Carter Finally Gets It (7 page)

Sometimes I can’t sleep. I just can’t shut down the mainframe. Images zip around in circles. The trick is to take some deep breaths, try to clear my brain out, and focus on one thing. Girls in bikinis usually does the trick, but tonight even that isn’t working. I know better than to bring naked girls into the picture. They get me focused, but not on sleep.

I can lie awake for hours sometimes, staring up at the cottage-cheese ceiling from a bed that’s clearly too small for me. My feet hang ten inches off the bottom. I don’t fit anywhere.

I was thinking about hairstyles earlier, and a joke Abby told me about leprechauns before the movie. Then I tried to figure out why Andre doesn’t like me for a while. I smash my head into the pillow a few times, and now I’m focused on what Coach said to me during our first game. How life is going to pass me by because I’m always dreaming. I wish I was dreaming right now. I think I do a pretty good job of hiding the fact that I don’t know what’s going on most of the time. I really do try hard, but then I
forget
to try hard for a second, and it all falls apart.

I’ve been in high school almost a month, and it’s nothing like I thought it would be. Life just goes on. I thought there would be this click in my head and everything would make sense. But so far, nothing! I’m the same stupid, scared kid I’ve always been. I feel like I did on the first day of kindergarten. Like, all those other kids knew what was going on, and why we washed our hands fifteen times a day . . . and what the hell happened to snack time? I can’t keep track of my books and assignments, no matter how much I write on myself. Everybody else seems to have it all figured out, and I’m totally lost, following the pack and praying no one notices what a tard I am.

I can’t stop thinking about how I’m going to do a better job at everything—tomorrow. I need to get more focused. What I need is sleep! If I had more sleep, I’d do better. I wish we could still take naps.

I don’t think my sophistication and maturity are coming. Could I be sent back to junior high if they find out how defective I am? Can they do that? Who is “they”? Would Abby date a guy who got demoted to eighth grade?

The other kids seem to know where they fit. If they’re a dork, they seem comfortable with it. They dress and act accordingly. If I were a dork, I think I’d be okay with it. If they’re a jock, they just think and talk about sports. I play sports but I don’t think I’m a jock. Guys like Nick Brock are jocks, so how can
I
be? A girl called me a
prep
once, because half of my collar was sticking up after gym. But I’m not prepping for anything. I take an art class but I’m not artsy, I take drama but I’m not a theater geek. The band dorks think I’m the devil because that trombone player I drilled with my first field goal starts shaking and blowing the wrong notes every time they practice on the football field. The smart kids think I’m stupid because I fail a lot of tests.

And the dumb kids think I’m a nerd because I talk a lot in class. I just want to fit in. I don’t want to walk around in some dream. I want to fall asleep! I want to feel comfortable. I want a new nickname. I want to be stronger, but I don’t want to be so sore all the time. I want to shock people. I want people to think about me as much as I think about them, and I worry that I’ll always feel this way. Like I did on the first day of kindergarten.

On top of my sleep troubles, the varsity football team lost their third game in a row, so we have to run fourteen hundred-yard sprints as punishment. One painful long-ass sprint for every point the other team beat us by. Now, the term “us” is confusing to me. “Us” apparently means “me” when it comes to this running crap, but the “me” part of “us” knows good and well “I” didn’t even play in that game. “I” barely watched the damn thing! “I” was in the bleachers talking to my friends, goofing around, watching cheerleaders, and eating hot dogs. Apparently what “I” missed was that we got creamed by fourteen points, and we have to run these sprints because of it. And if anybody is caught “dogging it” or “loafing,” we have to start over. And we did, twice! The varsity linemen are way beyond husky—they’re huge—so a hundred-yard dash is no joke for them. But these guys need to take my acting class fifth hour and learn how to at least pretend like they’re giving it their all. You’d think I didn’t have a scrap of energy left after just one sprint. After two sprints I give an Academy Award–winning performance in
On the Verge of Death at Football Practice
. Huffing and puffing, moaning and groaning, I double over, wince my eyes, and show my teeth like a rabid dog. Nobody can accuse me of “dogging it.”

I’m acting up a storm over here! But after twenty hundred-yard sprints, dogging it or not, I’m beat. No acting required.

I was shocked to hear that the varsity kicker, Allan, missed two field goals and an extra point during the game. The guy never misses, EVER! He can hit from almost fifty yards, but for some reason he choked and missed every kick he tried. So after the twentieth sprint, Coach yells, “All right, men! Now that we’ve worked on the conditioning problem, let’s work on the kickin’ problem!”

I know this isn’t going to be fun for Allan. Everybody is exhausted as we head for the goalpost to watch him kick. The varsity special teams crew slowly lines up for the field goal. The holder gets into his stance. Allan marks off his steps. Nick Brock squats down and gets ready to hike the ball. You’d think these guys were trying to kick a field goal from the top of Mount Everest the way they’re sucking wind.

Coach yells, “Whoa, whoa, Allan, you think you’re my kicker after Friday’s game? How many kicks do you get to miss and still keep the job, son? Carter, get in there.”

Everyone gasps and looks at me. But why? Oh my, did he just say what I think he said?

“CARTER, you’re killin’ me! Get in there,” Coach barks.

Oh God, my heart’s in my . . . I don’t even know where the damn thing went off to, but it’s beating way too fast. I trot out, utterly confused but remarkably focused. Focused on not passing out. Everybody is still huffing, puffing, and watching me. Allan is looking at me like I killed his dog.

“If Allan can’t get it done, maybe Carter can,” Coach yells. “This boy hit a field goal and an extra point in the freshman game, so he’s your new varsity kicker.”

I should point out that I actually missed a field goal and the marching band lost a trombone player, but I’m too freaked out to talk. “Will Carter, varsity kicker!” I like the sound of that. Andre is the only freshman to play on the varsity squad. I can totally see myself wearing that letterman jacket. I’ll order it two sizes too big, so it’s not too small when I get GINORMOUS! I’m trying not to giggle as the holder shoots me the
Are you ready?
look. I’m not, but I give the nod like, “No sweat, dog. Let’s rock!” (I hope that’s the look I gave.)

As high-pressure kicks go, I think this would have to rank up there with ten seconds left in the Super Bowl type of pressure. I am fourteen years old! Some of these guys are like, twenty-five and killers. The holder has a goatee . . . FOCUS! Here it comes . . . FAME! I drive forward, cock my leg back, and kick that ball as hard as I’ve ever kicked one. As hard as anyone has ever kicked a ball. I hear the
BOOM
as my foot collides with the leather. It would’ve flown sixty yards, easy . . . if it hadn’t been blocked by Nick Brock’s back.
SSMMAACK!
Right into his huge muscle-bound kidneys.

“OOUUCCHH!!!” The big man squeals as he falls to his knees. Everyone else goes “OHHH.” I would tell him sorry if I could remember how to speak.

“At least he’s kickin’ straight!” Coach yells. “He got a hold of it too, don’t you think, Brock?”

Nick sort of whimpers an unintelligible response. Then Coach looks over at Allan and sneers. “You see how he’s doin’ that? Kickin’ it straight? Give the freshman another one.”

It takes a while for Brock to get back into his stance. He grabs the ball and snarls at me from between his legs; the holder shoots the look to me again. I raise my eyebrows as if to say, “I don’t know about this, dude,” but the ball is hiked (a bit wobbly this time) and set up. I take my time. I’ve got to get this ball off the ground. No grass burners! No back slappers. I’ve just got to kick it harder. And I do. I DRILL it!

The
BOOM
sounds like thunder, immediately followed by the
SSMMAACK
of leather meeting a large amount of flesh at high velocity.
Wham!
Right into Nick Brock’s giant kidneys again. Dang it!

“HAAAAHHH,” Brock squeals as he falls to the ground clutching his stinging back.

Man, I should have been practicing more. I should have been meditating during the hundred-yard sprints, just in case. I’m so mad at myself. Not nearly as mad as the two-hundred-fifty-pound dude screaming on the ground in front of me, mind you.

The varsity guys are laughing and so is Andre. I’d swear Coach is trying to hold back a chuckle, but it’s probably just gas, because that guy doesn’t have a funny bone in his body.

“Least he’s consistent. There ain’t a kicker in the NFL could make that kick twice!” Coach laughs. “Or would want to. Let’s wrap it up before this freshman takes anybody else out. Brock! Get up, you candy ass!”

I guess that’s the end of my letterman’s jacket. Man, I would have looked cool.

I’ve made the decision not to be tardy anymore. All I’ve got to do is plan ahead and stop socializing in the halls. I want to be at school for as little time as possible, and because of my tardy ways, teachers are making me come in after school, and before school, and ruining my lunch in retaliation. There’s even talk of me going to Saturday school. Hell no! I’m now bringing all the right books with me to the right classes. You can imagine the discipline it’s taking for me to remember which class is coming up, and coordinating which books go where. I haven’t made it yet, but it’s sixth hour and I’ve been perfect so far today. Only two more classes and two more books (health and science). I just might do it.

I’m looking down at my left arm to see what’s written on my wrist about science class—I took a shower this morning, and I can’t tell if it says “quiz” or “pizza”—when who should pop out of the Behavioral Disorders classroom like a crazy rabbit out of his cage? None other than Scary Terry Moss. And guess who runs right into him?

BAM!
I drop my health book and slowly look up into his crazy eyes. “What the hell, muthafucka?” he screeches.

This is not good.

“S-S-Sor-Sar . . .” I stammer. The word “sorry” will just not come out. But guess what does fly out of my death-wish mouth?

“You stole my bike, you A-HOLE!” Oh, Carter, why is your mouth open? Who did you just call an a-hole? It feels like I just stepped off a cliff.

“You little punk ass. You Lynn’s sucka-ass brotha? You tell her some smack ’bout how I gangked a BMX from a freshman party? I oughta stomp yo ass!” he yells.

I just stare at him. No blinking. No breathing. Just heart pounding. I’m pretty sure that’s your only job when you fall off a cliff: just fall. Just stare at the ground and wait for the
POP!

“I’d like to see you try, you pussy!” someone sneers. Who the hell said that? Did I say that? I look around, and there’s EJ standing beside me with his nostrils flaring, daring Scary Terry Moss to stomp my ass. EJ, nooo!

EJ rolled up on me the first day of kindergarten and asked, “Do you want to be my friend?” We have been through thick and thin since that day, but I’m wishing I’d told him to go take his medication and beat it. But I didn’t. I told him we’d be best friends forever, and it’s too late to back out now.

“Please don’t help, E,” I mutter under my breath. “I got everything under control.”

“Oh, that’s it, FOOLS! Now it’s ON! “ Terry yells as he rips off his shirt and starts jumping around. I never knew he had a tattoo of a puma on his back. What the hell is going on? Then he does this Jet Li–looking, spinning, roundhouse kick in the air. Wow, that was so lame! Yet really intimidating.

This hallway was empty a second ago, but now it seems like the whole school has gathered to watch Scary Terry end my young, foolishly lived life. EJ right by my side to the very end. All of my boys, Abby and Amber Lee, even Pam and Jemma have magically appeared to watch me die. I’ll die a virgin!

“I’m sick of this jerk,” EJ whispers back. “If Terry gets in one more fight, he gets kicked out of school for good!”

EJ’s still pissed that Terry pushed him down in grade school.

“Just fight him and put us all out of our misery!” EJ pleads.

“What are you talking about, you retard?” I ask.

“You call me retarded, fat boy?!” Terry yells, and shoves me into the lockers.

The back of my head smacks into the hard metal, and my face turns purple as I yell, “Nobody calls me FAT, especially in front of girls!” and I shove his skinny ass, hard!

“Ohhh, OH no you didn’t!” he screams. “Nobody touches the TERRY!” Then he starts punching himself in the face. This kid really is crazy! I may not even have to fight him. He’s doing it for me, and I’m winning!

Just then, a big bald teacher comes flying out of the Behavioral Disorders room. He’s obviously heard the “Nobody touches the TERRY,” and the shepherd instinctively knows something is amiss with one of his black sheep. He’s in crisis mode, and this is not the first fight he’s been around, because he’s breathing all heavy but his voice is calm when he says, “Terry? Terry, calm down! You have worked way too hard to throw it all away on something this silly. Walk away, Terry! Do it NOW!”

Yeah, Terry, walk away, please! Keep the bike. Forget what I said, or that I dared to “Touch the Terry”! But he’s still hopping, yelling, and punching himself.

“This kid just got me so mad, dog!” Terry yells back at the teacher.

“Whatever the problem is, you’re the one who pays the price,” he responds.

Uh, I believe it’s my dad who’s going to have to pay the doctor bills and buy me a new bike, but the teacher does have a point, because Terry’s beating himself like a stepchild.

“He tryin’ to punk me with my ex-girl Lynn, talkin’ ’bout how I stole a bike!” Terry screams. “I never gangked no bike!”

“You did too! You stole my bike, A-HOLE!” I yell out. Jeez, I’m like a Chatty Cathy Doll: just pull my string and I’ll say, “You stole my bike, A-HOLE!”

“Keep quiet, young man!” the B.D. teacher barks at me.

Now wait a minute. I may not have a behavioral disorder, but I’ve got a behavioral issue with this crazy kid stealing my bike and calling me fat boy. Don’t tell me what to do, baldy! Now I’m getting fired up, but Terry’s calming down.

“I’m gonna get you, you little punk! I ain’t stompin’ you today, but I know where you live, bitch! And I’m gonna jack you up!” he says, all bug-eyed.

Well, this isn’t good at all. I procrastinate on most things, but I don’t want to have to worry about where and when this ass-stompin’ is coming. I can’t believe what I’m contemplating. The rest of the school needs me to dispose of this kid as bad as I do, so here we go. . . .

“W-w-wh-why wait?” I say quietly, giving him a little shove. “You scared, Terry? Is that w-w-why they call you Scary Terry? ’C-c-cause, you’re scared of freshmen? Maybe I’ll s-s-stomp your ass, b-b-bitch!”

The teacher yells, “Terry Moss, if you assault this boy, there’s nothing more I can do for you.”

I maybe feel sorry for Terry for a second, because he’s yelling nonsense and crying, but EJ picks up my slack and adds a well-timed kissing noise to push Terry over the edge. It works—
WHAM!!!
—Terry smashes EJ’s face in with a Bruce Lee–looking karate punch. EJ’s lights go out before the fist lands.

“You didn’t say nothin’ about hittin’ that boy,” Terry says with a laugh as EJ crumbles to the floor.

The teacher lunges for Terry, but it’s too late. I’d cocked my thick-ass science textbook back somewhere between EJ’s kissing noise and his knees buckling. I swing as hard as I can. Terry’s face scrunches up as he realizes what’s coming. The book connects with a loud, hollow
POP!
His eyes roll back into his head, his knees cave, and he falls. “Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier!” David knocked out Goliath with a pebble; I got Scary Terry Moss with the twenty-second edition of
Intro to Science
! He and EJ are lying on the linoleum like two preschoolers down for their afternoon naps. Except EJ’s gushing blood from the mouth. (Did I mention he has braces on his teeth?) Abby’s eyes are bugged out and her mouth is wide open. No one is cheering or anything. Everybody’s just staring at Terry like he’s a bear that’s been tranquilized.

I’m sitting in the principal’s office and I can hear EJ screaming as the nurse detaches his lips from the braces. I can see that Terry’s face is swollen and he’s openly crying as the cops walk him past and out of the school in handcuffs. I feel bad for EJ when he hobbles by with an ice pack on his mouth, but I’d feel worse if I needed the ice for my own face. Terry didn’t get an ice pack. I guess you don’t get much T.L.C. on your way to jail.

I’m suspended for three days, and Principal Banks tells me, “This’ll go on your permanent record.”

Oh well, I’m thinking about giving the rest of my lawn-mowing/college money to Nutt’s brother, Bart, for a used porno, and I’m failing math, so I guess Harvard’s out anyway. My personal record has a big new mark on it as well, and a fight at school is about as good as it gets! This is the kind of glory that gets brought up at a reunion twenty years from now. And three days’ out-of-school suspension? Can it get any better?

“That means no football practice,” Banks tells me, all stern like he’s dropping the harshest punishment of all. It takes all of my strength not to jump up on his desk and sing, “HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH!”

“That’s four football practices, you know,” Banks adds.

“What?!” I ask, all confused. Please enlighten me as to how this keeps getting better!

“This afternoon and all three of your suspension days. You can’t hit other people with textbooks, no matter the provocation,” he says.

I’d like to inform him of the service I’ve just performed on his behalf. How much grief I’ve saved him down the line with Terry Moss no longer on his watch list. But I’m doing pretty well by just keeping it zipped.

I stroll into Coach’s office to give him the good news, and he puts the icing on the cake. “Carter, you’re killin’ me. You’re gonna miss too much practice for me to let you play right guard in Saturday’s game, but we’ll need you to come in and kick for us.”

I could kiss the old codger on the mouth. I’ve got three days with nothing to do but practice my kicking! I’ll see if I can squeeze it in. I’m going to be pretty busy with video games and TV, though. My parents have to sign a notice of suspension, and they can call Principal Banks if they need any information. Well, they won’t, because they aren’t going to find out!

The funniest thing is, EJ didn’t get suspended. He just got hit. You don’t get suspended for defense. He has to go to school tomorrow and football practice this afternoon. Some people (EJ) may not find it funny, but to me it’s hilarious. EJ’ll see the comedy when I bring it up at that reunion in twenty years.