Carter Finally Gets It (18 page)

Stripping off my jeans before the JV championships is as painful as it is disgusting. I’m covered in a poison ivy–looking rash and have bloody racing-stripe cuts and little mohawks up and down my legs. It only takes fifteen minutes to put my Speedo on, but once I tie the drawstring I start to get excited and focused on the race. I wrap a towel around my waist and head out for warm-ups.

“HHHAAAWWWWWEEE!!!” I scream as my bloody cuts collide with the chlorine and sizzle. Normally it wouldn’t be a big deal to scream at a swim meet, but for some reason a lot of people are here today. It’s not just parents, either. The JV cheerleaders are supposed to come. Which is kind of dumb. I wouldn’t kick them out or anything, but our sport takes place underwater; we can’t hear anything. No “GO”s, no “FIGHT”s, no “WIN!”s. I guess the cheerleaders thought it was stupid too, because the drill team just showed up instead. Man, that’s a slap in the face. What are they going to do, bust out a big dance number? It’s hard enough to walk on a wet pool deck . . . hip-hop is going to be impossible.

Abby files in toward the end of the herd. She looks like someone is holding a gun to her back, forcing her to come to this swim meet, like, “Hey, Abby, how many guys have broken your heart? Oh, only two dudes? Well, how about you get your ass in this natatorium and shake it for both of ’em!” She looks cute despite her deer-in-headlights expression. Andre is doing his Mr. Clean impression, talking to his Hooker slut right in front of Abby. What a jerk. He yawns and kisses his girl good-bye. He looks all relaxed, and I’m a nervous wreck. We’re in the same heat for the hundred-meter freestyle, and I know this is my chance. I want to win so bad it’s making me sick. How sweet would it be to pull this off in front of Abby?

The butterflies in my stomach feel like they’re on crack when the lane assignments are called out. Mr. Clean is right next to me in lane three. My hands are trembling as I try to put my goggles on. I look over at Andre as we step up to the blocks, and he yawns at me. Oh no you didn’t! Mr. State Championship relay team member has decided this little JV meet is beneath him. Oh, I can tolerate the drill team stomping and mooing over there, but this slap in the face, I cannot. Now you’re going to get slapped, dog!

The starter calls out, “Swimmers, take your mark.” Andre better take his mark and get set to be smoked.

The start bell chirps—
AAARRTTT
—and I’m off like a shot. All of my anxiety and frustration are released in the first four strokes. My cut-up legs are kicking the water as if it’s Andre’s face. I pull the water toward me like I’m pulling Abby back to me. I grunt and snarl under the water. I don’t need air; I’ve got anger, frustration, and loneliness for fuel, and I’ve got someone to blame for it all in the next lane. My flip turns are money. I’m cooking! I glance to my right after the third flip turn, but I don’t see him. Dang it, he’s so far ahead of me I can’t even see him. NOOO! He was all relaxed and ready to fly, and I was all tense and ready to sink. My muscles are crying out for mercy and air, but I dig down and demand more. Let’s GOOO! He can’t beat me. He can’t embarrass me like this in front of Abby.

I smash into the wall like I’m trying to break it down. I pull in a full breath of air and rip my goggles off, but I’m all alone on the wall. That’s weird. Everyone is looking at me and shouting. DANG IT, you stopped too soon! I must’ve counted the laps wrong. It’s just four laps, but I really suck at math. I pull my goggles back on and turn to see the coolest thing ever. Seven guys slamming into the wall and gasping for air . . . behind me. Andre included! I beat him. I smoked him! The crowd isn’t yelling at me . . . they’re cheering for me. YES! I pump my fist like Tiger Woods.

Andre (Mr. Fourth Place) lazily sticks out his hand, and I instinctively slap it five. I kind of lose my balance when his big arm shakes me off my feet. I fall toward him, and he gives me a man-shake-hug. Get off me! We don’t high-five, and we sure as hell don’t hug. He doesn’t get to be a gracious loser. He needs to concentrate on just being a loser.

He slowly climbs out of the pool and holds his head low. I’ve beaten him soundly in front of his ex-girlfriend and his soon to be ex–Hooker slut. She’ll totally dump him for being such a loser. I almost feel sorry for him until he YAWNS again! No way; he’s pretending to yawn just to cheapen my victory.

I shaved 1.04 seconds off my time; I’m now exactly as fast as Andre. I haven’t beaten his time, but I have smoked the man. If I’d beaten his time, I’d get to go to State for sure, and I’d be shaving my head soon and wearing my letterman’s jacket.

I was really psyched up for this race. I should have been shaving my legs this whole time. I had no idea how much that fuzz was holding me back. My mom gives me a kiss and my dad high-fives me. They know how hard I worked for this, and they’re really proud of me. All the drill team chicks are clapping and cheering for me. Out of the corner of my eye, I even see Abby smiling, but she quickly looks away when she catches me watching her.

Two days later


The following Monday, the gossip in the hall is that Andre’s mom had to take him to the hospital after the race. I’m guessing that he had a bad case of
In Your Face!
and needed to have a doctor look at it.

Bag walks up to the boys and me in the hall and asks, “Yo, did you hear about Andre having mono?”

“What the hell is mono?” I ask back.

“They call it the kissing disease because you get it from saliva, and I guess you can die from it.”

I jump around the hall yelling like I just won a million dollars. I know I shouldn’t be this stoked—a guy is dying in the hospital—but I’m going to State! I’m so happy, it doesn’t even get me down that he’s surely going to use this “mono” excuse to explain his defeat or the fact that he got the disease from kissing too many chicks, which is a pimp-ass problem I wish I had.

The seniors on the relay team are all waiting for me after my seventh-hour health class. They pick me up and carry me down to the locker room, where Coach Barker is waiting out front to congratulate me with hair clippers, shaving cream, and a razor in her hand. Awesome! I want to tell them my new rule about razor blades, but there’s no time. In swimming, everything goes fast, and head shaving is no exception. I only thought it hurt to shave your face or legs . . . but the head tops them all! When your head gets cut, it doesn’t stop bleeding. The arms or the knees know what’s up when they get slashed open, but the melon doesn’t expect it. It just bleeds and bleeds. I should go to the hospital, but instead I jump into the pool and swim my butt off for a few hours. And let me tell you, nothing gets the heart racing like swimming. And nothing helps pump blood out of a fresh wound like a racing heart. I may die, but I beat Andre and I’m going to State, so whatever.

We finish practice and I can’t wait to see myself in the mirror. I bet I look so tough. But I don’t. Have my ears always been this big? Did they get a growth spurt that I didn’t notice? In a stiff wind I could take flight with these babies. If I learn to use them properly, I could be very useful as a spy someday. And with these cuts on my head and being so skinny lately, I resemble a special guest on a Jerry Lewis telethon. People would jam the phone lines trying to help poor Carter in his brave battle with whatever horrible disease makes your ears swell, causes you to go bald, and gives you lesions on your head.

And good God, it’s cold! I never knew it, but the hair on your head is good for more than just combing, washing, and putting gel into. It really keeps you warm. No wonder Andre got sick. Well, kissing too many chicks was his downfall, but the case of pneumonia I’ve got coming is going to be a direct result of not having any insulation on my bean.

The Friday night before the state championships, I’m relaxing at the movies with Nutt and EJ. I’m wearing a new Burton skullcap that my mom picked up for me. All the Dumbo and Tickle Me Chemo jokes are behind me as we figure out the best way to sneak into Keanu Reeves’s new movie. I like to watch his movies just to try and figure out how it’s possible that that dumbass is a movie star. I mean, if he can do it, anybody can.

We catch Doc, Hormone, and Bag coming out of the new Kate Hudson romantic comedy. Busted!

“S’up, ladies? Did you have a good cry?” I say as we all duck into the arcade.

“Shut up, dude,” Doc says. “We thought it was a different movie.”

“Sure ya did,” EJ fires back.

I’ve got to get us off this Kate Hudson subject or it’ll slip out that EJ and I already saw it. “We’re gonna go see Keanu stumble through some dialogue. You wanna join?” I ask.

“Naw, we’re rollin’ to a party at the Chopper’s house,” Hormone says.

“The Chopper, huh?” I ask. She’s a junior on the drill team. Her real name is Christy Schauper. She works the snack bar at the pool, and she gave me free soda a few times, so she’s cool. She has a bit of a Village Bike reputation, and she usually wears her hair in two pigtails. After the Skeleton hooked up with her, he called her pigtails handlebars and coined the name Chopper.

“Can we come?” EJ asks.

“No, we cannot,” I say to EJ. “I have the biggest swim meet of my life tomorrow, and I hate parties. They all turn out the same and . . .”

“Abby’s gonna be there. It’s like a drill team party. You may not be welcome,” Doc says.

“Drill team is like a gang. You can’t just dog one and then show up at their party,” Bag adds.

“Oh,” I say.

That info right there is enough to get me out of going to this party, and I can go watch Keanu do his thing. But Abby did smile at me the other day. Or she, like, smiled because of me. Or we were in the same room and she smiled. My point is, I’m getting somewhere, and the drill team chicks don’t hate me so much anymore. I could stop by.

“Those fatties don’t determine where I go, fool,” I say, all snide.

We roll into the Chopper’s house without knocking, because we’re that cool. Plus the fact that she might not let us in because of my reputation as an enemy of the drill team. I give a couple of nods and a few “S’up?”s, but I don’t know very many of the faces. Drill team parties are not nearly as wild as other parties. I don’t have my Mountain Dew–filled beer bottle tonight, but I just keep telling people, “I’m swimming in the state championship tomorrow, and I can’t pollute my body.”

I don’t see Abby, so I do a lap around the party. I look in the kitchen and downstairs, but no Abby. I shoot upstairs, but there’re just people having sex up there. The doors are shut and noises are coming from all the rooms. I check the bathroom at the end of the hall, but nothing. So I head back to the stairs, when Christy Schauper comes down the hall. She’s drunk. Really drunk.

“Heeyy, what are you doin’ up ’ere?” the Chopper slurs.

I just look at her for a sec. I’m not positive she’s talking to me, because she’s kind of looking over my shoulder.

“You’re on the swimmy team, right?” she asks.

Yep, she’s talking to me. “Uh-huh,” I say.

“You’re the cute one in the little Speedooo,” she garbles.

Wait a minute, is she talking to me?

“Yeah, we cheered for you, and you won. And, and you’re the freshman that screwed over my girl Abby!” she continues.

“Yeah, that’s all me. My name is Carter,” I say.

She walks up, and I can smell her before she gets very close. Alcohol and cigarettes, a.k.a. “slut perfume.”

“Oh, I know your name, Carver,” she kind of yells.

Eww! When she said “Carver” it produced a cloud of stank that drifts into my face. Yuck.

“So, h-h-have you seen, um, Abby?” I ask, turning away from her stink hole. “Is sh-sh-she here?”

This chick is giving me a cross-eyed look that’s freaking out my stutter.

“She was here until you walked in, but then she split,” she says.

“She broke out because of me?” I ask.

The Chopper doesn’t answer. Instead she grabs my face and smashes her drunk, stinky mouth against mine. Okay, so Chopper and I are making out. Did you see the formula? I’m not into her, and I asked her a question. Foolproof!

The taste is not pleasant. But my horny mind can block out anything. And it would be rude to pull out of a kiss just because she’s smelly and I’m not into her. I wouldn’t call her ugly, but I bet people say she looks like her dad. If any of my boys come up the stairs, I’ll be totally busted in a full-on lip-lock with the Chopper. I could never come up with a reasonable excuse for this. I’m trying to concentrate on the kissing while not breathing out of my nose at the same time.

“You’re a good kisser, for a freshman,” she babbles.

“Uh, thanks. You’ve kissed a lot of dudes, I bet,” I reply.

“Oh, I want you soo bad,” she says like a porn star. At least I think that’s what a porn star would sound like. Does this mean I’m going to get to do it? Right here, right now, with the Chopper? She pulls away and gives me a kind of cross-eyed sexy look. It doesn’t take much to rev a fourteen-year-old engine. Yeah, let’s do it, baby! She opens a bedroom door, but I guess people are already using the room, because a guy’s voice shouts, “Get outta here!”

This is her house, but she shuts the door. She kisses me really hard again and tries another door. But this one is locked. And so is the last one. Dang it. Well, I guess that’s the end of that.

“Let’s go out to the shed,” she says as she grabs my hand and leads me downstairs.

I’m hoping “the shed” is her pet name for some secret, sexy, love room in the house.

EJ’s eyes get really big when he sees us come downstairs holding hands. He’s as confused about what he’s seeing as I am. We’ve only been here for five minutes and I’ve somehow lassoed the Chopper. Or been lassoed; I have no idea.

He shoots me a look like, “You are making a BIG mistake, old friend.” But that’s an easy look for him to shoot. He had sex with the Caboose four times. I’m still shackled to my virginity like a ball and chain. The Chopper and I are going out to the shed to chop it off. Oh man, this is not how I thought this would go. And EJ has witnessed the whole thing. I’m screwed!

She takes a swig from a liquor bottle as we walk out into the freezing-cold backyard. She lights up a cigarette, I guess to be sexy, but it’s just more stink on the pile to me. She kisses me again, and I really wish she’d stop doing that. It tastes like she’s been drinking gasoline. The cigarette isn’t just gross, it could be dangerous. We walk around her house, and I get my first glimpse of our love nest. “The shed” is just that: a metal hut where her dad keeps the lawn mower and junk. I can see my breath, it’s so cold. Hers is so foul I bet you could see it in August. The shed is lit by a single strand of Christmas lights. Which I guess is romantic. My heart is racing as she flicks the cigarette into the yard and shuts the metal door with a clang.

Oh boy. I’m trying to appear relaxed while she spreads out a blue plastic tarp. But my trembling body is telling a different story. I’m shaking because I’m nervous, but I’m also freezing. I’ve got my skullcap on, but without any body hair or a coat, it’s friggin’ brisk. The Chopper must not feel pain, because she’s starting to disrobe. The Christmas lights barely illuminate her struggle to get her T-shirt off. Her boobs are big, but her bra could be cuter. It’s kind of a flesh-colored number that my mom would wear (Sears catalog, page 47).
Get your mom out of your head, freak!

I guess the T-shirt is caught on one of her dangly earrings, because she’s stuck. Maybe I should help. She’s just kind of stumbling around the shed with her bra exposed and her hands above her head. Okay, that’s pretty funny. She looks around to see who’s laughing at her. She reminds me of my dog when you put a sheet over his head and he struggles to get out. That really gets me laughing, and she can hear it, dang it.

“Are you laughing at me, freshman?” she slurs from under the shirt.

“No, I just thought of something else that was funny,” I cover.

“I ought to beat your ass!” she yells.

What?
“Is that like, dirty pillow talk, or do you really want to fight?” I ask.

“Oh, you think you’re funny, Carver?” she slurs.

“My name is Carter.” I laugh. “Not Carver.” (Although that would be a good nickname with all these cuts on my head.)

When I’m nervous, I laugh. I can’t help it. I’m supposed to be having sex here, but I’m trembling and giggling my head off in a shed with a girl called the Chopper whose head is stuck in a T-shirt.

“Ha-haaaaa!” I cackle uncontrollably. Oh man, this isn’t going right.

The Chopper is a mean drunk, because I think she just took a swing at me. She’s pissed, but she can’t see very well and is coming at me now!

“Hey, hey, simmer down, Chopper,” I say in an effort to calm her.

“DID YOU JUST CALL ME . . . CHOPPER???!!!” she barks.

Well, that backfired. Some nicknames are given to your face, and some are only used behind your back. I’m guessing “Chopper” is reserved for behind-the-back use only, because she charges me and yells, “You mother . . .” She’s coming fast, but I step out of the way just in time to dodge the Chopper charge and—
BAANNGGG!
—she smacks into the metal door, face-first. Her T-shirt didn’t seem to soften the blow at all. I’m guessing she’s knocked out, because she bounces off the door and does a lazy spin into the weed whacker and takes out a rake on her way down. That had to hurt.

The Chopper’s KO’d in the first round. The door did the most damage, but that weed whacker didn’t do her any favors. She’s just lying there and starting to bleed.

I’m not exactly sure what the protocol is here. I’m definitely not having sex. I really want to just break the hell out of here, round up my boys, and split. I doubt she’ll bleed to death, but she’ll definitely freeze if I leave her out here. I’m not in love with ol’ Chopper, but I don’t want her to die.

“Christy?” I say, shaking her. “You okay?”

No response. I can tell she’s breathing because her stink stack is still pumping fumes into the air. Yep, this is me, “gettin’ lucky”! I’ve got to get her into the house. This is going to be awkward. What’s really embarrassing is that I can’t lift her. First I try to carry her all romantic, like the cover of a trashy book at the supermarket, but my arms can’t do it. There’s this exercise that we’re always supposed to do for football called squats, where you put a bunch of weight on your shoulders, then literally squat down and try to stand back up. I hate doing it. I’m always skipping it, but I wish I’d done it a few more times, because then maybe I’d have a snowball’s chance in hell of lifting this chick. Man, she’s heavy. After a few minutes I get her over my shoulder. I push up with all my might. My legs tremble, but I start to feel some movement. I’m getting her; I’m squatting the Chopper!

“Uuhhh!” I grunt as I lock my legs out. Yes! Now I’ve got to try to get her into the house. One step, two steps . . . DANG IT! I should have opened the door first. I fumble with the latch for a second, but the Chopper is slipping. I need to raise this latch. Then I see the big dent in the metal door where her head rammed into it.

I start laughing and lose my balance. The Chopper and I fall to the ground. I instinctively do a spin move so she doesn’t crush me, and I land on her instead. (Who says chivalry is dead?) Poor Chopper was looking for love when she came up those stairs tonight, but she found me instead.

I manage to get her back up on my shoulders again, but I smash my head into the rake in the process, knocking my new skullcap off and slashing one of the cuts on my head open. Now I’m bleeding too, dang it! I’ll have to come back for the hat, because I’ll never be able to do another set of Chopper squats.

I stumble across the yard. What seemed like a few steps when we came out here now feels like a mile with a drillteamer on my back. I thought I’d be out of breath about now, but I never dreamed it would come from this activity. I can feel the hot trickle of sweat pouring down my face. But when I catch my reflection in the sliding-glass door, I can see it’s a stream of warm blood running from the top of my bald head, down my forehead and nose, then dripping off my lips. I look like Frankenstein’s evil helper, Igor, carrying a virgin back to his cave. Well, Chopper’s no virgin, and I never thought I was evil until I tap on the glass with my foot and yell, “Open up!”

Bitchy Nicky opens the door and lets out a bloodcurdling scream: “EEEEEEE!”

I stagger past her and into the house. Now, I’m positive I didn’t see a record player spinning earlier, but I swear I just heard one scratch to silence when I cross the threshold. Choppy and I must really look a sight, because no one’s talking. I try to set her down gently. But I’m so worn out, I just drop her to the kitchen tile with a thud. Everyone gasps.

“Oh come on, she isn’t exactly light!” I protest.

And sure enough, the damn earring releases its death grip on the T-shirt, and her blood-soaked face pops out for all to see. Everybody screams.

“Oh my God! What did you do to her?” Nicky yells.

“Uhhh, she . . . fell? Into the door. Out in the shed,” I say innocently. I’m sure I don’t look super innocent with all the blood rolling down my face.

“She fell? She fell?! That’s what they all say, isn’t it?” Nicky scowls.

“Who? Who’s ‘they,’ Nicky? She rammed into the metal door with her shirt over her head, that’s it!” I exclaim.

“Why would she do that?” Nicky pesters. “And why did you shave your head; you look terrible!”

“I’m swimming in the state cha—”

Bag jumps into the conversation with, “What were you doin’ in the shed with Chopper, Carter?”

“Not now!” I bark.

There will be an open season of endless burns coming my way as a result of this stunt. But now is not the place, and it isn’t even close to the time.

“Oh, Carter!” Nicky seethes. “I just thought you were a jerk, but you’re evil, you know that? You’re a dangerous menace. And I’m going to see to it that you go to jail!”

Now, I have no doubt that Nicky is going to be an awesome lawyer or judge someday, but she’s only fifteen years old—she has no real authority at a drill team party. She can’t send me to jail. I don’t think. I mean, what would be the charge? Most terrible lover, ever? If that’s a crime, then I’m going down, but I don’t think it is. A couple of drill team chicks pull the Chopper’s shirt back down and are cleaning up her face. I grab a few paper towels for my bleeding head and apply pressure. I’m on my own at this point.

The Chopper finally stirs, and she’s calmer than the last time she was awake, but she’s still mad.

“What the hell? How the . . . ? What did you do to me, Carver?” she yells.

Nicky jumps in to cross-examine. “Yes, what did he do to you?”

“What’s it to you, bitch?” the Chopper asks.

“Thank you! You ran into the door and I carried you inside. That’s it!” I tell her.

“Why is your head bleeding?”

“I cut it yesterday and it just got reopened. I’m swimming in the state cham—”

“You carried me into the house?” the Chopper asks, kind of touched.

“Yeah,” I say. “No big deal; you’re not heavy.”

She smiles. (Now, that’s a gentleman.)

The mood of the room seems to have lifted, so I say, “Hormone, can you take me home? I gotta go to bed.”