Carter Finally Gets It (13 page)

EJ and I are chillin’ out at the arcade on a Saturday night (pathetic). I wanted to go to the movies or sit in an ice bath, but EJ’s ADHD has lots of fuel here, and there’re always hot chicks at the arcade, so here we are.

“You see me gettin’ wicked eye contact with the chicks at the Ms. Pac-Man?” EJ asks.

“Yeah, I do, ’cause you’re staring at ’em. They’re scared and trying to figure out whether or not to call security on you.” I laugh.

Even though Lynn’s advice seems to have blown up in my face, EJ still asks for clarification on how to use it. “What I don’t get is,” he says as he hip checks the Star Wars game, “how you like ’em for real, but pretend not to. But you really like ’em underneath it all, right?”

“Dude, I don’t know why it works, it just does. Why don’t you go practice on one of those Ms. Pac-Man chicks? Quit stalkin’ ’em and go talk to ’em. Just pretend you’re not into ’em and then ask a question. What’s the worst that could happen?” I ask like a fourteen-year-old Dr. Drew.

“I don’t know what to ask ’em,” he says. “You go talk to ’em, Carter.”

“Man, I’ll start to stutter, and that doesn’t help anyone,” I say. “Girls hate me, that’s just a fact. I’ll go with you, though.”

Every great pilot needs a wingman. A guy by his side who tells him how much fuel he has and how he’s doing. The pilot has one job: fly the plane. Or in this case, talk to the girl. The wingman just helps the pilot out. Like a corner man at a prize fight or a coach on the sidelines.

I don’t think EJ’ll go through with it, though. He’ll just stare at these chicks until his mom comes and picks us up. But he thinks it over for a second, rolls his eyes back into his head, and breaks for the Ms. Pac-Man machine.

“Whoa, slow down, turbo!” I say, but he doesn’t hear me. The pilot makes a move; the wingman follows.

We walk toward the group of girls with great purpose. I can’t believe we’re doing this. I’m not even flying the plane, but my heart is in my throat. If I have to talk, the stutter is going to soar. EJ, on the other hand, is a picture of determination. Puberty is changing us all. He kind of looks like Wolverine just before his claws come out and he gets to kicking somebody’s ass.

“Go easy, man. Just pretend you don’t like ’em,” I say.

“I got it, bro,” EJ says with pure focus.

“Hit ’em with a question,” I say.

“Got it,” he replies.

“Breathe, dude,” I add for good measure.

I’m not great at a lot of things, but I’m a good wingman. I thought we’d chat for an hour or so about what questions he would ask and how to respond to their responses, but we’re just going for it! Hell yeah, just a couple of cowboys on a roundup. Yee haaaw!

We roll up on that Ms. Pac-Man machine like it’s the O.K. Corral. EJ makes eye contact with the smallest one, off to the side. That’s how a lion selects his prey. My boy’s got killer instinct! She’s wide open. She’s not the cutest one, in my opinion, which I think is super smart. She won’t jack up his mainframe, and he’s got a better chance at saying something cool. And she might not get as much attention as the rest of her friends, so she’ll be stoked that a guy has come up to her, even if he says something stupid.

Wingman to leader: Fire when ready.

She looks up at EJ and gives him the nicest smile. He pulls the trigger and yells, “You think you’re hot stuff, don’t you?”

What the . . . ? Where are you going with this?

“Excuse me?” she replies, kind of sweetly.

EJ asks, “You think you’re cool, don’t you? Where did you get that shirt, the Salvation Army? What the hell is with your hair?”

My eyes are as big as basketballs as he fires one mean-ass question after another at her.

“You don’t have a boyfriend, do you?” he continues.

It’s like he’s armed with self-esteem killer.

“Did your parents have any kids that lived?” EJ asks.

The girl starts to buckle, and tears are on the way.

“Are these your friends, or are they like, counselors here to observe you?” EJ shouts.

Oh, what a misunderstanding! I thought this was a clear mission, but I was so wrong. As the wingman I have to stop my pilot from destroying this girl. She’s becoming more of a lesbian with every question.

He asks, “Does your grandma know you borrowed her shoes?” as I drag him away. The girl is crying pretty hard, and her friends are trying to console her. They’re all giving me dirty looks, too. Thank you very much, EJ. I was worried not every girl on the planet hated me.

“Man, that didn’t go very well. What do you think I did wrong?” EJ asks.

“Are you serious?” I ask.

“I was just doing what you told me to,” he replies.

“I-I-I told you to go up to that girl and start abusing her?” I ask.

“You said to ask her questions and pretend that I didn’t like her!” he yells back.

“Pretend YOU’RE NOT INTO HER!” I clarify. “Not that you hate her and wish she would die! Good God, that girl thought she was gonna get a boyfriend when you walked up, not years of therapy.”

“Do you think I still have a shot?” he asks.

“NO, I don’t!” I bark.

“You said to pretend not to like her and ask questions. . . . I did that!” he says.

I just stare at him. He means it, too. He was just doing what he thought I, or my sister, wanted him to do. Didn’t question it for a second. This is why they send kids to war. Young men. Just give us an order. If you’ve constructed enough of a reason for us to go blow ourselves up . . . we won’t question it a bit. When we get old or mature enough to ask “Why?” we aren’t any good for that stuff anymore. Man, what a mess! Like a bad game of telephone, Lynn’s orders have been bastardized and misinterpreted. She would be horrified to know that she was responsible for EJ giving a girl an eating disorder.

In this process of becoming an adult, I think some people have got to get hurt. We hurt ourselves, and we hurt others. Some deserve it, while others are just waiting in line to play Ms. Pac-Man. From weight training, I know that when you stress a muscle you’re actually tearing it down, and when it repairs itself, it’s that scarred tissue that looks bigger and makes you stronger. So if it’s true that our scars shape who we are and how we live life . . . EJ and the short girl just learned a big lesson tonight, and they’ll be stronger because of the pain and confusion.

The rest of my boys were absent, so EJ was spared a lot of embarrassment. But I’ll break this story out at just the right moment, and it’ll be epic!

My frustrations with girls, math, and staying focused continue, but football, of all things, is a big help. The more confused I get, the harder I smash into guys. I’m working out my problems the only way I can—violence! During the games I just look at Abby herding the drill team into position, and I shift my anger toward the kid carrying the ball.
WHAM!
I look over at Andre or Amber Lee and then I smash the hell out of the guy in front of me.
WHAACCKK!
I’m pretty ferocious too. I knocked two guys unconscious (one of them was me). A scorned and sexually deprived young man is a lethal weapon. I imagine the ball is my virginity and I just want to knock it loose! If I keep growing, lifting weights, and stay a virgin through graduation, I’ll go pro for sure.

I’m surprisingly balanced but ridiculously bruised; it’s a vicious cycle. The unfortunate kid with the ball doesn’t know why I’m so mercilessly smashing his ass. If he did, he’d go over to Abby on the sideline and tell her he was sorry for what I had done, and that she should give me a second chance, and that Andre’s just using her because he thinks she’s slutty.
WHAAMM!
The other team’s coach would go up to Amber and Nicky and slap their faces for being coldhearted BITCHES, and for giving me the strength to smash his quarterback over and over, and for giving me the focus to kick thirty-yard field goals against his team.

Football is great for my mental wounds, but I’m looking forward to the final game of the season (next week), so my physical wounds can start to heal.

The boys and I are chillin’ at Bag’s house on a Friday night, eating all his mom’s food and playing video games. Bag and Hormone have girlfriends, but tonight we’re practicing an old hip-hop tradition known as
bros before hos
. Where you don’t let chicks get in the way of your friendship with your boys (I wish I practiced less). Eminem and 50 Cent are blaring on the old stereo. I love rap. The lyrics are “explicit,” which means you’re supposed to be old to listen to them. But if rap music has taught me anything, it’s to screw the establishment and to do whatever the F*#K I wanna DO! My parents won’t let me listen to this stuff for some reason, but at Bag and Pam’s house, it’s all good. Their mom works a lot, and nobody has ever seen a dad. Plywood covers a living room window, the bathroom door doesn’t lock, and the lawn is like a wild–grass nature preserve. They seem to have bigger problems than what’s playing on the stereo. We hang out here a lot.

Pam, Yasmine, and Jemma are getting ready for a big party tonight, so the curling irons are sizzling, blow dryers are blowing, and I think something is burning. They don’t mess up our
bros before hos
night, because none of us could
ever
get with them.

Pam’s boyfriend/old man has bought us all a bunch of beer, and I take one to look cool, but it’s NASTY. I don’t say it out loud, but it tastes like burned salt water and Pop Rocks. So I break for the bathroom to pour it down the toilet. The door is shut and someone has hung a sock on the knob, but I just go in. The hot rush of steam hits my face like a textbook. I peer through the fog at a brownish pink figure with light and dark bits. I’m curiously drawn to it. Oh God, I think it . . . Could it be? PAM! She’s just stepped out of the shower and she’s wearing a towel . . . on her head! Oh GOD, she’s buck naked and dripping wet right in front of me. I lose all motor function and drop the beer, shooting foam all over the bathroom. She looks toward the noise and finds me gawking at her, unable to move, blink, or breathe. She’s in slow motion. She purses her lips like she’s about to say, “I’ve always wanted you, Carter. Take me now!” At least that’s what she’s going to say later tonight in my dreams. But for now she’s yelling and trying to cover up her privates.

“CARTER! Sock on the door! Get out of here,” she yells.

I see her full lips moving, but she could be speaking Japanese for all I’m getting out of it. I’m kind of shaking and smiling because it smells so good in here, and did I mention that Pam’s naked?! We stand there for a second or fifty, until she walks over to me. Water is still dripping off her boob when she calmly grabs my shoulder and turns me around. She pushes me out the door, not hard or anything, just firm. So nice, so gentle, so firm. Pam is naked and she’s touching me! Just as she shuts the door, I regain a hint of my senses and blabber, “I love you.”

Behind the door she says, “I know, Carter, I love you too.”

Oh God, I think I’m going to pass out as I stumble toward the front door. I need air! I step out into the cool night air and wander down the streets of Merrian, trying to collect myself. I’ve just seen the hand of God. And although I now know he has nothing to do with her blond hair, He made a body to worship in there. I’ll never be the same. How do I go on? I can’t go out with some freshman chick now. Pam should take responsibility and make a man out of me.

When I finally get back to the house, everyone is jumping around in the front yard. I want to tell my boys about what I saw, but they’re all too drunk to keep it cool, so I save it for later. We’re all piling into Hormone’s CRX, and I don’t know where we’re going, but I wedge myself in anyway. Nine dudes are smashed inside a car that was built for two, and we’re flying down the road. I think we’re following Jemma’s car, but I can’t really see. I can’t breathe at all, but I can’t freak out either. I’ve got to meditate. I can’t focus on the fact that we’re going ninety miles an hour and Bag’s elbow is lodged in my throat. I’ve got to find a happy place. I’ve got to transport myself back to the steamy bathroom. Back where I felt sooo good and Pam touched me on the shoulder and whispered in my ear and . . . Dang it, I’m smashed in a car with eight dudes and I’ve got a hard-on. I guess nobody’s noticed and we’ve arrived, because people are stepping on my head and I can breathe again. I climb out of the car and look up to find a girl puking in the bushes of an old house, and realize we’re at a real high school party. I don’t know what I thought it would be like, but it’s kind of how I imagine a prison riot would be (if I ever go to one of those). Utter chaos. One of the windows gets smashed out from the inside as we walk up to the house.

“I don’t think we should be here, E,” I whisper.

EJ doesn’t respond. He just drunkenly stumbles around the yard, looking for who said his name.

I’m positive we shouldn’t be here when I hear a guy yell, “No freshmen allowed!” as we open the front door. But important information like that goes unnoticed when the music is super loud and everyone is screaming. We walk inside a house filled only with high school kids, a big dining room table, and an old stereo. There’s also an aquarium, which must have had fish at one time. But it’s just a tank full of water now, as the Skeleton dangles the last goldfish above his face. He drops it into his mouth and washes it down with beer. Awww, that’s gross. Everyone cheers, “YEAH!!!”

I look up the stairs because there’s a big commotion, and see Nutt flying through the air and tumbling down the stairs.

“NO FRESHMEN!” a big voice yells.

Oh, we’re going to die! Nutt lands at the bottom with a thud and gets up slow. He shakes out the cobwebs and runs back up the stairs. Why are you going back up there, dude? You’re obviously not wanted. Just hang with me and EJ over here in this corner. Our first high school party and EJ is passed out at my feet. Again Nutt sails down the stairs and crashes into a group of seniors. They’ve had their fill of goldfish and are considering killing Nutt. He tries to stand, but he’s not doing well.

“Stay down, Nutt!” I whisper/yell as his brother picks him up by the hair. Nutt screams in pain and punches Bart right in the face, hard. Bart stumbles back from the blow, but shakes it off and lifts his little brother into the air before slamming him onto the dining room table. I’ve never been more thankful to have a sister as the table smashes to pieces. Lynn is a bitch sometimes, and she’s pretty strong, but I don’t need to worry about body slams.

I hope whoever owns this house didn’t like that table, because it’s toast. And hopefully they weren’t very attached to their walls either because Bart just smashed Nutt’s head right through one of them.
BOOM!
Ouch! I thought walls were really strong, but Nutt’s head broke through that one pretty easily. Then another guy I know from football punches the wall with his hand. Then the Skeleton comes out of the kitchen and kicks a big hole in it.

“Yeah!” Everyone is laughing and cheering as these crazy punks are ripping the house apart. “Let’s tear this mother down!”

EJ’s starting to snore as the Skeleton punches the wall one more time, and we all learn a valuable lesson in home construction. You see, every sixteen inches or so, they put wooden supports in a wall to hold up the house. They’re called studs, but they should change the name to stud stoppers, because the Skeleton found one with his fist and is crying like a baby. Good thing he’s drunk. I hear stuff doesn’t hurt when you’re drunk, but he’s screaming like that may not be entirely true.

EJ looks conscious for a second, so I nudge him and say, “If they take him to the hospital and give him an X-ray, they’ll see goldfish swimming around in his stomach.” EJ doesn’t get it; he just smacks his lips and goes back to sleep.

Like a SWAT team, two seniors grab Hormone from the kitchen as if he’s a wanted terrorist. They drag him into the dining room and smash his head through the wall.
BOOM!
Dang it!

The front door opens, and Nick Brock steps through with Lynn in tow. Everybody stops and acknowledges his presence, like he’s a Mafia boss.

Doc runs for the open door, but Pam’s old-ass boyfriend grabs him by the collar, high-fives Brock, and yells, “Dude, we’re tearin’ this house down with freshmen heads!”

He spins around real quick and—
BAM!
—Doc’s head goes through the wall. My boys are going down!

Brock says, “Cool,” steps over Doc, and walks into the living room.

“Why is my friggin’ brother here?” Lynn barks out.

The demolition continues as Nick rolls up on EJ and me. He slaps my hand (ouch). A
BOOM
comes from behind us.

“Anybody put your head through a wall, Carter?” Brock asks.

“No.” I laugh.

“Mind if I do?” he asks.

“D-d-do what?” I stammer.

Lynn looks up at him to see if he’s serious. “What?” he asks her. “If anybody is gonna put Carter’s head through the wall, it should be me.”

EJ’s eyes snap open, and he scoots away from me slowly. I’ll remember this, Wingman!

“T-t-the-there’s wood behind some of the . . .” I protest.

“Naw, you’ll be fine, we’ll just do one,” he explains as he picks me up.

One what? One hole? You big son of a . . . This will definitely be my last high school party!

My sister yells out, “Nick, don’t!”

Hey, that’s a first. Did anybody hear that? Lynn just stuck up for me. I’m about to die, so the timing could have been better.

“Brock’s got a FRESH ONE!” someone yells out as he carries me into what once was a dining room.

This will all be over in a second. Stop kicking and DO NOT CRY! It won’t be so bad; I’ll just have white powder and tears streaming down my face like Doc does. I go limp as he touches my head to the wall.

“Does it sound hollow, Carter?” Brock yells out.

“No, NO, I don’t think it does!” I whine.

The whole room laughs . . . because apparently this is funny.

“ONE!” Brock calls out as he walks backward. “TWO!” he and the rest of the party yell together.

This is it! When they say “no freshmen allowed,” they mean it. I can see now, it’s not just that they don’t want us here; we’re in danger. It’s more of a public service announcement.

“THREEEE!” they roar.

Nick squats down and drives forward with his strong-ass legs. He’s going to ram me through the wall and into the backyard! At least I can leave this stupid party.

I’m hurtling forward, but suddenly it all stops and Brock throws me up into the air like a rag doll and onto my feet. He’s laughing hysterically.

“I’m just messin’ with you, man! Nobody smashes Carter’s head through the wall,” he yells through the laughter.

Wow, okay. That was a joke. Ha-ha! We’re joking. Oh man, that is funny. They should come up with a reality TV show like this. It’ll be called
I’m Gonna Kill Ya!
The host rolls up and yells, “I’m gonna kill ya!” And then pretends like he’s really going to do it. The contestants won’t love it, but America will go crazy for it.

I’m laughing like everybody else, but more because I’m happy to be alive and not lying out in the yard. I’m glad I’m not crying and I only let a little bit of pee out when they yelled “THREEEE!” Ah, good times. High school rocks! I see why I was looking forward to this crap.

All of my friends are drunk. EJ is now puking into the fireplace, and Bag is dancing on top of him. Nutt is searching for a missing tooth. Doc looks like a mime, talking to a drunk girl about his ordeal. I hope she’s drunk enough to understand whatever it is he’s saying.

I want to go back to Bag’s house and play video games. I want a Coke. I want my friends to act normal. Am I just being a baby? I guess I’m not adult or mature enough to understand the appeal of alcohol. It tastes awful. It makes you say and do things you would never do on your own. It makes you mean, stupid, and then you vomit. Yeah, bartender, give me another!

What am I supposed to do, though? Go hang with the self-righteous Young Life kids? Drink Kool-Aid, read the Bible, and listen to them blabber on about “the power of abstinence” and saving themselves for marriage? I’ll have to jump over the campfire and yell out how I’m saving myself for the first slutty girl who’ll let me do it to her! And they’ll tell me how I’m going to hell for sure. I don’t think I’m going to hell, but I’m definitely visiting tonight. I guess these parties are going to be like football and everything else. I’ll just show up and get it done. Just another thing I hate, but I do anyway.

Lynn throws her arm around my shoulder and says, “Pretty crazy, huh?”

I just shake my head and say, “This isn’t fun.”

“Very few people actually enjoy these parties,” she replies.

“Whose house is this?” I ask. “Their parents are gonna kill ’em.”

“It’s nobody’s house. It’s for sale. The guys just broke in,” she says, pointing to a FOR SALE sign on the floor. “They couldn’t get that big dining room table out, I guess. And the fish tank too.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem now,” I say as the fish tank crashes to the ground, shatters, and shoots glass and water everywhere. “Is this illegal? Are we like, stealing this house?”

“Yeah, but these guys do it all the time,” she responds.

Then I hear a very familiar squeal, and turn to see two seniors carrying EJ toward the dining room. He’s weak from all the puking, but he’s kicking and flailing as best he can. Just when things couldn’t get much crazier, the living room fills with red-and-blue lights, and someone yells, “COPS!”

The police are here. It’s about time! If I had thought of it earlier, I would have called them myself. The party becomes a fire drill on crack. People are pushing and shoving to get out the back door, out the garage, or out the broken windows. If Brock had really crashed me through that wall, we would all be home free with another back door available. I push EJ out the kitchen window and dive after him, when I hear a cop yell, “Don’t move—Police!” Man, I never thought I’d hear that. And I always thought I’d stop if I did. But nobody else is stopping, so damned if I’m going down for all this.

I wipe the grass off my face and run through the backyard. I jump a fence and look around for EJ. Nutt and Bag point at a figure flying across the yard next to us. It’s EJ, and he may be drunk but he’s really booking it. His eyes are filled with terror, his arms are flailing, and he’s screaming. He must really be scared of going to jail. That, or he’s worried about the huge, snarling, rottweiler on his heels! The dog’s slobbering, barking, and gaining on him. Nobody wants to get caught by the cops, but about twenty of us stop to see if EJ is going to get eaten by this dog or not.