High School Playbook

By Chris R. Weilert

Think Big, Dream Bigger, Live Larger

At least, that's how Fergus would like to act. Instead, he exists in a world of the cool and the lame. Haves and have-nots. Winners and losers. In other words, high school. Everyone and everything fights to make Fergus smaller and he fears if he doesn't start stretching now, he'll shrink into himself forever. Just like his father has. Full of fear and potential in equal measure, Fergus just needs a push.

That push comes from an unlikely direction: an old, handmade book of simple cardboard and notebook paper titled the Final Opus. This homemade book was written by Fergus's namesake and his father's high school best friend. Part philosophy and survival guide, and part self-help book, The Final Opus begins to lead Fergus into a larger world.

When Fergus tries out for cross country, he not only makes the team, but also discovers a smoldering core of fierce competitiveness he didn't know he had. When he joins an art class, he falls a little in love and learns to create comforting shades of gray rather than living in the harsh black and white his world forced on him. Fergus begins to see that world can be what he makes of it rather than allowing the world to mold him.

Not content with his own voyage of self, Fergus decides to rekindle the friendship between his father and the author of the Final Opus. If Fergus can save his father from the fate of humdrum existence, then nothing can stop either of them. And all they have to do is follow the plan laid out thirty years ago in the High School Playbook.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tucker Publishing
• Release date: Aug 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201272937

Chris R. Weilert

Chris R. Weilert lives in San Jose, California with his wife and pack of dogs. He has written his whole life but only in the last few years has he been serious enough to pursue being an author. His pieces have appeared in magazines and book compilations. He is more of a short story writer but is now venturing into novel writing.  High School Playbook is his first book.

Book preview

ROAD MAP

What a bummer. It is the last Saturday before I start my sophomore year at Booker High. After hanging with my buds Tim and Steve all day, I come home to find an oversized envelope on my bed. Found this months ago in the attic, finally got around to showing you, is written on the flap. My first thought is that this message is from my little brother, Robby, but the writing is not his. This is my dad’s work. It must be one of two things: more of his old comic books or collector cards.

I open the envelope containing a flimsy folder held together by a string threaded through punched holes. This isn’t a baseball card collection or a bunch of junk about our family. The gray cardboard cover looks like somebody made it from an old donut box.  A sizeable hand-drawn F is in the middle of the cover, obviously someone’s effort to make a fancy-looking letter.

A post-it note is stuck to the cardboard: This is from my old friend you were asking about.

I admit I am curious what this is. I open to the first page, and all it says is, Final Opus. This thing is at least an inch and a half thick, composed of photocopies of pages of binder paper covered with handwriting.

The book had to be written by the infamous Ferguson, who I am named after. If I check this thing out, am I going to understand the mysteries of old Ferguson? My dad has spoken about this guy. Photos in their high school yearbook showed him with a bad haircut and crooked grin.

Page two of the book is a sketch of him. He drew better hair than in the photos. The lips are a dead giveaway, but he gave himself a mouth bigger than the real one on purpose. I believe he thought of himself as a guy with a great smile and perfect hair, but he clearly did not look in the mirror.

Hairstyles in the 1980s make me laugh. The guys looked like they wore sculptures on their heads. The girls also did, with some gravity-defying way of making their hair look like a helmet. Ferguson grew shoulder-length hair, like a rocker. Now I am curious because this book is too bizarre not to read. Why didn’t my dad show this to me a long time ago?

I turn to page three. There is a comment written at the top. It reads, "In critical moments, men sometimes see what they wish to see, with the credit given to Spock—Starship Enterprise. I don’t know how old he was when he wrote this, but it appears advanced for some screwy kid. There is another quote in the middle of the page: The first thing you have to do to survive in this big wide, wonderful world is to accept the fact everything and everybody around you is part of a multi-dimensional universe."

I do not understand what this all means, but I am going along with it.

The fourth page is more of the same kind of Spock-like quotes. There is one sentence that catches my eye, a line attributed to somebody named Joseph Campbell. It reads: "We must let go of the life we have planned, to accept the one that is waiting for us."

I am on board with this Campbell guy. However, the annoying thing about this comment is: how can you tell when you are going in the right direction? So, I read on and find another big-brain message from Ferguson.

Design your own trail and fill your life with action. Do not wait for things to occur. Letting life unfold puts you in fate’s path. Make it happen. Embrace your hope and circumstances. Create your journey. Surround yourself with love and joy. Be someone who can be loved. Live in the moment and for the future. Take risks, be humble, and courageous. Make your own grace happen, right here, right now.

There is no way Ferguson came up with this one. But I don’t care if he copied the words off the toilet stall; I like it. As I flip through the book, each page is filled with thoughts, definitions, drawings, and notes, like an instruction guide on re-inventing yourself. I have no idea how much of the Opus are his own opinions, but it doesn’t matter. Since this book is 30-something years old, I want to find out what a kid my age thought about in those times. Did he screw up like me? Did he invite trouble or act like a cool dude?

I confront my dad, who is trying to hide in the garage. He is reluctant to even talk to me because he would rather work on a grinder machine. When he starts machining, I find it impossible to say anything over the damn thing. But he sees I’m not leaving, so he hits the off switch and tells me to ask away.

I place the book on the workbench. Dad, what’s with this? How come you didn’t show this to me earlier?

He puts his reading glasses on and glances at the dusty cover. He smirks as he opens it up, then flips through a few pages.

Good read, entertain yourself. He gave this to me after we graduated. Then he went away to college, and I haven’t heard from him in a long time.

So, you just gave me the same name because you liked it or because he was special?

Technically, you are named Fergus, not Ferguson. They’re two different names.

Come on Dad, give me something more. All the names in the world, and you come up with one that is almost the same as your best friend? Why did you guys become friends?

He turns his grinder back on before answering my question. My voice grows louder and more demanding. I am not going to let my dad off the hook. I run back to the house and grab my dad’s yearbooks, the ones he stores in the living room bookcase. When I return, he is working on some metal part which has his full attention. He acts like this is the last thing he wants to talk about, but I stand behind him and wait for him to finish.

Realizing I am not leaving, he turns the noisy thing off. Before I can speak another word, he clears his throat and begins talking. I didn’t meet Ferguson until my junior year. I was immediately fascinated by him: I had never met anybody like him before. He was smart and fearless, and I thought he was the funniest guy on the planet. We became friends in PE, where he had a problem with the gym teacher. He was not a good athlete but always found ways to have fun. Ferguson wouldn’t ever follow the rules, like doing calisthenics out of rhythm with the other boys. He ran slow on purpose, so the rest of the guys needed to wait a long time for him. Sometimes he fell and pretended to be unconscious. The teacher would be so mad at him, but Ferguson was never a smart-ass back. Instead, he would apologize for messing up and promise to do better next time. Then he continued to do things his way, creating more excitement than anybody else in school.

We open the book together. There are pages on various topics, like talking to people—from girls to the elderly. He wrote his ideas about bullies: "Bullies use their size and fear to get what they want. They align themselves with kids who think like them. They become a group that wants others to know that they are around, and they are prepared to enforce their will."

My father does not want to talk about this subject any longer. I am not sure if it is (or was) his dream for me to be like Ferguson Bogen. I wish my dad still had him around in his life: he could use some cheering up since Mom died two years ago. Maybe I could find Ferguson and ask him to come by some time. He sounds like an interesting guy—to say the least.

Meanwhile, I just have Ferguson’s book, my dad’s memory, and old yearbooks to figure out what he was all about.

HERE WE GO AGAIN

Booker High, here I am. Your problem child has arrived for another round. I can’t believe they allowed me back in. Vice Principal Mowry and his goon squad will be watching me, so I will be hanging low. The first day you can usually check out a decent brawl or some kid yanking the fire alarm, but it won’t involve me.

I pop into the Art classroom and do a quick scan around the room. The freshmen are present, with their Supercuts hair and mall clothes, followed by the juniors and seniors who flaunt their superiority over us underclassmen with their self-satisfaction. My shirt gets some glares. They must know who the band Freak Dawgs are—or is it because it is a picture of the members with dogs’ faces? At least my zipper isn’t down, and there’s no butchered zit on my nose. I don’t know any of these kids except Josh Norman, a fellow sophomore, so I sit next to him. His voice sounds like it dropped an octave over the summer. I cannot help but laugh.

The teacher, Mr. Valentine, introduces himself to us, then gestures to the girl standing next to him. This is CeCe Elizondo. She is a student at San Jose State and is going to be assisting us this semester. CeCe is one of the most talented artists ever to attend Booker, so please use her as a resource.

Hi everyone, I’m here to help with your projects, so don’t hesitate to ask me anything, CeCe says.

What is this all about? Valentine’s got a cute assistant to do his work. Way to go, Valentine. CeCe doesn’t remind me of one of those rah-rah cheerleaders. I also notice she looks different from most girls around here: she’s not wearing those tight stretchy pants or expensive jeans, but rather a dress, along with her long-braided hair and sandals.

My eyes keep wandering to CeCe as she retreats to a desk in the back of the classroom. But I want to be careful she doesn’t catch me staring. She doesn’t lift her head from whatever she is working on. My sister Cindy is always telling me to cut the creepy gawking crap out. I am going to ask her about CeCe. A little research project.

So far, school is starting out better than last year. Since CeCe is the teacher’s assistant, I will work on my art skills because stick figures and yellow suns will not impress her. Time to take this stuff seriously.

Class ends and we all rush out. When I enter the hallway, I catch a voice from behind me. I like your shirt.

I whip around to find myself face to face with a sophomore girl named Sherry—or Cheryl, or something like that. Uh, thanks.

What a weak comeback. To be fair, I was checking out her full mouth of braces and short curly hair. You don’t find many kids walking around with this kind of dental work anymore. I should have said something to extend the conversation, but I had nothing.

I think about CeCe as I make the long trip across campus to PE class. Something is going on outside the gym, where a crowd is growing. Ah, could this be our first brawl of the day? Or some lame hacky sack circle? I go in for a closer look.

This isn’t a hack game.

I catch sight of a couple of older students trying to put a freshman boy headfirst into a trash can. The stupid tradition of jamming freshmen into cans lives on. Those guys are varsity football players, six-foot and over 200 pounds. This poor kid is putting up a good fight, but it should be only a matter of time before he is in the dirty can.

A lot of kids are laughing, but I hate this messed-up crap. Getting trashed almost happened to me once, but the act got stopped because a teacher ran up before the apes took me down. I take a sharper look at the freshman. Damn! That’s Kyle, my friend Tim’s younger brother.

Kyle kicks and squirms and throws short-armed punches at the idiot holding him. A guy named Manny Gomes grabs him by the back of the collar, and with one jerk picks Kyle up and puts his head and shoulders into the can. The action happens so fast and awkwardly that the trash can falls over with Kyle inside. Bottles and soda cans roll onto the concrete. Some of the crowd laughs, but most of them are in shock. I hate jock bullies—especially when they pick on my friends.

Kyle gets out of the can as quickly as possible. The glee and triumph on Gomes’ face sends me over the edge. The jerk is grinning like he just sacked the quarterback, not some kid who weighs 100 pounds.

Awesome job moron! blasts out of my mouth.

As soon as I say those words, I realize I messed with the wrong guy. He eyeballs me for a second, then lunges towards me and pushes me hard in the chest. I stumble onto my butt, stunned for a moment. Gomes walks away. Kyle pulls my hand and lifts me to my feet.

Is that all you got, numbnuts? I reply in a high-pitched voice.

He stops dead in his tracks and spins around. I prepare myself by standing in my boxing stance. Gomes comes at me without hesitation, but instead of throwing the first punch, I stand waiting for his approach. He grabs me by the shirt, lifts me, and attempts to slam me to the concrete, but I throw a wild swing with an open hand that lands on the side of his head. I didn’t faze him because I am back on the ground again. Kyle thrusts himself towards him and tries a tackle. He bounces off of the guy’s body like he hit a stone wall. Gomes lifts him and throws him to the side like a rag doll. I scurry to rise, but Gomes pins me onto my back with his knee across my chest. I am screwed.

You a tough guy punk? he asks. He slaps me across the face, not hard, but enough to get my attention.

Screw you. I am not the one putting people in cans. You should be picking on kids your own size, goon.

He gets up in my grill and blurts, A lot of talk for someone on the ground.

Get off dirtbag, I say, having to force the words out against his weight on me.

Kyle hollers at him, Go away dude, you won.

He lifts his knee off my chest and his hands from my shoulders. I cough a couple of times as I lay on the concrete. Gomes stands over me and then steps back. A milk carton is lying next to me, and he kicks the thing. It rolls across my shirt, leaving a stream of dribble. He walks away as I lie in defeat.

The whole time this was happening, I was unaware of the fifteen students gathered around us. Everything occurred in a flash like my body was taken over by someone else. This was not much of a fight, but it feels like I took a butt-kicking. Kyle helps me up, and a few kids ask me if I’m alright. I don’t answer them.

You okay? I ask Kyle.

He nods. Your shirt is torn Fergus. The dude ruined it.

While it’s not completely ripped, a gash stretches from the neck to the shoulder.

Let’s bolt out of here, I command.

A nervous buzz moves through my entire body, along with a sick feeling in my stomach. I have never been in a fight with someone that much bigger. Gomes had at least 75 pounds on me. I hope this mess is forgotten quickly. The last thing I want is this guy stalking me the whole year. What did the other kids who witnessed this think? Poor Kyle, getting dumped into the can with all the garbage.

I go to PE, the gym and sit in the bleachers because there is no plan today. My buddy Steve is also in my class, so I start to tell him the whole story. He interrupts, saying he heard about the fight before I even sat down.

Wow, it didn’t take long. What did you hear? I ask.

You tried to stop a trashing and got thrown down. Well, not thrown, more like slammed to the ground. But props for standing up to Manny Gomes. Okay, not really standing up, but you did not back down. Screw those guys. But watch your back man; it might not be over. Manny Gomes doesn’t seem like the type of guy who forgets about this kind of thing.

I nod in agreement as the bell rings. The PE teacher, Mr. Pallilo gives me a spare pullover after telling him I accidentally ripped mine. He probably doesn’t believe me because I am just another lame brain kid to him. So now I