“No, they were being rude. You had to be there. They’re all professionals and they know their industry.”
“They know dick! I know what people find attractive, and Abby, you are it!”
“Now I don’t know what to do,” she says. “I’ll guess I’ll try to lose the weight, but all I’ve wanted to do since I left the school was gorge myself on M&M’s and pizza.”
“Screw that place.”
Tears fall from her eyes as she says, “But I told everyone I was going, and I got you to apply, and I just feel like a fool.”
“So? You don’t care what people think.…I know you don’t.”
“And what about you?” she asks. “I turned in your application and they were so excited. I guess they saw clips from the Down Gets Out movie and they can’t wait to meet you.”
“They can’t?”
“Of course,” she says.
“I didn’t know anyone had footage from the movie.…” But that’s not what we’re talking about, so I say, “Maybe you could sit out this semester and try to…” I almost said lose a few pounds, but my sister jumped into my throat and strangled the statement before it could escape. I quickly add, “You know, figure things out. Maybe you do Camelot and RENT here and get even more experience, and then maybe we’ll go to NYC together and kick its ass!”
She laughs. “I don’t know. You’ve got to visit that place, Carter. It’s pretty intense.”
I put my arm around her and walk toward the parking lot like a pimp. “I play football and do fight club, dude. I’ll show ’em intensity!”
Abby’s mom scowls at me when I wave at her, and everything seems back to normal. I should be having sex very soon…right?
WINTER
16. LOU-OWE
Wrong! A cold front rolls into Merrian as well as my relationship with Abby. She decides not to go to New York in January, and falls into a weird depression that I can’t snap her out of. She won’t eat, and I know why. She knows I don’t approve of any plan that reduces the junk in her trunk, and maybe she’s pissed at me for not being more supportive, or just because I know this secret, but we are way off. We’ve been to the movies a couple of times, but we struggle to talk both before and after. I ask her questions, but it’s more like a bad interview than a date. We kiss, but she’s phoning it in, and we’re back to karate chops when I go for boob. My jokes seem to make her mad, so I stop making them, and then it gets really weird. We say hi in the halls, but she makes excuses not to hang out with me. Lynn says I have to give her space, but that’s the opposite direction I want to go. By December we’ve basically broken up (without the breakup).
Auditions for Camelot came and went, and I didn’t go, so now I’m spending my afternoons in a testicular-crushing banana hammock, swimming back and forth in an over-chlorinated pool. The tiny amount of oxygen that’s allowed into my lungs is so tainted with chemicals that it makes me want to barf. On a positive note, it also causes me to forget how much pain my muscles are in, as well as the fact that I’m hanging out with Andre all the time. Of course I didn’t want to sing and dance away my precious time and hang out with smart, fun kids and have people clap for me and maybe win Abby back again. Screw that!
Abby and Jeremy got the lead roles in Camelot, which caused a lot of drama in the wing because Abby hadn’t told anyone that she wasn’t going to New York. She just showed up at the auditions and killed it. Drama kids are all “supportive” until audition time, and then a bus accident is great news. The other girls are pissed, to say the least.
I still help build sets and hang lights when I have time. The other day I was talking to Jeremy instead of working when Abby just walks past us without a word. He knows about the fifteen-pound/Adele situation from New York, but he’s as perplexed as I am that she’s taking it out on me.
He pats me on the back and says, “That’s why I don’t date girls.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“No…you need that girl,” he says. “Unfortunately, she’s as stubborn as she is hot. Keep after her, Carter. I know she loves you.”
“She won’t even talk to me, dude.”
“Who told you awesome was easy?” he asks. “You’ve got to fight for a booty like that!”
He throws a quick punch at my head, and I duck without thinking. He repeats, “Fight for that booty, boy.”
My boys and I go to the first basketball game of the year without EJ…because he made the varsity squad! We’re all super proud of him, but a little jealous. He lettered in football and now basketball! I think swimming is awesome, but it’s not much of a spectator sport. In basketball there are only five guys and no one is wearing a helmet, so everyone can see who made the big shot and who missed it. Hundreds of people come to the basketball games. Even Jeremy.
We played our old rivals, the Nortest Cougars, and they beat our asses. Everyone is bummed, but no one more than EJ, because he never got in the game. He didn’t even get to take off his Trixxxy warm-up suit.
Basketball sweats were invented either by strippers or busy moms. They have snaps all down the legs so the dude can just yank them off and get in the game (or the mom can extract the diaper, or the stripper can show off her G-string) quickly. The removal of your Trixxxy pants is very important in basketball, so EJ and I have been rehearsing. He wants to look like he’s so focused on the game that he doesn’t care how his pants fly off…but you’ve got to practice. If you pull too hard, you could smack yourself in the face with one of the metal snaps. But if you don’t yank hard enough, you could trip all over yourself in front of everyone, and that’s the last thing you want in sports (or on the pole).
After the game, I give him a fist bump and say, “You’ll get ’em next week, Trixxx.”
We pile into Aunt Jenny and follow the CRX and an old Mustang to some party. We’ve all got the same paper invitation with a map, but it feels good to travel in packs.
Bag looks at the photocopied paper and says, “Yo, this is really far away! It must be someone’s dad’s house.”
The invite has a Hawaiian motif and the party is titled a “Lou-owe.” It’s even got a slogan: EVERYONE GETS LEI’D AT THE LOU-OWE! It also says, PLEASE DON’T REPRINT OR DISTRIBUTE THIS TO ANYONE. THX, LOU
EJ asks, “Who gave you this flyer, Carter?”
“Nutt did.”
“Who gave it to you, Nutt?” Bag asks.
“A drill teamer,” Nutt replies.
“Which one?” EJ asks, suspiciously.
Nutt mumbles, “Fat Sal, but I thought it was from Abby to give to Carter.”
From the backseat, Andre says, “But Abby hates Carter now.”
“Shut up. We’re just giving each other space,” I respond.
Nobody (including me) understands what that means, so they get back to making fun of Nutt. Everyone knows Fat Sal is in love with him, and he’s always pretending he doesn’t get it.
“Put that girl out of her misery, dude!” Bag suggests.
“Shut up!” Nutt replies. “I’m not hookin’ up with that fatty.”
I tell EJ that the car next to us wants to race. “That old lady wants to go!”
She obviously doesn’t, but I want to take the heat off of Nutt because it’s obvious to me that he kind of likes Sally.
We finally rumble into a really nice neighborhood. The houses are way bigger than the ones we usually hang out in, but there’s definitely a party in this one. We see a few kids we recognize and a few we don’t, so we hop out of the car to check things out. We’re wise sophomores, so we know this house is going to be a hotbox. Everyone tosses their coats into Aunt Jenny’s trunk, and we extract a cooler that’s filled with stolen Milwaukee’s Best. There’s no ice, so it’s less of a “cooler” and more of a plastic container that Bag and Nutt are lugging into a stranger’s house. I take one of the warm beers to lessen their load and so I have something to do with my hands. This party seems like every other high school rager I’ve been to, so we just stroll in through the front door.
The place is packed. There are strings of Christmas lights and tiki decorations. Some of the kids are drinking fruity-looking drinks in Solo cups and others are wearing those flower leis around their necks. EJ points at the neckwear and asks, “Is that what ‘lei’d’ meant on the flyer?”
“No…I’m sure it was a spelling error. They’re probably giving out the sex upstairs.”
“Who the hell is throwing a Hawaiian party?!” Nutt asks.
Bag reads the banner hanging from the fireplace mantel: “‘Welcome to the Lou-owe!’”
A skinny kid is staring at us, so Doc asks him, “Are you Lou?”
The geek replies, “Yeah. Who are you guys? Do you even go to Nortest?”
Everyone stiffens when we realize we’re not at a Merrian party. My boys just walk into the guy’s kitchen, but I’m afflicted with politeness, so I say, “No, do you?”
He makes a face like I asked, Do you like hot poop?
He replies, “Yes, this is a Nortest party, bro.”
I raise my eyebrows at him like, That’s what you think.
It appears that Lou thought he was just having a little get-together. I’m only a sophomore, but I’ve seen “a little get-together” turn into a rager a few times now.
I shrug and quietly explain, “You could always call the cops.”
He nervously surveys the situation as more kids he obviously doesn’t know file through the front door. Lou whines, “But they’d call my parents. They’re in Florida and they’ll kill me.”
Something breaks in the next room, and Lou’s eyes widen. I say, “I probably wouldn’t do it either, but sometimes you’ve got to cut your losses. I’ll try to round up my friends, but I think we’re the least of your problems.”
I pass though the kitchen and see that Nutt has pushed J-Low into a vase of fake flowers, and that’s what broke. So we’re definitely not “the least of his problems,” but we can’t be his worst. My boys won’t leave because there’s a keg in the garage.
Since I seem to be stuck here, I do a lap around the house. Music is bumping in the basement, and I’m stoked to find Abby and Jeremy dancing with a group of drama kids. They don’t care whose house we’re at, nor do they want to break stuff; they just want to have a good time. I nod my head to the beat and start to dance over.
Abby kind of dances with me for a second, but then she spins away and starts jamming with some girls I don’t know. This goes on for a few songs, so I take off.
I go back up to the kitchen, where Bag tells me, “Duuude, you gotta try the Hawaiian punch!”
I “recycle” a red Solo cup out of the trash and fill it with a mixture of grain alcohol and Kool-Aid powder. It sounds like it would be fruity and delicious, but it tastes more like peroxide that’s been mixed with Splenda…and fire! I’m not into that taste, so I abandon my cup and do another lap around the party.
I’m just killing time waiting for the cops to show up…or maybe the fire department. The backyard has tiki torches all around the deck, which is really cool, but sooo irresponsible. Some Nortest guys are competing to see who can keep their hands closest to the flame for the longest. I never do very well at those games.
A whole gang of kids come spilling over the back fence. They seem to have been denied entrance in the front, but that’s never stopped a resilient party animal and it never will. They’re a pack of Merrian freshman. I only know one of them, though.
In a deep voice I say, “Hold it right there…young lady!” because I can’t remember her name. She’s on summer swim team, and she was always kind of a beanpole that I didn’t pay attention to. But I’ve noticed she’s been developing, and puberty is friggin’ magic.
She laughs like crazy when she recognizes me. “Oh my God, Carter! You are too funny. I drank a wine cooler! SHHHH!!!”
She touches my chest, and I say, “Oh snap!” and give her a high five.
I’ve got to stop high-fiving girls, especially when they seem to be into me. I’ve always wanted to be the cool older guy, and she seems to think I am. I like to fantasize that if I dated a freshman, I would just tell her what to do and she’d do it. But Bag has been dating younger chicks, and it doesn’t work for very long. They seem to give you the benefit of the doubt for a while, but as soon as you let them know you’re just as big a geek as the guys in her grade, your reign is over.
I’m not trying to flirt with this girl; I’m just being nice and asking her questions out of habit. But if Abby and I are really done, I guess I need to start looking around. The problem is, I don’t really want to, and the problem with that is: when you’re actually not into a girl, they’re drawn to you like a cat to a can opener.
“I missed you this summer,” she says. “How come you didn’t swim?”
“I was busy.”
“Oh…that’s cool,” she says before guzzling more wine cooler. “A-a-are you swimming for Merrian?”
“Yep, we had our first meet on Thursday. We suck.”
She about dies laughing. I reel her in even further by turning to her friends and explaining, “You girls don’t need to sneak into parties. You’re hot, so just walk in like you own the place. You might need to ditch your guy friends, though.”
The dudes hear me, but they pretend not to because I’m a sophomore football player with a thug hairdo and a cut on my face. They obviously didn’t see the tears in my eyes at the basketball game when my best friend ran out onto the court to warm up.
A girl asks, “Hey, um, do you think the police will break up this party?”
“Absolutely.”
A freshman guy says, “Seriously?”
“Yeah, they’ll be here any minute, but you want to wait until they get here. Running from the cops is the best part.”
They all crack up as if I’m Chris Rock, and I start laughing too, because somehow I am the cool older guy! Then this swim team girl grabs my shirt and starts talking passionately…about algebra. At least I think that’s what she’s talking about. She’s obviously nervous, because she’s all over the place. I’m stoked to be the cause of this anxiety, but her intoxication is jacking everything up. EJ says that drinking helps him talk, but all I see is blind courage and bad decisions here.
Her mouth is stained red, and I’m having a lot of trouble following her random categories. “And the combo to my locker is fifteen, too!” she yells like a fourteen-year-old schizophrenic wino.
“Cool,” I mutter as I look around the deck.
She grabs my forearm and goes, “That’s a polynomial!’”
We both crack up. She thinks she’s being funny, but I’m laughing at her.
She tells me how buzzed she is for the fourth time, so I reply, “I gotta pee,” and just walk away like a pimp. I don’t really have to go; that girl is just annoying. And if that’s what dating another girl is like, I need to track Abby down and beg her to go out with me again.
I stroll around the side of the house and see that the party is getting even bigger. The front yard is covered in trash, and a girl is puking in the bushes. When I walk back inside, the whole vibe has changed. That kid Lou is sobbing on the stairs, and some Nortest guys are giving me snotty looks. If I still had that flop-do, they probably would’ve given me some static, but nobody wants to fight a guy who might kick their ass. Only I know how unlikely that scenario is.
I’ve convinced myself that I really do need to pee. As a sophomore, I know that using an actual bathroom at a party is not a good idea, but at least I’ll have a purpose for a few minutes. I walk past Lou on my way upstairs. A Nortest guy and girl are already in line for the toilet, and all of the bedroom doors are closed. People are grunting and moaning inside all the rooms (including the bathroom). I think I know what Lou is upset about. Since I don’t have anything better to do, I just hang out and listen.
The guy in front of me is hopping from foot to foot and grabbing his crotch like a little boy. I know the pinching technique works, but you can’t just use it in public anymore. If we were friend
s I’d school him, but we’re not, and I can smell the booze on him from here.
The girl in front of him shakes her head and mutters, “I’m just going outside” as she marches down the stairs. The drunk dude starts yelling at the door, which is slightly open. “Whaz takin’ so long, brah?!”
The door doesn’t answer, so he pounds on it, and it swings open and reveals a Merrian guy getting up from the floor as if he’s just waking up. He staggers out with bright red vomit all down his shirt, and the smell is not good.
The kid in front of me yells, “Ohhh, God!” as he tiptoes inside. I want to yell, “Don’t go in there!” but whatever he’s seeing and smelling is not bad enough to keep him from his duty, so who am I to stop him…from pissing all over the room! Daaamn. He doesn’t shut the door, so I have to try not to watch him watering the room like an evil sprinkler.
“Nice aim, bro,” I say as he passes by. “Maybe go back to diapers until you can control that thing.”
I should just go pee outside, but I’ve really got to go at this point, so I step into the Terror Dome and quickly shut the door with my foot. Wow, I’ve been in some foul crappers, but this is the worst. There’s puke all over the sink and walls. The floor is slimy and somebody dropped a deuce right in front of the toilet! That’s why Drunkie was keeping his distance.
I attempt to do what I came in here to do, while standing on one foot and only breathing through my mouth. I’m a better shot than the guy before me, but not by much. I can’t wash my hands because the faucet is covered with vomit, and it’s making me want to add my own lunch to the mix. I grab the knob, quick, but the door won’t open. Dang it! One of my a-hole friends must have somehow locked it from the outside! (To meet them, you might not think they’re very bright, but when it comes to torture, they’re brilliant.) I pull, in vain, and pound on the door. “You bastards!”
My blurry eyes finally see the Post-it note stuck to the wall: DON’T SHUT THIS DOOR, THE LOCK IS BROKEN. THX, LOU !
Carter's Unfocused, One-Track Mind Page 13
