The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second (17 page)

Afterward, we drove around, not really talking. It was cool. Almost like when we were kids and nobody paid attention to what we were doing—trying to scratch records like the Beastie Boys, broomstick bicycle jousting, tormenting Aaron before his junior prom. Only, the thing is, we aren't kids anymore. I mean, it's like if I spend any time around Bink, Mr. Five-Incher starts acting like he's got the mental capacity of an Alzheimer's patient and conveniently forgets that I've got this super hot guy as a boyfriend. Put me around a guy that's slightly above average in the looks department and my little buddy's demanding so much of my body's blood that it's a wonder my brain's getting enough oxygen to support basic human functioning.

I guess I'd feel really bad if I thought it was just me, but I swear to Christ, it's a guy thing. This summer, when everyone was playing truth or dare at Dana's party, I remember someone asking Kyle Weir if he'd rather have really awful, might-as-well-just-jerk-off-with-Stephen-Hawking's-paralytic-hand sex with a chick who measured 42”-18”-33” or make toe-curling, ball-shuddering, universe-shattering, mind-evaporating monkey love with a chick he'd just as soon put on a leash and feed dog biscuits. Weir said he'd nail 'em both, just as long as no one ever knew he was packing the homunculus's box. Yeah, Weir's a pig, but part of me thinks he's right. It seems like most guys—and let's face it, it's not like I'm an exception—would do the nasty with just about anything if they could get away with it. Am I proud of this? No. But, then again, I'm not exactly proud of the fact that I spend ninety percent of my life practicing genital origami on myself.

Saturday, September 29

I feel like shit. If I wasn't such a wuss, I'd find a gun and blow my brains out. Rob's not talking to me. It's my fault. I'm such a prick.

We lost our first game yesterday. The thing is, McHenry wasn't supposed to beat us. It wasn't supposed to be close. They're the second-worst team in the conference. I don't know if we just got too cocky or if McHenry was so bad they dragged us down to their level, but Christ, we sucked.

In the visiting locker room, everyone acted like we lost 'cuz the ref called the game on a slaughter rule. Guys were shoving each other into lockers, yelling, throwing jerseys, cleats, and shin guards. That's when Rob and I got into it. He stood near me as I pulled off my shoes and socks.

“Smooth move on that save,” Rob said. I should've realized he was kidding, but I was pissed about costing us the game. I didn't need anyone rubbing it in—least of all him. And, in classic Stewart style, I took it too far.

“Yeah? Maybe we'd've done better if your mom was out there in her wheelchair instead of you, dweeb.”

Rob stood there like I'd sucker punched him. His teeth were clenched. He balled his hands into fists. I wanted to take it back instantly.

“Rob, I'm sorry…I didn't mean it,” I said, stammering. I closed my eyes, hoping he'd haul off and slug me, break my nose, something. Hell, if having my jaw wired shut for a few weeks kept me from saying stupid crap, so much the better. My arms were shaking and covered in goose bumps.

Rob didn't hit me. He didn't tackle me or anything. He just called me a bastard, took off the watch I'd given him, dropped it into my bag, and walked away.

I've been phoning Rob pretty much on the hour since yesterday. He won't answer.

Sunday, September 30

Rob's still not talking to me. I tried apologizing at church today. He blew me off, acting like I didn't even exist.

It didn't help any having First at church. He tried sitting with me and Mom, only she wasn't having his let's-pretend-we're-the-perfect-family-and-everything's-fine crap. She got up and sat in the pew across the aisle. There wasn't room for me, so I got stuck with him.

Trust me, even I'm having a hard time believing it, but First actually treated me like a real live human being and not like some freakish lab specimen that needed to be slapped on a slide, doused with iodine, and scrutinized under a microscope for defects.

“Everything okay with you, Chip? I mean, Charlie?” he asked, whispering. The church organist fog-horned her way through “Now Thank We All Our God” like it was a funeral dirge for some ancient lederhosen-wearing Bavarian lard-ass.

“I guess,” I said, trying to say as little as possible so I didn't end up getting the third degree on the music I was listening to (it wasn't that long ago when Queen, the Butthole Surfers, the Queers, and the Dickies were all cause for suspicion) or how if I didn't get at least a B in AP Bio or pass my driver's test, I'd end up going from living in public housing to being someone's toothless, Skoal-gumming, tattooed prison bitch.

“And your mom?”

“She's fine.”

“That's good,” he said, looking down at the hymnal. “Is there anything you need from me?”

“Nope.”

“Well, let me know if you need anything. I'd be happy to help.”

Granted, it's not like the conversation we had was exactly riveting, but at least it ended without either of us wanting to kill each other.

Monday, October 1

Scribbled notes in second hour…

Tuesday, October 2

I've been calling Rob and he's still not answering. It sucks.

Mom finally said where she's been going at night. She's taken an accounting job at The Cottage, closing out the bar and kitchen registers, tallying up the receipts, and doing the books. She figures it'll help if she needs a job if they get a divorce. She's even thinking about maybe going back to school to get her CPA.

 

 

Wednesday, October 3

Why do I get stuck being God's walking punch line? I say one fricking dumb-ass thing about Rob's mom and I'm doomed to never touch another guy's dick.

 

THIRD PERIOD: CHOIR

Rob came up to me during choir. I got all excited, thinking he'd forgiven me.
Yeah, right.

“Quit calling me,” he said in front of everyone. Half of the kids burst out laughing. “You're making a fool of yourself.”

I wanted to make some big dramatic “screw you, Rob” gesture, but tripped on my shoelaces, which had me pretty much falling all over myself. Not an off-balanced stumble—a total silent-movie, whackin'-big, face-first collapse. My teeth clamped down on the tip of my tongue. I coughed some blood-tinged, pink spit onto the tiles. Everybody laughed—even Mrs. Reed, the choir director. When she stopped drying her eyes, Mrs. Reed said I'd've laughed, too, if I saw myself, straight as a beanpole one moment, a blur of flapping arms and kicking legs the next. Then she got around to asking if I was okay.

“Yettthhh,” I said as best I could manage without the tip of my tongue.

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Reed asked. She looked a little panicked. “You're bleeding and lisping.”

“He's always lisping,” Rob said.

Mrs. Reed shot him a you're-one-to-talk look and sent me off to the school nurse, who stuffed my mouth full of cotton balls. She made me stay in her office for the rest of third hour. In her “professional” opinion (
If she was such a medical professional, why couldn't she give me a damn aspirin?
), I'd live.
Duh
.

 

BETWEEN SIXTH PERIOD & SEVENTH PERIOD: IN THE JOHN

I got pissed on—really—by Kyle Weir.

I was taking a leak before heading to AP Bio when Kyle walked in and stood at the urinal next to mine. Kyle unzipped, slowly pulled it out, and then did this over-exaggerated stretch-and-yawn gesture, pushing one of his arms so close to my face he nearly clipped my nose. It was like he was daring me to look.

So, I did, even though I should've known better. And, I gotta admit, it looked pretty good—until Kyle aimed it at my feet. He started laughing and pissing a big yellow stream that splattered just under my kneecaps, soaking through my jeans and shoes. Then he zipped up.

“You attthhhhole,” I said right as Dean Fuller walked into the bathroom.

“Christ, Stewart.” Kyle pointed at my shins. “If you can't hold it, you should wear a pair of diapers or something. Oh, hi, Mr. Fuller.” Weir pushed past me on his way out, leaving me alone with the dean.

Fuller looked me in the face, at the puddle of piss I was standing in, then back to me.

“Care to explain?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest, the tails of his sports coat hitching above his waist.

I shook my head. “I don't ttthhhink I can.” Even if I'd ratted out Weir, it'd be his word against mine. He'd say it was self-defense. I tried to rape him so he pissed on me.

“Me either. Not having a good day today, are we, Stewart?” I could tell he wasn't sure what to do with me—be disgusted, feel pity, or just ignore me.

“No, ttthhhir.”

Fuller said he'd get a mop from one of the janitors. As soon as I cleaned up the mess, he'd call my mom and have her pick me up. He'd leave it to me to explain why my shoes and jeans were soaked in urine.

Saturday, October 6

Finally, Rob and I are talking again. It's weird, 'cuz it's like we never stopped in the first place.

I followed Bink's advice. If Rob wasn't gonna talk to me, I'd apologize on the postcards I got at the Art Institute.

I stuffed the postcards in Rob's locker before chorus yesterday. When we saw each other crossing the Pit after sixth period, Rob passed me a note, which was kinda junior-high girly of him. His note was southpaw-smeared and full of misspellings, but it made me smile.

As the soccer team was heading out to the field for the conference title, I pulled Rob aside and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. It was warm and I'd almost forgotten how good he smelled.

“I'm really sorry,” I said. “It's just that—”

“Shut up already, Charlie,” he said. “It's okay. I'm sorry, too.”

“Shut up.”

“No, you shut up, okay?” Rob laughed.