The Downside of Being Charlie (10 page)

“Stop,” Charlotte says to him, smacking him lightly on his chest. Mark rubs his chest where she touched him.

“But how are you going to get her to smoke it?” I ask finally, trying to cover up my last mess up.

Mark shakes his head and laughs again. “Oh my God, Grisner, you're killing me. She's not gonna smoke it—she's gonna eat it. All I gotta do is add a little of this to some brownie mix and then,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “
you're
gonna get her to eat one.”

Crap.

“Me?” My voice sounds squeaky.

“Yes, you,” Mark says. I feel like an idiot.

“But . . .”

“But, what? I mean, you guys do share a locker, right? You're practically BFFs.” He grins. Asshole. “Anyway, she's definitely not going to eat anything we give her. Come on. It'll be funny, dude!”

Charlotte reaches for my hand, and even though it's sweaty, she holds it. “Ordinarily, I would not approve of such things,” she explains, “but . . . it
is
pretty funny.”

I know if I don't agree soon, it's all over. They'll think I'm a wuss or a Goody Two-Shoes or something. Or worse, I could lose Charlotte. I look at her, who despite the fact thinks this is a good idea, she still looks as pretty and sweet as ever.

“Okay,” I say, ignoring the sudden lurch in my stomach. Mark looks suspicious and slightly disappointed that I actually accepted the challenge, but the rest of them laugh as we head to the parking lot.

The rest of the night almost makes me forget the pact I just made with the devil's offspring. Ol' Gilly Farms had put on this Halloween Hayride for as long as I could remember. Ahmed and I convinced our parents to let us go by ourselves when we were in the sixth grade, and I had been scared out of my mind. The image of corpses and limbless people dripping with blood stayed with me for weeks afterward. Not to mention how some high school kid had yelled, “Hey, look at the little fat kid!” to his group of friends when one of the chainsaw creeps jumped on and hovered over me, and I closed my eyes
and started grabbing at anyone near me for protection—which just happened to be this tiny girl who couldn't weigh more than ninety-five pounds and couldn't shield one of my legs, much less the rest of me. They laughed as I cowered behind her and she screamed, “Ewww . . . you smell like BO!” while trying to push my sweaty self away. I had in fact forgotten to put on deodorant that night and was sweating like a pig. Those words stayed with me longer than the creepy images, and I swore I would never return to Ol' Gilly's.

But tonight, Charlotte is at my side, holding my hand, grabbing my arm, throwing herself at
me
for protection, and I had put on extra deodorant this time. Eerie music plays as we travel along the trail, along with screams, cackles, and pleas for help from victims who sound like they're being hacked to pieces somewhere out in the forest surrounding the trail.

Mark and Danny ask the chainsaw creeps that jump on if they know where their mamas had been last night. The crowd laughs at Mark and Danny's obnoxiousness, especially some loud college guys who think the two are the best damn thing since beer bongs. I kind of laugh too, but really, it's like I'm not there at all. It's like I have cotton stuffed in my ears, like I am caught in a dream, because nothing else exists—not mummies or headless French maids, not Tanya Bate and the pot-brownie prank, not Danny or Trish or Diana or Mark—who keeps looking at me like he wants to kill me each time Charlotte holds on to me. The only thing I can focus on is Charlotte's body next to mine, the way her hands feel clutching me closer to her. And how I know
I'll never forget any of it.

After the hayride, we grab something to eat at a late night joint I've never been to. I order like everyone else because I don't want to draw any attention to what I'm eating. Still, I worry the whole time that Mark is going to make some kind of smart remark about how fat I used to be, but he doesn't and we finally head home. Mark makes a point about bringing up the fact that I don't own a car when he realizes why I wasn't in the parking lot waiting for them.

“Mommy still driving you around?” he says, looking at me in the rearview mirror. The mention of my mom makes my stomach flip.

“Oh, shut up,” Charlotte says, but she does it in this sweet way that doesn't sound mean at all. Diana is reapplying lipstick and eyes Charlotte in the mirror. Charlotte smiles at her.

“Oh come on, I'm just joking. You know I'm just joking, don't you, Chunks?” Mark says.

“Yeah, of course,” I lie as we keep driving.

The whole drop-off thing is a mess when it becomes obvious to everyone that Mark is trying everything in his power to make Charlotte's stop the last one. Like it makes sense to pass our neighborhood and then drop everyone else off first when it would be easier to drop Charlotte and me off first. Or that he's taking this circuitous route simply because he loves driving at night. It's all too clear that Mark has a serious thing for Charlotte, especially to Diana who, after fumbling for her keys for a full three minutes on the sidewalk, finally gets the clue that Mark won't bother getting out
of the car, and she stomps up to her house. He calls out, “later,” and speeds off before she gets to her front door. We drop off Trish and Danny next, and finally, pull up to my house where, to Mark's dismay, Charlotte gets out too.

“Where you going?” Mark asks her, not able to hide the desperation in his voice. “Don't you want me to drop you off?”

“No, that's okay. Charlie will walk me home, right, Charlie?” I nod. Of course I would walk her home. I would walk anywhere for Charlotte.

“Come on, Char-Char, that makes no sense. Just let me drop you off at home,” Mark says.

“I'm fine. Just go ahead,” Charlotte answers.

She slams the door shut and leans down onto the passenger side window, “I'll see you tomorrow, okay?” she says. I stand on the curb, my hands in my pockets, strangely feeling like I shouldn't be here. Charlotte mumbles something else, and a minute later, Mark screeches away from the curb and speeds down the street. Charlotte watches for a minute and then turns to me.

“What was that all about?” I ask.

“Oh, he's always mad about something,” Charlotte says. We start walking toward her house. A couple of straggling trick-or-treaters are still making the rounds but soon give up when it looks like nobody is answering their doors.

“So, that was fun tonight,” she says. Her skin looks pale and surreal by the moonlight. “Did you have fun?”

I nod. “Yeah, lots.”

“Don't worry about Mark. That's just the way he is
to everyone. Underneath he's a pretty cool guy.”

“Right.”

“No, really, he is,” she insists. I shrug my shoulders and look down at the sidewalk wishing she weren't talking about Mark to me.

“You know, you don't
have
to do that thing to Tanya.”

A wave of relief floods over me. She doesn't really expect me to do this. Maybe she just said it was a good idea because she was around Mark.

“But,” she says with a shrug, “it would be kind of funny.”

Damn.

“Yeah.” I force a smile. “I mean, I'll try, but I don't know if she'll actually go for it, you know?”

“She will. You're such a nice guy, and she'll never guess what you're up to.”

“Maybe,” I say as we round the corner leading to her house.

“Definitely,” she says and links her arm through mine the rest of the way.

The more we walk, the more my heart beats faster and my breathing comes in short gasps. I wonder if Charlotte expects me to kiss her. Part of me wishes that Mark had just dropped her off at her house because now I'm plagued with this whole kissing conundrum. Holy shit. I don't even know how to kiss. I've never kissed a girl before in my life. This is not good—I mean it's wonderful . . . but also not good. Even though I want to kiss her, I'm scared as hell.

“Aren't you?' she says. I look over at her and realize I've been so worried about a possible kiss that I haven't
paid attention to anything she's just said.

“Huh?” I say.

“I said,” she says and gives me a small nudge, “I'm glad we ended up as partners in drama.”

“Yeah, totally.” We slow to a stop in front of her house.

“Well, here we are. . . .” She sighs and lets go of my arm. My legs feel like two globs of Jell-O.

“Yeah.” I take a deep breath. “Here we are.” Silence. I look up at the moon because I feel weird looking straight at her.

“You're a really nice guy, Charlie,” she says. “I feel like, I don't know, like . . . you're deeper than most guys.” She looks over at me and then shakes her head. “That was stupid. Oh my God, I'm so stupid sometimes.” And I don't know how I know, but I know this is it. This is my chance to kiss her, to make happen what I've been hoping for all summer. And before I lose my nerve or she can say anything else, I lean toward her. I watch her eyes close a second before I close mine and then Charlotte VanderKleaton's lips touch mine. It's a soft lingering kiss that makes my whole body feel weak. She tastes like strawberries, and her mouth is warm. It's the greatest thing I've ever felt.

I touch my hand to my lips as she pulls back and smiles. She turns and runs up to her door, and for a minute, I think I've seriously screwed up. But then she turns back, smiles at me, and calls out, “Good night, Charlie,” in the best possible way.

I can't say anything, and then she's gone.

After I recover from the shock, I run home and start laughing out loud from the extreme giddiness. Charlotte
VanderKleaton likes me. I can still feel her lips, the remnants of her strawberry lips. My head and chest are flooded with feelings of awesomeness as I walk the rest of the way home. I did it. I kissed her. I kissed Charlotte VanderKleaton!

As I get closer to my house, I try to calm down. Not that Dad will get up and drill me about where I was, but I'd rather not have to explain why I didn't tell him about Charlotte in the first place. If I tell him, Dad might ask me to bring her over, which means I'd be opening her up to my screwy world. So there's no reason to tell any one about each other. I stop at the corner and take some deep breaths. Once my breathing becomes normal, I walk the rest of the way.

My house is dark and quiet. I look at my watch. 12:45 a.m. I insert the key into the door and sneak in quietly.

I hear a low murmur coming from Dad's office. I look over; his room is dark, but there it is, the low murmur again. I inch toward the door and listen. “Yeah, I love you, too.” Is he talking to Mom? Has she finally called? Maybe she's ready to come home. She does that sometimes, calls before coming home. Maybe she's just checking if it's okay, to see if we're mad at her because she's been gone so long.

But after a minute, I realize something's not right. Dad's voice sounds different. It's light. It's happy. It's so unlike any other time he's ever talked to Mom. My heart pounds furiously because suddenly I know it's not Mom on the other end of the line.

The information connects instantly, and my brain starts telling me to get the hell out of here before he
hears me. But my body stays stuck in place. I can't believe what I'm hearing. Dad is laughing and making promises to see her soon.

I step back from the door, but bump into the small table in the corner. It makes the slightest noise that suddenly halts the murmuring. I try to think quickly.

“Charlie?” he calls from the other side of the door. Shit. I grab the handle of the front door and open it noisily.

“Charlie?” Dad swings open his office door just as I slam the front door shut and pretend to have just gotten home.

“Hey, Dad. Sorry, I didn't mean to slam it.”

“You . . . you just getting in?” he asks.

“Yeah, sorry, I know I'm a little late, but it just worked out better for Tom to drop everyone else off first.” The fake name comes to me easily.

“Oh, right . . .” He rubs the back of his neck. “I didn't hear a car,” he says.

“Really?” I swallow hard, and just as quickly as it comes to me, the lie floats out of my mouth. “I'm surprised. Tom's car is an old clunker.” I bounce the focus back on to him and try to keep my voice as light as possible. “You must have been pretty focused on what you were doing. Work keeping you up late?”

And there it is. He directs his gaze to the floor, shrugs his shoulders, and stuffs his hands into his pockets. His face looks slightly flushed as he shifts his weight uncomfortably.

“Yeah, just finishing up.”