The Downside of Being Charlie (23 page)

Later, when the hunger pang hits me again, I go to bed trying to psyche myself out that the phone will ring. I get up and check to make sure it's working. It is.

But it doesn't ring. Charlotte doesn't call.

I drag myself out of bed and go to school the next day, but only because Ahmed calls superearly and convinces me that the best thing to do is pretend it didn't bother me at all. I'm tired of pretending, but I crawl into the Roller Skate and go. Ahmed tries to cheer me up. I stare out the window.

I go through the motions of the day, but really, all I care about is Charlotte and whether or not she saw those pictures. If she did, then that's it. Now she knows the real me, and she's probably grossed out that she ever wasted a minute on me.

I sit and wait for her to come through the door during drama, but for the first time that year, she doesn't. She's not in class. I know it's because she can't stand being near me. I know it's because she's embarrassed she ever sort of liked me. But all I can do is think about her, which makes me come up with what's probably the worst idea I've ever had.

I get to Charlotte's house right before eight o'clock. I almost leave when I spot Mark's car, but I had already convinced myself on the walk over that nothing was going to keep me from talking to her tonight. And even as I walk up the stairs and ring the doorbell, I know no good can come of this, but something inside me won't let me turn and run. I need to know. One way or another, I need to know.

She answers the door, but doesn't ask me to come inside. Instead, she comes outside and says, “Charlie, hey, what are you doing here?”

And I'm stumped because I didn't think it out this far. I suddenly wish I'd made note cards because now that I'm here, and she's asking me why I'm here, and she's standing so close, I can't remember. I grasp at the only thing that still connects me to her.

“Um, I missed you in class today.” What a stupid thing to say.

“Yeah, I had a follow-up dentist's appointment, so I
left early. I wasn't there yesterday morning, either. One cavity,” she says and shrugs her shoulders, but then smiles. She hadn't been there yesterday morning. She hadn't seen the pictures. She didn't know what Mark had done. It made sense. Mark did it when he knew she wouldn't be there because maybe Charlotte would've stopped him or gotten on his case. Though that might be true, I could still make Mark look like a total jerk by telling her about the whole incident. But how could I when it's too embarrassing?

“Oh, okay,” I say and think about just leaving it at that and going back home. But I still stand there, and she still stands there, and it feels awkward as hell.

“So, I see you're hanging out with Mark,” I say.

“He stopped by, and we decided to watch a movie. You . . . want to join us?” she asks.

Did I want to join them? She definitely didn't know. I wanted to be nowhere near Mark right now, and I wanted him to be nowhere near her. I wanted her to be with me. Just me.

“Nah, it's cool,” I say, even though it's not. But I still make no move to leave, so I bring up the exhibit. It's not for a little over a week, and it seems silly that I'm asking her because I know she's going.

“Are you kidding? Of course I'll be there,” she says. “I mean, I can't believe there are going to be pictures of me hanging in a gallery.” She looks down at the ground. “It made me a little nervous, but it was fun being your muse. Did they turn out okay?” she asks and I feel terrible. What is she going to think when she walks into the gallery and there is no Charlotte
VanderKleaton collection?

“Yeah, of course,” I say.

“Good.” She breathes a sigh of relief. “My God, Charlie, what if you win?”

I want to crawl into a grave and die. “That'd be cool, I guess,” I say because I have no idea what else to say.

“Oh my God, is it snowing?” she says looking past me. I turn to look. She runs out and starts to spin under the falling snowflakes.

It
is
snowing, and I'm here, watching Charlotte VanderKleaton twirl and laugh under the light flurry.

I walk over to where she is and start spinning, too, first slowly, and then faster and faster just like I did when I was a little kid. She does the same, and we keep at it until we fall and crash to the ground, laughing. Suddenly, it's so hard to breath. I stare up at the swirling sky, at the crazy blur of the snow that falls on our faces, and Charlotte tells me about how she loves the snow.... God, I wished she loved me.

“So you're going?” I ask Charlotte, still staring up at the sky.

“God, Charlie, YES!” she says and laughs.

I swallow the lump in my throat. Her phone starts ringing in her pocket, she looks down at it and silences it.

“Charlotte?”

“I said yes already!”

“No . . . I mean . . . What is this?” I can't believe I've said it. As soon as I do, I wish I could eat the words right back up, stuff them down, and never let them come out again. But it's too late.

“What?” she asks, even though I can tell by the tone
of her voice that she knows exactly what I mean.

“This, you and me, what is it?” I ask because the words already came out, and I can't take them back. This is the real reason I came over here tonight. I have to know, and Ahmed is right that unless one of us says something, it's just going to keep going on and on like this.

She shrugs. “I guess this is what it is. Do you really, I mean, do we really have to define it? Because I don't know what it is.”

I almost say no. I almost let it go. I should just let it go. But I can't.

“I need to know. I need to know something is real. I can't stand the not knowing anymore.”

She sits up and faces me.

“I do like you Charlie, really I do, but . . .” She looks down and she looks kind of confused, but I don't care. Because what I feel inside is much worse. I look up at the sky so that she doesn't see my eyes welling up with tears. It's deep and dark and makes me think of the word zenith, and I wish I could get beamed up by some UFO. I am probably the only person willing to be abducted by aliens, willing to let them do whatever to me. I wonder what I look like from way up there. Pathetic?

“You and I, we're different,” she says. I barely hear it, but I hear it. And my face flushes with embarrassment. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have ever thought that Charlotte VanderKleaton could ever really like me? It's cold and I'm sure the snowflakes are melting as they hit my burning face, and
I know I should run. I should run and never look back and just forget all the stupid things I let myself believe. But all I can do is lie there and just pray she doesn't say anymore. I think if she explains how she can't be seen with me, I'll . . .

Charlotte looks over at me. “Charlie, do you know why I hate Blanche?” she whispers, and I'm sure I didn't hear her right. How can she be thinking about a stupid play right now? “I hate her,” she continues, “because she's fake . . . like me.” I'm about to tell her she's out of her mind to compare herself to Blanche, but she goes on.

“Do you know what it's like to never feel like you're enough? Like you're always trying to be something you're not? And when you do that so often, you don't even remember who you really are? I mean, maybe you try to be a certain way for this person, and a certain way for that person, and a totally different way for another person, and everyone is happy. But the problem is, you forget who you really are.”

What Charlotte is saying starts confusing me, even as it thunders with some semblance of the deepest shit I've ever heard. I get what she's saying, but I don't know how to be a different person for different people. If I knew, I would stop being the loser that I am for Charlotte.

“What do you mean? Just, you know, be who you are,” I say.

“Right. You make it sound so easy, but it's not. Think about it. I mean, are you the person you really are, Charlie? Or do you put up some kind of front?” she asks.

What she says freaks me out because I'm scared Charlotte might have figured out what a big liar I am.

“Charlotte, you're really an amazing person. I can't believe you can't see that.” I reach for her hand, but she pulls it away.

“Come on, Charlie, You barely know me. You just think I'm amazing. And the problem with that is that after awhile, you'll see that I'm not.”

“No,” I say because there's no way Charlotte could be anything but amazing.

“Some people don't know their faults, but I know mine. I'm reminded of them every day.” She looks toward her house. “And I know I'm not . . . enough, for you. Besides, Charlie, I don't even really know who you are either. Sometimes I think I do, but then . . .” She sighs deeply and shakes her head like it's too complicated to explain how screwed up I am. My face gets hotter. I wish she'd stop, but she keeps talking. “I get the feeling that there's this part of you that you don't let others see. And if neither of us can be ourselves around each other, then what the hell is the point? We're like two identical puzzle pieces, but two pieces that can never fit.”

I don't know if Charlotte is being the sincerest she's ever been or if she's feeding me the biggest load of crap. But I'm pathetic because even as she sits here saying how wrong we are for each other, and even as I want to run away from what she's saying, I can't help thinking she's got it all wrong. We'd be perfect for one another if she'd just give it a chance and stop reading so much into everything.

She looks at me, and there's that thing in her eyes that I tried to get in the pictures and couldn't. Part of
me does understand what she's saying, but then I don't see how telling her all about my fat self and my crazy mom and my shitty dad will make any difference.

“Say something,” she says. But I can't. I want to tell her I love her and that I don't want her to ever leave me. But I think if I say those things, she'll just dismiss it because somehow it's wrong for me to think she's amazing. So I say nothing. All I can do is lie in the snow and let her tell me she can't be with me because this, being left, is what I know.

“Don't be mad, Charlie, please. I do care about you. I just, I mean, look what happened with Blanche and Mitch.” I can tell she's struggling, but I don't care because I feel like an idiot and like I've been given the Rubik's Cube of break-up speeches.

“Do you . . . are you together with him?” I ask because I figure I might as well plunge this knife in as deep as it will go.

She sighs. “I don't know. I mean he's . . .” She shrugs her shoulders. “I know where I stand with him. I don't have to try so hard with him, and at least he's real with me. He is who he is, whether people like it or not,” she says finally.

I hate that she's making Mark sound so noble. Who cares if Mark is real because he's a big dumbass? I want to tell her this and that I'll accept who she is, and I can't imagine her being anything but perfect, but I know she's not and that's okay. I want to beg her not to leave me because I'm suddenly aware these will be my last moments alone with Charlotte, and however miserable and confusing they might be, I don't want
them to end. I just want somebody here. I need somebody to stay with me.

“Charlie,” she says as she leans over, kisses my cheek, and rests her forehead on my temple. “I'm sorry. I wish things could be different.”

She gets up and heads back into her house. The door creaks as she opens and closes it, and I stay on the ground. I want to run after her and tell her I'll do anything if only she'll stay, if only she'll love me back and let me love her. But I don't.

I get up and walk home. I go through the neighborhood and picture everyone put away in their little compartments, and I can't help but wonder if the prettiest compartments are the ones trying to cover up the ugliest messes inside. I wonder what it would be like to be invisible and walk through all the compartments on the block. I wonder how many people would be locked in little rooms, hiding away.

When I get home, Dad is actually there but on the phone in his office. I don't know if I remembered to get rid of the pizza box. But I don't care anymore. I trudge upstairs, pass Mom's bedroom door, and close it. It's easier to pretend she's still here when the door is closed. It's easier to pretend that nobody's left me.

H
ere's what I know: