The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second (4 page)

Kyle saddled up to her, whispered something in her ear, then looked at me.

Prick.

Shannon nodded.

Bitch.

“Charlie, I dare you to go skinny-dipping in the O'Reillys' pool next door.”

It was a setup, but what was I going to do? Chicken out? If I did, I'd just have to listen to Kyle and Jon's crap about being afraid of everyone seeing my pin dick. And, compared to the guys I've seen in gym class, it is. Like that's something I want to advertise.

I kicked off my shoes and socks, peeled off my shirt, not caring who saw my bony ribs, and barreled out of the room, dropping my jeans. Sober now, Dana chased me, pleading and saying something about an alarm. I didn't listen. I jerked the sliding glass door open and tore off my underwear when I was sure no one could see anything more than my butt. I crossed the Flannigans' backyard and hopped the O'Reillys' fence.

“Damn it, Charlie. Stop,” Dana said. She grabbed the fence and tried hoisting herself over, but she couldn't get any traction with her slippers. “Stop it, Charlie! You're gonna get us busted.”
Not my problem.
“Neil, stop him.”

Kyle and Bink bounded over the fence, charging me at full speed, but I was already mid-dive.

Underwater, I missed all hell breaking loose. The pool's motion detector triggered an alarm. Window after window in the O'Reillys' house blazed with light. Bink and Kyle scrambled back over the fence. Everyone scattered, running back to Dana's or to their cars. I swam, feeling relaxed for the first time all night. Some old guy—Mr. O'Reilly?—peeked through the blinds, cordless phone in hand.

After about twenty laps, there were two cops at the pool's edge, their hands hovering over gun holsters.

“Hey, kid,” the fat one said, hitching up his pants. “Out of the pool. Now.”

What were the little pigs gonna do if I said no? Wade in after me? Fish me out with a skimmer? Shoot me?

“All right, I'm coming.” I slapped my hand on the pool's surface, a spray of water just missing the legs of their polyester uniforms. The piggies jumped.

I climbed out, got knocked to the ground, and tasted concrete. One of them jerked my hands behind my back, cuffed me, and bitched, “Jesus, he's naked.” The fatter of the two hauled me past the front of the O'Reillys' house and crammed me into the backseat of the squad car.

“Stupid stunt, kid,” said This Little Piggy Had Roast Beef, slipping into the driver's seat. He radioed the station. “What's your name?” I knew that once they called the parental units, First'd go bat-shit crazy.

“Sir,” I said, “let me apologize and then we can call it a night.”

“Not likely, kid,” said Roast Beef. “The homeowner wants to file trespassing charges. Look, make it easy, kid. Give me your name and we'll drop the public indecency stuff.” That wasn't gonna happen. If First found out what I did, he'd make sure I got charged with everything they could just to teach me a lesson. I'd be dead before my name ever made the police blotter section of the
Northwest Herald
.

The Little Piggy That Said Wee Wee Wee climbed into the car. He had my jeans and shoes. “I think there was under-age drinking going on.”

“You think?” asked Roast Beef. He wiped his mouth, then grabbed the steering wheel like he needed the grip to stop himself from beating the stupidity out of his partner.

“Now, kid. Tell us your name. You'll get your clothes and everyone can go home.”

I did and they radioed it back to the station. They weren't happy when the dispatcher told them my dad was the assistant state's attorney and wanted to straighten things out himself. They were gonna have to wait and they were pissed. They wouldn't let me get dressed. If I was gonna ruin their night, they'd ruin mine.

Forty-five minutes later, First arrived at the O'Reillys'. He managed to convince the guy not to press charges, promising that what he had in store for me was worse than anything the juvie courts could dish out. Wee Wee Wee let me out of the squad car.

After they uncuffed me, I winced, started dressing in the clothes the cops'd been able to find. I didn't have underwear so I hopped on one foot and yanked at the waistband, cupping my crotch to hide dick and nuts.

“Maybe you should have worried about everyone seeing you naked before you pulled this little stunt,” First said. “Get in the car.” I scrambled to his Oldsmobile, the asphalt biting my bare feet.

Back home, I stalked off to my bedroom and slammed the door. First threatened, so help him God, that if I ever slammed the door again, he'd break it down and he wasn't going to be responsible for what happened next.

 

It's late. First is downstairs hollering that he wants my personal essay finished in a half hour. It's the only time he's said anything to me since this morning when he laid into me how this college essay wasn't his way of punishing me. It was his way of making me see how much of a mess I've been making of my life. According to him, it's supposed to a real eye-opener.

I gotta come up with something better for this essay quick. If he sees what I've got now, I'm dead.

Sunday, August 26

My family fights like most people fart in church—silently and with this crippling fear that someone might notice.

The Ps are so concerned with what the neighbors might think that they never have a good, knockdown, drag-out, why-can't-we-have-nice-things, this-is-the-thanks-I-get, miniature-Franklin-Mint-reproduction-of-a-Ming-dynasty-vase-hurled-at-First's-head battle royal. At the first sign of conflict, First and Mom don't tear open the silverware drawer, grab the nearest Lillian Vernon holiday-topper cheese knives and try to shiv each other on our TruGreen front lawn. No, they throw down like good little WASPs, which means discreetly closing the blinds, turning on all the faucets, the vacuum cleaner, the TVs, the stereo (Mom's gotta go digging for
Document
and that lame-ass REM patter song; First, he prefers Twisted Sister—
yeah, dude, you're hard core, way to rock out with your cock out).
Then, when the Ps are 100 percent convinced that they've created their own impenetrable Phil-Spector-Wall-of-Sound, that's when they go at it—giving each other looks that could defrost turkeys, whispering threats about how if the toilet seat doesn't get put down, the toothpaste tube doesn't get squeezed from the bottom, the checkbook doesn't get balanced, the stationary bicycle doesn't start getting used for something other than a $400 tie rack, well then, things definitely are not going to be pretty.

Lately, it seems like the two of them are fighting all the time. I'm not supposed to hear them, but I do. They're constantly bitching about money, about how neither of them is ever happy, how First's running for state's attorney was supposed to make him happy and hasn't, how Mom's sick of being just a wife and mother, how neither of them imagined nearing 40 with nothing but a mortgage to show for it.

I've never heard them say it—even when they're really pissed at each other—but sometimes, I think they blame me for all their problems. They weren't much older than me when Mom got pregnant. It was college. First was a senior and, apparently, charming; Mom was a sophomore and, apparently, either drunk or crazy. The condom was defective. The wedding was shotgun.

That personal essay for college…it's supposed to include something about my family, right? For what it's worth:

I gotta say, though, when it's just between me and Mom or me and First, the fights are different. With Mom, it's not that we're fighting as much as fencing—feints and parries, and hits with no real sting. Most of the time, we don't even make it to a full-on fight. Like this summer, Mom was pissed that I was wasting my life and she kept harping on me to go outside and blow the stink off my body. So, me being a total smart-ass, I grabbed her hair dryer and an extension cord, pulled the shirt off my skinny chest, plopped my ass down on the front stoop, and air-blasted my underarms. Mom, from the other side of the screen door, laughed and told me to get dressed, and the two of us went out for lunch.

That's not how it is with First. Ever since I started high school, it's like the two of us have been locked in this eternal, man versus nature struggle. He's the gardener and I'm the bonsai tree he spends every day keeping small, shaping as he sees fit, bending to his will. When I'm feeling cocky, I like to think of myself as the Colorado River and he's the Grand Canyon; he may be old and some people might find him impressive, but I know that little by little, I'm eating away at him.

Needless to say, after the crap I pulled Friday night, I wasn't expecting the Ps to go easy on me. If I was lucky—and that was one whackin' big
if
—the two of them would ground me for life plus five. But it's not like that would've been a big deal. It's not like I've got this great social life where hot guys line up to let me grope 'em. I really didn't care what they did to me as long as I got to stay on the soccer team. I'd go nuts if I had to come home right after school every day. That's why I set my alarm for earlier than normal. I wasn't about to give Mom and First more reasons to rag on me.
Must be nice to sleep in, Mister. I would have liked to, but your mother spent the night trying to convince me that a fifty-fourth trimester abortion wasn't an option.

Still groggy, I took a quick shower, somehow managed not to play with myself, and got ready for church—clean white shirt, tie, slacks, dress shoes—and went downstairs. I started making breakfast. Mom came into the kitchen in her bathrobe, wet hair in a towel, like she'd pulled another all-nighter trying to get First to understand that the stupid crap I pulled was just that—stupid teenaged stunts—and it wasn't—at least not entirely—an orchestrated attempt on my part to make his life miserable.

Behind me, Mom ran the faucet, added water to the coffee-maker, and flipped on the radio—Star 105.5, Billy Joel. She hummed along and since she hadn't started in on lecturing me yet, I kept my mouth shut and pretended to concentrate on scrambling the eggs. When the coffee was finished, she poured a cup and sat on a kitchen stool kitty-corner from me. I dumped the eggs into a bowl, covered them with a towel to keep them warm, and went to the fridge for some bacon. Mom stopped me.

“You look nice,” she said, fixing the knot in my tie and smoothing my hair.
A compliment?
I was screwed. There are times when a compliment is the cigarette before being walked out in front of the firing squad.

“I'm dead, aren't I?” I asked as I fried the bacon. She didn't answer. “I knew it.”

“What'd you expect, Charlie? That we'd appreciate a phone call dragging us out of bed in the middle of the night?”

“I know—”

“I don't think you do,” she said, setting her mug on the counter. “You don't know what it's like getting a phone call and not knowing where your son is. You could've been dead for all we knew.”

“Like Dad would care.”

“Enough. I don't want to hear it.”

“Sorry.”

“If you're sorry, why'd you do it? You knew it was stupid, right?”

I knew this was a trap, so I didn't answer. I forked the bacon from the skillet to a paper-towel-covered plate.

“Your father is expecting an explanation.”

“I don't know why I did it, okay? I don't. It's just that—”

First, already dressed for church, stepped into the kitchen. He'd probably been listening for a while. He grabbed a mug of coffee and crossed behind me to stand by Mom.

“It's what?” Mom asked.

“It's not easy being me.” Even I had to admit that sounded whiny.

“So this is what you do?” First asked, eyeballing me over the brim of his mug.

I looked at him and saw everything I hate about myself—my gangly build, big goofy ears, the giant schnoz my grandparents say makes me like some old-time Hollywood actor, my pointy chin. When we smile, First and I have the same dorky, Cheshire-cat-who-ate-the-canary, playing-card joker grin. Sometimes, I'll stare at guys like Bink or Kyle and think they're not much better looking than I am, and that somebody, somewhere, might actually think I'm hot. Well, okay, maybe not hot, but at least kinda cute. Well, at least not dog-scaring ugly. Then I remember what a screwed-up geek I am.