Carter Finally Gets It (2 page)

EJ and I lock up our bikes in front of the Merrian Pool and stroll through the side gate like we own the joint. It’s packed. Only twelve days left before the big day, and everybody is soaking up the last rays of freedom. I hate the long lines at the diving boards, but I like the additional hotties on the lounge chairs.

I love the Merrian Pool like no place else in the world. I’m kind of a big deal here because I came in second at the all-city swim meet, and I’ll be a junior lifeguard next year. I hang out here so much it’s like I’m working already, but I don’t get paid, and nobody does what I tell them to.

We peel off sweaty T-shirts and give a nod to our boys Nutt, Hormone, Doc, Levi, and Bag, who’re already going off the diving boards with some older dudes. Amber Lee is holding court on the lounge chairs with Bitchy Nicky, Chubby Abby, and the rest of the Merrian Junior High chicks.

As I kick off my grass-stained Nikes, I hear a familiar screeching sound coming through the fence. I turn to see EJ’s mom yelling, “Emilio . . . EMILIO!!! You put on your sunscreen!” through the chain links. My jaw drops at the thought of his imminent humiliation, but he just coolly turns his back and walks toward the dive well. Nobody’s called EJ “Emilio” since kindergarten, so no one knows who the crazy lady is yelling at. Only I can spot his bright red ears giving away his mortification. She’s a surrogate parent to me—has fed me, helped me with homework, cleaned up my vomit, taken me on vacations—I dare say I love the woman. But I follow EJ’s lead and completely ignore her existence. She futilely hollers, “You’re not to have any soda today, young man!” to no one, and eventually backs away in defeat.

I’ve seen my mom’s car in the parking lot a few times this summer, but she never gets out and embarrasses me. Parenting seems to be a learned skill that requires constant effort on the kids’ part. I have Lynn to thank for my folks’ coolness. She’s such a psycho that they’re scared to death most of the time and don’t mess with me. When she was in seventh grade, a teacher put her in charge of the “fashion police” during an assembly just for fun. The fun stopped when she arrested and interrogated twenty-three girls, then called the Merrian P.D. for backup. Compared to her, they think I’m a perfect child. I can’t walk in the house, crack open a beer, and pop in a porno or anything, but I’ve been riding the mile and a half to the pool by myself since I was nine.

I give EJ a subtle fist bump as we watch Nick Brock, a six-foot-five, two-hundred-fifty-pound, All-American senior linebacker go off the high dive. He bounces down so low, everybody gasps in anticipation of the board snapping in half. It doesn’t; instead it shoots his massive frame into orbit. He pauses in midair—like gravity stops working when you’re that high—then pulls his muscle-bound legs into his huge pecs, falls back to earth, and busts the biggest cannonball of all time.
BOOOM!
The splash covers the deck, and everybody’s stuff gets soaked. Everyone “Oh”s and “Ah”s accordingly.

“You know we’ll be going to school with that guy?” EJ whispers in disbelief.

I don’t like to focus on such things, so I let my eyes drift up to the lifeguard stands, where the hottest chicks in the world are perched for our protection. They have real names, but we call them Pam, Yasmine, and Jemma. The city of Merrian may own the pool, but these girls rule it. Last year the city introduced a new swimsuit for female guards. The one-piece grandma suit wasn’t cutting it anymore, so they broke out the two-piece model. An official bikini! Since then, fat girls who want to lifeguard have to start working out or find a different pool. Teenage guys from all over the area show up at Merrian Pool now, like it’s church. Religious attendance, absolute devotion, and everybody wants to get saved. Cracking voices holler out, “Praise the Lord!” all day long.

Pam’s on duty in the dive well. Her real name is Kammie Sparks. She’s Bag’s older sister and she’s positively the hottest girl I’ve ever seen walking around talking to people. She’s permatan and buff. She stretches the LIFEGUARD written across her chest so tight that we all wait impatiently for the day when her boobs finally bust out of their Lycra jail and make our wet dreams come true.

Pam sensually wipes Nick Brock’s splash off her thighs and looks down at EJ and me gawking up at her. “What’s up, Heartbreaker?” she asks me.

That’s what she calls me. “Nothin’ much,” I say, rubbing my chin to make sure I don’t have any drool on it.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” she asks, knowing full well I don’t have one.

“Oh, she’s out there somewhere,” I reply.

Pam is soooo far out of my league that I can talk to her without stuttering. I love to gawk at her, but for some reason I can be myself around her.

“You’ll be a heartbreaker someday.” She laughs.

I wouldn’t break her heart for a million dollars.

“So, is today the day?” she asks.

“What, the day I get a girlfriend?”

“Is today the day you’re finally going to do that gainer?” she inquires.

A gainer is a reverse flip into a can opener, and it separates the men from the boys at the Merrian Pool. I can do a front flip, back flip, side flip, twisting flip, one-and-a-half, and I’ve landed a double twice, but most attempts of a gainer have resulted in a
SMACK!
Flesh meets water, hard, fast, and flat. I love nothing more than seeing one of my boys bust one, but I can’t stand it myself. Two things I can’t handle: pain and humiliation. The smack delivers both.

The gainer keeps me up at night. I’ve tried and tried, but I always chicken out. I nicked my head on the end of the diving board last year, so the thought of cracking my skull open and spilling my brains into the water is very real for me, and it puts the air brakes on every time. The older guys and lifeguards can all do it. My buddy Bag can bust a gainer off the high dive, and he gets mad respect because of it. EJ was close to doing one off the low dive in July, but he smacked really hard and hasn’t attempted one since. I hadn’t given it much thought, but today would be a great day to land a gainer.

As we step to the back of the lines, the Skeleton drops an insane, style-filled gainer with a huge splash off the high dive. His real name is Paul Skelton; he’s Yasmine’s boyfriend. He’s tall and skinny and has a skull tattoo on his back. The Skeleton was a lifeguard last year, but he’s working construction this year because it pays more, and dating Yasmine is expensive. He’s still the undisputed king of the diving boards, though. He can do a triple flip off the high dive—need I say more?

I make my first attempt off the low dive, and nobody suspects a thing. I jump high, throw my arms back, arch my spine, suck my legs into my chest, and totally chicken out. I pull myself out of it, twist and flop into the water like nothing happened. Slight smack with the legs, but it could have been worse. I get out of the water slowly and look around. EJ’s eyes are all big. Of course EJ noticed. My mom says we share a brain.

He asks, “Dude, are you really goin’ for a gainer?”

I don’t even look at him when I reply, “Yep,” and go to the back of the line.

“All right, let’s do it!” EJ says.

I didn’t ask for a partner, but it’s okay. It’s just more fuel on my fire. Now it’s definitely ON! But the second attempt is another victory for my inner chicken. EJ goes right after me, and it’s not pretty, but he throws his arms back, arches his spine, sucks his knees into his chest, rolls over, and flops into the water feetfirst. He’s done it! No can opener, so it’s not technically a gainer, but a reverse flip at the least.

Pam yells, “Yeah, EJ! Gainer!”

I want to yell, “Not technically!” But he’s my best friend and I’m not a hater, so I let it slide.

I guess I’m proud of him too, but I can’t just ignore the crime that’s been committed here. The outright theft. My thunder has been stolen! Now I must do it. I stand on the board and think it through. The approach, the suck, the roll, the potential for smacking, the odds of brain damage, the possibility of humiliation, and the undeniable opportunity for glory.

I meditate about a second too long, and people have taken notice that I’m about to do something of note. Everybody gets really quiet. I’d better do something. My public is waiting. I make the approach, I bounce down and jump up as high as I can. I throw my head back, arch my spine, and suck my knees up perfectly. This is it! No turning back. You got it! Oh, but it’s rolling a little slower than I’d like. I’m laid out flat, looking for the water. Not seeing the wa—
SMACK!
My back hits flat. My flesh screams. I hear the “Ohh”s from the lounge chairs.
Don’t cry, dude!
I swim to the ladder in painful disgrace. That’ll be the last attempt of the day. Owww! I’m walking back to the line behind the low dive, thinking about doing my famous twisty flip to redeem myself, hoping my back isn’t half as red as it feels, when I hear someone behind me say, “Awesome, man!”

It didn’t come from my friends. We don’t do compliments or encouragement. We “burn,” we “dog,” but under no circumstances do we support one another. It was the Skeleton.

“You’re soo close, bro! This next one is it, dog!” he says.

“Uh, I don’t know,” I say with hesitation, feeling the nerves in my back scream, “No way!”

“You can’t stop now, man!” the Skeleton argues. “I’ve seen you do every trick in the book. All you need is the gainer, right?”

He knows me. The Skeleton knows my potential, and he wants me to be great. “You gotta go off the high dive, dog!” he says.

“What? You’re crazy, dude!” I say. Did I just call the Skeleton crazy? No stutter or anything; it just flew right out.

“Yeah, you under-rotated,” he says. “You’d have landed that last one easily off the high dive. You could even stick the can opener if you bust off of the high!”

The Skeleton let the “crazy” comment slide, but he’s serious. And he has a point. “Y-y-you think?” I ask. He might be right. No need to rotate faster if you raise the bar eight feet or so. I would be a legend if I stuck a full gainer off the high dive on my first attempt. Nobody would even remember EJ’s weak-ass reverse flip.

“Yeah.” The Skeleton nods. “Go for it!”

He says, “Go for it!” not so much like my dad’s encouraging “Go for it.” But more like, “I’ll kill you if you don’t ‘go for it.’” I slowly climb the ladder, trying desperately to control the shaking in my body. My hands and feet are busy climbing, but my chest’s like a paint mixer at the hardware store. When I get to the top I say, “It’s cold,” in case anyone notices the tremors. Ninety-two degrees, but I’m chilly.

I hear the Skeleton ask EJ my name, and then he starts the chant I’ve always wanted to hear: “Car-ter, CAR-TER, CAR-TER!” The girls on the lounge chairs sit up. Pam’s calling out my name with everybody else. “CAR-TER, CAR-TER, CAR-TER!”

I’m not thinking at all when I take the first step toward greatness. I make the approach like somebody’s behind me with a bazooka. I spring off the board like a rocket being shot out into space. I stiffly throw my head back. I suck my legs up into my chest with every scrap of power in my body. I roll over and open my eyes. Yes, there it is! The water. I’m not going to die. I can hear the people gasp at how cool I am. Then it happens . . . the seed of doubt shoots up and springs out.

The seed yells,
Carter, what are you doing? A gainer off the high dive? You just turned fourteen, who do you think you are?

I hit the air brakes. I press the chicken button as hard as I can. But gravity has my number and it’s calling! I flex every muscle in my body trying to stop. Pam’s squeal turns to a terrified scream.

A familiar voice yells, “Oh, God!”

The voice is my own, and this is going to be bad. I hear more screams from the onlookers, and then all sounds are drowned out by the
SSMMAAACKK!!!

My face hits the water the exact moment my chest, stomach, thighs, and feet smack down. Perfectly level. Arms out, legs spread like an inverted, retarded snow angel in the middle of summer. I don’t even think I’m wet. I just bounce off the water like it’s concrete. The sting in my back goes away instantly as the entire front side of my body screams in pain. I’m sure the flesh has just ripped off my stomach.

I’ll just float here for a minute and try to collect myself. Oh, this isn’t good. I’m hurt! Not just my pride, either; my will to live is broken. I can’t move. If I move, I’ll cry. The wind is knocked out of me . . . all of it! I need air, so I lift my head out of the water, breathe in the shame, and let out a wail. “Aaahhhh!!!” I sob like a five-year-old girl. I choke on some water and look up at Pam, who’s standing beside her lifeguard chair staring down at me with concern.

She gives me a nod as if to ask, “Are you okay?”

My crinkled-up face, coughing lungs, and teary eyes have to be giving her the
Hell NO, I’m not gonna make it, Pam. Come and rescue me!
look.

She springs off the lifeguard stand like a big-breasted angel coming to save me. She swoops underneath me and slides her tanned arm across my throbbing chest. She pulls my lifeless body to the edge of the pool without any assistance from me. I’m way too busy making an ass of myself in front of a hundred kids, less than two weeks before I start HIGH SCHOOL! I take a break from my agony and shame to feel the greatness that is Pam’s boob on the back of my head. This isn’t the way I would’ve liked for it to happen, but feeling a boob is feeling a boob.

I climb out of the pool and grab my stuff. Some smart-ass yells, “Bu-bye, Slappy!” as I limp toward the exit gate. This little black mark is going on my permanent record. Not any sort of document the school hangs on to, but the kind of thing my boys will break out years from now to have a good laugh at my expense. Maybe someday I’ll be able to laugh about it with them, but today isn’t that day. I unlock my bike in defeat and try to regain feeling in my face. The bright red of my back is only matched by the purpley blues radiating from my front.

My dad always says, “When you fall off a horse, you’ve got to get right back on.” And I will get back up on that horse/high dive. Next summer.

I wasn’t lying to Amber Lee; I really am on the football team. Not because I like it or anything. Every summer, like a zombie, I just sign up. I wanted to play when I was little because of the “costume” (cleats, shoulder pads, and black makeup under the eyes), but that wore off after the first week. Running around in ninety-degree heat with a giant plastic hat and twenty pounds of protective gear will do that. All of my friends seem to love it, and people are always sort of impressed when I tell them I’m on the team. I never mention that I don’t play very much and I’d really just like to be the kicker. If I were the kicker, I could come to practice one day a week and just show up for games. I’d save the day with my clutch fifty-yard field goals and get carried off the field after every game.

As it is now, I’m not the kicker. I’m the second string right guard (like the deodorant) on the line. I’ve always been a lineman because I was a “heavy” kid. Mom preferred the term “stocky.” A guy at a clothing store called me “husky” once, and it made me cry. I’m not really heavy, husky, or stocky anymore these days, thanks to my growth spurt over the summer. With five extra inches I’m looking more like “tall guy” than “stocky boy,” so I shouldn’t have to be on the line anymore. There’s no glory on the line. I want to be the quarterback, the running back . . . the KICKER! I want people to watch me. To know that I’m on the team. Not just because I’m in the team photo and I wear my jersey on game day, but because they saw me make an unbelievable catch, pass, tackle, or kick. They heard some other kid telling another kid about how awesome my moves were. They saw it in slow motion on the six o’clock sports report, where the newsman said, “Carter was unstoppable!” or something else menacing like that. Kids will talk behind my back about how cool I am, and I’ll look at them like I’m all annoyed, but on the inside I’ll be stoked when they gossip about my greatness.

For now, though, I only play in the games if my buddy Hormone gets tired or hurt. And then I simply go out and try to smash into the kid who lines up in front of me. That’s it. That’s the game as I see it. Coach chatters on about “strategy” and “teamwork.” He draws
X
s and
O
s on the chalkboard and blathers about “plays” and “holes,” and I have no idea what he’s talking about. I space off and think about that movie
Holes
, and how it would suck to dig holes all day in the desert. If I were the quarterback or like, a running back, though, I would know all of the plays and exactly when and why the
X
s and
O
s go where they do. I’d pay attention to every last detail and I’d focus on it all day long, so I could be the best. But since I only have to smash into the kid in front of me, what’s the point?

This season is going to be different, though. Because I’ve got a plan. We start weight training tomorrow, and I’m going to work out three hours a day, seven days a week, until I’m GINORMOUS! I’ll crush anybody who comes up against me, and if that doesn’t work, I’m also going to be the kicker for sure.

For phase one of the football plan, I ride my bike to an open field by my house with three old footballs and a makeshift holder in a laundry bag. The holder is supposed to mimic a guy holding the ball after it’s hiked. I built this triangle device out of a blue plastic oar that came with my inflatable boat. I cut it into three pieces and duct taped it all together. It works a lot better than EJ ever did, but I’m pretty screwed the next time I want to use that boat. I’ll just row around in a circle with my one oar. But by next summer I’ll be so famous as a kicker that no one will care that I’m rowing in a circle all the time.

My contraption works so awesome, I’m probably going to make a whole bunch of them and sell them to the NFL for millions of dollars. I mean, how much money would they save by not having to pay a guy to hold the ball for the kicker all the time? How many kickers out there right now are waiting for their holder to show up? And he might not hold it steady if and when he does finally show up. He might try to make a Charlie Brown joke when you go to kick it (Bag), and pull the ball away just as you’re about to blast the sucker fifty yards. Instead of glory, you fly up in the air and smash down to the ground on your butt in agonizing, humiliating pain. Or he might run off after only three kicks to chase a butterfly (EJ). If you’re going to be a famous kicker, you can’t have distractions. You’ve got to be focused.

So the ball’s all set up. I take three steps back and two steps to the left, like they do on TV. I stare the ball down like it’s an old enemy who has come a great distance to fight me again. I’ll smash the WILSON off this ball! I’ll split the stitches. This piece of leather is going to regret the day it was made into a football and not, like, a coat or pair of shoes. (It may not actually be leather, it’s probably Naugahyde or pleather or something.)

After about ten minutes of staring at this stupid ball and getting psyched up, I realize I’ve been standing here spacing off and staring at a football for ten minutes. I take my first step with great purpose; the second step is even better than the first. I plant my foot really close to the ball. I cock my foot back like the most powerful ninja of all time. I close my eyes and swing my leg through with all the force I have. I feel my foot collide hard with something other than Naugahyde, and I hear the crunch and tear of duct tape. I open my eyes to see my kicking contraption flying through the air in pieces. It flies for about five yards and tumbles to the ground in a heap. The ball is just lying there untouched. Whoops. I guess you’ve got to keep your eyes open.

I should just pack this crap up and go to the pool, but that would be pretty weak even for me. So I tape the device back together and set it up again. I keep my eyes open this time and kick the ball about ten yards, straight to the left. An imaginary referee laughs at me and makes the sign for “No good.” Ugh, this is pointless! I’m going to the pool. But as I’m packing up my balls, I hear my mom’s voice (she’s not following me or anything, I just hear her in my head. Like the imaginary referee). “Carter, nothing good comes easy,” she says. “Adversity is just opportunity in work clothes.”

The next ball goes about ten yards again, but this time it’s straight. And straight is good! The imaginary referee lifts his arms high above his head and yells, “It’s good!” It’s not far enough to be good for much, but it’s a start. And each time I kick, the ball’s going a little bit farther than the last. It’s not going fifty yards yet. I don’t think it’s going even twenty. To be honest, I’m not sure how far a yard is, but if I practice every day, I’ll be hitting them from fifty yards easy.