I could feel sweat forming on my forehead. They were all shaking their heads and rolling their eyes, mad that their Friday afternoon had been wasted. A few of them got up to leave the room…and that’s when I snapped.
A rush of adrenaline surged through me and I was no longer vulnerable Carson Phillips. I don’t know who the hell I was.
“Sit down!” I ordered. My voice was so sharp it scared them. They didn’t know what to do but follow my instructions. I had the floor, and I had it good. Years of stomaching their shit had led to this moment and I went Dante’s Peak on their asses.
“For years I have been poked and stabbed with your bitchfork, Claire!” I yelled with my whole body. I still don’t know where the words came from. “You have beaten me down to the bottom of the high school food chain with the shitty end of the stick for far too long! You don’t think they’re gonna believe me? I will make them believe! You don’t think the people at this school have just been waiting for an excuse to turn against you?”
Everyone’s eyes grew to the size of whale testicles.
“Sure, they all hate me,” I went on. “But that’s because I’m the only person in town with an IQ larger than my shoe size and I don’t hesitate to remind people of that! So go ahead and play all the mind games you want to with me, sweetheart. I’m not accepting that invitation to intimidation any longer. I have nothing to lose and a whole hell of a lot to gain, and this time none of you are stopping me!”
All the color drained from their faces. They were paler than the front row of the Republican National Convention. I had them, I finally had them! But I continued this impromptu performance. I went behind my desk and grabbed the first stack of papers I could find.
“Need some examples? Here are some examples!” I said, and started throwing the paper at them. “Poetry, short stories, essays, scripts, novels, anything! Write anything as long as it’s in your words and in my hands ASAP! Write about how much you hate me! Write in detail about how much you want to kill me! Okay? NOW GET THE HELL OUT OF MY CLASSROOM!”
It’s hard to remember what happened next with all that juice in my veins, but I do know they scattered out of that room faster than mice in a cat shelter.
A few minutes later, the Hulk-like alter ego slowly faded away and I came to my senses. My heart was still racing and sweat was dripping down my back. There’s no way sex can feel better than how I felt at that moment.
“Malerie?” I asked in shock. “Did you hear me? Did you see me? That was incredible! I did it!”
There was no response.
“Malerie?” I said. I looked around the room, but I was alone. I’d even scared Malerie off; she had left with the others. Oh well.
I walked over to the Clovergate board and ripped off all the defaced pictures. I triumphantly wrote, The Clover High Literary Magazine: Now Accepting Submissions across it.
Northwestern, watch out: Next year Carson Phillips is coming…and he’s fucking crazy!
10/24
I had the best dream over the weekend. I was standing in an elevator. It traveled higher and higher. I wondered if it was ever gonna stop.
I was older, not sure by how much. Everything was slightly darker than usual because of the designer shades I was wearing. I looked down and saw that I was wearing a snazzy tailored suit.
The elevator doors opened, and I was at the New Yorker.
Everyone freaked out when they saw me. I was confused by it at first. I had just seen my clothes so I knew I wasn’t having a naked-in-public dream. I strode down a hall and all the employees cowered in fear as I passed. And then I understood it: They were afraid of me because I was their boss! I felt like Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Phillips, we weren’t expecting you until noon,” said Remy. She was alarmed and wearing a headset; she was my receptionist. “Should I move up your meeting with President Maddow?”
I sighed deeply. “I said I would be here earlier than usual. How was that not clear? An editor should be able to come and go as he pleases without being exposed to incompetence,” I said.
I was editor in chief and I was an asshole. It was great!
“Mr. Phillips, here is your coffee, sir!” said Claire, running up to me with a steaming cup.
“Is this how I like it, Mathews?” I said, never making eye contact with her.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Fresh-ground Mongolian beans, with two teaspoons of Swiss cream, a cube of your favorite zero-calorie noncancerous sugar, and half a shot of Jack Daniel’s.”
“Thank you,” I said to Claire. I took a sip and then immediately splashed the rest in Remy’s face.
“I deserved that,” Remy said. “Also, sir, your mother’s home called. Apparently she’s woken up from her coma.”
I grunted. “Then tell them to up the dosage again. I’m paying them to keep her comatose,” I said. Then I burst through massive double doors leading to my office. Remy and Claire weren’t allowed to follow me in.
My office was as big as a small country. There were golden pillars and a grand piano. I don’t even play piano! The walls were covered in honorary doctorates and pictures of me looking bored with enthusiastic presidents and prime ministers and Madonna.
I had floor-to-ceiling windows with the most breathtaking view of New York City. I somehow could see the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, the Chrysler Building, Central Park, the East River, the Hudson River, Barbara Walters, and Times Square. I’m not completely knowledgeable about the geography of the city, but I’m pretty sure it was one of the only offices with a view like that.
My phone rang and I answered it. “Hello? Not now, Oprah.” And I promptly hung up.
“Hello, Carson!” Malerie said, walking into my office.
“Hey, Malerie, how’s my favorite publisher?” I asked her.
“Doing great!” Malerie said. “Your autobiography, Clovergate: The Scandal That Started the Man, is still number one on all the best-seller lists for the ninety-seventh week in a row! Do you think you have another best seller in you?”
I smiled and looked back at my view. “Always,” I said.
And that’s when I woke up. Well, the dream went on to include alien transvestites taking over the Earth and ended with me losing a game of limbo to Margaret Thatcher in a room full of ferrets, but I ignored all that.
While I don’t think I could ever splash coffee on someone (or hang up on Oprah!), it was much more than just a dream: It was the goal. And if school today was any indication, that goal was a very possible future.
Claire and Colin must have gotten the word out to their armies of athletes and cheerleaders, because the line of disgruntled dipshits waiting to turn in their literary submissions was out the door after school on Monday.
“Claire said we can’t cheer if we aren’t cultured and is making us be in your magazine,” said a cheerleader.
“Coach is making us write for you because he says we can’t beat a team unless we can outthink a team,” a cross-eyed football player said.
The submissions were rushed and short but it didn’t matter. Northwestern would see them and think I was inspiring students of all backgrounds to write! It was exactly what I needed!
I couldn’t wait to get to Grandma’s after school and tell her all about it.
“So, I’m blackmailing the entire school to better my chances of getting into the university of my dreams,” I told her as soon as I walked into her room. “And it’s exhilarating! Who would have thought one of my greatest achievements would be criminal?”
“Get out of here,” Grandma said with wide eyes.
“No, I’m serious!” I said happily. “I’ve been getting submissions all day from people—”
“No, get out!” Grandma yelled and pointed at the door. “Get out! I don’t know you! Get out of my room!”
“Oh, no,” I said. “Not today, Grandma. Please don’t do this, not today—”
“Get out!” she insisted. “Nurse, the
re is a strange man in my room! Nurse!”
Grandma has these moments from time to time.
“Okay, I’m leaving,” I said, and headed out the door. “See you tomorrow.”
“Get out!” she yelled at me one final time. Even as I walked down the hall I could hear her yelling, “Get out! Get out! Get out!” from her room.
It’s hard enough to see her every day and not have her recognize me, but to be considered a stranger by the person you love the most in the world is a different serving size of heartache.
I had been on cloud nine all day until that point. But the higher your cloud, the farther your rain falls.
I got home earlier than usual and found Mom on the couch (shocking!).
“You’re home early,” Mom said.
“Grandma is in one of her moods,” I explained.
“Oh,” Mom said. She usually looks guilty whenever I mention Grandma to her. “That’s why I never go over there anymore; I can’t bear to see her like that.” She nodded along with her terrible excuse.
“That’s why?” I said under my breath. The truth is, she doesn’t like visiting Grandma because it makes her feel guilty, and that’s one predicament she doesn’t have a prescription for.
“How was school?” she asked me.
“Fine,” I said. “I’m blackmailing the entire student body to better my chances of getting into Northwestern.”
“Northwestern?” Mom asked.
“That’s the place I’ll be going to school at this time next year,” I reminded her.
“Oh,” Mom said. She looked down at the coffee table sadly. “I keep forgetting how old you are. I guess even my kid has to grow up.”
Only my mother can frustrate me to no end and make me feel sorry for her at the same time.
“How was your day?” I asked her, although it didn’t seem like she had had much of a day.
“It was fine,” Mom said. “Judge Judy kicked a man out of her courtroom for not wearing pants and Ellen gave away free Xboxes to her audience.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s about it,” she said in a melancholy tone. “Oh, and after Anderson I got the mail.”
Why didn’t she say so? There was a stack of mail on the counter and I immediately went to it. Butterflies were mating in my stomach as I flipped through the envelopes, but there was nothing for me.
It would have been ironic if I had been accepted already and I’d gone to all this trouble for nothing; there was still that chance. That would make a great story over cocktails when I was at my future neighbor’s art show in downtown Manhattan.
Whoa, I’ve really got to stop making plans with fictional characters. It can’t be healthy to develop relationships with people who don’t exist.
I spent the majority of the afternoon wondering if I should include a “miscellaneous” section in the literary magazine. While I’m glad I’m getting more submissions every day I must say that teenagers are nuts; I don’t know what half of this shit is. Is it poetry? Is it creative writing? Is it human?
One girl turned in an essay about how she’s going to marry Justin Bieber one day and I think she’s dead serious. Apparently she drives to his house every weekend and just stares at his home through the gate for hours.
Like, are you kidding me? Do you seriously think he’s gonna walk outside, see you, and be like, “Girl, I’ve watched you watching me for months now and I think I love you.” NO! You’re fucking creepy! Drive your stalker ass home and stay there!
Doesn’t this make you wish parents slapped their children? Seriously, where are this girl’s parents and why aren’t they doing their job? Youth is not an excuse for insanity.
I’m putting this essay under “social commentary” for her sake. Crazy-ass.
A couple of hours later Justin Walker poked his head into the journalism classroom. He looked like a lost puppy and was carrying a single sheet of paper.
“Is this where I’m supposed to turn in something to your military magazine?” he asked me.
“It’s a literary magazine, and yes,” I said.
“Thank God. I’ve been looking for this classroom for hours, dude,” Justin said. “I didn’t even know this was here.”
“I know, right?” I said sarcastically. “They should totally put numbers on the doors or something, right?”
“Or like a kiosk, like at the mall,” Justin said. He looked around the room in awe. “Do you live here?”
“Practically,” I said. He gave me his paper and I looked it over. It made Dr. Seuss look like Charles Dickens.
“Thanks, Justin, I see you wrote about trees…and grass…and how they’re both green,” I said.
Justin sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “Look, writing isn’t my thing, okay? I’m not a west-brained person, so what?”
“Left-brained,” I corrected him.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“It’s left-brained and that means you’re creative,” I said.
“Yeah, well, I’m not that either. I’m the opposite of left-brained,” he said.
“So you’re right-brained,” I said.
“Yeah,” Justin said. “I’m right-handed, too; that should show you right there.”
“Yup, it totally should,” I said. I gave up at this point. Sometimes for your own sanity you just have to agree with idiocy.
“Are you good at math and science then?” I asked, but regretted it right after. “That’s normal for right-brained people.”
Justin thought about it with a lot of effort. He looked lost in his own head, which is like a grizzly bear being lost in a studio apartment.
“No, I’m not really good at those either,” he said.
“Then what are you good at?” I asked. I didn’t mean it to sound the way it came out, but I’m naturally a prick, so it didn’t help the situation.
Justin got really upset and threw his arms up in the air. “I know what you’re thinking, because it’s the same thing my counselor, Principal Gifford, and every college football recruiter thinks too. But I’m not just a dumb jock with bad grades, okay? There’s much more to me than that.”
I unreservedly nodded my head, to make up for causing him to feel this way. “Like what?” I asked him.
He looked at me like I had just asked him what the capital of Turkmenistan was. He didn’t have an answer.
“Maybe you should figure that out,” I said in the nicest way I could. “You’ve got to show the world who you are before it tells you, Justin. Otherwise you become victim to someone you’re not.”
It took him a while to catch on to what I was saying, but I could tell he got what I meant.
“Kind of like how I joined the football team to be the middle linebacker and now I’m the quarterback,” Justin said. “I never wanted that pressure. I should have said something, but I didn’t want to upset my brother. We still share a bathroom.”
“Um…” I said. I didn’t speak football; I was worried I might have ruined this guy for life. “Exactly.”
“Thanks, bro,” Justin said, and stuck a fist toward me. I dove halfway under my desk, afraid he was trying to punch me, but he just wanted me to bump it with my fist. After I did, his fist went through some kind of explosion and he made a sound effect to go along with it.
Did that mean I won? Was that a game? Why are athletes constantly playing games?
“See you at a game sometime?” Justin asked me on his way out the door.
I almost said, “I’d rather put my nut sack in a blender,” but it’s not nice to pick on people with special needs, so instead I said, “Maybe!” I tried to stop myself but couldn’t halt the strong force compelling me to say, “Oh! And Justin, keep your eyes open; the bathroom isn’t the only thing you and your brother share.”
I’m such an idiot. But we’d just had a moment—how could I not?
Justin once again thought really hard, and it took a lot of effort.
“Oh, man, you’re not telling me…”
he said, looking absolutely heartbroken.
“You didn’t hear it from me!” I said. Shit! I really stuck the fork in my eye this time!
“Those Nikes are vintage,” Justin yelled. “I told that jackoff not to wear them! I’m gonna kick his ass.” He stormed out of the classroom.
I exhaled with relief. Me and my big mouth. Why am I always a hair away from sabotaging myself? I wonder how much I could get done if I wasn’t in the way.
10/25
I’m a feeling a little mortified this afternoon. Some jock came in earlier and turned in a submission for the magazine. I thought it was a cute and innocent poem about his dog, but after some further reflection I’m convinced it’s actually about his dick.
Gross. Oh well, I’ll let you be the judge. It’s still going in the magazine; I can’t afford to be picky with the selections. I’m running out of time to put this thing together and send it off to Northwestern with a new application.
Remy also came in today to drop off her submission. I swear that girl grinds my gears more than anyone else at this school. Just the way she walks, like she’s the smartest thing on the damn planet, annoys me. Not in my classroom, Bilbo.
“Here’s a short story for your stupid magazine,” she said with a gigantic eye roll.
“Thank you, Remy,” I said. I didn’t even say something witty back to her. After blackmailing virtually everyone I know, I’ve tried turning over a new leaf today. I’m trying to be as cordial as possible to the people I’ve victimized. (I think I have permanent bite marks on my tongue because of it.)
“I really have much better things to be doing with my time, you know,” Remy said.
“Like finding your precious?” I couldn’t help but say. I said I’m trying to be cordial; I’m not fully committed.
“Very funny, jackass,” Remy said and handed me her short story. “It’s not exactly my best contribution to the world, but it’ll do. I’m just glad your magazine isn’t going anywhere important. I’d hate to be the girl remembered for writing a mediocre short story.”
Struck by Lightning: The Carson Phillips Journal Page 9
