The Downside of Being Charlie (11 page)

“Oh, okay. Well, I better get to bed. I'm pretty
tired,” I tell him.

“Yeah, yeah, me too,” he says, “just one last e-mail to send.” I head to my room, refusing to look back at him.

“Sport?” he calls as I reach the top of the stairs. I stop and turn around halfway. “Are you all right?”

I clear my throat. “Yeah,” I say, louder than I mean to.

“Okay then, good night,” he calls out just as I make it to my room.

I close the door and lie down without bothering to change my clothes.
Dad is cheating on Mom
. It seems incredibly unreal. It's . . . I can't even imagine Dad talking to another woman, putting us completely out of his mind like that. I can't imagine him anywhere but here. Was he happy away from us? Did he wish he could take off and never come back? Or is this what he meant by “just the two of us?”—like if Mom never came back?

And then it hits me. Mom must have found out. This is why she's gone. This is why he sent me to fat camp. Not because he cares about me, not because he knows how hard things are for a fatty, but because he was trying to get rid of me and do whatever the hell he wanted with some other woman. All this time, he let me think it was me. He let me think my weight was the big stress between him and Mom, but it wasn't me. It was them and how freakin' selfish they are. And this is why Dad kept asking if I was okay. This is why he gave me a hundred fucking dollars for my birthday because of his guilt.

And now I'm in all of this alone. The only person who I thought got it, who I thought I might be able to count on, has left me too.

H
ere's what I know:

“Hey, Sport,” Dad says to me the next morning. I'm about to bolt and wait outside for Ahmed when he hits me with, “What do you know about these video cameras that attach to your computer? I have to get one for my conference calls.”

I can't believe it. I can't believe that he actually has the nerve to say it so casually. I look over at him, and just like I figured, he's not looking back at me. He's too busy texting on his BlackBerry, and it's probably to her, even as he stands in the same room as me.

“Nothing. I don't know anything about them,” I say as his phone buzzes with an incoming message. He looks down at it and smiles.

“Eh, all right. I guess I'll just ask the guy at the store.” His teeth seem whiter than usual. It pisses me off and quickens the realization that Dad is a lying phony.

His hair is neatly combed back; his shirt, tie, and slacks are crisp and perfectly pressed. He irons everything himself because he doesn't think the drycleaners do a good enough job. The way he's so immaculately groomed is extremely irritating, and I have to fight the urge not to tell him to go to hell. But I don't want him to know that I know because what will happen when he doesn't have to hide it anymore? He takes a sip of his coffee and looks up at the ceiling before looking over at me.

“You okay, Sport?” His brow furrows.

“Yeah, fine, just tired,” I mumble.

“Me, too.” He sighs. It's déjà vu and I wonder if this is all Dad and I will ever say to each other. He seems like he wants to say more, but he doesn't. We pretend not to notice the awkward silence that fills the air, the weirdness that has come back tenfold from the summer, until finally, Dad looks at his watch.

“Hey, listen, Sport. I gotta fly outta town to Chicago for a couple of days. I'm heading straight to the airport now. It's last minute, but,” he pauses, “anyway, you think you'll be okay on your own for a few days?”

My stomach drops. He goes on to overexplain why he has to go, giving too many details about some emergency finance meeting.

“Yeah, I'll be fine.” I cut him off because I'll lose it if he tells me another damn lie.

This is too much for me to deal with. It's not just his lying and sneaking around that makes the whole situation
unbearable. It's something else, something that goes much deeper. It's like a seriously screwed-up sense of understanding. Because I get it. I know why he's doing this. And I hate that I get it.

But he's dead wrong if he thinks I'm going to be his little accomplice. Freaking portable video cameras and a sudden out-of-town meeting . . . on a Friday? He obviously thinks I'm an idiot who can't figure shit out.

“You sure you'll be all right?” he asks. A shadow passes over his face, and I think that maybe if I say no, he might stay. But it doesn't matter. He's already decided to go.

I nod.

“I'll call and check up,” he says as he heads to the door, his carry-on and briefcase propped up next to it. His stupid shoes click on the tiled kitchen floor as he walks to the back door. He's almost outside when the words come out of me.

“Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah, Sport?” his head pops back into the kitchen.

“Sorry you have to figure it out on your own,” I say. His smile disappears. He looks back at me, and his eyes flicker with a sudden understanding.

“Oh. You mean the video camera? Yeah, don't worry about it, Sport.” He looks at me funny, and stops for a minute like he's going to say something.

“All right, well, talk to you soon,” he says and shuts the door behind him.

I drink the rest of my orange juice in silence, thinking about how I'm sitting in this kitchen alone. I think about how my mom is God knows where. How my dad
is heading to God knows where. And I'm stuck here—all by myself.

School sucks all day. I can't think of anything except Dad and the mystery woman he was talking to. The teachers drone on, and more than once I have to ask someone what we're doing. By the time photography comes around I'm tired of thinking and put my head on the table waiting for class to start.

Right now I want to stop time; stop the harsh squeak of someone's sneakers as they hurry in, the scrape of chairs being pulled out and pushed back in, the layers of voices and conversations that fill the room. When I was younger, I used to watch some reruns of a TV show about a girl who could stop time just by touching the tips of her index fingers together. I keep my head pressed on the cold table, close my eyes, and slowly bring my fingers together.

The bell rings.

Mr. Killinger's voice fills the room, slowly snuffing out the swell of conversation until only he is speaking.

“All right, people. You have exactly four weeks to finish your collections,” he says, “then, that first week in December, we will have judging here at school. The panel of judges will include my mentor, Dr. Hoyt, your principal, and other Rennington College and Kennedy High faculty. They will choose the winning collection that, in turn, will be displayed the following week at Rennington's annual fine arts show.” He smiles. “It's a
big deal guys. Pretty cool stuff.”

I think of how I haven't worked on this yet, and probably should. Why the hell haven't I when taking pictures is the only thing I'm good at? But thinking of all that starts crowding my head. And I wish I could will myself to think of nothing, but when you try to think of nothing, you end up thinking of everything, especially of how shitty your Dad is.

“So, that translates to . . . you better be working on it! Seriously, I want some good stuff. Remember, you want enough time to compose your artist's statement explaining your photographs. You should include what the photos represent and how they fit together as a collection. Some of you are probably already at that stage, or at least have an idea of what to write.”
I mean he was married. Is married. Even if Mom is never around. . . .

People around me open their books, start working on artist's statements, and talk to each other about their collections. Some have even brought in their pictures and begin showing them to others. I open my notebook and stare at a blank page. Despite his sending me to fat camp, I had always thought of Dad as the good guy and Mom as the bad guy. But maybe I had it wrong all this time. Maybe Dad was bad and Mom was good, but then, why would she abandon us like she always does? My head hurts. I can't think about this anymore but I can't stop. Then suddenly Mr. Killinger comes up behind me.

“Having trouble?” he asks. I shrug my shoulders. “Need help?” I don't answer him.

“Have you started thinking about your collection yet?” he continues.

I shrug again and focus on the blank page in front of me because I can't look him in the eye. He stays silent for a minute, but he's still standing next to me.

“Hey . . . why don't you hang out for a while after class, okay?” I don't say anything, but he waits. I nod and he finally walks away. I put my head down and close my eyes for the rest of the class.

The bell rings. Everyone packs up their stuff and starts heading out.

“Wanna talk about it?” Mr. Killinger comes over to my table once the last person has left the room. He pulls out a chair and sits next to me. I'm glad he's not facing me. He's being nice, but I wish he'd leave me alone. Things are so much easier when you're big and fat and everyone pretends you don't exist. I keep my head bowed.

“Charlie . . . I can tell something's wrong. I know you don't want the lame lecture teachers usually give, but . . .” He chooses his words. “You can talk to me. Sometimes, it helps to just get it out.”

I wish I could open my mouth and let everything come out. But it feels glued shut.

“Is it something here at school?” he asks. I shake my head no.

“Home?” The word is depressing. I don't say anything.

“Okay . . . is it your parents?” I nod.

“It's all right, Charlie, you can talk about it.” I wish
I could. I really do. But I'm not going to.

“Are they on your case about something?” Silence fills the air and it makes me hot and uncomfortable. I wish I could tell him something, anything, just to get this over with, if only to fill the silence. I clear my throat.

“It's . . .” My voice sounds hoarse. I clear my throat and try again. “It's . . . I just don't get them,” I tell him finally, amazed at how much effort it takes to just say that. I don't know how else to sum it all up. My mouth refuses to elaborate. But my brain keeps spinning the truth.
Mom is crazy and gone all the time, and Dad is sleeping with some other woman in Chicago. Mom is crazy and gone all the time, and Dad is sleeping with some other woman in Chicago. . . .

“Oh,” he says, “it must be pretty bad.” I just shrug in response.

“Is there a lot of yelling?” he asks. No, just silence. No one is ever home. But I just nod again.

“Anything more than yelling . . . ?” I look over at him for the first time since we started talking. He looks genuinely concerned.

I still don't know how to answer. Yes, it's so much more than yelling, but . . .

“Anything . . . any . . . physical altercations?” he asks.

I shake my head, no. We're very good at hurting each other without any altercations, without being in the same room, without being in the same house.

“Well . . . ,” his voice trails off. “Listen, Charlie, I understand what it's like living in a house where there's a lot of . . . tension,” he says. “It's hard. A lot harder than people think.”