.

Grainger's light changed to red!

HONK! HONK! The truck horn blasted, but Grainger's brake lights still weren't coming on. I half wanted to cover my eyes, but I didn't dare.

The truck's brakes made a terrible grinding noise. Grainger lost control and the convertible swerved.

The truck skidded through the intersection with the tires screeching.

I couldn't help it; I closed one eye. Then it was over...they were safe. Somehow, miraculously, the truck and the convertible narrowly avoided a collision. As a gesture of thanks, Grainger chucked his middle finger at the truck driver.

I started to ride my bike again, thankful that nothing had happened to them. They were jerks, yes, but they really could have been killed pulling a stunt like that. I didn't have much time for feeling bad for them because as I rode by a grocery store parking lot, they were waiting.

"Wanna really scare him?" Grainger asked his friends.