7. THE LOST ANT
My mom found the New York City Drama School application in my backpack and freaked out like it was a donkey porno. Both of my parents were obviously nervous about the prospect of their retarded son (me) moving to the gnarliest city on earth…until they really looked at the application requirements. They don’t tell me I can’t go to the school; they’re too slick for that. They’ve learned through dealings with my sister that the surest way to light a fire under a kid’s ass is to forbid them from doing something, so Dad just mentions how difficult it will be to raise my GPA, and Mom explains that my laundry will not “do itself” in New York. They totally agree with Abby that it would be a great learning experience, though.…Sneaky, sneaky. They know how much I hate learning experiences and folding clothes.
Dad went to Manhattan when he was ten, and his family got off of the subway without him. Grandpa went berserk trying to pry the doors back open. He says my dad would still be riding that train if he hadn’t rescued him. Dad also got yelled at by a drag queen. He says, “For no reason!” but I bet he was gawking at her.
My folks looked over the huge stack of paperwork the school wanted me to fill out, but they didn’t offer to help me with it. I could tell that they didn’t believe I’d ever fill it all out on my own. What they don’t know (because I can forge my dad’s signature like a champ) is that I have my first Saturday School coming up.
So I’m sitting in the school library on a Saturday at 5:59 a.m. I didn’t kill anyone, but because I keep showing up to my classes thirty seconds after the agreed-upon time, the attendance Nazis have labeled me a menace. Our school district outlawed caning and corporal punishment a few years ago, so this is what they came up with. Can anyone say cruel and unusual? I can’t go to after-school detentions because of football, hence Saturday School. They’ve forced me to wake up at 5:15 a.m. on a Saturday!
If you show up at 6:01 a.m., the warden/evil attendance lady (Mrs. Trimmer, the wife of my prick health teacher from last year) will send you home and give you two more Saturday Schools (a stoner kid, Clint, just learned that lesson). And if you fall asleep at any point, you get two more (a band girl with a snoring problem found that one out at 7:05 a.m.). You have to do schoolwork, but you’re not allowed to use a computer. It’s a recipe for disaster! A quiet, boring library that’s a little bit warm…why would someone be sleepy in here, especially when they woke up before dawn after hanging out with their boys on a Friday night?
First thing I do is clean out my backpack. I find the Jolly Rancher I’ve been looking for since the first day of school, as well as a math worksheet I was supposed to do last year! I whip out the old assignment notebook (the one that I haven’t opened for four days) and see that I’ve got a persuasive essay due on Monday for English, and a midterm in biology on Wednesday. Dang it. I consider what to write “persuasively” and flip through my biology textbook for a second, but I find myself looking around the room at my fellow convicts. They’re a motley, tired-looking crew. I don’t know a lot of them, and it doesn’t seem like we’re going to get much time to socialize. I wonder if they have Saturday School at the New York Drama School. I doubt they do. I bet I’d be rehearsing some play on a Saturday morning or shooting a little movie that I wrote with a group of cool kids. That would be so rad—
Mrs. Trimmer is snapping her fingers at me, and points to my papers. “Get to work, Mr. Carter.”
I whip out a pen and write my name on the drama school application just for something to do, but the next thing I know, I’ve knocked out fourteen pages of questions and B.S.ed a whole essay about Method acting and my experiences in both film and theater. I don’t know my parents’ tax ID numbers or my dance belt size, but most of it is done…and I’ve still got two hours left! Dang it.
As I start the rough draft of my English paper, I realize that I’ve accidentally written a “persuasive essay” as to why I should be allowed into the New York Drama School. Holla! I’ll have to change a few details when I type it up (hopefully my mom will help/force me to actually do that).
I bust out my history and science crap. I’m so ahead of the game that I go ahead and take a break to watch a gang of ants enjoying an apple core on the windowsill. It’s kind of like biology. They’re taking little pieces of fruit back to their hideout. They have one line to get a chunk and another to lug the pieces away. Everyone’s got the system figured out…except this one ant, who’s just doing his own thing and screwing everyone else up. It’s like he’s lost or doesn’t understand the goal or what the hell the hurry is.
He seems to be saying, “Sorry, my bad. Hey fellas, what are we doing again?”
And all the other ants are like, “Move, dumbass!”
I know this ant because he is me! I’m always going the wrong way in the hall, and when it finally starts to thin out and I’m able to consider where the hell I’m headed, the damn bell rings!
The good news is that detention is great focus time. The bad news is that I think there’s a connection between success and getting up at the butt crack of dawn to force yourself to do a bunch of crap you don’t want to do. Also not having any distractions (like a computer or food) might be good for focus-challenged individuals like myself. It’s just a theory, though.…I’m not going to write a persuasive essay about it or anything.
McDougle says that the New York Drama School doesn’t accept dummies no matter how talented they are. I’ll need at least a B+ average to raise my GPA to a B–. That’s the lowest they will take, so that’s what I’m shooting for. I thought I was pretty close, but it turns out that just because you got a couple of Bs doesn’t make that your average. I wasn’t that bummed about my C– average until I found out that EJ has a C+ and Bag’s dumbass has a 4.0 (that’s all As) and Levi somehow has a 4.2…WTF?! What hope is there for me if I don’t even know the grade that’s higher than an A?! I’m going to need a lot more of these Saturday School detentions if I really want to go to New York.
Fingers are snapping in front of my view of the ants, and Mrs. Trimmer’s deep voice says, “Mr. Carter.”
“I’m awake!”
“I know.” She laughs. “It’s ten. Get out of here.”
I’ve got books and papers strewn all across the table, so it takes me a few minutes to jam it all back into my pack.
Mrs. Trimmer asks, “Did you get a lot done?”
“An insane amount!” I reply. I haven’t been allowed to speak all day, so I start rambling: “I read two chapters in biology, and I aced the practice quiz. You always see those practice quizzes, but what kind of nerd actually does them? Turns out, I do…in Saturday School! I actually read ahead in American History. I didn’t mean to; I was just reading about the Battle of Concord and I wanted to know how it turned out.…We whipped some ass! I did the bonus questions in this geometry packet too. My teachers are going to freak. It sucked getting up early, but I’m going to make school my bitch this week!”
Mrs. Trimmer squints her eyes like she’s pissed all the sudden, but she says, “That is great!” all friendly. Then she adds, “We’ll see you next week.”
“I don’t have a Saturday School next week.”
“I think you do, since you just called me a bitch,” she says.
“No! I meant ‘bitch’ like a female dog and I was talking about school, not you! I was just trying to illustrate how I was going to dominate the…uh…Look, we’re both tired here, and not thinking clearly, let’s just—”
“Maybe you’ll use next week’s detention to think about how you could use your language a little more carefully.”
This is an abuse of power if I’ve ever seen one. We walk out of the library together, and I explain, “Did you know the Battle of Concord started with an unjust tax on tea and sugar, Mrs. Trimmer?”
“I did,” she replies, and marches off toward the faculty parking lot.
All of the other hoodlums have split, but I have to go straight to football practice. I’ve got fifteen minutes to be in my pads a
nd on the field. I got that, EASY! I am sooo pissed about the additional detention, but I know it’s probably a good thing.
I attempt to save a few seconds by taking a shortcut through the auditorium, but I run into Jeremy, who’s onstage singing, “‘In Camelot!’” at the top of his lungs. I sit in the front row and wait for him to finish, because the song is awesome and I want to make fun of him since the auditions are more than a month away. We’re doing the musical Camelot this winter. I really want to audition, but it’s during the swimming season, so I can’t.
He stops singing and takes a bow before he says, “I love your black eye. The thug look really works for you, Carter.”
“I can give you a haircut when you come over to EJ’s this afternoon.”
He seems less into the look all the sudden. “Oh, noooo thanks. Are you sure you want me come to your fight club?”
“Absolutely!”
“You’re sweet, but come on,” he says. “Your friends don’t really want to hang out with me.”
“Why, because you’re older and not as stylish as us?”
He sits on the stage and says, “Seriously, they don’t want a gay boy teaching them how to fight.”
“Dude, they watched you bitch-slap a guy with your Top-Sider; we fight like kangaroos! We need you! They’re good guys, they just don’t know you. Let ’em prove you wrong.”
“Okay,” he sighs. “I’ll be there.”
I tell him I’ve got to go, but he adds, “A little bird told me you were planning to ask Amber Lee to homecoming.”
“Really? Did this bird have a nice tail and big—”
“You know she does,” he says. “When Abby told me, I totally cried. That is sooo sweet, Carter!”
I start to say, “Well, I still haven’t—”
But he interrupts me. “I’m renting a limo so I don’t have to ride in that stupid Eclipse. A bunch of drama kids are coming, too. You guys are totally welcome.”
“Okay, cool…I’ll talk to Amber.”
He continues, “Brad did not ask me to the Rockford Academy homecoming, but I’ve decided that I am the bigger man, so he will be allowed to dance next to me in my new fake Prada suit!”
“Play on, playa.” I give a fist bump.
“I’m going to get him some Rogaine and make him wear a fedora to the dance,” he says.
I cross my arms, and he asks, “Why are you giving me that look?”
“What look?”
“You look just like your sister!” he replies.
“Do I? Sorry, I was just realizing that boyfriends are dicks even when they’re with another dude. Jeremy, the guy is obviously insecure. Just buy him a hat that you think is cool, give it to him as a gift, and then he can either figure it out or not. But don’t buy him Rogaine. That’s like telling a girl to go to the gym.”
Now he’s the one making a face, so I ask, “You told him he should work out, didn’t you?”
“I wanted to make it like a date, but he did seem a little upset,” Jeremy replies.
I shake my head in disappointment…just like my sister would. “I gotta go. I’ll see you at three o’clock at EJ’s house for fight club and I’ll let you know when I talk to Amber.”
He does a sweet jumping spin kick as he gets back to his rehearsal and sings, “‘They saaay it never rains, in Caaamelooot!!!’”
As I jog out of the auditorium I say, “Congratulations, you just made karate gay!”
I will probably pay for that at fight club.
Although I’ve been at school for more than four hours, I’m still going to be late to football practice! Anyplace else, they’d be like, “Ten minutes? That’s not late! Who cares?” But football coaches are insane. They blow a gasket if you make the tiniest mistake, and they’re always yelling, “Every second counts!” But that’s kind of ridiculous. You’re a grown man who wears cleats to work. Surely some time was wasted, and a few mistakes were made along your path…because here you are on a Saturday morning…not out on your yacht with your supermodel wife!
I swear the coaches wouldn’t care if I robbed a bank on my way, as long as I was on the field and in my pads at 10:29 a.m. But since I can’t make it until 10:41 a.m., I’m the Antichrist. I’ll have to do some extra-heinous exercises after practice. I might puke. It will suck for sure, but on the bright side, I’m getting in some mean fighting shape!
Fight club goes up about twenty notches with Jeremy’s help. We get better, quick…because he hits you when you forget a lesson! We call it “reverse gay bashing,” but he says that’s how martial arts are taught. His teacher is an old-school Korean dude, so that’s how he learned it. I guess Jeremy’s dad enrolled him in Tae Kwon Do when he was nine because he started to suspect that Jeremy’s effeminate phase wasn’t a phase. He says his dad is cool with him being gay, but he knew that there were plenty of a-holes in the world who weren’t, so he hooked him up with a gi (karate costume) and the skills to bitch-slap homophobic d-bags. At first Jeremy just liked the dance routines called “forms,” but then he developed a taste for blood. He can break boards with his fist and pressure-point you to the ground if you lip off. He still trains twice a week, and he fights in tournaments. He says it helps him jump really high and keeps him super flexible for dance.
The biggest thing he tries to teach us is patience. He wants us to keep our hands out in front of our faces at all times and just concentrate on our opponent. He wants me to calm down and not get so worked up when I fight. Staying relaxed seems to be the key to life! If you can just stay on your toes and wait for the other guy to do something stupid, you can land a lot more shots. For a guy with as many wuss instincts as I have, I’m doing pretty well. Jeremy obviously likes me more than anyone else, and he keeps giving me tips on how to beat my friends’ asses. I also never get very winded during the bouts because of all of my CrossFit punishments, and I’m the only guy who’s got an actual psycho looking for him, so that helps too.
8. KICKOFF
No one has seen or heard from Scary Terry since Bag’s party, but I’m still preparing for the worst. We had a false alarm in front of the movie theater when we heard trunk bolts rattling, but it turned out to be just another old car with an awful stereo system. I freak out whenever someone yells, “CARTER!!!” I really wish people wouldn’t do that, but my boys love to see me flinch. Good thing ADD allows me to forget about Terry most of the time, and the fight club lessons are building up a nice sense of false confidence in me.
We’ve all got bruised faces and we’ve reshaved our heads. People have stopped asking to borrow pencils from us. Abby likes to rub my stubbly head, but teachers are kind of thrown off by my hooligan look, almost as much as they are by my sudden class participation. They just keep asking questions that I know the answers to! I got a hundred percent on two different tests. That hasn’t happened since kindergarten. Unfortunately, I’ve been given two tardy slips by Wednesday, so preparation doesn’t help with every problem.
On my way down to football, I find Amber Lee sitting on the field house steps. There’s only a week and a half until homecoming. I’ve put off asking her long enough, but I really don’t want to be late to practice.…I’ll just do it quick!
She’s not usually alone; she must be waiting for a ride. You can’t see her bump from this angle, so she just looks like any other hot girl with nice hair. She’s not as intimidating from behind (especially when she’s seated) because you can’t see her swollen boobs or those green eyes. I’ve known her forever, but I remember that in sixth grade, even before the boobs showed up, she developed this bewitching stare. Her eyes are sort of clear, and whenever they’d lock on to mine, at least one of my bodily functions would shut down.…Usually breathing is the first to go, and then everything else goes haywire from the lack of oxygen. I kind of feel like an a-hole for not being anxious around her anymore, but I can’t help it. The baby in her belly seems to have taken away some of her powers. I find that I’m not trying to impress her, so my heart stays out of my t
hroat and I’m able to be myself.
I plop down next to her and say, “What’s up, momma?”
She looks over at me with an icy glare before she says, “That’s actually funny now.”
Her eyes have little effect on me, so I poke her belly and reply, “I know!”
“Ooouuch!” she cries.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
She laughs. “No, it wasn’t that. The baby kicked.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Amber says. “She’s never kicked that hard before, but it’s fine. You touched me and then she just nailed me, like right in the same spot.”
“Gross!”
“Shut up, it’s not gross!” she says.
“You’re definitely having a girl. Chicks want to kick me, even in the fetal stage.”
“No they don’t,” she objects. “‘Chicks’ think you’re adorable.”
“You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. Are you sure you don’t need to fart? Sometimes I’ll get a sharp pain right there and I’ll be like, ‘Oh no, my appendix is gonna burst!’ and then, Ppfffffrurrrrrt! Booty burst!”
“I get it,” she replies. “But I don’t think that’s it.”
“Well, let me know if you think you’re going to shoot off your cannon. You’re farting for two now so—”
“Oh my God!” She laughs.
“What’re you doing out here by yourself? Where’s your entourage?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t have an entourage. I’m just waiting for my idiot boyfriend. What are you doing?”
“As an idiot myself, I’m headed to football practice, so I gotta get moving.”
Just as I’m about to ask her to the dance, she reaches up and touches my eyebrow. I’ve got a small cut from when Doc “accidentally” head-butted me. Her touch doesn’t hurt, but it sends a lightning bolt through my body all the same. I feel my heart heading up into my windpipe. Dang it, she’s still got it! I’m just doing this as a favor to Abby, but here comes the stutter.
Carter's Unfocused, One-Track Mind Page 8
