The Secret Journal of Brett Colton Page 2

  “Kathy, you’re going to come watch the home movies, aren’t you?”

  I hesitated before quickly standing to snatch and stack the dirty dinner plates as I moved around the table. “Someone’s got to clean up.”

  “Oh, honey, that can wait. We’ll clean up the kitchen together later.”

  I wasn’t in many of our old home movies, and I really wasn’t in the mood for more nostalgia tonight. “You know the kitchen will start to reek if all of this food is left out for long. I’ll join you in a few, okay?” But Mom wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I was forced to relent and follow her into the living room.

  We turned out the lights, and in a few seconds the familiar hum

  and click of the old projector began. A blurry green with shiny colored splotches flared into view before Dad focused it into its true Christmas tree form. The first couple of reels were filled with Halloweens, birthdays, and Christmases when Sam, Alex, and Brett were little. I watched the silent images before me with only the projector’s hums and clicks for background music. Everyone else laughed and interrupted each other with bits and pieces of half-remembered old memories. I wasn’t sure what I was feeling, but I couldn’t pull my eyes away from Brett’s impishly grinning face, racing Alex along beaches during the summertime—flying over our front driveway doing wheelies on his midnight blue bicycle—tripping Sam (something he truly enjoyed doing on film)—and ripping open red-and-green-wrapped Christmas presents under the tree. My eyes were stinging from staring so long and hard. Why is it that in old home movies everyone always looks so much happier than they are now?

  I was glued to the screen, but at the same time, I could feel myself fading, drowning, wanting to yell, scream, say something—and each reel was pushing me forward through the next year and the next until the images swam in a blur and I couldn’t see anymore. My familiar hollow feeling was in full force, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to take much more.

  “Honey, are you all right? What’s wrong? Don’t you want to—”

  I didn’t think I’d made that much noise when I decided I’d had enough, but a second later, Mom joined me in the kitchen. I tried to pretend I was fine and made my voice as flippant and uncaring as I possibly could. “Mom, just out of curiosity, why don’t we use the old movie camera anymore? Or better yet, why haven’t we bought a camcorder? Doesn’t anyone think we’ve done anything noteworthy in the past, oh, say, thirteen to fourteen years?” Mom opened her mouth to speak, but I was on a roll and didn’t pause long enough to let her answer. “I mean, since everyone only talks about stuff that happened when Brett was alive, then I guess it’s safe to say that no one thinks we’ve done anything interesting since Brett died. Right?”

  Mom slowly walked towards me and reached out to touch my hair. “Honey, you know that’s not true. We’ve had some wonderful, special times together since Brett died.” Her voice was low and soft. “I know it’s hard for you to have to listen about times you weren’t a part of—”

  But I didn’t want to hear anymore. “I just wish everyone would forget the past and just—move on. Why can’t we all just do that?” I demanded. “Brett’s gone. Why can’t this family just move on?” I could feel a lump rising in my throat, and as I swallowed hard, Mom’s hand dropped from my hair. I knew I’d said enough. Probably too much.

  “Kathy, honey—” Mom whispered.

  I stepped away from her and faced the sink, leaving her to stare at my back. “Please, Mom. Just forget it. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  I spent the rest of the evening hibernating in my bedroom until Alex and Sam finally left. That wasn’t unusual for me to do when they came for a visit. After locking myself in my room, I always turned to an ancient record player balanced on a little rolling table with two small, square speakers on either side of it. It was an old family dinosaur bone and had been kept in my room for just about forever. I had a nice CD player, but since I’d never gotten around to buying CDs of my favorite record albums that had also been in the family for eons, I had to spin the turntable if I wanted to hear my favorite old LP. Ever since I could remember, I’d put on an old, scratched-up Beatles album—Rubber Soul—to relax and sleep after an especially trying moment in my life. Nothing else cured the dark for me like that album could.

  After lying flat on my back for a few minutes, I forced myself off my bed and flipped on the ancient record player before setting the Rubber Soul album on the turntable. I sank back onto my bed as Paul McCartney’s voice softly crooned, filling up every empty space in the room.

  I was forced back into reality when the last song ended. Although our home movies ended abruptly with Brett’s death, leaving only a few glances of myself as a baby, my family’s lives weren’t as completely over as the movies might lead an outsider to believe. At least, mine wasn’t. I had other concerns in life besides listening to times long gone. I could go for days—even weeks—at a time without thinking about Brett. But I couldn’t avoid our living room forever, and then I’d see that picture of him on the top shelf, and as unavoidable as day, I’d feel that strange connection again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  True to her threat, Sam took me clothes shopping and insisted on buying me a cashmere sweater. A lavender-colored one with a square neckline and long sleeves, which she claimed was “just meant for me.” I had to admit, it did look good on me, so I grudgingly let her buy it.

  “Now promise me you’ll wear it your first day of school,” Sam demanded before we’d even left the L’Armoire clothes shop.

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s still August. It’ll be too hot for sweaters!”

  “It’s your first day of school! It’ll bring you good luck. Besides—you’ll need something to take the attention off your hair.”

  I could’ve smacked Sam for that remark. “Just because your idea of a cute haircut isn’t mine doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with my hair.”

  “Whatever.” Sam smiled too big and broadly. “We don’t have time for anything else anyway. I need to get home to Curtis and Stephen.”

  There really wasn’t time for anything else. Before I knew it, the first day of high school, whether I liked it or not—and I was more and more sure I didn’t like it—was here. Luckily, I didn’t have to make my official grand entrance alone. My two best friends, Mistie and Crystal, were with me. And I was indeed wearing that lavender cashmere sweater Sam had bought for me. For luck, of course. I had a feeling I would need all I could get.

  My home room class was sophomore Honors English. I slid into a seat near the back of the room and watched students enter the class. So far, so good. Most of them were calm, normal people like myself—not loud, obnoxiously popular people who would constantly be drawing attention to themselves and make my favorite class miserable for me. I flipped my notebook open and scanned my schedule for the millionth time. Honors English: No real friends were in the class so far, but that was okay, since I loved this subject. Driver’s Ed: Crystal had that class with me, so that would be bearable. Tutor/Study Hall: That class was being held in the library and was one every student in the school was required to take. I wasn’t sure what the “tutoring” part was all about. Supposedly, it had something to do with a new program that would be explained that day. I looked down my schedule for my next class. Drama 101. I sighed. That was going to be interesting. I was dreading drama worst of all. And then—

  The bell rang. I looked up, surprised to see the classroom was almost filled. Mrs. Dubois—the Honors English teacher for about the past century—walked in and stood in front of her desk. “Welcome, everyone. I’m Mrs. Dubois, the sophomore Honors English teacher, which means if sophomore Honors English isn’t printed on your class schedule, you’re in the wrong room.” Mrs. Dubois got a couple of courtesy laughs for that. “Let’s get started on the necessary reading of the roll, and then I’ll pass out the course syllabus. James Adams?”

  “Here.”

  “Tiffany Allen?”

  “Here.”


  And so on until my own name was called. After I stated the required “here,” I picked up my pen and absently doodled flowers in the corners of the first page of my notebook.

  “Jason West?” Silence answered. “Jason West?” Mrs. Dubois called again. Silence again. Then faintly, I could hear something that sounded like a minor earthquake outside the classroom. In another second, I realized it was feet pounding down the hall before screeching to a halt at the doorway to my Honors English class.

  “Here!” a loud voice bellowed. Like everyone else in the room, I jumped and stretched my neck to see who had insisted on making such a dramatic entrance. My heart dropped when I looked at the person standing there, breathing hard, with a backpack slung over one shoulder.

  He was tall and lean, but not skinny. It was easy to see he indulged in regular—probably obsessive—weight-lifting sessions every day.

  “You’re Mr. West, I presume?” Mrs. Dubois said dryly.

  “Yes, that would be me,” he—“Mr. West”—said, smiling and hurrying to take one of the only seats left in the room on the front row.

  I watched him, my eyes narrowing slightly, as he dug through his backpack for a notebook and pen. There was something familiar about him. Oddly familiar. Jason West. Where in the world had I heard that name before? Jason turned around to set his backpack on the floor. My eyes caught a quick glance of the words “Central High Football” in gold lettering on the front of his maroon T-shirt—and the next second, my mind flew back to one Saturday afternoon in the middle of summer when Sam and Alex had dropped by for lunch.

  “Hey, did you see this article in the paper?” Alex had waved our local county paper as if he’d found some amazing discovery that would change all of our lives forever.

  “What article?” I’d asked, hurrying over to Alex’s side to look over his shoulder. I’d rolled my eyes once I’d realized he was looking at the sports page.

  “This one,” Alex had said excitedly, pointing to one towards the bottom of the page. “I thought Brett would be the only kid at Central to make the Varsity football team as a sophomore—and as a quarterback, no less—but it looks like there’s another guy in town who’s accomplished the same feat!”

  “What’s the boy’s name?” Dad had asked.

  “Jason. Jason West,” Sam had read over Alex’s shoulder. “Look, Alex—look what else it says!” Sam had pointed excitedly to a place further down in the article.

  “Read it to us, won’t you, Sam?” Mom had said, clutching her locket.

  “It says, ‘The last time Central High discovered such raw, remarkable talent in a new sophomore occurred nearly sixteen years ago when Brett Colton entered Central High. Colton was also recruited as a sophomore to the Varsity team, and like West, was recruited as a quarterback. West is currently in training to start the for the Varsity team in the fall.’”

  “Isn’t that amazing! All these years later, Brett is still remembered,” Alex had said with a proud smile.

  “I think the article is really more about this Jason West kid than about Brett,” I’d said irritably and sarcastically. Before Alex or Sam could retort, Mom and Dad had shushed me to look at the paper themselves, and I’d been quickly forgotten . . .

  I shook my head wryly. A football player? In Honors English? He had to be the walking oxymoron of the year. Of all the classes I was taking, I’d thought I’d at least be safe from sports hero wannabes in Honors English, for crying out loud!

  “You know what else you are, don’t you, Mr. West?” I jumped at the sound of Mrs. Dubois’s voice jerking me back to my present reality.

  “Uh—not exactly,” he questioned, obviously confused.

  “You’re late. Please don’t let it happen again.”

  “I won’t, Mrs. Dubois. I’m sorry. Really.”

  I lifted my eyebrows in surprise. A jock with a few manners around adults. Amazing.

  “Mr. West, would you please assist me in passing out the course books to each student? They’re those big, thick blue books stacked in the corner of the room on my right.”

  I watched while Jason quickly scrambled out of his seat to pick up a huge pile of books. I was expecting a sarcastic remark, or at least to see him move slowly, rolling his eyes, but “Mr. West” moved cheerfully up and down each row, handing out the course books. I didn’t look up from my notebook as he set my copy on the corner of my desk.

  “Now—as you can see, we’re going to be studying American authors and poets this year. One of the best ways to learn the mechanics of the English language is to study and write papers on the works of our country’s great writers. As I’m sure Mr. West can attest, you can’t learn the game of football unless you practice it regularly. The same is true in English. We will have weekly vocabulary words to be tested on each week—spellings and definitions—as well as some grammar. However, most of your grade will depend upon your weekly response papers to your weekly reading assignments. Your response papers will contain your answer to one of the weekly reading assignment essay questions.”

  I could hear moans and groans from all corners of the classroom during Mrs. Dubois’s speech, but as I looked over the syllabus, I felt nothing but excitement and relief, mostly because I knew I was going to do well in this class. It was going to be hard, though. Challenging, actually. But I was up for it. Definitely.

  I was smugly thinking this over during lunch while Mistie and Crystal babbled across from me at a table in the lunchroom about their morning adventures.

  “ . . . my brother, Dennis, had Mr. Johnson last year for driver’s ed. I remember the horror stories he used to tell about him. A total perfectionist about everything—” In midsentence Crystal stopped, her eyes bulging, before she gasped and grabbed Mistie’s arm. “Look at that face!” Crystal gushed, straining to look over my shoulder. “I’ve seen a lot of cute guys today, but that guy is gorgeous! Look at those blue eyes—and those long, dark eyelashes! Wow!”

  Mistie wrinkled her nose. “His nose is crooked.”

  “Just slightly!” Crystal said, shoving Mistie with her shoulder. “And who cares about that? He’s got the straightest, whitest teeth I’ve ever seen on a guy! And look how perfect his lips are—not too thick or too thin—”

  “Hey, I’m trying to eat here!” I groaned, kicking Crystal under the table with my foot.

  She ignored me, of course. “ . . . and he’s got perfect hair. Slightly wavy, dark, brown hair—I’ll bet it looks black when it’s wet!”

  I couldn’t stand it anymore. I casually and slowly swiveled to see what Crystal’s fuss was all about before whirling back around. “Him again!” I muttered, crumpling a napkin tightly in my fist.

  “Him who? You know that guy?” Both Crystal and Mistie were practically in my lap, dying for more.

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s just Jason West. You know, the amazing sophomore football hero? He’s in my Honors English class. Can you believe it? A major jock in my English class.”

  “Jason West! Wow!” Crystal sighed. “So—he’s the sophomore on the Varsity team? You are so lucky to have a class with him!”

  Before I had a chance to attack that remark, Mistie pointed with her fork behind me.

  “See that sickeningly gorgeous blonde practically sitting on Jason? That’s Angela Barnett. Drill team dancer extraordinaire. And a junior. She’s going to be Jason’s girlfriend. You’ll see.”

  Crystal shrugged. “I don’t care. I’m going to fantasize about him anyway.”

  “Can we leave now?” I said irritably, throwing my crumpled napkin on my tray.

  “Wait,” Crystal said, her eyes bugging out again. “Something’s going on over at his table. Something—messy!”

  More than just the expected loud, dull roar was taking place over at the table where Jason and all his football-playing cohorts sat. It had been growing increasingly louder, with high pitched squeals from the girls and loud guffaws from the guys, and even loud clangings and bangings of silverware and plastic trays.

 
; “Looks like a food fight!” Mistie gasped, laughing and pointing in Jason’s direction.

  I took a quick look over my shoulder at the loud, messy war going on several tables behind me before hurriedly gathering up my tray and book bag. “I’m getting out of here. This sweater cost way too much money to take any chances. I’ll meet you in the hall.” I turned to leave and silently moaned an oh no when I realized the only way to the tray disposal and garbage cans was to pass by Jason’s table. I took a deep breath and started to move—fast—taking a roundabout way to avoid getting caught up in the tide of the most immature brawling fray of flying food I’d seen in years. I finally made it to the garbage cans and tossed my tray in the disposal window. “Home free!” I muttered under my breath and turned to quickly slide out the exit door.

  It all happened pretty fast. One second, I was turning around from getting rid of my lunch tray, and the next, my sweater had connected perfectly with a wild, powerful squirting of ketchup. All over the front. Some even hit me in the face. Can I die now? was all I could think. That is, until I saw his face. Jason’s, to be exact. By the surprised look on his face, it was easy for me to surmise that he was the guilty ketchup shooter. Of course, the fact that he was standing up, gripping the ketchup bottle in both hands helped a little.

  After a few brief seconds of shocked, silent staring from Jason’s whole table, Jason pointed accusingly at the guy sitting a foot away from me and said in mock anger, “You weren’t supposed to move! And you—” He actually had the gall to point at me—“you weren’t supposed to be there!” With that, the whole table erupted into huge, annoying guffaws of laughter.

  I stood there, glaring at Jason, who tried to keep a stupid, embarrassed smile on his face. “Hey, I really am sorry about that—”

  “And I’m sorry you’re such a bad aim. I fear for the entire football season this year!” I shot back angrily. Jason stared at me in shock while his cohorts hooted loudly. “And thanks. Thanks a lot,” I continued hotly. “I mean, this was only a brand-new, expensive cashmere sweater. From L’Armoire, no less. So thanks. Thanks for making my first day of high school so—memorable.” With that, I flew out the exit door to find a bathroom as quickly as I could.