A Friend Like Filby by Mark Wakely
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Book Description:
True friends can make all the difference.
George has been fascinated with the idea of time travel ever since the shocking death of his mother when he was ten, and hopes someday to find a friend like Filby, the closest friend of the time traveler in the 1960 movie The Time Machine. George’s high school friends, Dave and Nancy (AKA Onion), struggle to understand his odd obsession. The story takes place during the three friend’s senior year, with a major revelation in store for George on graduation day.
Excerpt from Chapter
One - SO IT BEGINS
It’s
early. Real early. Dave and I were the first ones to arrive. It’s as quiet as a morgue, with most of the
hallway lights still off.
With no one else around, I was surprised the doors were open since the
place is usually locked down like the prison it vaguely resembles.
Dave
picked me up right at dawn. Since he has
a car and I don’t, I reluctantly agreed to roll out of bed way ahead of my
regular schedule. Real early was still
better than the dreaded school bus from hell I had to take on occasion when a
ride from Dave wasn’t possible. Dave
said he had “something to do,” and now I know what it is. Dave’s standing on a classroom chair, yelling
into a security camera. Never mind that
it doesn’t record sound; I guess Dave’s expression and unfriendly gestures are
enough to get his message across. The
chair seat is flexing and groaning under Dave’s weight and I’m standing by
apprehensive, waiting for the seat to splinter and for Dave to come tumbling
down like Humpty Dumpty, cradle and all and whatnot.
He’s
still angry about some decision the school administration announced yesterday
regarding student organization budgets or benefits or something. Not that Dave really cared about any of that;
he just loves any opportunity to act offended at anything the administration
does. I guess putting it all on tape for
some unsuspecting security guard or secretary to see was his way of making his
displeasure known.
The
second week of our senior year and already Dave is in rare form. He’s screeching now in full rant, his face
just inches away from the camera lens.
It was a beautiful performance, gloriously obscene, a marvel of
four-letter words strung together like a true maestro.
When
he was finished, he gave the camera an obscene gesture with both hands.
Spent
and out of breath, he climbed down from the chair and dragged it back where it
belonged.
Dave
calls our school “The Big Brown Box,” where we’re “processed” and “churned out
like obedient zombies.” I guess its
Dave’s calling to be a rabble rouser, but I’m not sure you can make a living at
it. If you could, though, Dave would
make a very good one.
“So. How was the rant?” Dave asked, still out of
breathe but beaming with pride.
I
thought a moment, comparing it to his past performances.
“Oh,
I don’t know. I’d give it a solid B,
maybe a B plus.”
Dave
seemed pleased with the grade.
“Thanks. It wasn’t a personal best, but it was pretty
good, wasn’t it?’
“Sure,
Dave. Sure.”
I
patted the big guy on the back, and then we headed off to the cafeteria to sit
at our favorite table and wait for them to open so we could get our usual
morning cup of joe.
* * *
Our
Big Brown Box was one of those sprawling eyesores of a building-- ominous, pompous
and dreary, not unlike a few of our teachers.
Built in what seemed like record time, it towered over the
neighborhood. Metal detectors by the
main doors were installed our sophomore year, as were the surveillance cameras
and doors that locked electronically when classes began. The joke was they were either trying to keep
the bad guys out or the inmates in. Even
the drug-sniffing dog they brought in unannounced on occasion seemed afraid of
the place and always bolted out the door when its job was done.
“Hear
that, people?” Dave said loudly one morning when all those electronic locks
kicked in with their usual thunk that reverberated down the halls. “Homeland Security cares about you.”
Even
though our senior year had just begun, oddly enough I was already getting a bit
nostalgic, and was thinking lately about my freshman year. Freshman year was essentially hell week that
never ended. Yeah, we were the scum, the
newbies, the dorks and freaks and nerds and geeks that nobody loved or
wanted. There were notable exceptions,
of course-- the few girls with supermodel looks already and an even smaller
number of jocks with overactive thyroids who towered over the rest of us and
made first team without even breaking a sweat.
(Actually, Dave was one of those.)
But like I said, they were the exceptions. The rest of us had to bow and scrap to the
upperclassmen, even those who had little status otherwise. It got old fast to find all your stuff in the
trash if you left it unattended for even a minute, or have someone cut in line
in front of you just because you’re new.
Mark Wakely is also the author of:
"I actually read it twice to make sure I hadn't missed anything the first time through- the plot twists and turns are just so clever. It's one of those rare novels you find yourself thinking about and reacting to for days afterwards- to me, that's not just good fiction, that's great fiction." ~ Linda Yung
