The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second (29 page)

“I wanted you all to know,” continued Dad, “that I just got off the phone with my opponent, John Fisk. We had a friendly conversation, and”—Dad, total Easter ham that he is, paused to take a sip of water. You could practically hear the room mouthing,
And? And?

“And I graciously accepted his concession. He also told me that he'll resign as assistant state's attorney by the end of the year to take a job in private practice.”

People cheered, cheap champagne was popped, some geriatric made a pathetic attempt to toss confetti. Everybody was in a festive mood, but for some reason, I couldn't help thinking about Fisk. How much would it suck to have to call up the guy who just beat you, say, “Hi, I'm a loser,” and pretend to be the bigger man when all you really wanted to do was crawl into bed, pull the covers over your head, and cry yourself to sleep listening to Cure albums?

 

 

Friday, November 9

Since Dad's big win, I've been wondering what would happen to Mr. Hunt. I finally asked Dad while he had me out practicing my driving.

“We're working on a way to drop the case in a way that the office can still save face, but doesn't expose the county to any potential lawsuits. Ideally, we'd like to say that upon closer review, the evidence doesn't support the charges and that we now have no reason to believe that Mr. Hunt did anything wrong.”

“That wouldn't be so bad, would it?” I asked as I put the car into park.

“That's what I'm hoping. Maybe once it's all over, your friend, Rob, will get along better with his dad.”

Saturday, November 10

So I turned eighteen today. Big deal. I don't feel any older. Don't look it either. I've still got only three pubic hairs, and it's not looking great for one of 'em. I'd tried tugging it the other day so that it'd grow out some more and I think I pulled it loose.

The Ps got me a computer for college. Yeah, they still won't let go of that bone. The thing is, they won't let me keep it in my room. They say it's so I don't lock myself away playing games on it, but it's not like I don't know the real reason it's staying downstairs in the family room. They're convinced I'm only going to use the thing to watch barely legal boys doing each other on lawn chairs, staircases, car hoods, bar stools, trampolines, wherever.

Who am I kidding? They're right.

Sunday, November 11

Rob and I actually talked at church today. And here's a shocker—our conversation didn't involve Rob tearing off my limbs and beating me to death with my own arms.

The whole morning was absolutely bizarre. When the service was over, Pastor Taylor locked himself in his office to watch the Bears-Falcons game, which absolutely pissed off the coffee klatch set. It was like they wanted him to fawn over their strudel, telling each of them that theirs was the best and that, because of it, surely, Jesus wanted them for a sunbeam, but next week He'd prefer something low-cal. A spare tire wasn't going to make His time on the cross go by any easier.

Since people knew that Dad wouldn't be hitting them up for votes or campaign donations any time soon, it was almost like the Stewart family had shed its pariah status. Folks came up to talk to Dad and not out of the usual are-you-happy-now-Lord?-see-I'm-talking-to-him sense of Christian charity. Mom and Dad smiled, shook hands, and accepted congratulations. The way they kept yapping made me realize that you actually could die of boredom. I asked Mom if I could be excused. Before I left, I noticed Mr. Hunt getting up from the pew where he'd been sitting alone. He walked toward where Rob'd been sitting with his uncle. Rob backed away and his uncle, Chris, stepped between them.

“Rob,” Mr. Hunt said.

“Give it time, Paul,” Chris said. “He'll come around.”

I ended up in Luther Hall, staring at my reflection in the Boy Scout trophy case. With the exception of the zit that was on the end of my nose, I didn't look too bad. If I tilted my head the right way, my ears didn't seem so damn big and, in the right light, it looked like I had a little bit of peach fuzz on my cheeks. I may have still looked like a kid, but I didn't feel like one. I felt all in-between, grown-up and scared; kinda cute, kinda awkward; maybe a little smarter, but still pretty damn dumb.

“I called you, you know. When you weren't in school.”

I turned. Rob was in the doorway, hands in his pants pockets, looking at his feet. He looked older. I don't know why, but I hadn't expected Rob to talk to me. My chest tightened.

“The other day, after school, that was me. When your Dad answered, I freaked. I said I was Josh.”

I leaned against the trophy case of Eagle Scout awards, wishing Mom'd let me wear the Ray-Bans. (
Oh, no, not in church with those things!
) I'd've killed to slip 'em on and act like I was too cool to care. Rob looked like he wanted more from me, but wasn't sure what. I nodded.

“And if I answered?”

Rob's cheeks burned pink. “I hope I'd've said I was sorry for everything.”

I almost told him he could say it now. You know, say he'd do anything to get me back. I didn't. Something told me whatever Rob said wouldn't matter. Maybe I was just tired, maybe it was 'cuz my painkillers were wearing off or maybe it was just 'cuz I didn't care anymore.

“Look, Charlie,” Rob said, grinding his shoe along the tiles like he was stubbing out a cigarette, “I'm sorry for going off on you about not saying anything about the pills, about my mom. It wasn't your fault.”

I nodded and sucked in my lower lip. It was blubbering.

“My dad and Uncle Chris are still trying to convince me the overdose was an accident. I keep telling myself I've got to believe it.”

“How come?” I asked.

“Because, I don't see how you could do something so shitty to someone you love.”

When I didn't say anything and Rob realized I was probably thinking about all the shitty things he'd done to me, he mumbled that there wasn't any school tomorrow—Veterans Day—and said, “Maybe we could hang out.”

“Maybe,” I said. I could tell he knew I didn't mean it.

“Guess I'll see ya,” I said.

“Yeah,” Rob said. He rubbed a knuckle across an eye, then shook his shoulders, his shirt cuffs popping from his suit coat.

Rob walked away, but when he was gone, I didn't feel better. I don't know why, but I had it in my head that if I made Rob feel like shit, then I'd feel this rush or something. I didn't. I felt empty, like there was this warm hollow in my chest. I dunno. Maybe that's the way it is with love. Maybe it's about wanting something even when it's gone.

 

 

Wednesday, November 14

I can't believe it. I actually made it through the entire day without jerking the gherkin while thinking about Rob once. Now if I could only stop molesting the Binkmeyer boys in my imagination. Fat chance. They're too hot.

Rob called today. We didn't talk long, mostly 'cuz having to talk to him or be around him is still too weird for me. He thinks we can still be friends, but I'm not so sure. I like the guy and all, but…

Rob says he and his dad are in family therapy to try to work things out.

Saturday, November 17

Here we go again. I'm going to marry a punk rock boy from Central High School. I'm in love. Okay, it's
way
too soon for that. It's more like I'm in lust. Well, not the I'm-going-to-hide-in-the-bushes-with-a-pair-of-binoculars-and-watch-you-undress-so-please-do-some-naked-pull-ups creepy kind of lust. More of the humina-humina-go-ahead-and-lick-my-neck kind.

Last week, Bink basically ditched me on my eighteenth—get this, he actually chose dumping baby-batter in Dana over hanging out with me and the Ps and pretending that the bone-dry Duncan Hines cake decorated with little plastic soccer players was cool. To make it up to me, he decided he was taking me to see The Lawrence Arms at the Metro last night. We ended up taking the train into Chicago 'cuz, even though it was an all-ages show, Bink stupidly thought the fake ID he bought online would help him score some booze. If you ask me, he wasted a hundred bucks.

Anyhow, the train car we were in was mostly empty, so Bink and I flipped one of the seatbacks around and spread out. Between swigs from a bottle of Grape Crush that was really camouflaging the Mogen David he'd lifted from Mrs. B's pantry, Bink wouldn't shut up and kept yammering about how the show was gonna be awesome, how their latest album was brilliant—
frickin' brilliant
—how after the show we should go to Uptown to see the building where the band got its name. Up until he said something about Dana doing this kinky thing with her throat that made missing my birthday worth it (
there's an image I wish I could sandpaper off my brain
), I hadn't been paying too much attention to him. I'd been staring at this guy sitting toward the front of the train car with his back to us.

He seemed to be about our age—messy, dishwater-blond hair, skinny neck, brown hoodie. I figured he had to go to Central. Trust me, I'm such a perv that I don't think there's a guy at South who I couldn't recognize by the back of his head. And from behind this guy seemed like a total hottie.

I must've been drooling or Bink suddenly inherited his mother's “amazing” powers of perception (
Charlie, you will not die alone. Look at Montgomery Clift—he was a big Hollywood sex symbol before Elizabeth Taylor had to fish two of his teeth from his throat after a car accident, and he was with his partner until he died. Then again, he's probably not the best example. By the end he was completely washed-up.
) 'cuz when Bink saw me staring at the guy, he shook his head.

“We need to get you a boyfriend,” Bink said, a purple circle staining his lips.

The guy in front of us turned around and had a totally sweet, kinda scruffy face, greenish eyes, and one of those grins English teachers like to call “puckish”—all you-can't-prove-it-was-me mischief. I blushed, feeling my ears burn. He smiled wider. I slid down in the seat and wished that I could disappear.

We ended up playing eye-tag the rest of the train ride. In the window's reflection, he'd catch me looking at him, smile a bit, and then turn around to look at me. I'd look away, and thirty seconds later it'd start up again.

“Enough with the flirting, Charlie,” Bink said, kicking my foot and groaning. “Go talk to him already.”

“He's probably not into guys.”

“Trust me, dude. He's into guys.” Bink rolled his eyes, then shouted, “My friend thinks you're hot.” Embarrassed, I slid low in my seat so I couldn't see him or his reflection.

When we pulled into the station, I made sure I got the hell off the train first. There was no way I was gonna risk Bink “accidentally” forcing me to bump into Mr. Totally Sweet Face or worse, offer to get us a hotel room somewhere.

“You're such a total wuss,” Bink said as he lit a cigarette while we waited for a cab to take us to Wrigleyville.

I was about to tell him that I wasn't a wuss, it's just that my idea of a good time didn't involve hitting on strangers on a train, when Mr. Totally Sweet Face came up to us and asked Bink if he could bum a square. Bink gave me a see-I-told-you-so wink that made me want to slug him. As soon as Mr. Totally Sweet Face lit the cigarette and took a puff, he started hacking like he was coughing up both lungs and his entire ribcage.

“I don't really smoke,” he said, letting the Marlboro fall to the curb. Bink body-checked me with his hip. I was about ready to kill him. “So you guys are going to see the Larry Arms, too? I heard you on the train.”

“Yeah,” Bink said, “wanna share a cab with us?”

“Cool.”

I got stuck in the middle, mostly 'cuz it gave Bink the chance to spread out and push me into Mr. Totally Sweet Face, whose real name was Ben. When my thigh touched his, he didn't move away. He smiled and eased his against mine. Ben and Bink did most of the talking. I was too busy trying to keep Mr. Five-Incher from deciding to interrupt the conversation by making an appearance. Ben was a senior at Central, he'd been to all the all-ages Lawrence Arms shows in Chicago, even the guitarist's solo show last summer. He wasn't into labels, he said, but he was into
me
. Cheesy, I know, but I still loved it.

The show was good, but the best part was the train ride back to Crystal Lake. Ben sat with us and he ended up falling asleep with his head resting on my shoulder. That had to make Bink gag.

Ben and I traded numbers. Thank God he had some paper, 'cuz I was gonna have him write his digits on my palm, which wouldn't have done me any good—especially after all the hand-to-glans combat in the bathroom. We're supposed to hang out sometime this week.

 

 

Sunday, November 18

Ben called. I'm supposed to meet him at Colonial tonight. I was too embarrassed to tell him that I don't have my driver's license yet and there's no way I'm asking Mom or Dad to drive me to a date. Guess that means I'll be biking across town and it's frickin' freezing out.

I
sooo
need to get my license.

Friday, November 23

I've caved. It's the day after Thanksgiving and I've been working on a personal essay for my college application. I'm only doing it 'cuz the Ps say they won't take me for my driver's test—even Dad thinks I'll pass this time—unless I promise to “at least try to get into college.”

So here it is: