Carter's Big Break

by Brent Crawford

  “Tits are important!”

  She whacks the back of my head and says, “Exactly! It’s ridiculous, dangerous, elitist and—”

  “Totally awesome!”

  She whacks me again because she thinks I’m joking, so I add, “You can’t get too high-and-mighty with your boomin’ natural rack back there.”

  She doesn’t have a rebuttal for that one. She may not appreciate having her breasts used against her in an argument. I’d like to stay on this subject for as long as possible, so I try to clarify my position. “I might actually agree with you. I happen to have a love/hate relationship with boobs. I’d probably get a lot more done if you guys didn’t have ’em, but then I think . . . would I even get up in the morning?”

  She doesn’t say anything again. I believe that’s the typical reaction when someone says something super profound.

  We’re rolling past the duck pond when she starts telling drama camp stories. She tells me how much fun she’s having and that two kids have already fallen into the orchestra pit (I’m not the only one). She’s really into the “coolness and maturity” of the college drama majors. She mentions one of her coworkers in particular a few times. She tells me, “His name is Carter, like you,” and how he’s “super funny” and “totally smart,” and how much I’d “love him.” Which is odd because hearing about the guy, and the tone of her voice, makes me think that I would not even like him, and I might want to punch him in his face if I saw it. But I don’t want to be one of those guys who’s always accusing his girl of stuff and acting immature and picking fights, so I just quicken my pace instead. She tells me about all the plays this College Carter Dumbass has starred in and how Ms. McDougle was talking to him about trying out for my part in C. B. Down’s movie. And how she’s going to rehearse with him too.

  My legs are burning as we fly past the picnic area. I pant, “I thought it was a high school movie.”

  She explains, “Yeah, but he’s such a good actor that he can easily pull off being younger.”

  “Is he short?”

  “No, he’s a bit taller than you.”

  “You know I’m still growin’, right?”

  “Why are you going so fast?”

  “I don’t know. I just like to ride this way sometimes!”

  I’m not jealous, I’m not that guy, and my legs are on fire, so I squeeze the brakes and skid to a stop. I’d like to change the subject off of this a-hole who’s moving in on my girl, so I just turn around and look her in the eyes. As she steps off the pegs to yell at me for stopping too fast, I give her a hard kiss that shuts her up. She may think another Carter is cool, but she’s my girl.

  A bolt of lightning shoots through my body as my forgotten bruises collide with her open mouth. “Yeaow, awesome, cool!” I say, pulling away from the pain.

  She asks, “What’s the matter with you?”

  She seems confused when I reply, “Nothin’. Y-Y-You wanna go down the rocket-ship slide?”

  My face is hot from riding hard, so the embarrassment shouldn’t be that obvious. My lips are throbbing with pain. I grab her hand as we stroll past the swing sets. I’m trying really hard to pay attention while Abby explains how all of this land was part of the Saur mansion until the nineteen sixties. She tells me why nothing ever gets fixed in this park. She thinks it’s because the newer suburbs have sucked up all of the money, but that’s part of why Merrian is perfect for shooting this movie; it looks the exact same way as when C. B. lived here.

  The sun is almost gone as I set my bike down and we climb the rickety spiral stairs to the top of the old rocket-ship slide. I’ve been up here a thousand times but never noticed how beautiful the view was. The slide is on top of a hill that overlooks most of Merrian. It all seems pretty small from up here. You can see the top of the Saur mansion and my school and the pool. The streets make sense when you’re this high, and I can just make out Grey Goose Lake in the distance. I feel stupid for thinking it was so far away and for getting lost going out there. Abby tells me that this revelation is called “perspective” and that sometimes stepping away from something can give you a better look at it. I had no idea Merrian was in a valley. I was always too busy catching my breath from sprinting up the stairs in order to beat my sister or EJ to the top. The slide is super fun, long, twisty, and fast as hell, so I was always a little dizzy and too stoked about sliding down again to worry about perspectives or topographical appreciation. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve never been up here with Abby before.

  We stare at each other for a while before I pull her close. Pain shoots through my face again as she feels the romantic situation and kisses me. Dang it. I pull back after a few seconds and look into her eyes. I’m begging her to stop with my gaze, but she must think those tears in my eyes are sexy, because she comes in for more. Whoever invented the phrase “love hurts” must have dealt with something like this. I pull away again and roll my head to the side. She kisses my neck, and I moan a sigh of relief like I’m a guy who’s really into getting his neck slobbered on. I grab her boobs because they’re there, and who wouldn’t? We’ve already established that boob is cool, but I’ve yet to try for more since our breakup/blowup last fall. Going up her skirt in a movie theater caused an uproar that rocked my school with scandal and wrecked my life for months, but I’d do it all over again in a second! I hope this rocket ship’s rusty bolts can hold it down, because Abby and I are commencing the launch sequence! I slide my hands down her torso and unbutton the top button of her shorts as she cleans out my eardrum. I pause to make sure a slap isn’t on the way before I go after the zipper. I give it a nervous tug and am halfway home when she aborts the launch and gives a chop block to my trembling hand.

  She whispers, “My period . . .” and rebuttons her shorts before kissing my swollen lips again.

  The pain is twice as bad as all the blood in my body rushes back upward. Not enough of it made it to my brain, however, to stop me from stepping back and asking, “So, d-d-do you wanna give me a blow job, then?”

  I knew it was a dumb question the second it came out, and I wince from the stupidity, but I can’t take it back and I just can’t handle any more kissing. Rumor has it (Nutt’s brother, Bart) that when a girl’s on her period she’s more likely to throw down a bj, for some reason. And Bart’s (second-best) method to get a girl to give you one is to simply, “Ask for it.” Abby looks out over the railing at the last moments of dusk and takes a deep breath. She may be drinking in the romance and thinking about how nice it would be for me to get my first blow job up here . . . and maybe what technique she should use. She’s really thinking about it! This could be it . . . the best advice Bart has ever given. “Ask and ye shall receive!” She bites her lip, and I see tears welling up in her eyes. Dang it! My shoulders drop along with my face, spirit, and everything else.

  In silence, she turns and walks down the stairs with heavy steps. I look down at the mulch-covered ground and think about throwing myself off. What a dumbass! I’m mortified at what I’ve just done, so I slide down to apologize. On accident, and out of pure instinctual habit, I squeal, “Whooo-hooo!” on the way down. I come in for a hundred-mile-an-hour landing, almost plowing into Abby, who’s just getting there herself. She’s shocked to see that I’ve beaten her down here, and surprised by how drunk I seem to have become. She blows past me, and I dizzily stumble toward her. “I-I-I’m sorry.”

  “What are you sorry for, Carter?” she snaps back, and keeps going.

  “Uh . . . you know . . . that I made you cry?”

  “You’re not sorry you asked me to give you a blow job?” she seethes.

  “Yeah, I-I-I’m sorry about that too.”

  She stops walking like she’s thinking up something mean to say, so I beat her to the punch and dig myself in a little deeper. “You know, Bart told me to just shove your head toward my crotch, and you’d just start doin’ it. But I thought that because of the romantic setting, and me respecting you and all . . . like I do . . . that I could get b
y with the second-best technique.”

  Her head twitches and she barks, “What?”

  “Haven’t you ever heard, ‘it never hurts to ask’?”

  She marches off, and I grab my bike to give chase. When I catch up, she barks, “I’m not ready for all that and . . . and . . . you are so freaking immature!”

  “That’s the second time you’ve called me immature today.”

  “Well, you are.”

  This would be the perfect time to call her a bitch and assert myself as the alpha male, so in my own way, I do. “You’re the one who’s scared of a blow job!”

  “So?” she asks defiantly.

  I’m sure tonight or tomorrow I’ll come up with a brilliant comeback to that question, but for now I just keep walking beside her and stewing.

  She starts crying and then sobs, “Do you know how that makes me feel when you ask me something like that?”

  I’m sure this is a trick question that I’m supposed to just think about, but I answer anyway. And I’m still trying to be a dick when I say, “Like my girlfriend, maybe?! Cuz that’s what girlfriends do! I like hangin’ out with you, but you’re also really hot, and I don’t want to just talk all the time.”

  “We were kissing—what’s wrong with that? Why do you have to push?”

  “I’m a guy, we push! And in case you aren’t aware, this black-and-blue ball of bruise where my face used to be . . . friggin’ hurts when you smash into it!”

  She finally seems to get how jacked up I am and asks, “Why didn’t you just say that?”

  “I thought I did . . . by asking you to focus on other . . . uninjured areas!”

  Logic! I said it with a mix of sass and hurt feelings. I’m the man! And she doesn’t have any snappy comebacks either! She keeps walking in silence, though, until we reach the park’s back gate. She finally stops and turns to me with tears streaming down her cheeks.

  She looks pitiful when she says, “Stop. Don’t walk with me anymore. I love you, Carter, but we just met too soon. We’re the wrong people for each other at this point in our lives.”

  I have to laugh. “Oh my God! You’re so dramatic!”

  “And you’re an immature asshole!” she bellows.

  Dumbfoundedly, I ask, “Are you really breakin’ up with me here?”

  She just turns and sadly walks through the gates.

  “Really?!” I demand. “I sat through those friggin’ Twilight movies for you!”

  She turns and barks, “But you didn’t read the books like I asked you to!”

  Unbelievable! She’s just out of sight when I throw my bike as far as I can (about six feet). How’s that for mature, BI-ATCH?!

  6. WHO ORDERED A HOT DOG?

  I wake up at the crack of ten fifteen a.m. the next day. I could barely get to sleep, but once I did, I went ahead and got nine and a half hours. Nevertheless, I’m rested, and I know what needs to be done. I’ve got to ride up to school and work out with my boys, and then immediately apologize to Abby. I throw on some shorts and a T-shirt, slam a protein shake, and tell my dad that I’ll be back in about an hour to help him with the stupid deck. He took the day off of his real job to work on this junk, so he’s fired up and tries to show me his drawings and explain why he’s strung this yellow string all over the backyard, but I tell him I’ve got to get moving.

  It’s a perfect summer day. I’ve regained some of the feeling in my face, and I’ve got all of my lines memorized for the big audition—three days early! As soon as I knock out this apology, and Abby and I get back on track, this summer is going to be kicking ass!

  Rolling into the parking lot, I see my boys’ bikes locked up to various trees and signposts. Nick Brock’s truck is parked next to the CRX, but my eye goes to the black Ferrari sitting in the back of the lot. It’s beautiful and must be brand-new, because it has thirty-day tags. I bet they’re getting personalized license plates made like 2FAST4U or RCKTMAN! Who the hell got a Ferrari? If my football coach owns this baby, I may have to write a letter to someone, because he’s overpaid! After gawking at it for a while, I lock up and am headed into the weight room when I hear the beat of a familiar song pumping inside the gymnasium. It’s “Get Up Offa That Thing,” by James Brown, and it’s been stuck in my head for weeks because Abby’s been working out a dance number to it. She’s all stressed about it because it’s her first chance to choreograph anything for the drill team. She’s obviously the best dancer on the squad, and the older girls are pissed off about it, so they’re making her audition this routine to see if she’s got what it takes.

  The gym door is propped open, so I slip inside. The drill team is facing the opposite direction, and they don’t notice me. The number’s going really well. I’m nodding to the beat and taking in the sights of a plus-sized dance troupe getting funky. They clap (almost in unison) and stomp a few times before swiveling their hips and leaping into a line. The girls touch the gym floor and slowly rise back up like a tsunami wave of purple sateen. Abby shimmies her boobs around, and they run toward half court. This must be the big finish. But I may see a problem. Two girls are headed for the same tape mark on the floor and they don’t spot each other until it’s too late . . . yep, problem . . . SMACK! They crash into each other, hard, before taking out a folding-chair prop and crashing to the hardwood dramatically.

  I fight off the laughter because Abby seems disappointed and the music has faded out.

  I think about clapping, but don’t want them to think that I’m making fun, when I hear Nutt’s voice boom from behind, “Who ordered a hot dog?!”

  The entire drill team glances over their shoulders as a pair of hands slam into my hips, and I instantly regret two things at once:

  A) Not tying the drawstring on my shorts.

  B) Not taking the time to put on underwear this morning.

  In a flash, my pants are around my ankles and my cheeks are as red as fire trucks . . . both sets! In front of me, the girls squeal with prude horror, and behind me, my boys howl with laughter as I stumble around, flapping in the breeze and frantically yanking my shorts back up.

  I decide to put off the apology and chase my boys out the doors and around the parking lot, yelling, “Assholes!”

  I stop chasing them after a few minutes when I see the awesome car again and gasp, “Yo, who’s Ferrari?”

  Bag tells me, “It’s that writer who came to school last year.”

  “C. B. Down?” I ask.

  “Yeah, he’s in there workin’ out with Bart and Nick Brock,” EJ explains, just before I punch Nutt in the chest, and everyone groans their admiration.

  Bag smiles mischievously and says, “Hey, Carter, do you need anything?”

  I know he’s messing with me, but I’m not sure what he’s getting at, so I play along. “Nooo, why?”

  Hormone chimes in. “You’re sure we can’t get you somethin’?”

  I just stare at them until EJ yells, “You don’t want a blow job this morning?!”

  Son of a bitch! I punch Nutt in the chest again.

  “OW!” he squeals. “It’s not my fault you and Abby broke up!”

  “Who the hell told you that?”

  Doc explains, “EJ’s bitch is here, and she was just yappin’ about it.”

  EJ throws up his hands and protests, “Dude!?”

  I shake my head in disgust. Why would Abby tell Nicky anything? I’m sure that she didn’t mean for her to blab it to everyone, but still.

  Still rubbing his boob like a bitch, Nutt continues, “Do not apologize to her, Carter! Bart says that she’s just testing to see if you’re a punk. If you grovel, she owns you, but if you man up and never speak to her again, you’ll be hittin’ it in a week.”

  I look around the group to see if what he said makes sense to anyone else. They all seem to be in agreement, so I decide to hold off on the apology, and we head into the weight room.

  The old box fans are blowing hot air, and hard rock is blasting through the old speakers. The pool doesn’t open u
ntil tomorrow, so everyone is here. The fine-ass Merrian Pool lifeguards are in here toning up for the big day. Bag’s sister, Pam, and her gorgeous friend Jemma are wearing very short shorts and doing leg presses, so Nutt and I are getting warmed up next to the leg press today. He’s bent over, squinting between his legs and hoping to catch a peek, but I can’t stop gawking at C. B. Down doing pull-ups. You wouldn’t think a writer would need to be in very good shape, but nobody told this guy. He grunts and snarls as he yanks his chin above the bar over and over again. His tattoos are bulging and glistening under the florescent lights.

  I’m getting a drink of water when he walks up behind me and gasps, “S’up, Carter.”

  I turn in shock and mutter, “Hey, Mr. D-Down. I-I-I really enjoyed your book!”

  He says thanks and gets a drink as I yammer on like a junior-high-school girl. “I mean, it was miserable, you know, but it’s fun to read because it’s not happening to me, you know? The script isn’t nearly as good, though, you know?” Of course he doesn’t know—he wrote it! Shut up!

  He looks like he’s going to rip my head off, but he doesn’t. He nods and replies, “Yeah, that’s what you get when you work with a committee. Try to please too many people, you wind up not pleasing anyone.”

  My favorite writer just shared something deeply personal with me, so I brilliantly point to the tattoo on his shoulder and ask, “D-D-Did that hurt?”

  He continues, “I still believe that the heart of my story is in that script, and with the right actors, it’s gonna be great.”

  Suspiciously, I ask, “You sold out to the Kidz Channel, right?”

  His jaw flexes and the hawk tattooed on his neck cocks its beak at me in anger. “I didn’t sell out to anybody, man. Kidz Channel is just one of the investors. . . . The higher your budget, the more freedom you have to—”

  My face hurts from embarrassed contortion as I interrupt him, “No man . . . I uh, I’m not trying to put you down, I just saw the Ferrari out there, and . . . I think it’s badass . . . I’m just not great at conversation.”