Struck by Lightning: The Carson Phillips Journal (6 page)

Nicholas and Scott burst out of the stall pulling up their pants. NICHOLAS FORBES and SCOTT THOMAS!!! Take a minute to breathe—I needed to. Let’s do it together, breathe in…hold it…and breathe out. You feel better? Me either.

Look, I guess in the back of my mind I knew it was only a matter of time before I caught Scott playing doctor in the bathroom with some little sophomore squeeze he met on Grindr, but the fact that it was with Prince Nicholas Forbes of Clover…Duuude, I can’t even.

Thank God I didn’t have any pencils on me. I wanted to gouge my eyes out.

“Gentlemen, I must say I am shocked.
Amused
, but shocked!” I said to them after my mind had time to adjust.

Nicholas turned so pale he was almost see-through. Scott just looked annoyed he had been interrupted.

“You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?” Nicholas asked, looking at me with an expression that was half
we’re friends, right?
and half
holy shit, I’m screwed
.

“Go ahead; tell the world. We don’t care!” Scott said.

“Shut up, Scott!” Nicholas said, and then slyly grinned at me. “My parents can’t find out about this. My dad is friends with
Michele Bachmann
. They’ll send me to a camp that prays for fourteen hours a day.”

“Listen, Cagney and Lacey,” I said, and smiled cleverly to myself. “I know what it’s like to be an outcast. I wouldn’t wish the struggles of an
outed
outcast on anyone. So I’m not gonna tell.”

“Fantastic,” Scott said, almost disappointed I was sympathetic.

“Thank you,” Nicholas said, and color started to return to his face.

I was insulted they thought I was the kind of person who was going to spread their secret around. I run a newspaper, not a tabloid. Therefore, I instantly came up with a much better way to use the situation to my advantage than public persecution.

“But,” I said, and they became very still. “Since I’ll be keeping my mouth shut about, you know, your abilities
not
to…” I mimed a blow job, although I think they knew what I was talking about. “Perhaps you could return the favor.”

Scott looked at me with a tiny smile. I think
he thought I had something kinky in mind. (I should add it was a
you wish
kind of smile, which pissed me off.)

“How much money do you want?” Nicholas said, and retrieved his wallet.

“Oh, have some self-respect!” Scott said to him.

“I don’t want you to shit a dime for me, Nicholas,” I said, and then squinted. “But you know what the
Clover High Chronicle
could use? A finance section and a weekly update from the performing arts department.”

They looked at each other and then back at me.

“You want us to write for your
hideodous
newspaper?” Scott said, and quietly laughed.

The face I unintentionally made was proof that I wasn’t kidding.

“For how long?” Nicolas asked.

“Until we graduate and go our separate ways!” I said.

“I’d rather you just tell the whole school,” Scott said, giving me a dirty look.

“Shut up, Scott!” Nicholas said.

“You’re gonna talk to me like
that
just because
he’s
here?!” Scott said.

“We’ll do it!” Nicholas told me.

I clapped my hands together as though a great business deal had been made. “Gentlemen, sharpen your pencils!” I said.

So, as of next week, Nicholas Forbes and Scott Thomas will officially be a part of the
Clover High Chronicle
team! I’m still in shock. Talk about being in the right place at the right time! Thanks, God, and it’s not even my birthday!

Look, I know making two gay kids do something against their will for fear of being exposed may seem a little cruel (wow, is that what I’m doing?), but it’s not as malicious as it sounds. And let me make one thing clear: I am an equal-opportunity extortionist.

I don’t care what you are—gay, straight, bisexual, black, white, purple, cat, dog, or pigeon: If you’re a douchebag to me, I will be a douchebag to you. And these guys have had it coming for a while.

Honestly, they’re so lucky it was me who walked in on them “
serpent whispering
”
—
otherwise it could have been
really
ugly for them. This town is not a good place for…well, all of
that
.

My hat is off to them, though. However they
managed to discover one another in the trenches of Clover High is a mystery to me. It’s kind of inspiring in a way. It shows there’s always someone/something out there for you if you keep your eyes open.

I’ll admit the whole sex thing is one area of my life I haven’t fully investigated. For one thing, I think sex is highly overrated. Like seriously, does it really need to be the underlying factor in every television show and movie plot ever made? Do characters/people not just do things for the experience anymore?

I got so sick of it I just stopped watching TV and movies altogether. Show me a film geared toward my generation about finding self-worth and achieving lifelong goals and I’ll be so happy I may punch you in the face! Everything is about who’s sleeping with who, erections and orifices, being straight or not being straight, blah, blah, blah.…It gets tiring.

I thought I was gay for about a week once (I think everyone does at one point). But I think it was just the girls
around me
that I found repulsive. Like really, who am I supposed to hook up with in the backseat of my car? Remy? Malerie? Ms. Sharpton? (I have to stop listing; I’m making myself sick thinking about it.)

And do I really want to experience something like intercourse for the first time with someone in Clover? Whom I’ll awkwardly be connected to for the rest of my life? Why would I want to put in all that work and stress when I can ultimately get the same results by myself?

Then again, I don’t necessarily consider myself a virgin, probably because I have such a penetrating personality.

Do you want to know who I have a crush on? Rachel Maddow. I know I’m too young for her and she doesn’t play for my team, but do you want to know why she’s my pinup girl? Because
intelligence
is sexy. There’s something about being with someone who’s mentally conscious that turns me on.

Honestly, after watching my parents fight for the majority of my life, I’m not sure if I even believe in relationships at all. I like being independent in all aspects of my life.…I take that back, now I sound like I’m asexual or a chronic masturbator. Maybe growing up with all of that fucked me up much more deeply than I thought.

Oh well, I’m sure I’ll figure it out one day. I’ve
put all that on my life’s back burner; I have bigger fish to fry this year. And now that I have Nicholas and Scott on the
Chronicle
, things are looking up! (No pun intended.)

Shit, I still have to pee. I’ll hold it until I get home—definitely not using
that
bathroom ever again.

10/10

I talked my way out of detention today. It wasn’t the first time and it won’t be the last.

I was sitting in government class when my teacher asked, “Does anyone know which administration was referred to as Camelot?”

“Clinton?” asked Justin Walker, who sits next to me.

“Nope, that was
Came
-a-lot,” I said, and laughed hysterically to myself.

Let me explain why I made a bad situation for myself. First off, no one else got the joke except my teacher. Second, he teaches government; therefore he has no sense of humor.

“See me after class, Mr. Phillips,” he said.

So after he was done lecturing about the importance of the branch system and made half a dozen horrible jokes trying to validate his existence by connecting with the teenagers, I approached his desk.

“
Yeah?
” I said. My tone could have been nicer.

“Do you think that joke was appropriate, Mr. Phillips?” he asked me.

“No,” I said. “It probably would have been better received in American history.” Once again, no sense of humor.

“Mr. Phillips, how many times do I have to tell you outbursts like that are completely inappropriate…” He kept going. I just stopped listening.

“Look, you’re the one who sat Justin Walker next to me,” I said. “Since elementary school, teachers have pulled this crap on me and I’ve never complained. Everyone thinks if you mix the idiots with the bright students the intelligence will rub off, but instead, every day I can feel my own IQ points fall out of my head.”

“So what are you saying?” he asked.

“I’m saying if the entire education system is gonna focus on the children who
should be left behind
, exceptions should be made for students like me too!” I explained. “And that’s how I learn, with crass sarcasm.”

“Mr. Phillips…” He sighed and rubbed his eyes. If this guy retires early I may be responsible for it.

“How was my joke worse than the one you made comparing the three branches of government to the
Three Stooges?” I asked. “At least my joke had valid historical facts to back it up.”

“Just go, Carson,” he said, and shooed me toward the door.

I figured my constant battle with the world would continue in English, but when I got there I found a note on my desk. It was written on a heart-shaped Post-it note and said:

Hey, smart guy, I heard back from Northwestern. Come see me in the counseling center when you can. Huggles, Ms. Sharpton
.

Naturally, I ran straight there—I didn’t even tell my English teacher I was leaving. I didn’t think it was necessary; I’m willing to bet we weren’t going to discuss anything about
Hamlet
that hasn’t already been covered in the last four hundred years.

I burst into Ms. Sharpton’s office. I felt l like I was finding out the results of a pregnancy test.

“You heard from Northwestern?!” I shouted.

Ms. Sharpton practically fell out of her seat. “You scared the crap out of me!” she said. She was having lunch and was consuming a sandwich twice the size of
her body. She happily pointed to a huge green cup with a large
CCC
on it.

“I got the juice cup!” she told me excitedly. “It’s limited edition, too!”

I didn’t give a rat’s ass and I think my face made it clear.

“Okay, yes, I heard back,” she said. “That is a fancy-schmancy school you’re looking at up there; they actually put me on hold when I called.”

“And?” I said, begging her with my eyes to get to the point.

“Well, I didn’t find out whether you’ve been accepted or denied,” she said casually. “But the person I talked to said that high school newspapers and clubs aren’t cutting it anymore.”

Shit
. “If you want to impress them, you’ll have to submit something else,” Ms. Sharpton said.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Um, I wrote it down.…” she said, and gave me a dirty look, upset I was interrupting her lunch.

I gave her a look that said,
Bitch, this is my future we’re talking about. Your sandwich can wait
.

“Okay, let’s see,” she said, flipping through a folder by her side. She found a tiny note she had scribbled it down on. “You could submit a novel, a book of poems.…I can’t read the rest of my handwriting.”

“I’m not a novelist and I’m not a poet. I’m a
journalist
,” I reminded her.

“I know, I know,” she said in a mocking tone. “You’re a
journalist
. Well, what about a literary magazine?”

“A literary magazine?” I asked.

“Yeah, apparently it’s not as common as a high school newspaper. But a magazine filled with your work and the work of other students would show you can inspire other students to write while writing yourself,” she said in a very chipper tone.

Fuuuuck
, I thought. But, like a captain discovering he had been following the wrong North Star, I immediately set sail on a new route. If doing this would help my chances just one eighth of a percentage, I had no choice but to do it. And since the Northwestern Early Decision deadline is November 15’ I’d have to do it fast.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” I said out loud. “But how?”

“I don’t know how to start a literary magazine.”
Ms. Sharpton shrugged, her mouth full of sandwich. “But get permission from the principal first, because he can be such an
asshole
.…” She turned red, which didn’t match all the pink. “Um, I didn’t mean to say that.…”

I ignored her. My head was already in full motion planning a new course of action.

“Okay,” I said, and headed to the door. I had one last thing I wanted to say to Ms. Sharpton, but I was having trouble figuring out what it was. “
Thank you
,” I said when I remembered. It’d been a long time since I had used those words.

I ran as fast as I could to the front office.

“You need a hall pass!” said a freshman hall monitor.

“Fuck off,” I said, and continued running.

How was I going to get permission from the principal? He’s a tough man to pitch to.

Principal Gifford is the tallest man I’ve ever met—a former American Gladiator, in fact—and you can tell he deeply regrets becoming a high school principal.

When you look into his eyes you know he’s constantly practicing the mental exercises he learned in
anger management. It must be exhausting having a voice in your head tell you to “breathe in…breathe out…count to ten,” all day long.

Things have been rocky between us ever since junior year, when I tried convincing him to make reading the
Chronicle
a requirement for all the students and faculty. It was a two-month-long conversation and I sent him 1,893 e-mails during that time. I lost, but I still stand by the suggestion.

I ran into his office, which consists of one desk and several dumbbells, but the only person there was Ms. Hastings, his secretary.

Ms. Hastings is very young and pretty, almost
too
pretty to be working as a high school secretary. I get a weird vibe from her; a vibe that tells me she witnessed her boyfriend kill someone in a big city and now she’s hiding from him in a small town.…Maybe it’s just me.