Carter's Unfocused, One-Track Mind

by Brent Crawford

  What the hell is up with time? I don’t get it. I understand that there are sixty seconds in a minute and all of that, but how is it almost one a.m. all the sudden? I could swear I ate dinner about an hour ago. How can time go by so slowly in geometry class and so fast in drama? I swear McDougle takes roll and then it’s just over. Don’t even get me started with those damn passing periods. Five minutes my ass! I’d like to time the actual break one of these days, to make sure the attendance ladies aren’t messing with the clocks. (I wouldn’t put it past those Birkenstock-wearing fascists.) But then I’d be even more tardy, and they’d just love that.

  Everyone else seems okay with time, so I have to suspect that they have more of it than I do. Like everyone gets twenty-four hours, but somehow I only get about sixteen. If I’m able to get my seven hours of sleep, that only leaves nine hours in the day. School wants their eight no matter what. Rehearsal or practice takes another three, so right off the bat I’m in a deficit! The only thing that catches me up is detention. Vo-Tech. The medicine is bitter, but time really slows down in there. It’s like a twilight zone where you’re forced to concentrate on homework. I know Mrs. Trimmer isn’t really armed, but I like to imagine that she is. And she’s just waiting for me to start doodling or spacing off so that she can pull out a shotgun and cock it aggressively, like, “Back to work, Carter!”

  I attempt to get busy with a few imaginary girls. That usually helps me fall asleep, but no dice tonight. So I strategize a fight with Scary Terry, and then Andre. I know how to beat them if I just stick to the plan. I also know exactly how I’ll take down a terrorist if I’m ever on a plane that gets hijacked. Once that’s settled, I have an epiphany: I should fake an injury to get out of football! I plan it out for a few minutes but eventually decide that I’ll just have to stay in the moment and allow it to happen.

  Epiphany #2 comes around two a.m.: we should take our football helmets to fight club! (I should write this down! But I’m sure I’ll remember something as important as this.)

  At 2:15 I make an important life decision: I want to be a J.Crew model. They dress cool, they hang out with hot chicks in cool locations, and they really seem like they’re enjoying their lives. Thank God that’s done. Now I can sleep.

  But at 2:45 I’m skeptical: I don’t know any J.Crew models. I have no idea how to get a hold of those people. Mom tried to call them once when she accidentally ordered my sister an orange sweater and they wouldn’t take it back. She thought they sounded foreign.

  I slam my head into the pillow to get it to shut off, but that never works. I deepen my breathing and deepen my thoughts. Why do I keep sabotaging myself…with Abby…with school…with success in general? Why am I so afraid of New York City? I’ve only seen it on TV, but when I imagine Will Carter in the city, I can only see it like Gotham in the Batman movies. I see myself getting kidnapped and murdered ten different ways, but what if New York is the place I’m supposed to be? What if the reason I feel like a misfit in Merrian is because I really don’t fit here?! What’s the worst thing that could happen? I could get run off the road by a masked villain driving a garbage truck, or someone could drop an acid-filled water balloon from their balcony, or I could get shanked in a dark alley—Stop it!

  Where does fear come from? Am I causing it or just reacting to it? What good is it? How does it help me to worry about something that I can’t control? I get that immediate fear is good. Like you should avoid dogs that look as if they’ve just had a cappuccino, but I’m like, scared of everything. I’m terrified probably eighty percent of the time I’m awake.

  It’s all totally irrational stuff and things I can’t do anything about, but I can’t stop myself from worrying and then feeling like a loser for stressing about it all. It’s a vicious circle. I worry when I’m riding my bike that a car is going to plow into me from behind. I’m petrified of snakes, though I’ve never been close to one. I’ve never been bitten or even startled by one. Yet, every time I use a Porta-Potty or move a log, I’m certain that I’m going to wake a king cobra that’s miraculously made its way to Merrian and is living in an unsuitable habitat and sustaining itself on species of plants and rodents it’s never eaten before, just to rear back and strike my tender, unsuspecting ankle or butt cheek. I can feel the venom draining from its sharp curved fangs into my rushing bloodstream. I have never actually felt this feeling, but it’s in my head as if it’s happened a hundred times. It seems crazy to worry about past lives at 3:21 a.m., but I must have been a cow at some point, in India. I do like the taste of curry.

  Go to sleep!

  Abby is going to leave, and I’ll never trick another girl into liking me. I suck at flirting with girls, especially ones I don’t know. My charm gets lodged in my throat and I can’t speak, let alone crack jokes. I believe I’m even more afraid of girls rejecting me than I am of snakes. I haven’t tried to go down Abby’s pants since last year because I don’t want her to tell me no.

  When she leaves, I’m going to have to get really comfortable with rejection. Bag says it’s a numbers game. He doesn’t mind if ten girls tell him to “get lost” because he knows eventually some insecure girl is going to find his B.S. attractive. But I can’t handle ten rejections! I’d die after the fourth.

  What if I got a girl pregnant? What the hell would I do? The only job I’m qualified to do is lifeguard. How’s the kid going to eat during the other nine months of the year? What if I get a venereal disease? My mom would have to take me to Dr. Pajali, and he will be so disappointed in me, and he will judge my mom because her child contracted Portuguese Mountain Herpes from some skank!

  What if there is a big war and they reinstate the draft and I have to go fight in the desert or the mountains? There’s no way I could fall asleep on the ground, or if I was really cold or really hot. They might give me a cot, but there’d be bombs going off all the time.…I can’t handle it. Shut up!

  My real issue is purpose, I think. I bet I’d be asleep right now if I had a purpose in my life. I would be set if I just knew what my future held. I would be stoked if I could focus on one thing. If I positively knew what I was doing tomorrow and why I was doing it, my body would force me to get the rest it needs.

  Mr. Owens, my history teacher, says that really successful guys choose their thing when they’re about my age. Bill Gates, Oprah, Obama, they got it figured out early in life and they went after it with a vengeance, and then they became super successful. So what is my thing? The clock is ticking!

  Auditions for Camelot are coming up and I’d like to sign up, but it’s swimming season and Andre’s always claiming that the only reason I beat him last year was because he had mono. But my fastest time was exactly the same as his fastest time. Usually I’m okay with a tie, but not with Andre. I don’t know if swimming is really my thing or if I’m just scared that I’m not good enough to get cast in another play. I haven’t read Camelot, but I’ve watched the movie and it’s sooo cheesy, but kind of in an awesome way. If I had a copy of the play, I would bust it out right now! Reading knocks me out like a sledgehammer.

  I bet every one of my friends is asleep. They aren’t worried about snakes or girls or what I’m doing right now. They are not wondering if football or basketball or whatever is their “path.” They’re just putting one foot in front of the other and going down the road. None of the drama kids are stressing about whether or not they should audition for Camelot. They’re just going to read the damn play, work on the scenes, and save the stress for the auditions!

  I know that getting busy and staying busy is the best way to solve your problems, but what if I’m so busy that I miss out on the thing that I’m supposed to be doing? Like, I miss my calling because I’m on the other line. That’s pretty good. I should write that down. What was the other thing I was going to write down?

  Go to sleep!

  I think I really am desensitized to violence! I honestly don’t mind getting hit sometimes.

  I hear there’s a goth girl at school who sells Ri
talin. I may need to buy some from her because my mom won’t let me have it. I don’t think she understands how hard I’m trying to stay focused. That’s why I drank the Mountain Dew after dinner. I was self-medicating! I thought the caffeine would help me concentrate on my biology homework, but I never even opened the book. Sometimes ADD is cool, like when I find money in my pants, but most of the time it sucks. Can you just take the ADD meds every once in a while? Doc told EJ that they shrink your penis, but Doc likes to mess with EJ.

  Amber Lee’s boobs are definitely bigger, but I think Abby’s are shrinking. I wonder if they could just trade bras, like, “Here, Abby, let me help you with that.…”

  Darkness.

  14. PRACTICE MAKES…SOMETHING

  I don’t see Abby the next day at school. Subconsciously, I may have been avoiding her, but by the end of the day it’s just weird. I’m worried that the rumor mill has informed her that I made out with Amber Lee and not explained the whole situation.

  I wait for her before drill team practice, but when she finally shows up, she’s with a big group of girls, and they stampede past me without a word.

  She may not have seen me, but that was odd. I am officially concerned…and late for practice. Dang it!

  Sophomores only have one football game left. But varsity has at least two more because of the state tournament. If they keep winning, I have to keep practicing. I will not get to play in any of these games, but I have the honor of suiting up as a backup kicker (that Coach doesn’t allow to kick). Some of my boys will be done after Thursday’s game, but I could still be practicing in December! I am so over this crap.

  As I creep onto the field I see that we’re doing blocking drills. No one seems to notice my arrival, so I slip into the formation. I’m stoked but a little nervous that I’ve somehow become invisible. EJ can definitely see me, because he clobbers me on my first trip through the drill. I go through twice more before we take a water break.

  I’m in mid-guzzle when a whistle crashes into my helmet and Coach barks, “You work up a big thirst, Carly?! You’re doin’ burpees and somersaults after practice until you puke!”

  Awesome. How much am I getting paid for this?

  We’ve got open-field tackling drills next, so I decide that I’ve got to put my acting skills to work and fake a damn injury. I’ve just got to get hit hard enough to make it believable and then deliver a great performance. I skip ahead a few places to be paired with Andre. In this exercise, I’m playing the part of the ball carrier. I’m supposed to sprint down the sideline, while Andre (the tackler) pursues me on a slant. He is learning how to judge the best angles and most effective way to smash a guy into the dudes hanging out on the sidelines. Those are the best clips on SportsCenter, so I totally get why we practice this.

  The whistle blows, and Coach tosses me the ball. I take off down the sideline as fast as my feet will carry me. I’m not trying to juke Andre or even look at him; I’m just running in a straight line like a motorized bunny at a dog track. I’m trying to concentrate on my performance, and debating whether or not to scream. I’ll probably just lie there in pain.

  My eyes are closed, but when the thunderous sound of Andre’s feet stops drawing closer, my left eye snaps open to confirm that he’s left the ground and his helmet is aimed directly at my left knee. It’s perfect! I might have an actual injury here. I could get some crutches out of this. What heartless teacher would give a cripple detention? I might use it to get out of swim team and audition for Camelot! But my stupid nervous system gets nervous and my body overrides the brain.

  Everything shifts away from my attacker, and my left hand automatically presses into his oncoming helmet. My left knee raises itself out of the line of destruction in a smooth Heisman Trophy pose. I bet I actually look cool for a second…until Andre’s momentum becomes too much for my arm to bear and his helmet gets up under my left butt cheek and keeps moving until it’s finally stopped by my right inner thigh…and my balls. My two flat-as-nickels and now-useless testicles! In a flash of painful realization, I’m reminded that in my haste to get to practice, I forgot to put on my nut-cup.

  The earth shifts on its axis, and I fly through the air sideways and then upside down until my head collides with the ground and compresses my spine in the weirdest way. I flop onto my face, and my stomach crashes into the football that I just dropped. So all of the wind is knocked out of me, but somehow a noise comes out of my mouth that sounds like a wounded dog. You can’t act this kind of pain.

  The team lets out an, “OOHHHHHHH!!!” in sympathy.

  This is not the injury I was looking for! I really hope I didn’t just break my neck. My hands still work, though, because they’re grabbing my nuts, as if to protect them from further trauma. I’m probably sterile. At least I can stop worrying about getting girls pregnant (if I ever get to have sex with them). Do you still get horny if your nuts are broken?

  My eyes open, and I find Andre standing over me, saying, “I felt your nads through my helmet!”

  I stop writhing for a second to give him props. “That’s gold, dude!”

  Eventually, Coach comes over and yells, “Oh, get up! Maybe this’ll teach you to get to practice on time and wear all of your equipment.”

  A voice in my head (or nut-sack) whispers, This is not where you’re supposed to be!

  My nuts can be so dramatic when they’re hurting. I don’t take their advice, because I’m an idiot. Eventually I get up and file back into the line.

  Practice finally ends and everyone heads back to the locker room, but before I can get very far, a whistle smashes into my helmet and an angry voice asks, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  You might think that testicular trauma is enough to get you out of punishments, but you’d be wrong.

  I have to do a hundred burpees and a hundred yards of somersaults to atone for my crimes. And if I don’t get it done in fifteen minutes, I have to start over. And my coach has nothing better to do than watch.

  A hundred somersaults scrambles your brain in ways drugs could only dream of goofing you up. But I’ve officially decided never to be late to another practice ever again. I also really want to go to New York all of a sudden.

  15. ALCATRAZ

  On my way out of the locker room, I see Abby walking out of the gym with her drill team friends, so I limp over and say, “Hey! Hey, what’s going on?”

  The big girls seem to know something, and they peel off toward the parking lot. Abby says, “Nothing,” but she’s not looking at me. She obviously knows that I kissed Amber Lee, so I start blabbering, “Cooool. Sooooo, how was NYC? Did you hang out with Jay-Z and Beyoncé? Did you see The Book of Mormon? Did you go to Alcatraz?”

  “That’s in San Francisco,” she scoffs.

  “So you didn’t?”

  She finally smiles and says, “No, I did not go to Alcatraz in New York.”

  “Okay…so everything is cool? I thought I’d hear from you and then I didn’t.”

  She sighs. “I know. I just…don’t even know where to start with you. I am so disappointed.”

  Dang it, I knew she’d find out!

  I clear my throat for the big confession, but before I can speak, she says, “I had a terrible time…and I don’t want to go anymore, and I don’t know what to tell people because I’m so embarrassed.”

  I try not to look too relieved as she continues. “Carter, it was so scary.”

  “It’s like Gotham City in the Batman movies, isn’t it?”

  “Everywhere we went, people were yelling at me in a different language. Everything smelled like urine, and I almost got hit by a taxi. A woman pushed my mom on the subway, and the people at the school were rude and pretentious, and I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  She starts crying, so I instinctively give her a hug before saying, “That’s exactly how I picture it. People say how pretty it is in the fall, but isn’t every place pretty in the fall?”

  She laughs, so I pull back and wipe a tear of
f the tip of her nose before asking, “Is that everything that’s bothering you?”

  She shakes her head no, so I go ahead and ask, “Someone told you something…that upset you?”

  She starts really crying now, and I’m surprised when she gives me a tight hug.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “You really deserve better.…You know it didn’t mean anything.”

  “It meant everything, Carter.” She blubbers. “When she said that to me, my whole life…my world just crumbled!”

  “Really?”

  “Ms. McDougle told you?” she asks.

  Okay, that’s weird.…If I was still a dumb-ass freshman I’d ask, Told me what? But I just stay quiet and allow her to talk.

  “She really shouldn’t have…but she was angry too. I asked her not to call the school, but I bet she did.”

  Okay, detective! We’re still talking about New York…not Amber. After a long silence I finally say, “Tell me what happened.”

  She pulls back and says, “They called me fat!”

  “What?!”

  “Two different teachers,” she says. “I sang for their vocal coach and he said I reminded him of Adele!”

  I can see how someone would make that comparison, but I can tell that Abby can’t, so I keep it zipped.

  “Then I got to take a dance class, and it was so awesome. I totally thought of you because they weren’t all about technique, but everyone danced from the heart and worked their asses off. And I started to think I could handle New York and so could you, and then I talked to the teacher afterward. She said I was ‘too curvy’ to be a dancer! She said it all matter-of-fact and explained that I should lose fifteen pounds before next semester. Fifteen pounds in two months!”

  Too curvy?! I can’t even comprehend that statement. That’s like saying you have too much money! I want to go to New York now just to set this hater straight. But I try to keep it positive when I say, “I think these people were giving you compliments, Abby.”