Carter Finally Gets It (19 page)

Spring is in the air. I know this not because flowers are blooming or birds are singing again, but because it’s time for spring tryouts. The sports we get to choose from are: baseball, track and field, tennis, and golf (all of my boys play ball, and Nick Brock too). I played T-ball when I was little, but I never played baseball. The Little League season is in the summer, and my swimming schedule never allowed time. Plus, my dad thinks baseball is the most boring game ever. He’s right, but I really want a Merrian High baseball hat, because they’re awesome. They’re fitted and black with a red
M
written in cursive on the forehead. You can’t buy them; you have to be on the team to get one.

It’s not so much that I want to “play baseball,” as much as I want to “be a baseball player.” Chicks dig them. My sister has never seen a baseball game in her life, but if there’s a baseball player giving an interview on TV, she stops dead in her tracks and watches, like she’s the editor of
Sports Illustrated
. The guys who play baseball and wear the fitted hats never shower. They chew tobacco. They’re always dirty, and they totally get chicks.

My itty-bitty glove from T-ball isn’t going to cut it, so I borrow EJ’s dad’s mitt for the tryouts. I should’ve bought cleats, pants, and some black paint to put under my eyes, but I didn’t have time. The state swimming championships were on Saturday, and the first day of baseball tryouts are on Monday. I could have picked the baseball junk up on Sunday, but I had to watch TV all day. Seriously. I may or may not have been a little depressed and needed to take my mind off something. The state championships may have gone awesome. It’s possible that I swam so fast my relay team won the state title, and all the senior guys carried me out of the pool on their shoulders, yelling, “CARTER, CARTER, CARTER.” Or I may have jumped off the block a moment too soon and disqualified the whole relay team. And ended the seniors’ high school swimming careers with a disappointing failure, removing any proof that they’d made it to State and destroying any chance that I had of getting a varsity letterman’s jacket as a freshman. Any of these things may have happened. I don’t really recall. I’ve blocked that day out of my memory completely.

I show up to the first day of baseball tryouts without a letterman’s jacket (you do the math). My baseball costume is pretty sweet for somebody who’s never played. I’ve got on Bag’s LA Dodgers shirt, Nutt’s KC Royals jacket, Levi’s NY Mets hat, and my football cleats. I definitely look like a ball player. I’ve never actually watched an entire baseball game before (my ADD won’t allow it), so I don’t know all the rules. I’m terrified that a ball will hit me in the face, but I have no doubt that baseball is going to be my thing. I love all the gear, but you don’t get your official uniform until you make the team. They cut the losers on Wednesday after practice.

My boys are trying to help me out with the technical stuff. EJ runs up to me and yells, “RELAX, dude!” Brock tells me to “Keep your eye on the ball” when I whiff for the thousandth time. Nutt keeps reminding me to “Look where you’re throwing!” when I whiz the ball over his head. I’m more focused on looking cool and am hopeful that the skills will follow.

When I throw the ball I just want to sling it as hard as I can. I’ve got to show the coaches that I’m worthy of a hat. That I’ve got “wheels for feet” and a cannon attached to my shoulder. That I’m “raw talent” or “moldable clay” that they can shape into the greatest baseball player they’ve ever coached. I grit my teeth when I make a throw, I sling my whole body around and fire the ball. I really don’t aim, so the ball never arrives quite where I mean it to. And my feet always leave the ground, which they tell me is bad. Sometimes I fall on my face from the effort. It’s cool to hit the ground when you catch the ball, like a Derek Jeter diving catch, but with me, it’s more like there’s just too much going on with the running and the opening of the glove, and I just fall down. I hope the coaches haven’t noticed. They have to have noticed the raw talent, though. Every time I throw the ball, a kid yells, “CARTER!” as it sails past him. I haven’t actually hit the ball yet, but Brock keeps telling me I’m taking some good cuts.

By Wednesday, I’m really starting to get the hang of it. I hit a couple of foul balls. They don’t count as hits, but I think they show major progress. My arm cannon is getting some control, and I borrowed a sweet Yankees shirt from J-Low. I can’t see why they would cut me from the team. I probably shower too much, but I could work on that.

We meet in the baseball room (a.k.a. the football room) after practice. All the older guys and freshmen pile into the room. It’s tight, but we’re a team. We’re a unit. The coach has a clipboard in his right hand and a tape measure in his left. They’re going to measure our heads right now. I could have my hat by tonight!

The door closes and the coach rattles off the same spiel he probably gives every year. “Fellas,” he says, taking off his hat, “this is the worst part of my job. But we only have so many slots, so we gotta cut a few of you. It’s not that you’re not . . .”

I figure I’ve got a few minutes, so I look out the windows and think back to when this room was the football room. When the air was crisp, you could smell burning leaves, and a lynch mob was waiting for me out there. (Good times.) I can still hear Abby sobbing, and the drill team girls with their torches and sticks. Beating their bare chests and demanding my release so they could drag me back to their village and have their way with . . .

“Cory Day, Gene Arioli, Nick Brock, Paul Skelton, Ben Kriesman . . .” the coach continues as he looks down at his clipboard.

Dang it! I have no idea what’s going on. Is he reading out names of guys who made the team or are they the names of guys cut from the team? Is Nick Brock getting cut from the team? I’ll quit if they cut him.

Coach continues, “Emilio Johnson” (EJ), “Josh Loos” (J-Low), “Bill Kasson” (Doc), “Andre Durlan” (thorn in my side), “Todd O’Connell” (Nutt) . . .

Okay, he’s calling out a lot of names. I doubt this is the list of guys getting cut, because all those guys are really good. I’m not hearing my name, though. Say it. Say “Carter!” Raw talent, remember? I’m your Play-Doh. I could be great if you’d just say “Carter.” This is my crew. Just because I suck at hitting and throwing a ball, you can’t cut me from my friends.

“Kurt Harmon” (Hormone), “aaand Matt Sparks” (Bag), “and that does it,” the coach says as he looks up from the clipboard.

Dang it! Did I just get cut? Or did he call out my name when I was spacing off? Usually I snap out of an attention-deficit dream if I hear my name, so if he said my name, I probably would’ve noticed.

“If you weren’t called, I’m sorry. It was a tough decision, but we only have so many slots. If you were, stay put; we’re gonna take the hat measurements. But if you weren’t called . . . go ahead and get your gear,” Coach says.

What does that mean, “get your gear”? I think, loosely translated, it means, “Get out, losers,” because that’s what I heard. Guys are leaving the room with their heads low. A couple of guys are crying. Being rejected sucks. I’d probably be crying too, if I were positive my name hadn’t been called. But he might have. I don’t want to leave this room. The walk of shame is just too much. I could smack off of a thousand diving boards, but I can’t walk out of this room in front of all my boys and Nick Brock, too.

The coach gives me a nod. “You okay, kid?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Um, my name is Carter? Did you call my name? ’Cause I was spacing off there for a sec, and I didn’t hear it.”

“No, I didn’t call your name,” the coach says flatly.

“Ooohhhh,” I say, like air being released from a balloon. “So . . . I should go?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he mumbles.

Everyone is staring at me as I make my way out the door. I want to turn around and scream, “Take your dumb hats and balls and bats and shove ’em up your fitted, dirty asses!” But I’m so busy trying not to cry that I’ll have to save the speech.

Tom Hanks claimed in some movie that there was no crying in baseball. But there sure is today. A bunch of guys are out in the hall sobbing. I won’t be one of them. I won’t waste my tears . . . at least not in front of these dudes. I’m going behind the drama wing to ball my eyes out.

It just hurts so much to be told you’re not good enough, or that you can’t do something that you really want to do. That you’re not allowed to be a part of something. I don’t want to care about this stuff, but I do. What am I supposed to do now? My friends are going to be talking about baseball all the time, and I’ll feel stupid, and they’ll feel that I feel stupid and not want to talk about baseball in front of me, and then they’ll avoid me so they can talk about it without worrying about my issues. And there I’ll be, alone, without a hat, without a girl, and without hope. I was really counting on using the baseball-player vibe to get a girl to like me. But now I’m back to square one.

I’m a loser, and the baseball coach must have sensed it. He decided that even though I had raw talent, I was more trouble than I was worth. I try to clean myself up quick because I see my drama teacher leaving the building. Of course Ms. McDougle sees me and walks over, because I haven’t been humiliated enough for one day.

She smiles and asks, “Hey, Carter, did you get cut from the baseball team?”

“God, was it on ESPN or something?” I cry. “Does the whole school know what a loser I am?”

She just looks at me. “Uh, no I just saw the baseball glove, and you looked sad. I didn’t even know it was baseball season.”

“Oh. Yeah, I got cut,” I say.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure that doesn’t feel very good. Have you thought about auditioning for the spring play?” she asks.

“Oh, I can’t do a play,” I say, and wipe my face.

“Of course you can. You might be great,” she replies.

“No, I don’t mean I couldn’t do it.” I laugh. “I mean, I can’t. My friends would never let me live it down.”

“That’s ridiculous; you should just come and audition. You’ll have a blast,” she says.

“Oh yeah, Ms. McDougle, that’s just what my self-esteem needs . . . to get cut from something else. Thanks, but I’ll pass,” I say.

She crosses her arms and says very seriously, “You know you’re one of my best students.”

“No I’m not,” I reply flatly. “I’m getting a D in your class.”

“That’s because you never do the homework and you bomb the tests. But with the moment-to-moment
truthful
acting work, you’re really one of my best,” she says.

“Really?” I ask. “Like, raw talent?”

“Um, sure,” she replies. She may just be trying to make me feel better, but it’s working. I’m one of the best actors in the school, huh?

“My friends would really make fun of me if I did a play.”

“You are one of the most popular boys in the school, Carter. Who would make fun of you?” she asks.

“Naw, you only think that because all the kids you hang out with are drama geeks,” I say. “I’m not really that cool. Comparatively, maybe, but realistically, not really.”

“Well, I won’t beg, but I bet you’d have fun. The show is
Guys and Dolls
, and we need guys. You might get to wear a fedora and a zoot suit. You don’t want to play a gangster?” she asks.

Wait a minute, a costume? This might be okay. I could totally be a gangsta! If I had any hair, I’d slick it back.

“Your ‘cool’ friends don’t even need to know that you’re trying out for the play,” she continues. “Or you could work on the lighting crew or help build sets.”

No chance of that. Not after a costume has been brought into the equation. I’m doing it. I’m totally auditioning for
Guys and Dolls
!

Bad news must travel fast, because the troops are armed with Kleenex and sympathy when I walk into the house. I guess I’m supposed to be freaking out about getting cut from the baseball team, but I’m not feeling so bad anymore. I hate being rejected, but I’m pretty stoked about this whole theater thing. My mom looks like she’s ready to cry for me, and my sister just looks mad. Big shock.

“I can’t believe those jerks cut my brother from the baseball team!” Lynn barks. “I’m gonna give that coach a piece of my mind. Nick said you were doing really great, too.”

“Please don’t talk to anyone. Nick was lying. I’m no good at baseball,” I say.

My mom jumps in with her usual “Yes you are, honey. You’re great at whatever you try to do.”

“No.” I laugh. “It’s cool, though. I think I’m gonna try out for the spring play instead.”

Lynn’s jaw drops. Exciting development. She looks more concerned about this than the baseball cutting. She squints her eyes really small and says, “Oh no you’re not! Only dorks do theater, and you’re not a dork. You’re my brother!”

Mom pulls her off me with “That’s not true, Lynn! If he wants to do a play, I think that’s great.”

“No, no, no, it’s not ‘great.’ It’s not good. It’s not even okay. It’s not remotely socially acceptable,” Lynn howls. “He’ll be shunned! He’s popular, thanks to my constant effort and guidance, but I can only do so much. Him being on the swim team was very difficult, but I can’t do anything for him if he’s singing and dancing in front of God and everybody.”

“Shut up, Lynn; nobody is singing or dancing,” I protest.

“The spring play is a MUSICAL, you doofus! Singing and dancing is all you’ll be doing. Mother, people will find out and he’ll be ruined. I’ve seen it happen before. This guy Jeremy in my class was very cool in junior high, then he went down into that drama wing our freshman year, and he, well, he just never came back,” Lynn yells.

“It is not a musical! It’s this play about gangsters and looking tough. It’s called
Guys and Dolls
, for God’s sake!” I exclaim.

My mom kind of winces at my stupidity. “Yeah, honey, that’s a musical, with lots of singing and dancing. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Guys and Dolls
was also a very popular movie . . . your grandmother’s favorite. Marlon Brando was so beautiful before he ate himself, and I think Frank Sinatra was in it too.”

“Nuh-uh, Mom, it’s about gangsters. Frank Sinatra? Wasn’t he a hit man for the mob in real life? And Marlon Brando was
The Godfather
. You see? The show is about tough guys,” I protest.

“Yeah, tough guys who sashay and prance around singing every couple of minutes,” Lynn says.

My mom’s laughter makes me think that Lynn is right. Dang it! Ms. McDougle set me up. I jump on my bike and fly down to Blockbuster. I didn’t even know they had a musical section. The cover of the DVD doesn’t look very promising. It’s definitely Ol’ Blue Eyes and the Godfather. They’re all young and cool and dressed in gangster suits, but they look way too happy and their mouths are open really wide. Dang it, they’re singing for sure. I grab a copy of Keanu’s last movie as I approach the counter to try and disguise the musical, because the girl at the counter is hot. I’ve got shame in my eyes as I place the movies on the counter. It’s like I’m trying to rent porn.

She smiles. “
Guys and Dolls
, huh? Are you trying out for the musical at Merrian High?”

This must be some big deal if random hotties know about it.

“Uhhh, no. I just wanted to see this movie. ’Cause I like singing and dancing. I don’t do it myself or anything. I’m more of a supporter of singing and dancing than an actual participant,” I clarify.

She raises her eyebrows like I may have given her too much info and says, “Okay, that’ll be five eighty-nine.”

Dang it, I only have five bucks! I grab the
Guys and Dolls
movie like I’m going to put it back, but I don’t want to rent Keanu’s stupid movie. I really want to see this singing-gangster flick. It’s too built up now. I’ve got to see it.

“Um, I’m just gonna p-p-put Keanu’s movie back,” I say.

“Okay,” she replies with a smile. “You do go to Merrian, right? You used to date Abby?”

I have been identified. “Yep, my name’s Carter,” I reply in disgrace.

“Yeah, I thought I knew you. I was at Christy Schauper’s party, and I have choir with Abby,” she says judgmentally.

“Well, you know, I might try out for the musical,” I say real quick. I don’t need to hear how Abby cried for a week in choir class. And how she thought I’d murdered the Chopper.

She nods and says, “You should. We need guys.”

This chick is a drama geek? I’ve never even seen her before. If this chick is what’s going on down there, I may start spending more time in that drama wing, no matter what. If none of my boys has spotted this chick before, who the hell is going to notice me down there? I’ll just tell people I’ve got detention. Three months of detention will only help my bad-boy reputation.

She smiles and says, “Break a leg” as I walk out.

That was uncalled for. “Bitch,” I say under my breath as the door closes.

I race home and pop it in the basement DVD player. There is some singing and dancing right at the start, but it’s not too bad. The clothes are super cool and I like the way they talk. There are a lot of old-timey jokes, and what they’re singing about is getting chicks and how guys only do stuff to impress them. I’d like to play this fat guy for sure, but I’m not even close to fat anymore after swimming my ass off for the last few months. And there’s this cool little guy who pals around with the fat guy, but I’m way too tall now. I may just get to be one of these guys with no lines, who just walks by with a newspaper or something. But I’ll still get a costume, I bet. The story is getting going, and Brando (Sky Masterson) is trying to trick this Goody Two-shoes chick to come to dinner with him in Havana, Cuba. Because that’s how gangsters roll. He’s charming her and asking her a bunch of questions like a player, but she’s a tough cookie. He’s not just going to bag this chick by asking questions, and he knows it, so he just busts out a song right in front of her! How dope is that? See some chick at the mall and just start singing to her. Brando more raps than sings anyway. If Marlon Brando can do it . . .

I hear some commotion upstairs. There are footsteps and loud talking, then the basement door flies open and my mom yells down, “Sweetie, your friends are here.”

Oh noooo! I grab the remote as fast as I can, but the fear of my boys catching me watching a musical makes it shoot out of my hands and sends it crashing to the floor. Batteries fly everywhere. Feet are stomping down the stairs. I’ve got to shut this thing off! Brando is really going for it when he talk/sings, “Yes, I’ll know when my love comes along!”

Shut up, Marlon, my boys are
coming along
, and I’m dead meat if they see you. I slam my hand into the machine to get it to shut off, but he’s still crooning away. I’ll kick the screen out of this TV if I have to, but these guys will not catch me watching a musical!

EJ, Bag, Hormone, Nutt, and Doc walk in. I slam the machine down as hard as I can, and the player finally shuts off.

“Carter, what are you doing?” EJ says.

“Nothing! I’m not doing anything,” I say, way too loud. My face is glowing red, and I think I broke the machine.

“What were you watching, dude?” Bag asks.

“Nothin’!” I say, guilty as hell.

“He was watchin’ porn.” EJ laughs. “You were watching a porno!”

“YEP, guilty as charged. I was watchin’ a porno! Ha-HAAAA.” I laugh. It’s way better to get caught watching porn when you’re fourteen than to be caught red-handed with a fifty-year-old singing, dancing, gangster movie. At least with these dudes.

“S’up?” I ask as I look at them for the first time. They’re all wearing matching hats. Black fitted ones with an
M
on the forehead. They look so proud. Jerks. They didn’t even think about it. How is Bag’s hat already dirty?

“We’re going to a party at Ryan Kim’s house. Hormone only has five in the CRX. You wanna come?” Doc asks.

I just look at the hats for a second. I can’t be mad at my boys for making the baseball team. I’d never take that hat off if I had gotten one. It doesn’t make it hurt any less, or make me feel any less left out, though.

“No thanks, I’m just gonna chill out here. . . .” I say, as Frank Sinatra pops back onto the TV, does a little jumping spin move, and starts belting out a song.

Nobody interrupts Frank. They all just watch in silence as he sings.

I unplug the set, and Frank shuts up. I turn to my old friends with a guilty look. Their jaws are open wide. The nastiest, freakiest, donkey porno would not have warranted this level of shock.

“What the hell was that all about?” I ask, like I’m as shocked as they are. “My mom, she loves this crap,” I say.

EJ smirks and says, “Yeah, your mom is pretty gay.”

They walk out and pile into the little car without saying much else. My sister is totally right, as usual. I haven’t even tried out for this musical, and it’s already ruining my life. I watch them drive away, five matching hats in a car with two seats.