The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second (23 page)

“I wouldn't if I were you,” Rob said, grinning.

“And why's that, Pedro?”

“Well, if I get deported, you'll be doomed to a life of Internet porn.”

“Hah,” I said, playing along by trying to sound way too overconfident. “There's where you're wrong. My parents don't even let me on the Internet.”

“So, why aren't you at soccer practice, pup?”

I told Rob everything—about Nurse Julie going to my dad, about her trying to make it sound like Rob's dad had something to do with Mrs. Hunt's death, how she must've said something about all the prescription drugs and about her getting fired by Mr. Hunt after the two of them got into an argument, how Julie got pissed that my dad thought she was just trying to cause problems; and most of all, I tried convincing Rob that my dad didn't think there was anything to what Julie was saying. Rob didn't say anything the whole time I was talking. He just stood there, with his hands tucked under his arms, shaking his head occasionally.

“What did you say to your dad?” Rob asked, barely breathing.

“I didn't really say anything. I mean, I told him I thought Julie was a bitch and that she tried crashing your mom's funeral, and when he asked about the prescriptions I just said there were a lot of them 'cuz your mom was sick.”

“Well,” Rob said. He straightened his back, took the rake from me, and started walking toward the garage. “I don't believe it. Julie's obviously lying, right?”

From the tone of his voice, I could tell he was asking for reassurance. It seemed like he was committing some new concept to memory.
The boiling point of water is 212 degrees Fahrenheit. A body in motion stays in motion unless acted upon by an outside force. Julie Carter is a liar.

“That's what my dad thinks,” I said.

“What did this other guy…Fisk…think?”

“I never heard. I just thought you should know what Julie's been saying.”

“Yeah,” Rob said, hanging the rake on a rack in the garage. “I should probably give my dad a call.”

“Want me to stick around?”

“Nah,” Rob said.

It wasn't until I was pedaling back to Dad's apartment that I realized Rob and I didn't really say good-bye. The two of us didn't even touch. Now I'm not sure if he's pissed at me or if he was just in shock. I probably need to stop worrying.

Friday, October 26

Dad was wrong—dead fucking wrong—about Julie. It's a front-page story in today's
Northwest Herald
.

I never thought I'd say this, but thank God for the Crosstown tonight. It's the only thing that's stopped most of the gossip at school. Since Rob's still not back, everyone's acting like I've got the inside dirt on what really happened.

Dude, how many pills did he have to give her? How long can they put Mr. Hunt away for? I heard he ground them up and put them in chocolate pudding. How come she didn't choke? No, bro, So-and-so says she totally choked. Puked even, so they, like, made her eat more. She kept telling them to stop. C'mon, that's crap. She did not. She was a vegetable before they killed her. How was she gonna fight back? By drooling? I heard Rob was in on it, too. Like he held her mouth open and stuff.

It made me sick. Thank God for Bink. Any time he heard someone asking me a question, he'd tell 'em to leave me alone. If they didn't lay off, Bink'd pull 'em aside and explain that if they didn't shut their damn mouths, he'd be forced to do it for them in a manner that'd require a trip to the emergency room, jaw wirings, and eating through a straw.

Anyhow, I'm two hours away from strapping on the jock, tying a bandanna around my face Lone Ranger–style, and trying to make it across town before my nuts climb into the back of my throat from the cold. If Marshall hadn't shot his mouth off this afternoon, I wouldn't be worried that Mr. Five-Incher was crawling into my abdomen and turning me into a human Ken doll.

We were supposed to be doing some AP Bio lab. Marshall was useless, as usual. He kept babbling about the Crosstown Classic.

“So, what are you doing with the socks?” Marshall asked, looking up from the microscope. He was only pretending to do something class related, 'cuz Mr. B'd walked past us.

“Make hand puppets. I thought I'd sew some button eyes on 'em, give 'em little yarn wigs.” Steve looked at me like he thought I was serious. “I'm wearing 'em, dork. Why?”

Marshall looked at his crotch, then down at mine. I knew what he was getting at. Neither of us was packing like porn stars.

“Well,” Steve said in a whisper. “I'm stuffing. I wanna look my best for the honeys, if you know what I'm saying. Half the school's gonna be at the finish line. Once all the babes check me out, they'll all want a piece of Steve-o.”

“Yeah, 'cuz every girl wants an enormous sock cock. She can diddle herself with it and keep her feet warm.”

“Screw you, Stewart. You're such a fag. The guys are freaked you're gonna try and get their dicks up your Hershey Highway.”

“Nice,” I said.

I should go. Maybe try calling Rob again. I'm supposed to meet Bink and Steve at Bink's place in about an hour. Marshall wants us to go over the course he's mapped out—what a dork.

Saturday, October 27

Christ, Rob didn't have to take it out on me. I wasn't the one who killed his stupid gimp mom—that was his dad. Get it fucking straight. The bastard should've beat the crap out of him, not me.

Anyhow, Rob didn't turn my face into hamburger until after I finished the Crosstown Classic. I should've known last night was gonna be awful when Marshall picked me up at Dad's place.

Even though he's shorter than me, Steve and I have similar builds, which means on a good day we look like human tapeworms. And yesterday wasn't a good day. It was, like, two hours before the race, and there was Marshall,
way
too ready. He looked like an anorexic chick pretending to be a Green Beret for Halloween—bandanna tied above the forehead, black body paint creasing his chest, arms, and legs.

“Close the door already,” Marshall said, “I'm freezing my nuts off.”

I couldn't tell from looking at his crotch. Marshall had stuffed like he'd said he would. He didn't look bigger. He looked sick. Freakishly sick. Eight-pound-tumor-in-the-'nads sick. I laughed.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I looked out of the passenger side window 'cuz if I looked at the 16-inch softball between Marshall's toothpick thighs, I'd lose it.

Things got worse for Marshall when we pulled into Bink's driveway. Bink's Ps weren't home—they'd skipped temple to go to some washed-out, ex-hippie, antiwar rally. Bink's little sisters and an army of neighborhood girls were in the front yard, trying to put a tutu and tiara on a golden retriever. They probably would've tried lipstick, too, if they could've found any. When Marshall realized he'd have to walk past all these five-, six-, and seven-year-old girls wearing only his jock-turned-bowling-ball-bag, he had the same please-shoot-me-now-and-end-the-misery look as the dog.

“Give me your coat. I can wrap it around me.”

“No.”

“C'mon, give it to me. How am I gonna get inside?”

“Not my problem,” I said, getting out of the minivan.

“Dickweed.”

I left Marshall pouting and walked to the front door. Part of me wanted to tell the girls that Steve'd take them for ice cream if they got in. The only thing that stopped me was knowing Steve would freak, slam into reverse, and back over a few kids and the cross-dressing mutt before he made it to the end of the driveway.

In his kitchen, Bink couldn't stop ranting. And not 'cuz Marshall made Bink scrounge up a pair of sweatpants and an old T-shirt. No, Bink said, nails scraping his scalp, foam at the corner of his lips, he was pissed 'cuz Marshall'd been too worried about the size of his posing pouch to figure out how we'd get our frozen butts from the finish line at Twin Ponds back to the start of the course where the car was parked. If Marshall hadn't wasted so much time stuffing, Bink bitched, we could have parked his car at the finish line and been done with it. Marshall, Bink said, was forcing him to do the one thing he didn't want to. Call Dana.

Needless to say, that was a big mistake. Dana was about as supportive as a training bra on a four year old. She didn't even stop bitching when we got to the country club.
This is total crap, Neil. You didn't think I'd find out? What were you thinking? That's right, you weren't. Ooohhh, look at me, I'm Neil Binkmeyer and I'm in a jockstrap. I'm Mr. Big Man. Jesus Christ, why am I dating a guy who's running in the Crosstown Classic?
Blah, blah, blah.

Bink finally shut Dana up by shoving his tongue down her throat. I wanted to retch. They went at it like they were trying to chew each other's jaws off. They probably would've kept going, but Kyle Weir came up to the Bug, spread his ass cheeks against the driver's side window, puckered his rosebud, and in this girly voice, said, “Kiss me, Dana. It's my turn. Kiss me.” Dana looked up and Weir farted. Dana gagged like she was about to puke. I jumped out of the car, trying not to piss myself laughing.

With the exception of the sweaty guys at the end, the Crosstown Classic was lame. Dana was right—running through Crystal Lake in the middle of the night in a jock wasn't this earth-shattering rite of passage. It was pointless. It wasn't like scandalized citizens lit up the 911 line, demanding something be done to stop the teenaged boys streaking through the city's backyards. Sure, I saw some cop cars while we were running, but why they bothered was beyond me. If they'd had any sense—
I know, we're talking about Crystal Lake's finest here
—they'd just wait along Route 14 to pick up the lard-asses on the football team as they struggled to get their man-boobs across the finish line. Even if they busted nothing but stragglers, they'd make their quotas.

Still, the end of the race was way hot. I don't know who won, but it didn't matter. I've got enough spank-the-monkey material to last me until graduation. Bob Collins—
down, boy, down
—that butt, I swear, if it was a pillow, you'd wanna drool in your sleep. Weir—yeah, he pissed on me, but I'd be lying if I said I still wouldn't lick the sweat out of his armpits. Jon Bales's jock was so sweaty it was practically Saran Wrap—clingy and nearly transparent. He's got this incredible chest—a total V-shaped torso that tapers to a thin waist—and his legs are totally covered with reddish-blond hair that looks like wisps of cotton candy.

I didn't notice Rob right away, and it would've been better if I hadn't. He was leaning against his BMW, arms folded across his chest like he was waiting for me. Dana was next to him, trying to cheer him up. They seemed trashed, like they'd been doing keg stands all night. Bink didn't think that Dana should be driving and was yelling at her to give him the keys to the Volkswagen.

Rob rocked off the fender and I walked toward him, hoping we'd go somewhere and talk. He stepped into the Beamer's headlights. A silhouette. Everything went to hell.

My nose crunched. It felt like I'd been knocked blind and my head'd been split open. I staggered backward. Blood was everywhere—around my mouth, streaking down my neck, on my chest—hot and runny. I could taste it in the back of my throat. My eyes burned.

“You fucking
knew
he was going to kill her, didn't you, bitch?” Rob fanned his fingers and massaged his knuckles.

“I swear. I didn't.”

“Bullshit.”

Rob swung again, splitting my lip and knocking teeth loose. I fell, skidding bare-assed across the parking lot's gravel. The stones tore my skin. My head slammed against the ground. Something smelled like chlorine. My nose throbbed like a second heart. I couldn't breathe. I could barely see. Rob glared at me with dead eyes. A circle of kids closed around us. Vultures waiting for Rob to make the kill.