Here's how the beginning goes

Incredible Williams is not an easy name to live up to. It is given to the son of a baseball player, or a politician's castoff whelp, or an impossibly hyped protagonist. But Incredible goes by Incredible anyway, even though his middle name is a perfectly servicable James, even though he gets report cards without any vowels on them, even though he can't run or jump better than his little sister Genia, even though he isn't funny, even though doesn't smile much, even though he inevitably disappoints every stranger or teacher or classmate or crossing guard who learns his name and beams in anticipation of something, well, incredible about to happen. Nothing much happens to Incredible, believe it or not. He can't even seem to get a nickname.

Sure, in eighth grade, his friend Robbie started calling him Cred, "Like 'street cred'," but it didn't stick, and this is ninth grade, and Robbie goes to the charter school now. Incredible doesn't. Incredible goes to Central High with a backpack that has too little padding in the shoulder straps and a cell phone that doesn't even take pictures. 

If you're trying to picture Incredible, he's not that tall. Five-six, five-seven at the most. His mom's white so his close-cropped hair is a little on the blond side. He keeps his mouth closed in a way that accentuates his lower lip, and he looks both ways a lot, as if he's always about to cross a street, even when he's just walking down a hallway bent under the weight of his backpack. He packs an extra suit of clothes because his mom tells him to, and he walks around with them underneath the weight of his books. He's not entirely sure what the extra clothes are for. No uniform at Central. No gym class either. She just makes him carry the clothes, and he does, and he walks with his hands in his pockets looking both ways for a friend or an enemy.

Or a girl. If there's one thing inside Incredible that feels special, it's his very special need to have a girl. He hasn't had one yet, and it's the exclusive topic of conversation in his small circle of friends, on the bus, in the halls, in the bathroom, before class, after class, on television, at the movies, and in his head at night before he goes to sleep. Everybody's talking about girls, and having one. But he hasn't yet. He knows there's a way to get one. He sees other boys do it all the time. There, next to the drinking fountain, Marcus got a girl. She's pretty and Mexican and has a big smile and a streak of purple in her hair. And see there, around the corner in the doorway of an unused classroom, it's Little Mike chatting up a little girl even littler than him.

Incredible knows it's stupid, but he can't talk around girls, and this hurts his ability to get one. He knows it's stupid because his friend Robbie tells him so and all those movies and TV shows tell him so. One time, when he was bored at the library, he looked up some advice on the internet about getting girls, and learned again that talking to them is key. Still, knowing something and doing something are two way different things, something that has plagued Incredible his whole life, like a name that's tough to live up to.

"Incredible Williams," says Miss Bona. She's fat and she teaches history, American and World. "How was your winter break?" She smiles big. She's Indian. Like not native, but from India. Or Pakistan. Something like that.

"Fine, Miss Bona," Incredible says, trying to slip past her and into the classroom without further conversation.

"Get anything good for Christmas?" She stands aside but turns to address his back as he picks his seat for the semester. The desks have all been moved around.

"Some good stuff," he allows. "Clothes. DVDs. Shoes." He doesn't mention the iTunes gift certificate, uncertain if Miss Bona will even know what that is. She's kind of old, and foreign besides, though she can be cool sometimes. Incredible picks a desk in the outer rim of the new horseshoe configuration, near the window and as far from the door as possible. He usually sits near the door, but that would mean sitting near where Miss Bona is standing. He thinks a little bit about how weird it is that he just picked a desk he'll use for the whole semester -- because that's an unwritten rule, like, not changing desks once you've picked one -- only because of where Miss Bona was standing before class on the first day.

"Sounds lovely," she concludes. "Just lovely." Other students trickle in: two girls, one boy. One of the girls is wearing a fuzzy sweater the color of grass, while the other is wearing nothing special and jeans, but she has pretty long hair that's not braided. Incredible doesn't like braids. Ronnie says that's because he's half white. Ronnie's all black and he likes braids. Incredible always shrugs about this, because picking what girls to like isn't a science, and besides, he'd kiss a girl with braids too if she let him. Incredible pulls out his notebook. The girls sit far away from him. He watches the door, trying again, wondering which girl will sit close to him and whether he should watch them all the way in the room with confidence or just observe from the corner of his eye. The internet didn't say anything about getting a girl to sit close to you. Or maybe it did. Maybe he was supposed to talk to make it happen.