David Dahlgren, a high-school senior, finds solace in running with the track team; he's a fast runner, and he enjoys the camaraderie. But team events become a source of tension when he develops a crush on one of his teammates, Sean. Scared to admit his feelings, David does everything he can to suppress them: he dates a girl, keeps his distance from his best friend who has become openly gay, and snaps a rubber band on his wrist every time he has "inappropriate" urges. Before long, Sean expresses the thoughts David has been trying to hide, and everything changes for the better. Or so it seems.
In this thoughtful yet searing coming-of-age novel, David Inside Out, Lee Bantle offers a raw, honest, and incredibly compelling account of a teenager who learns to accept himself for who he is.
David Dahlgren, a high-school senior, finds solace in running with the track team; he's a fast runner, and he enjoys the camaraderie. But team events become a source of tension when he develops a crush on one of his teammates, Sean. Scared to admit his feelings, David does everything he can to suppress them: he dates a girl, keeps his distance from his best friend who has become openly gay, and snaps a rubber band on his wrist every time he has "inappropriate" urges. Before long, Sean expresses the thoughts David has been trying to hide, and everything changes for the better. Or so it seems.
In this thoughtful yet searing coming-of-age novel, David Inside Out, Lee Bantle offers a raw, honest, and incredibly compelling account of a teenager who learns to accept himself for who he is.
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Overview
David Dahlgren, a high-school senior, finds solace in running with the track team; he's a fast runner, and he enjoys the camaraderie. But team events become a source of tension when he develops a crush on one of his teammates, Sean. Scared to admit his feelings, David does everything he can to suppress them: he dates a girl, keeps his distance from his best friend who has become openly gay, and snaps a rubber band on his wrist every time he has "inappropriate" urges. Before long, Sean expresses the thoughts David has been trying to hide, and everything changes for the better. Or so it seems.
In this thoughtful yet searing coming-of-age novel, David Inside Out, Lee Bantle offers a raw, honest, and incredibly compelling account of a teenager who learns to accept himself for who he is.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781250136510 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Henry Holt and Co. (BYR) |
| Publication date: | 09/13/2016 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 192 |
| File size: | 302 KB |
| Age Range: | 14 - 18 Years |
About the Author
LEE BANTLE is the author of the middle-grade novel Diving for the Moon and the young adult novel David Inside Out. He is an attorney and lives in New York City.
Read an Excerpt
David Inside Out
By Lee Bantle
Henry Holt and Company
Copyright © 2009 Lee BantleAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-250-13651-0
CHAPTER 1
Driving along Minnehaha Parkway on my way to see Kick, I felt like Archie going over to Veronica's. Not because she lived in a massive stone house and I mowed lawns for cash. Or because I was prone to Archie-type screwups. I felt that way because our relationship was two-dimensional.
And that was the test. Could I make it to the third dimension with her?
Rudolphs was packed like always on Saturdays. The buzz ricocheted off pink plaster walls as I squeezed through the rowdy crowd swigging beer in the entry. Eddie was sitting alone in back. "Kick's not here yet?" I asked, sliding my lanky frame into the fake-leather booth.
"In the bathroom — probably stocking up on cheap dispenser condoms," he said, straight-faced.
"Yeah, right."
"Don't be so sure she's not. That girl is in heat." I gave him a look. "Your ears must have been burning," he said.
"You talking about me?"
"Mmhmm. Your sex life."
"What!" I crunched down on an ice cube. "Who brought that up?"
"Kick wants to know why you're so slow."
"She said that?"
"Yeah." Eddie turned the salt shaker on its side and spun it. "Why are you so slow? No, really, I want to know."
"Shhh! She's coming," I said.
"There you are, David," Kick said, sliding in next to me. "What took you so long to get here?"
"I got lost."
"That's pathetic." She patted my hand like I was five. "How many times have you been downtown Minneapolis?"
"Downtown!" Eddie replied. "You call this downtown? I can't wait for us to be in New York, Kick."
"New York?" I asked.
Eddie nodded. "We're applying to NYU."
"You are? Both of you?" I looked at Kick.
She nodded and handed me a menu. "I want to go to film school."
Oh, sure, I thought, but didn't say it. "I'm staying here," I said.
"Why? Cut loose a little bit," Eddie said.
The waiter came over. Which was good. Eddie gets on this rant that I'm uptight and who needs it? I ordered the house special: slow-cooked country ribs with corn on the cob, onion rings, and buttermilk rolls.
"Just a large salad for me," Kick said. "Dressing on the side."
I studied her lips as she recounted her adventure to the Mall of America the night before. They were plump, freshly remoistened with gloss. She smiled at me. I sat up straight, brushing the hair out of my eyes. Did she want me to make a move? How?
"My mother is really losing it with me," Kick told us. "I got home a half hour late. Twelve-thirty instead of midnight. Okay, maybe it was quarter to one." She sighed. "Now I have to be home every night by ten. Including weekends."
"For how long?" I asked.
"Until further notice."
"Poor baby," Eddie said.
"She's trying to ruin my life. It's envy."
Two platters of ribs arrived, sitting in lakes of barbecue sauce and topped with mounds of golden brown rings. Eddie had both paws covered in sauce in seconds, but I tried to hold back. The waiter set Kick's salad down, and she began poking at it, looking at our plates longingly. I speared her a perfect ring. After cutting off the breading, she ate it slowly, savoring each nibble. I don't know why she didn't eat more. So what if she was chubby.
As Eddie and I gorged, I let my knee brush against hers. She reached down and held it there. My heart sped up. Were we moving into a new dimension? Because you don't hold people's legs under the table if you're just friends.
"You look cute tonight," she said to me.
"I do?"
"Please," Eddie interrupted, reaching for another half ear of corn. "I'm eating."
Kick laughed and took her hand off my leg. Was I supposed to touch her knee now? I wiped my fingers on a wet-nap in preparation. Should I just drop my hand on her? Were you supposed to squeeze? As I reached for her leg, Kick's leather bag started squawking like a chicken. "What's that?" I asked, pulling my hand back.
She took out her cell phone and answered it. "My mother," she mouthed. It was after 10:00.
"The depressing thing," Kick said, standing up, "is that she thinks I'm out having sex." She threw up her arms. "I don't even have a boyfriend." Kick looked at Eddie and then me. "But maybe that will change." She dropped a ten on the table, stole an onion ring from my plate, and disappeared into the crowd.
CHAPTER 2As I drove Eddie home from Rudolphs, he made me turn on the interior light to show the letter he got from Stephanie Bond, the author of Too Hot to Sleep. I made fun of him when he first wrote to Barbara Taylor Bradford. Until he got a reply. Now we both write letters. To the great romance novelists. But you can't send a fan letter unless you truly love the book. That point is sacrosanct with us.
"So what did Ms. Bond have to say?" I asked, backing out of the parking lot. The spotlit cathedral dome shone in the rear window, with the sparkling lights of downtown just beyond.
"Dear Eddie," he read. "Ohhh, she's already calling me 'dear.' I think I'm in love."
"Keep reading."
"No, I can't. I can't share another word." He pulled the letter to his chest and held it there. "It's private between Steph and me."
"Steph?" I said, turning onto Franklin and driving under the freeway overpass. "Eddie, you need help. I'm thinking a residential program."
"You're just jealous," he taunted, poking me with the envelope as we cruised through the "dangerous" part of South Minneapolis.
When he moved into my neighborhood Eddie was ten. I watched him build a fort on the overgrown lot down by Raftegler's Ravine. Cutting away saplings and flattening the tall grass into a comfy bed, Eddie made a secret hideaway. We sat in there that summer reading comics, eating roasted cashews, and spying on people going by on the sidewalk. Sometimes I made loud farting noises with my armpit, until Eddie told me I was embarrassing him.
Now we're both at Whitman. Each year they give scholarships to a few "local" students who live within walking distance of the academy. Which is the only way either of us could go, since the tuition is mucho dinero.
I turned onto Nicollet Avenue and drove past the restaurants and wine bars, with fashionably dressed smokers out front. Then the street grew residential, and I reached Eddie's block. As I turned the corner, the headlights caught two boys TP–ing the neighbor's house. The imps stood frozen in the high beams, then fled, dropping their rolls as they ran.
"Amateurs," Eddie said, climbing out of the car. The headlights illuminated his small, wiry frame and jet-black hair as he picked up a roll and gave it an underhand toss. Looping high over the branches of his neighbor's maple tree, the roll then plopped to the ground. Outside lights on the house flashed on. Racing for his backyard, Eddie disappeared into the dark. I hit the gas, feeling the old thrill of almost getting caught.
On the way home, I detoured to Lake of the Isles. I got out of the car and walked down to the water, past the "City of Lakes" sign. Shining out the windows of the comfortable brick houses snaking along the shoreline was the yellow hue of good lighting. My warm breath escaped into the chill late-September air as I tried to imagine kissing Kick. Slowly, like they do in romance novels. I closed my eyes to conjure her image: braces-perfect smile, round cheeks, curly dark hair. Why couldn't I feel her lips?
A cold gust of wind licked the back of my neck. Shivering, I ran to the car.
* * *
Mom was still up when I got home. She followed me into my small upstairs room, wearing the pink terry-cloth robe I got her for Christmas. I pulled off my earphones.
"So, how are Kick and Eddie? Did you have a good time?"
"Mmhmm. We went to Rudolphs."
"Did you have enough money?"
"Yeah." I hate when Mom worries about that. She gives me more than she should. You don't make much money teaching English at the University of Minnesota. I set my iPod down on the dresser and she picked it up. "Who do you listen to on this?"
"Right now? The Supremes."
"That's funny."
"What's funny about it?"
"We danced to them in college."
"Mom, stop!"
"What?"
"The thought of you ..."
She laughed and tried to pull me into a dance. I jerked my arms away, leaving Mom to do a boogie of her own creation.
Horrifying. "Mother!"
"See? I was pretty good."
"On American Bandstand, circa 1950."
"I'm not that old." She looked out the window. "You know who was a good dancer — your father."
"Really?" I loved hearing new things about him.
"We had dance parties at the house before you were born."
"And he was good?" That didn't fit my image of Dad.
"Well, I thought so." Mom missed him. I knew that because there were pictures of him all over her room. I was only five when he died, so I hardly remember. But she never got over him.
I stood up to dance with her. She took my arm and twirled underneath it. And then she brushed my head. "You need a haircut."
Suddenly I was twelve years old. "No, I don't."
"This weekend," she said firmly, heading off to bed.
My mom can be confusing without even trying. If I tell her I have to do something because everyone is doing it, she says just be yourself. She says people respect that. But what if you send fan mail to romance writers? And get teary-eyed at chick flicks? What if you still get spooked during thunderstorms? These are not things you want to share with others. Being yourself might make people reject you. People you desperately care about. Being yourself only works if you're basically cool. Which I'm not.
There's another problem with Mom's advice. How can you be yourself if you don't know who that is?
CHAPTER 3We did sprints for the whole workout Monday. Coach was sadistic with his whistle. We were all dragging as we headed back to school.
I dropped onto the bench in front of my locker, breathing in the sharp smell of fresh sweat. Maybe I was too exhausted to have to worry about anything today. I could hear the clicking of combination locks. Sean and Parker, the other two juniors on cross-country, undressed on either side of me. Like gods. Sean Icelandic and Parker Grecian. I kept my eyes closed, head bent to the floor.
"Who's got shampoo?" Sean called out.
"Here," Parker said. A bottle whizzed by my head.
"This shit's for dandruff," Sean said. The bottle whipped back past me. "C'mon, Dahlgren, don't you have any?"
I opened my eyes and watched Sean tug off his running pants. My gaze strayed down before I forced it back to his face. "Hold on," I said hoarsely, as I found shampoo and handed it to him.
He took the bottle and headed off. No way I was following. Not after what happened on the canoe trip. Starting to dress, I heard Coach McIntyre boom at me: "Get in there, Dahlgren! You smell." Delaying as long as I could, I raced into the cream-and-black-tiled shower room, after everyone was out. Safe inside, I let the hot stream of water massage my tired body.
Toweling off, I heard Parker shout out "Tonelli's!" I rushed to get dry, but they were gone by the time I finished. The shampoo I had given Sean was sitting in a soapy puddle on the long bench in front of my locker.
* * *
I was standing in our small grassy front yard, thinking it needed one more mow, when my cell rang. I flipped it open.
"Guess what," Kick said. "My parents are gone next weekend."
"Oh, yeah?"
"They made me swear I wouldn't have anyone over." She lowered her voice so that it was almost a whisper. "So I'm keeping it small. Mona, Eddie, you, and me. And maybe Kristy and Alicia. Can you come?"
"Sure."
"Don't say a word," Kick told me before hanging up. "I'll be in lockdown till Christmas if they find out."
I stared at my reflection in the window, pushing my sandy-brown hair behind each ear. Was this the night Kick and I would finally kiss?
* * *
I got to the locker room first on Friday and changed for our meet against Franklin. We were the better team on paper, but their runners could surprise you. The rest of the team filtered in, chattering with nervous energy.
I stood quietly at the end of my locker row, waiting for everyone to get ready instead of going to the field to loosen up. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Sean and Parker change. I spun away from them, rushed through the door and into the school yard. God! Now I was loitering in locker rooms.
My right foot twitched like it always did as we lined up at the start of the race on the Hiawatha Golf Course. BANG! I leapt into motion. Runners from Whitman and Franklin, spaced across the whole fairway, bounded onto the lawn. My feet drove down into the thick sod harder and faster. I started to pull ahead of the pack. I couldn't believe it. Sean and Parker ran behind. Everyone was behind.
"TURTLE!" Parker shouted. Team code for "Slow and steady wins the race."
But I was not going to slow up now. I ground down on my molars and pushed harder. At 2,500 meters the course turned back on itself. As I rounded the turn, Coach shouted my time. My best ever. "Ease up!" he called.
It didn't matter what anyone said. I couldn't stop now. I would show them. Doubling back, I saw the oncoming mass of sinewy legs pumping down onto the soft earth. They would never catch me. It felt like I could run forever. Until the last 500 meters. When my legs went mushy. John, our captain, raced by me with two runners from Franklin, followed by Parker and Sean. Push! Push! Others whizzed by. I was a 100 meters out, dying. Runners flew by. Even sophomores I always beat. I crossed the finish in eleventh, gasping. We got kicked by our big rival.
The locker room was dead. None of the usual cutting up. I stalled again, sitting in front of my locker, eyes closed. "Hey, Dahlgren," Parker said. "Wake up." I looked at him pulling off his sweat-stained red jersey. "What was your problem today?"
"I don't know."
"Didn't you hear me yell 'turtle'?"
I shrugged. What could I say? Parker slammed the door of his locker and headed for the shower.
"I'd hate to be you right now," Sean said. "I really would." He patted my shoulder as he stepped by.
Leaving school, I walked past John, the captain, hanging my head.
"Don't worry," he said, putting his arm around my shoulder. "You'll do okay next time, man."
"Thanks," I said. "I hope so."
At home that night, I kicked the elm tree on our boulevard so hard the bark chipped off. I knew better than to go out too fast. What was I trying to prove?
Mom saw me out there. I came in the back door and hung my jacket. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"Yes, there is."
I slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. "I lost the meet for us tonight."
"You did?"
"Yeah, I was eleventh. Worst time in a month."
"What happened?" she asked, scraping some chopped garlic into a soup pot.
"I choked."
"How much off were you?"
"Half a minute."
"Well, that happens. Eleventh isn't so bad." She drizzled the garlic with olive oil and turned on the heat.
"That's not what the team thinks."
"Oh?"
"Parker yelled at me."
"He shouldn't do that."
"Why? I deserve it."
"Hasn't Parker ever had an off day?"
"No."
"Well, he will. And I hope you'll be loyal to him."
Mom poured three cans of tomato sauce into the pot.
"What are you cooking?" I asked. The cooking garlic made the kitchen smell sweet.
"Spaghetti sauce. Should I throw in some browned sausage?"
"Yes. I'm starving." At least there was food. And Mom. To make me feel better when things went south.
CHAPTER 4I stalled as long as I could, inspecting disposable razors, shaving cream, cologne. "You buy them," I whispered to Kick. Condoms.
She slipped her arm through mine and tugged me to the counter. The beehive-hairdo lady was there. The kabuki makeup on her face traveled down her neck to the cleavage you really didn't want to think about, let alone see.
"Whaddya need, kiddo?" she asked. Cheerfully intense.
"Uh ... a box of condoms," I mumbled.
"What kind ya want?" She waved at the glass shelves behind her.
"Trojans," I said.
"Ribbed, Ultra Thin, lubricated or non?" she asked. It was like ordering a burger. With fries.
Lord, I wanted to get out of there. "Ribbed, non —"
"Get me some Ultra Thins," Kick whispered, pulling a ten out of her jeans and stuffing it in my hand. Great, make it sneaky and even more incriminating.
I gave her a sideways glance. "And a box of Ultra Thins," I told the lady. My voice, all on its own, decided to jump an octave on the word "thins."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from David Inside Out by Lee Bantle. Copyright © 2009 Lee Bantle. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company.
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