The Downside of Being Charlie (22 page)

Finally he looks up and over to me. He nods, which I think means
okay, what you did is okay
.

At first I'm very reluctant for anyone to see them, but it's impossible for everyone not to since we frame all of our pictures in class. I get the same reaction each time: someone looks over my shoulder and there's a long pause, before they finally say something. Mr. Killinger says that's good. It shocks in a raw, honest, thought-provoking way, but it seems like it shocks them more in a
this kid is a freak
kind of way. Eventually though, it gets easier, especially when they tell me it's really good. And I think they mean it. Then I start to actually believe them. I look at the kids in my photography class, all so
very different from one another: Punks, Preps, Loners, Stoners, Ordinaries . . . and yet, we're sort of the same somehow. This hiding behind the lens and snapping things maybe others don't see, we all have it in common. It's important to us.

As the week goes on, as everyone shows me their collections, like mine, their photos somehow tell me things about them I'd never known. I feel a strange sense of belonging. Part of me doesn't really care about winning, but then after I set up my exhibit in the school's theater for judging, I start to wonder—and hope—that I do have a chance.

That Friday during class, Mr. Killinger drops the bomb on us.

“So,” he starts as soon as the bell rings, “just want to let you know that there's a new procedure for choosing the winner.”

Everyone stares at him.

“You won't actually know who has won until the night of the exhibit.”

“Aw, man, Mr. Killinger. That's total cheese. How's the winner supposed to set up his collection at Rennington if he doesn't know he's won?” Steve-O Carter yells from the back. He thinks everything is cheese, but he brings up a good point.

“Hang on. Actually, it's pretty cool. As you all know, preliminary judging started yesterday here at school, which is why all of you set up your collections in the theater. Well, the judges were so floored by your talents, they decided to showcase the top three collections at Rennington instead of just the winner as originally
planned. There will still only be one scholarship, but at least two more of you will have your work displayed at Rennington.”

Steve-O perks up and listens. So does the rest of the class.

“And the scholarship recipient will be announced on the night of the final exhibit.”

The room is buzzing. Cheese or not, everyone was excited and wanted to be one of the three finalists.

“When will we know who the three finalists are?” someone asks.

“Right now,” Killinger says, and he whips out a note card from his back pocket. People start to hoot and holler. Mr. Killinger waits for silence. Everyone begins to hush each other.

“In no particular order,” Killinger begins, eyeing us and pausing for dramatic effect, “Lisa Wakefield.” Lisa squeals and everyone claps. Mr. Killinger waits.

“Steve Carter,” he booms again. Steve-O jumps up on a table and pumps his fist in the air. Everyone cracks up and then starts shutting each other up. Mr. Killinger waits again.

“And finally,” he says. Everyone is waiting, people are whispering please, please, please.

“Charlie Grisner,” Mr. Killinger booms. Someone slaps me on the back and congratulates me. I take a deep breath, unsure of how to react. Because even though I'm happy, and this is awesome and everyone is congratulating me, I've had enough experience to know the laws of the universe for Charlie Grisner. I know things like this don't happen to guys like me. And
when they do, it always means something bad is going to follow.

I don't get a chance to tell Dad about being a finalist because he's not home when I get home, but Ahmed, of course, tells his mom who insists we celebrate, so she prepares a meal of brown rice with amazing spicy chicken, vegetables, and yogurt sauce (that she prepared very healthy, she tells me quietly).

After dinner, we all watch some Turkish movies that Ahmed and I laugh at and his mother and father shush us without really meaning it. And Ahmed starts imitating some Turkish dance that he integrates with pop lock moves, and Mr. Bata gets up and starts imitating him, and Mrs. Bata laughs until tears come out of her eyes. It's the best time I've had in a long time, and I laugh so hard my stomach hurts. I feel so much a part of a family that it almost doesn't matter that it's not my own. It's just great to laugh, to feel a part of something, a part of others. I can't remember if I'd ever felt that with my parents. I don't think I have, which suddenly makes me sad, but I keep laughing with the Batas, join Ahmed and his dad, even though I can't shut out the thought of my parents. I go home wishing I were Turkish.

T
he following Monday I head toward my locker when I start noticing people staring at me. I wonder if word got out about me being one of the finalists in the photography competition, but nobody else really cares about that, so it seems unlikely. I keep walking and become acutely aware of whispers and giggles around me. I feel like Moses as people make an open path for me as I get closer to my locker. I know this can't be good. And then, I see them.

There weren't many, but enough that anyone who walked past my locker would see them. So here it was, Mark's revenge for the pot-brownie failure that led to his suspension, and for Charlotte showing interest in me. I picture Mark's smug face and his words from the other day ring in my ears.
So, you're into photography, Chunks?
Motherfucker.

The picture was obviously from an ad cut out of a magazine. A black and white of the beach, water foaming as it spills up onto shore on two bodies pressed and entangled in each other, they looked more like one body with excess limbs. The lovers look as if they just washed up on shore, exhausted but miraculously unscathed and unharmed from some boating accident,
and are reveling in the refuge of each other's arms after a perilous adventure.

Except the girl's face is not that of a supermodel. It's Tanya's zitty face superimposed on the model. And Tanya is clinging on to and laying on top of me. My face—no—my face from last year had been carefully cropped and perfectly positioned onto the body of the male model. And as if that wasn't enough, there are captions.

“Oh, Chunks, thank you for saving me. Oh, Chunks, your body is so muscular. Oh, Chunks, Oh, Chunks . . .”

“Hush, my precious, and kiss me. I will protect you forever.”

The craftsmanship was incredible, the idea typical, and yet the blow . . . catastrophic.

I stare at the pictures. They decorate my locker like wallpaper. My face looks like a big, puffy, pale pastry—glistening like it's been glazed—my eyes are two small raisins, and the smile the photographer had forced me to do makes me look like I'm taking a dump. It was by far the worst class picture I'd ever taken . . . and now, Charlotte would see it. I wish I could die.

There I was. That was me. That ugly, doughy, loser boy was me. Who was I kidding? It didn't matter if I lost the weight, if I strutted around like I was someone new, or if I was a finalist in some stupid photo contest. That right there, staring back at me with the most miserable face in human existence, was the real Charlie. That is who I'd always been, who I'd always be—miserable, scared, ugly, fat Charlie. The bell rings. The ringing laughter and whispers around me eventually fade, but I just stare. I can't move.

I hear the squeak of sneakers behind me and Tanya appears out of nowhere. Great, just the person I want to see. My face gets hot with embarrassment.

“Watch out,” she says, sighing loudly.

I move, hoping she'll just grab her books and leave. She rips all the pictures off and crumbles them up in one big heap. She walks over to the trash can and tosses them in like it's no big deal. And I guess for Tanya, it's not. This is just another typical day in her crappy life. Does she even realize her life sucks?

“Just forget it,” she says. “Mark's a real dumbass, and all his little admirers are a bunch of mindless minions. Don't let it get to you.” She looks at me. I spy what might be sympathy and understanding in her big owl eyes. “I guess this wouldn't be the best time for me to tell you that the turd-head taped one of these on the back of every bathroom stall in the school.” She pushes up her glasses in true nerd fashion before opening the locker and trading out some books.

My stomach drops. She says it so matter of fact it makes me want to smack her. And suddenly I'm pissed.

“What is wrong with you?” I ask her.

“What?”

“What is wrong with you?” I repeat, louder this time. “I mean, I guess it's because you're already a freak, right? You just don't care, right? Because you're better than all these people?”

She cocks her head to one side and stares at me as if trying to analyze me. It only pisses me off more.

“But I don't want to be a freak,” I tell her. “I don't want to be ‘better' than all of these people.” My words
spill out before I can plug them up. “I want to be like them. And I would be if I weren't sharing a locker with you. But . . . it's not like anything could go my way just once, right? And your powers are so great, Tanya, so astonishingly great that I've been tapped a freak by association!” I yell at her, knowing that what I'm saying is not true, that I was a freak long before I shared a locker with Tanya, but I don't care because it feels good, it feels good to yell at someone, to blame somebody else for my fucked-up life.

“My God, I actually felt sorry for you,” I yell. “But I don't know why. You do nothing to try and fit in. You love that people look at you weird, that they ostracize you. Look at you,” I demand. “Look at you!” I shout until she actually looks down at her grubby sneakers and stretch pants.

“You know what? You're an idiot!” she spits out. “You want to be one of these people? Why? Because they're so fantastic? Because they can cut and kill people like you and me if we let them? Wake up, Charlie.”

“I am NOT like you!” I yell back.

“YES, you are! You may hate it, and you may fight it, and you may think it's the worst thing in the world, but I'm telling you, you are EXACTLY like me and someday when you're far enough from the disease that is this shallow, kill or be killed school controlled by a bunch of zombies, you're gonna realize that, and you know what? You're gonna be glad you're like me!” Her face is red and blotchy, and I just want to punch her and make her shut up. Instead, I hate myself even more for being such a wimp.

“I hate you,” I say.

“You hate yourself,” she spits back, “and that's worse. Get over it, Charlie, or you're seriously gonna be fucked up.” She stares at me with her big owl eyes like she feels sorry for me. She feels sorry for
me?

And that's the last straw. I've sunk so low that Tanya Bate feels sorry for me.

I get the hell out of there—walk right past the lady guard at the front of the school who supposedly makes sure no one escapes this prison. Instead she's sleeping in her golf cart. I walk home and ditch the rest of the day. It doesn't matter. Nobody's home.

I mope around until Ahmed stops by after school and tries to convince me it's not that big a deal.

“Come over. Mom said she'd make another great dinner. We can watch Turkish movies and free-style again.” He jumps up and does one of the Turkish pop lock moves he invented. I shake my head and tell him I just want to chill by myself.

“Dude,” Ahmed says, but he doesn't know what else to say. “Come on.”

“I'm fine, really. It's no big deal. I'm over it. I just want to hang here. Alone.”

I can tell he doesn't want to leave, but he knows I'm not going to change my mind.

“All right, my man, gonna let you off the hook this time, but just this time. Pick you up bright and early,” he says. “I'm gonna go work on some new moves, so you better be ready to laugh your ass off tomorrow.” He offers me a weak smile that is so un-Ahmed-like that I figure I must be pretty pathetic to look at.

I make myself kind of chuckle, but only because he's trying so hard. I feel guilty that he has to have such a messed-up best friend. He finally leaves, and when I can't stand staring at the ceiling anymore, I order a pizza.

I try to act cool when the delivery guy gets there, but as he stands there trying to make change, I can hardly wait. I nearly take his arm off when I slam the door and head to the couch. I open the box, the warm comforting smell of the dough and sauce acting like a sedative. I take a deep breath and dig in. I start to wonder if eating will be the only thing that will ever make me happy. And maybe I'll eat so much, that one day I'll be one of those guys who has to be rescued by the fire department because he can't fit through the door to get out of his house. And they'll have to rip the roof off and get a crane to lift my fat ass out of here. I choke on the last slice as I picture the whole scene. I run to the bathroom and get rid of it.