He asks what happened to my face, and I explain the whole wreck and how gearing up to audition for his film is partly to blame for my wounds. He likes the cuts and bruises. He thinks they give me more “edge.” He also tells me how much he liked my portrayal of Sky Masterson in Guys and Dolls and how he saw the show in London and preferred what I did over a professional actor! I finally stop grinning like an idiot when he asks if Abby and I are coming to the audition together.
“Yeah, no, we’re fighting right now, because—”
His laughter interrupts me. “Oh yeah, your rocket-ship question? I heard about that.”
Dang it! I try to change the subject. “You know, I’ve already got the audition scene memorized.”
He takes a deep breath and nods a few times. He pulls at his beard and asks a fitness question. “Are you warmed up?”
I nod and he asks, “You wanna do some CrossFit?”
What am I gonna do, say no? But for those of you who don’t know, if someone asks if “you wanna do some CrossFit,” DON’T do it . . . it’s awful! Within five minutes I’m ready to puke. As far as I can tell, it’s this fitness program designed by the devil himself. It strings together a bunch of different exercises that all seem easy, but when you combine them, in order, it’s like a painful-death simulator. You try to get your heart as close to exploding without actually allowing it the relief of combustion. It’s a tantric heart attack. I’m lifting the same weight as Nick Brock and Paul Skelton, a.k.a. the Skeleton . . . This is not right! I’ve done more push-ups in twenty minutes than I’ve done in my whole life. C. B. is a madman.
He’s totally exhausted from doing power cleans when I hear him snarl, “Sell out . . .” and then he does two more. I was doing push-ups at the time (go figure) and looking around for a trash can to vomit into when he said it, so I did five more and went immediately into squats . . . just trying to look busy.
As I’m hobbling across the parking lot to see if Abby has finished practice, C. B. walks up behind me and gasps, “Nice work, man. Hey, I invited those lifeguard girls and a few of your friends to have lunch with me—do you want to join?”
“Why?”
He laughs at me for a second, then says, “Well, I guess I didn’t have many friends when I lived here, and I never had any money to do anything nice for anyone, so I want to try to be the cool guy around here for a change.”
I shrug and say, “Makes sense to me.” The next thing I know I’m shutting the door/wing of a Ferrari and flying down Merrian Lane. I’m trying to read the tattooed letters on his knuckles. He’s talking about the movie or the auditions. The left hand says S-T-A-Y, for sure, but he keeps using the right one to shift gears and gesture as he talks about “concentration” or something. We rip into the Chipotle parking lot, and he’s laughing at something. I’m pretty sure his right hand just says F-O-C-U . . . but that doesn’t make any sense.
C. B. interjects with his deep gravely voice. “Stay focused.”
“Huh?” I ask. Dang it, I’ve known him for less than an hour, and he’s already figured out that I’m a space case.
“‘Stay Focused.’ That’s what’s tattooed on my fists,” he says, showing me the letters printed on his knuckles. I’m still looking at the F-O-C-U when he laughs and says, “It’s a joke. You get it?”
“You didn’t have the ‘focus’ to finish the whole thing?”
He nods before turning the Ferrari off, and puts his pointer finger sideways under his nose. He’s got another tattoo of an old-timey mustache on the side of it.
I start laughing. “You’re crazy, dude.”
He agrees. “I thought you’d like that.”
The doors rotate up, and we climb out.
C. B. leans against the car and says, “Hey, for the audition . . . it’s great that you memorized the lines, but I don’t want you to get locked into that script.”
I glance around in hopes that someone will see me hanging out with this dude. We close the doors and he continues, “I really want you to keep it loose and show these producer dickheads how great you are. Just bring that chemistry you and Abby brought to Guys and Dolls. It’s electric and raw, and the camera is going to eat it up. These Kidz Channel guys just have to see it and feel it . . . so they’ll get off my ass about casting Hilary Idaho and Zac-Michael Wienus.”
I try to make him feel better. “They were pretty good in Cheer! The Musical.”
He seems even more agitated when he says, “That’s the exact comparison I don’t want.”
“At least they haven’t turned your story into a musical.”
He squeezes his face with his hands and adds, “I just heard this morning that they’re trying to write songs.”
“What could they possibly sing about? Your book is one of the most depressing things ever written.”
He nods his thanks and explains how in the novel, Chris has dreams about his family and Maggie, so they want to delve into a happy place for a while and add these singing fantasy sequences.
I think that sounds ridiculous, but what the hell do I know, so I try to keep it positive. “It could work.”
It takes a few more minutes for Nick Brock, Bart, Skeleton, Pam and her friends Jemma and Yasmine, plus my boys (EJ, Doc, Nutt, Bag, Hormone, Levi, J-Low), this d-bag Andre, and ten other dudes to show up and get out of their overstuffed cars. We strut into the restaurant, still dripping with CrossFit sweat. We order the crap out of the menu because C. B. is buying. Massive amounts of food cover seven tables. I ordered guacamole and chips with my tacos for the first time ever, because my dad “will not pay three goddamn dollars for some chips that they should give you for free!” and C. B. will. We have the whole restaurant to ourselves because we’re so obnoxious and stinky. Either that, or everyone else eating lunch on a hot Monday afternoon really wants to sit on the patio. I’ve never had so much fun eating, and these chips are worth the money! C. B. is the coolest adult I’ve ever been around. If anyone tries to talk about his movie, he changes the subject and tells a joke or he asks us a question, and it seems like he’s really interested in the answer, like we’re not just a bunch of smelly, dumbass kids who don’t have Ferraris. I didn’t expect the writer of such a depressing book to be so entertaining.
I wish all high school parties went down at Chipotle!
7. VARIOUS TECHNIQUES
I’m in the back of Nick Brock’s truck, trying to pick a bug out of my eye, because Pam is now occupying the Ferrari’s passenger seat. We’re all headed toward her and Bag’s house for an impromptu party. Bag seems worried about his sister in the race car, and this bug seems to be drowning in my eye.
When the truck finally rumbles into the driveway, a full-fledged party has spontaneously erupted. I thought we’d just play some video games and hang out, but my sister is here, along with most of my school, and miraculously, some of them are already drunk. If the Red Cross were as organized as the party grapevine in Merrian, a lot of lives would be saved.
I lose my second game of Wii tennis and start dancing in the kitchen next to a bunch of senior girls. It’s fun, but all I can think about is how mad Bag’s mom is going to be when she gets home from work, and how I wish Abby were here. I really should have apologized to her this morning. I like to copy her moves when we dance, and I want to talk to her about C. B. and tell her about CrossFit. She would dig it. I want to tell her how much my “perspective” has changed. It’s only been a day, but I already miss her. . . . My boys are right, I am whipped!
After a while C. B. leaves to buy more alcohol, and since this isn’t my first rodeo with high school kids and booze, I split before he gets back and learns the secret reason you’re not supposed to buy beer for teens: We’re assholes.
I watch the Ferrari tear off down the road, and grab my bike out of Nick’s truck. I’m looking at my watch, trying to figure out how fast I need to ride in order to get back to school before drama camp lets out, when my sister steps out of the house and breaks my train of thought by yelling, “You
better have a good excuse for what you did!”
Dang it! I look into her eyes and know that someone just tattled. “I kind of do, but I can see that you won’t agree, so forget it.”
She’s glaring at me like I stole this bike from a blind kid. “You just think that you’re sooo special because you’re auditioning for this movie and hanging out with this writer, but if you think you can start treating the people who care about you like dirt, you’re going to seriously regret it. Like you’re Christian friggin’ Bale all the sudden?!”
“Shut up! I don’t think that, and I’m going to go apologize right now.”
“Good! Regret is a decent place to start, but you need to show how sorry you are. You need to work extra hard to prove you’re remorseful, and you’ll be on your way to getting the things you want.”
Is she telling me how to get Abby to put out more? Why is she using this weird, inspirational code language? That’s not usually her style. “Okay, oracle, so if I’m not supposed to ‘just ask for it,’ how do I get her to give me a blow job?”
Her left eye snaps shut like she’s just eaten a lemon, and her head cocks to the side. I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing.
I throw up my hands and say, “Wait! Let’s start with what you think I should be sorry for.”
She considers her next statement very carefully, tapping her lips with her index finger before seething, “I thought that you should be embarrassed that our father is sitting in the backyard with a broken heart and a pile of lumber because his only son is nowhere to be found. . . .”
Dang it, I totally forgot about him!
She continues. “But unless I’m mistaken . . . you’re telling me that you’ve also asked Abby—the best girlfriend you’re likely to ever have—to give you a . . . ahh . . . it’s so disrespectful that I can’t even bring myself to say it.”
“Ah come on, you can too . . . BLOW JOB! It was just a question—I didn’t throw her off the rocket-ship slide. It doesn’t hurt to ask, and you’re the one who told me to use questions in the first—”
Her face contorts even further as she barks, “Stop right there, idiot! I told you to ask questions about her, questions that would make her feel special . . . not degrade her! Do you know how that makes a girl feel?”
I obviously don’t, so she continues, “Like a used object! Things like pushing a girl’s head down into your crotch are techniques that guys use on girls that that they don’t care about. I’m not telling you those things won’t work on insecure skanks, because they do. There are moves you make on girls you respect, and they are different than the ones you use on girls you DON’T. Trust me, we know the difference! Pity the boy who thinks he has control. Girls of quality will do these things if and when we want to . . . or we won’t. All you can really do is get us not to do things. And the best way to not get a cool chick to do something . . . is to push her.”
I drop my head onto my handlebars in frustration. She pats my back and says, “Now, don’t beat yourself up, you made a mistake, but you’re lucky enough to have me pointing these things out for you. You’re learning the hard way, but you’re learning. Now, get over to her house and apologize, and then go home and help dad with that deck!”
I raise my head and ask, “Why can’t you help him?”
“Because I’m a girl and—”
“Yes, I’d like a double standard with cheese, please. . . .”
“And he didn’t ask me . . . He wants to bond with your dumb ass for some reason.”
She heads back into the house, and I hear her bark at EJ, “Get off the table, idiot!” He’s spent so much time at our house that she feels obligated to straighten him out too. I think she reserves the more heartfelt tips for me, though. He just gets yelled at.
I pass the liquor store on Merrian Lane and wave to C. B. as he’s loading the Ferrari with beer. He seems puzzled as to why I’m on the road, so I wave a kind of pre-apology for what my friends are about to do. He just gives me a nod.
Drama camp has probably let out, and I’m closer to Abby’s house than school, so I bust a left onto her street. I wonder if she’s already forgiven me and is walking toward my house right now so that she can interrupt my dad’s construction project and ask me to go up to the bedroom so we can “talk” privately. And she’ll cry when I tell her how I confused her for a skank and how sorry I am and how I totally understand how she feels, and she’ll apologize for blowing it out of proportion and telling Nicky about it, and then she’ll slowly take off her clothes so that we can have make-up sex and there will be sunlight streaming into my windows so that I can clearly see her—
“Whoooa!!!” I yell when I realize I’m riding through Abby’s yard and have just crushed a bush and row of flowers. I slam on the brakes and swerve to miss the mailbox before finally skidding to a stop. I look over my shoulder and lock eyes with Abby’s pissed-off mother . . . who was about to trim the bush I assassinated. I can see that she doesn’t appreciate the fact that I just saved her some work, and that she wouldn’t mind putting those clippers in her hand to use on me.
“Sorry,” I yell, looking at the missing swatch of grass.
She looks at my back tire for an explanation and asks, “Can I help you?”
“Uhhhh, is Abby around?”
She tells me that she’s still at drama camp and continues to glare at me. I nervously mutter, “S-S-She’s probably rehearsing for the audition, huh?”
She explains, “No, Abby isn’t planning to audition anymore.”
“What? Why?”
“She doesn’t want to be in the same room with you.”
I’m able to ignore her snotty tone because I’m so pissed about the fact that Abby might not do something that she really wants to because of me. This may be her only chance to audition for a movie, and she’ll regret it forever if she doesn’t, so I tell her mom very seriously, “You should make her.”
She pointedly replies, “I don’t make Abby do anything, Carter.”
I look away and think about defending myself with an explanation of the various techniques one might utilize when trying to elicit a blow job, and how I actually chose the method with the least amount of pressure, but I just let the guilt hang there until she sadly says, “You should be nicer to her.”
I look down at the skid mark in her yard and think about what other damage I may have caused around this house in the past year. I don’t give any excuses. I just sigh, “I know,” and pedal off.
I lean my bike against the brick wall of the drama department and walk inside. The usually deafening hallway is now a ghost town. The sound of Abby’s laughter floats out of the little theater and makes me smile. She may not be in such a bad mood after all. I’m making my way through the backstage curtains when a guy’s deep voice stops me in my tracks and sends a chill down my spine. I peek through the black cloth to find her and a lanky college guy sitting on the steps of the theater, drinking Diet Cokes. He’s definitely a drama nerd, but cooler than most of the ones around here. His hair is perfectly sticking up all over the place like a Wienus Bro, and he’s leaning back on his elbows while his long legs dangle into the orchestra pit. Abby is sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees, looking at him like he’s a movie star telling a fantastical tale.
“So, it’s opening night,” he bellows. “It’s just a college show, but everyone else is nervous because they’re all terrified of Shakespeare. I’m backstage, changing my costume, when this little freshman—no offense to you, Abby—comes running up to me screaming, ‘Carter, you’re on! You’re on!’”
Hold up! This is Carter? I bet it’s his first name. Carter is a d-bag name, unless it’s your last name and people just call you that.
He continues telling his lame theater story, in his nasally monotone voice, about how someone forgot their lines and he saved the day. I think I fall asleep for a minute, but he finally wraps it up by saying, “The Duke walks past me again, I grab his leg and yell, ‘The king really entreats your
patience, good sir!’”
Abby laughs. “That was brilliant!”
Nooo, it wasn’t! I could think of a hundred better ways to make that screwup work. I’m just about to step out there and break off one of my own funny theater stories, when Abby says, “Oh my God, my ex-boyfriend was always putting Jeremy and me into those situations. This one time, during Guys and Dolls dress rehearsal . . .”
My brain shorts out for a second and my head twitches. Ex-boyfriend? Like, me, ex-boyfriend? And I’m not positive of this because I can’t hear very well with this steam shooting out of my ears, but I believe she just made fun of me! Okay, okay . . . I’m not going to freak out . . . and I’m not going to cry . . . very much! But tears are streaming down my cheeks, and I’m as pissed off that she’s causing me to cry as I am to be the butt of her damn joke. I wipe the water off my face and bolt for the parking lot.
I fling the door to the drama department open and step out into the light as Ms. McDougle pulls into the parking lot. I grab my bike like it owes me money, but the handlebars catch on my gym shorts and rip them open at the crotch, so I shove the bars back the other way. They bounce off the wall and smash into my bare balls . . . really hard.
“Ohhh!” I gasp, and double over with pain.
Ms. McDougle yells, “Carter! Are you okay?”
“Dang iiitttt! NO!” I cry into the grass, and try not to flash her my wounded junk. “Not even close!”
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“W-W-Why don’t you ask your other Carter Casanova College Dumbass in there?!” I yell, and punch the brick wall. “OWWWW!!!” Man, I am immature.
“What are you talking about?” she says with great concern. “Was he doing something to Abby?”
“NO, she was doing something to him, though . . . and me!” I’m crying again.
“What did she do to him?” Ms. McDougle demands.
“She, s-s-she made fun of me,” I mutter.
She sighs. “Oh good . . . Not good for you, of course. I just overheard Abby telling him the other day that she was a freshman in college and—”
Carter's Big Break Page 5
