The Downside of Being Charlie (7 page)

“You're so funny,” she says, even though I'm not trying to be and feel like an idiot. I laugh nervously.

“So, I'm Charlotte.”
As if I didn't know.
“And you are . . . ?” She looks at me and I know I'm supposed to say something. “Hello? What's your name?” she asks.
Speak, dumbass, speak!

“Charlie,” I manage, but I think it comes out funny. I cough and clear my throat.

“Charlie,” she says like she's never heard or said the name before. “Okay, Charlie, so we're supposed to pick a play, summarize it, design the set on graph paper, and then make a small-scale model of it. She's going to give us class time for the next couple of weeks to work on it. Geez, she was talking for like twenty minutes. Preoccupied with something?”

I shrug.
Only you and your awesomeness
. She studies my face, then twirls a lock of her hair around her finger “You look familiar.” She narrows her eyes a little. “Didn't you used to run around the neighborhood or something?”

Oh my God, she did notice me. She must think I'm a stalker freak, or worse, she realizes I'm the fat kid that didn't wave back. Any minute now, her face will get that disgusted look and she'll get up and refuse to work with me. She stares, waiting, still twirling that lock of red hair.

I nod. “Uh, yeah. I mean, I did. But I had to stop. Knee injury.” Wonderful. The little conversational skills I have finally kick in and all I can do is come up with a lame-ass lie. What the hell did I know about knee injuries? What if she asks me about it?

“That sucks,” she says. I wait for her to ask me more, to demand proof of the alleged injury, but she just smiles and says, “So, what play do you want to do?
Romeo and Juliet?
” She raises an eyebrow and smiles. Then waits for an answer again.

She must be joking, right? I mean, Shakespeare would shit bricks if he saw someone like me in the role of Romeo. But Charlotte would be a perfect Juliet. I read the play and watched the movie freshman year, but honestly, all I remember about it is that Romeo and Juliet both die, but before that, I'm pretty sure they do it.

“Whatever,” I answer, “your choice.”

She laughs and I'm not sure if she's laughing at me or what, but then she says, “Okay, I'll be right back,” and tosses her hair over her shoulder before heading toward Mrs. C's library of plays.

I'm suddenly realizing that she might be using that tone. The tone of voice girls use when they know something guys don't. When they ask questions they already know the answers to. When they're . . . is that flirting? I've never actually had a girl flirt with me, and I've definitely never flirted back with anyone. I'm not sure I even know how to flirt. But more importantly,
is
she flirting? Does she like me? Or is she just being nice?

She looks back at me a couple of times. I pretend not to notice, but now there's a giddiness inside me,
swelling and gathering force, threatening to come out in a wild, mad-scientist kind of laugh. I force it down and try not to appear too anxious.

She returns exuberant and bubbly with a play in her hand. She whoopees and yays, which is so annoying in some girls, but absolutely perfect in her. She tells me this is the only play in the world worth reading. I look at the cover, which reads
A Streetcar Named Desire
. I've never heard of it.

“This is the best play ever!” she gushes. “Stanley Kowalski is so . . . so powerful and moving.” She stares at the cover. I gather that the angry, shirtless guy on it must be Stanley. I'm suddenly irrationally jealous of him.

“But Blanche, poor Blanche. She's such a weirdo and pretty annoying. She can't do anything for herself. I can't stand people like that, who
need
other people. It's so . . . wimpy, know what I mean?” I nod. Yes, I knew exactly what she meant. She starts to fill me in on the play, but I already know I'll read it anyway. We're talking about what set to recreate (actually, she's talking and I'm just watching and listening), when the bell rings, ending the greatest class in my whole academic career.

“You better read it,” she says, pointing to the play.

“I will, definitely,” I say with a big grin. I'm not so keen on reading a book about some muscle-head guy Charlotte has a literary crush on, but if she wants me to read it, I'll read it.

“Okay.” She smiles back. “Well, you could just watch the movie. I mean, it's pretty much the same.” She gathers up her books, flashes me one last smile, and leaves, not realizing that I would walk over hot coals for
her if she asked me. Even if she didn't.

I straighten out her desk and gather up my books, still stunned over what has just transpired in the last hour. Again, I'm the last one to leave.

The walk to Ahmed's car is different today. A hint of fall is in the breeze; the air smells fresher, the world looks brighter, and I can't wipe the stupid grin off my face.

“What the hell is up with you?” Ahmed asks, looking up from his phone. He's leaning on the Roller Skate, texting.

I shake my head, trying to clear it and suddenly I worry that what I think just happened didn't really happen. Maybe I'm making too much of it. Maybe I totally misinterpreted the best forty-five minutes of my life. I tell Ahmed everything as soon as we get in the car, to see what he thinks, making extra sure I haven't overe-laborated or left anything out.

“Oh no, watch out! Chuckie's a p-p-p-piiimp!” he cries out.

“Shut the hell up!” I tell him. The windows of the Roller Skate are down as we zip out of the parking lot.

“She digs you,” Ahmed says. “Enjoy it, man! Lap it up like an itty-bitty puppy dying of thirst.” Ahmed makes slurping sounds and starts cracking up. I laugh and look out the window, the car zooming at what feels like perilous speeds. I change Ahmed's Sinatra CD to the Beastie Boys. I turn up the volume and we act like the best white boy rappers to hit the east side since Mike D, Ad-Rock, and MCA, although technically we wouldn't be a white boy group since I'm white and
Ahmed is Turkish. Anyway, Ahmed has abandoned his Rat Pack persona for the moment and is his full spazzo self—dancing, rapping, and flashing peace signs to cars next to us. It makes me crack up the whole ride home, and I can't remember the last time I felt this good.

T
he next month is the best one of my life, despite the following:

So, technically, yes, I get to drool over Charlotte for the entire class period every day. But not only do I have to get up in front of the whole class and recite monologues, I have to get up in front of Charlotte and recite monologues, and I'm terrible. It's basically three minutes of pure terror and tongue twisters that just make everyone else feel sorry for me. And, of course, as it turns out, Charlotte is a pretty terrific actress and makes everyone else look bad. Every day, all I can do is dread/look forward to sixth period. But things are a lot better when we get more class time to work on the project. Since everything else in my life sucks, the only thing that keeps me going is the time I spend with
Charlotte in drama. I read
A Streetcar Named Desire
and watched the movie right after Charlotte told me about it. She's right, it is a pretty good play, but I can't figure out if I hate Stanley because he's a first-rate jerk or because the sight of him on the cover of the playbook makes Charlotte swoon. And I don't know if this makes me one of the drama kids or not, but I finally get the whole
STELLA!
thing.

“So, you ready for your drama presentation today?” Dad asks me as I come into the kitchen on one of the rare mornings I catch him before he leaves for work. He's always had to travel for work, but lately he's had to a lot more, which means late nights and early mornings at the office when he is in town.

“Uh, yeah, I guess. I mean, at least it's a partner thing, you know?”

“Yeah, takes the pressure off. Well, I'm sure you'll do fine, Sport,” he says as he sets his coffee mug in the sink.

“Thanks, Dad. Oh, and your turn or mine?” I ask him since I can't remember which one of us is supposed to fix dinner tonight. We'd fallen into this routine of who could fix the best tasting but still healthy meals since I got back from fat camp. It was Dad's lame idea, and I hadn't really been trying lately, but figured I could do it to make things a little less tense around here.

“Probably another late night, so don't worry about me,” he says. Ahmed honks the horn. “Good luck,” he says as I walk out the door.

All day my stomach is in knots as I anticipate the presentation in drama. I'm pretty nervous, but Charlotte is calm as usual when I walk into class. She smiles as I
take deep breaths and try to relax. The anxiety from waiting is almost as bad as the actual standing in front of the class, and just when I absolutely can't take the waiting anymore, Mrs. C finally calls us up. As I start summarizing the play, my voice has the usual weird shakiness whenever I get up here. No matter how much I try, I can't make myself sound normal. I get tangled up in the story line and then for whatever reason I start rambling on and on about Tennessee Williams, at which point I notice people starting to doodle and scrape gum off their shoes. Those who are still paying attention look like I just asked them to explain the latest quantum physics theories complete with formulas and illustrations. I'm choking.

“What Charlie means is . . . ,” Charlotte cuts in. She easily explains the rest of the play, leaving out some key events, but it's still way better than all my stupid rambling. Mrs. C nods her head as she listens and scribbles notes.

Charlotte goes on to explain our design, why we chose the colors we chose for the set, what kind of lighting we would incorporate, how it all adds to the mood, etc., with very little help from me. When I do speak, I feel like a parrot, echoing things she's already said.

“Good,” Mrs. C says when we're done, “so, what did you guys think of Blanche?” she asks.

“I can't stand her,” Charlotte answers immediately.

Mrs. C tilts her head to one side. “Most people can't,” she says. “What about you, Charlie?”

“Well, she
is
kind of annoying, but . . .” I shrug my shoulders, not knowing how to finish my thought.

“Go on,” Mrs. C suggests.

But Charlotte quickly takes over. “Come on, she's basically this nymphomaniac who is superold, like thirty or forty or something and, you know . . . actually hooks up with one of her students. I mean who does that? And then, oh yeah, then comes on to that other teenage newspaper boy.” Hoots and hollers echo from our now revived class as well as a couple of
ewww's.

“And then she's a total compulsive liar, too—lying to anyone and everyone, especially poor, stupid big Mitch. I hate that. I mean, he's such a good guy, you know? And she just takes complete advantage of him. So, I think considering all that, you know, she's actually worse than Stanley.” Mrs. C raises her eyebrows. I think we just took a wrong turn.

“I mean, okay, Stanley might seem like a jerk and all, but at least he's honest, you know? I appreciate that. Blanche just pretends to be something she's not. She's definitely got some issues,” Charlotte concludes.

“Exactly the point, Charlotte. She's got issues. And does that justify what Stanley does to her in the end?” Mrs. C asks. She clicks her tongue in a semidisapprov-ing, semigenuinely interested in what we have to say kind of way.

Charlotte shrugs. “She sort of put herself in that position,” she says. But I don't know what to say. I don't know what the right answer is.

“Stanley breaks Blanche,” Mrs. C says, perhaps thinking we didn't fully understand the play. “He knows he can, and he does,” she continues. “Is that okay?”

Charlotte shrugs. “I think she was already broken,”
she says, without much sympathy. They go back and forth for a while, but there's really no shaking Charlotte and how much she dislikes Blanche.

Mrs. C looks at me. “What about you, Charlie, what do you think?” she asks.

This whole talk about Blanche, what she deserves, what she doesn't deserve, and how much she lies, makes my head feel stuffed. The room feels like it's rocking under my feet, but no one else seems to notice the mini earthquake, so I try to ignore it. But the truth is, I both hate and feel bad for Blanche. She's weak, needy, and incredibly deceptive. I kind of get how she suffocates everyone in her life, but the reasons she's fucked up are hard to define. The way nobody cares about her really sucks, so you kind of feel bad for her. I guess I also understand how people sometimes feel the need to lie because the truth is so bad. I feel the floor tremble again.

“I agree with Charlotte,” I finally mumble.

Mrs. C looks at us the way adults do, right before they justify your responses to pure teenage stupidity.

“Well,” she says and sighs, “we could go on about this forever, but we have more presentations. Thank you, Charlotte and Charlie. All right, next we have . . .”

Charlotte and I walk back to our seats. “Good job,” she whispers. Was she being sarcastic? Or did she really not notice the way I clammed up or how Mrs. C just looked at us? We sit down and the next pair goes on about some other play. Charlotte scribbles a note and passes it to me.