Door five: finally an empty bathroom—hand towels crumpled on the floor, a quarter sheet of toilet paper left on the roll, yellow bubbles of piss in the toilet. This wasn’t the time to be picky. My knees were shaking so badly I almost couldn’t pull it out in time. The cold-jerk, piss-shiver through my shoulders, two taps, flush, and to the faucet. A dish of soaps shaped like sea horses and conch shells.
After the toilet stopped racing, I heard a piano I somehow hadn’t seen.
I went downstairs into what I’m guessing Kim would’ve called the “salon.” The half-dozen or so people still at Dana’s had migrated there: Joan Hawkings, Bink, Dana, Shannon Debold, Bob Collins, Jon Bales, Grace Peterson. Bink was on a couch, his mouth clean of vomit, with Dana on the floor, nestled between his legs. She was stroking the back of his calves while he rubbed her shoulders and laughed at Shannon, a hammered cheerleader whose skirt was hiked so far past her knees everyone could see the daddy-longlegs hairs creeping from her panties. Bob laughed, too late and too hard, snapping one of the rubber bands on his braces against the roof of his mouth. He reeled backward and collided with the grand piano, bringing its lid down with a slam.
“Idiot,” Grace said, leaning into Shannon.
The guy at the piano—Rob, still shirtless—glanced at Bob and went back to playing that classical music from the Peanuts Christmas special.
“Hey, Schroeder, quit playing that crap or eat out Peppermint Patty,” Bales said. Dana swatted his leg and whined that he was being gross.
Rob looked up just in time to duck the flip-flop Shannon’d drunkenly tossed at his head. It hit the Venetian blinds behind Bink.
“Watch it, woman,” Rob smiled. “Play nice.”
“Then you play something nice,” Shannon said. “Not the crap you’ve been playing.”
“Okay, but only because you asked so politely,” he said. It seemed like he was flirting with her, but I couldn’t tell. It pissed me off anyway, ’cuz, let’s face it, I wanted him to flirt with me.
Rob’s shoulders rolled, his fingers dancing the length of the keyboard. I plopped on the couch and threw a leg over Dana’s shoulder. She was too drunk to notice.
“I know this! It’s the ‘Minute’ Waltz,” Bink said, surprising even himself. “They did this at my sisters’ ballet recital. It’s by Chop-in.”
“Show-pan, you pig,” Kim Green corrected him, coming into the “salon” from upstairs. Kyle followed her, tugging at his shorts like he was showing off what was left of his boner. “It’s pronounced Show-pan.”
“Pigshh. All my friendshh are pigshh,” Dana said, her face in the carpet.
“It’s fag music,” Kyle said, high-fiving Bink and knocking my leg off Dana. He curled into a couch with Kim.
Rob flipped Kyle the bird and then played a bass-heavy version of “Fascinatin’ Rhythm,” making it sound as if he was playing two pianos at once. He wasn’t concentrating on the music. His whole body moved, hands trilling white here, spanking black there, and he had this huge, dimple-making smile on his face. When he’d finished, the girls applauded and the guys look ticked, like Rob’d deliberately tried to show them up in front of “their” women.
“Thanks,” Rob said. Blushing, he closed the piano, flipped on the stereo, and sat next to Dana.
“You know what we should do?” Jon asked. He made one of those tough-guy, silent chin thrusts at Kyle, letting him know he needed to look up Shannon’s skirt. “We should totally play Truth or Dare.”
“Hell, yeah,” Kyle said. “Dana, you start.”
Bink jabbed his knee into Dana’s back. She snapped up and blinked like she couldn’t figure out where she was.
“Bob,” Dana said, “truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
“Fine. I dare you to get me some water and an aspirin.”
Bob’s face sank. He raced out of the room, returning with a bottle of Tylenol and a Dixie cup so fast I wondered if there was another bathroom I hadn’t discovered.
“My turn,” Bob said, licking his lips and eyeballing Shannon. She whispered to Grace. “Shannon, truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
Bob looked at his crotch, then back at Shannon. “Spit or swallow?”
“Swallow. Same as you.” Kyle and Jon howled. Shannon put a hand on Rob’s thigh. Slut. I was jealous. “Joan, truth or dare?”
“I’m not playing.”
“Chickenshit. C’mon, truth or dare?”
“Okay, truth.”
“Ever have sex…with a guy?”
“Yeah.” Everyone’s jaw dropped. Rob shifted his leg and Shannon’s hand slipped away. Good. Keep her whore hands off you.
“No way. Who?” Grace asked.
“What is this? An interrogation?” Joan sighed. She wasn’t gonna get off that easy, not with this group. “Oh, all right. Tom Vodak. He was…” She wiggled her pinky finger. The girls laughed. When Bob swallowed hard, I smiled. I was glad I wasn’t the only guy with a reason to get self-conscious. “Charlie, truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
Dares are safer than truths. Sure, I ran the risk of being dared to make out with the dog or lick a toilet bowl, but that beat Joan making me admit that when I got home, I’d jack off thinking about Bink and Rob.
“I dare you to…” She scanned the room. “Kiss Neil.”
“Hell, no,” Bink said, curling into a fetal position and shielding his face with his arms. “I’ll quit.”
“Baby,” Joan said like she couldn’t be bothered. She searched the room. Jon and Kyle glared at her. “Fine. Kiss Rob.”
I froze. My face burned. My throat was so dry it felt like I’d swallowed sand. Play it cool, I told myself. Just give him a peck on the cheek. But as I crossed the room, Bob—the jagoff—tripped me. I fell, landing on top of Rob. Our bodies were hip-to-hip, our faces practically colliding. The guys moaned, “Gross,” trying to outdo each other’s straightness with their disgust. Eyes closed, I leaned in, expecting to get Rob’s cheek, but I got his lips. My jaw went slack. I’m not sure, but I swear I felt his tongue trying to get in my mouth. My dick switch-bladed up and I jerked away. A strand of spittle linked us mouth to mouth, then broke. He dried his lips on the back of his hand. I wanted to know if he was wiping away the taste of me.
The game went on. I got Bales to admit he spanked it while sniffing a pair of his sister’s dirty panties. Grace kissed Dana. Joan mimicked Tom Vodak’s come face. Bales finally got to french Shannon. Kyle admitted to nicknaming his prick “The Shotgun” because it “fired from both barrels.” If my eyes could groan, they would have. Dana dared everybody to get her more water, then made Bob get her slippers, then a quilt, then a grilled cheese sandwich. Rob frenched the girls. Bob confessed to being the guy on the hockey team who ate the Wonder Bread.
“Shannon, truth or dare?” Grace asked with a wink. They were in on something.
“Dare.”
“I dare you to feel Rob’s dick—under his shorts.”
Shannon slipped her hand up Rob’s leg. He tried to squirm away, but Kim and Joan pinned him by the shoulders.
“I’m not wearing underwear.” His face tensed. Shannon smiled.
“What’s it feel like?” Grace asked.
“It’s warm…kinda heavy. His balls aren’t hairy.”
“Does he have an erection?” Kim asked. Foy-yay. Show-pan. Erection. If she wanted people thinking she was classy, she didn’t need to throw around a bunch of big words. She could start by not letting Kyle and Bob make her into a whore sandwich.
“Sorta, I guess…I don’t know.” Rob looked panicked and embarrassed.
“Let’s see,” Grace said.
Rob kicked, but Shannon and Grace tugged Rob’s shorts an inch or two past his hips, flashing a patch of black pubes. They looked soft, not wiry. I wanted to touch ’em.
Rob leapt from the girls, red faced and sweating. He somehow lost a shoe as he hiked up his shorts.
“Look, Shannon,” Bob said, pointing at Rob’s crotch. O
f course, Mr. Closet Case would notice. “He’s got a hard-on.”
“Do not,” Rob said. He was tenting his shorts.
Rob forced himself between Bink and me. Rob’s arm touched mine. His skin felt hot. I got hard and part of me hoped Rob would notice.
“Dude, it’s totally cool,” Kyle said. He grabbed his crotch. “Man, The Shotgun would totally dig three chicks going after him.”
Shannon sighed, bored with the boy-bonding, macho-posturing. I couldn’t blame her. It was like all the guys were suddenly Rob’s best friends just ’cuz his dick stiffed for chicks. So what? My dick doesn’t need a reason to get hard and I don’t see anybody throwing a party for it.
Shannon turned to me. “Charlie, truth or dare?”
“Dare,” I said, hating them and hating myself more for being there.
With the exception of Bink, it’s not like I was friends with any of them. Hell, even though we’d been in the same classes for like ten years, we barely knew jack about each other. They knew I liked guys, which, depending on which one of them was talking, put me on a spectrum somewhere between one of those cute little dogs that socialites accessorized with, the Ken doll best friend that went to school dances with the fat girls, almost normal (except for all the other things about me that made me a freak—like not wearing the right clothes), a social pariah, a sitcom character’s snarky best friend, and a kitten rapist. And I knew, or at least hoped, that after high school, they’d all end up fat, bald, mortgaged to the eyeteeth, and nursing a litter of ankle-biters and a six-pack-a-day drinking habit.
Kyle saddled up to her, whispered something in her ear, then looked at me.
Prick.
Shannon nodded.
Bitch.
“Charlie, I dare you to go skinny-dipping in the O’Reillys’ pool next door.”
It was a setup, but what was I going to do? Chicken out? If I did, I’d just have to listen to Kyle and Jon’s crap about being afraid of everyone seeing my pin dick. And, compared to the guys I’ve seen in gym class, it is. Like that’s something I want to advertise.
I kicked off my shoes and socks, peeled off my shirt, not caring who saw my bony ribs, and barreled out of the room, dropping my jeans. Sober now, Dana chased me, pleading and saying something about an alarm. I didn’t listen. I jerked the sliding glass door open and tore off my underwear when I was sure no one could see anything more than my butt. I crossed the Flannigans’ backyard and hopped the O’Reillys’ fence.
“Damn it, Charlie. Stop,” Dana said. She grabbed the fence and tried hoisting herself over, but she couldn’t get any traction with her slippers. “Stop it, Charlie! You’re gonna get us busted.” Not my problem. “Neil, stop him.”
Kyle and Bink bounded over the fence, charging me at full speed, but I was already mid-dive.
Underwater, I missed all hell breaking loose. The pool’s motion detector triggered an alarm. Window after window in the O’Reillys’ house blazed with light. Bink and Kyle scrambled back over the fence. Everyone scattered, running back to Dana’s or to their cars. I swam, feeling relaxed for the first time all night. Some old guy—Mr. O’Reilly?—peeked through the blinds, cordless phone in hand.
After about twenty laps, there were two cops at the pool’s edge, their hands hovering over gun holsters.
“Hey, kid,” the fat one said, hitching up his pants. “Out of the pool. Now.”
What were the little pigs gonna do if I said no? Wade in after me? Fish me out with a skimmer? Shoot me?
“All right, I’m coming.” I slapped my hand on the pool’s surface, a spray of water just missing the legs of their polyester uniforms. The piggies jumped.
I climbed out, got knocked to the ground, and tasted concrete. One of them jerked my hands behind my back, cuffed me, and bitched, “Jesus, he’s naked.” The fatter of the two hauled me past the front of the O’Reillys’ house and crammed me into the backseat of the squad car.
“Stupid stunt, kid,” said This Little Piggy Had Roast Beef, slipping into the driver’s seat. He radioed the station. “What’s your name?” I knew that once they called the parental units, First’d go bat-shit crazy.
“Sir,” I said, “let me apologize and then we can call it a night.”
“Not likely, kid,” said Roast Beef. “The homeowner wants to file trespassing charges. Look, make it easy, kid. Give me your name and we’ll drop the public indecency stuff.” That wasn’t gonna happen. If First found out what I did, he’d make sure I got charged with everything they could just to teach me a lesson. I’d be dead before my name ever made the police blotter section of the Northwest Herald.
The Little Piggy That Said Wee Wee Wee climbed into the car. He had my jeans and shoes. “I think there was under-age drinking going on.”
“You think?” asked Roast Beef. He wiped his mouth, then grabbed the steering wheel like he needed the grip to stop himself from beating the stupidity out of his partner.
“Now, kid. Tell us your name. You’ll get your clothes and everyone can go home.”
I did and they radioed it back to the station. They weren’t happy when the dispatcher told them my dad was the assistant state’s attorney and wanted to straighten things out himself. They were gonna have to wait and they were pissed. They wouldn’t let me get dressed. If I was gonna ruin their night, they’d ruin mine.
Forty-five minutes later, First arrived at the O’Reillys’. He managed to convince the guy not to press charges, promising that what he had in store for me was worse than anything the juvie courts could dish out. Wee Wee Wee let me out of the squad car.
After they uncuffed me, I winced, started dressing in the clothes the cops’d been able to find. I didn’t have underwear so I hopped on one foot and yanked at the waistband, cupping my crotch to hide dick and nuts.
“Maybe you should have worried about everyone seeing you naked before you pulled this little stunt,” First said. “Get in the car.” I scrambled to his Oldsmobile, the asphalt biting my bare feet.
Back home, I stalked off to my bedroom and slammed the door. First threatened, so help him God, that if I ever slammed the door again, he’d break it down and he wasn’t going to be responsible for what happened next.
It’s late. First is downstairs hollering that he wants my personal essay finished in a half hour. It’s the only time he’s said anything to me since this morning when he laid into me how this college essay wasn’t his way of punishing me. It was his way of making me see how much of a mess I’ve been making of my life. According to him, it’s supposed to a real eye-opener.
I gotta come up with something better for this essay quick. If he sees what I’ve got now, I’m dead.
Sunday, August 26
My family fights like most people fart in church—silently and with this crippling fear that someone might notice.
The Ps are so concerned with what the neighbors might think that they never have a good, knockdown, drag-out, why-can’t-we-have-nice-things, this-is-the-thanks-I-get, miniature-Franklin-Mint-reproduction-of-a-Ming-dynasty-vase-hurled-at-First’s-head battle royal. At the first sign of conflict, First and Mom don’t tear open the silverware drawer, grab the nearest Lillian Vernon holiday-topper cheese knives and try to shiv each other on our TruGreen front lawn. No, they throw down like good little WASPs, which means discreetly closing the blinds, turning on all the faucets, the vacuum cleaner, the TVs, the stereo (Mom’s gotta go digging for Document and that lame-ass REM patter song; First, he prefers Twisted Sister—yeah, dude, you’re hard core, way to rock out with your cock out). Then, when the Ps are 100 percent convinced that they’ve created their own impenetrable Phil-Spector-Wall-of-Sound, that’s when they go at it—giving each other looks that could defrost turkeys, whispering threats about how if the toilet seat doesn’t get put down, the toothpaste tube doesn’t get squeezed from the bottom, the checkbook doesn’t get balanced, the stationary bicycle doesn’t start getting used for something other than a $400 tie rack, well then, things definitely are not going
to be pretty.
Lately, it seems like the two of them are fighting all the time. I’m not supposed to hear them, but I do. They’re constantly bitching about money, about how neither of them is ever happy, how First’s running for state’s attorney was supposed to make him happy and hasn’t, how Mom’s sick of being just a wife and mother, how neither of them imagined nearing 40 with nothing but a mortgage to show for it.
I’ve never heard them say it—even when they’re really pissed at each other—but sometimes, I think they blame me for all their problems. They weren’t much older than me when Mom got pregnant. It was college. First was a senior and, apparently, charming; Mom was a sophomore and, apparently, either drunk or crazy. The condom was defective. The wedding was shotgun.
That personal essay for college…it’s supposed to include something about my family, right? For what it’s worth:
My parents haven’t always hated each other or resented me. They actually—get this—were normal once. Well, as normal as the Ps can be. Mom did more than the other kids’ moms, because she was so much younger—taking me to swimming lessons, T-ball games, helping me set up a lemonade stand in the summer, teaching me division using a batch of homemade cookies that she’d lined out on the kitchen table to cool. (She called division “goes-intos” to make things easier—Chip, three goes-into nine how many times?)
Hell, First and I once got along, even after he started being such a totally overbearing control freak that it was like my umbilical cord had been attached to him. I wasn’t allowed to ride a tricycle if I wasn’t wearing Kevlar knee and elbow pads and a near-military-grade helmet. When I started kindergarten, the guy ran background checks on all my classmates, their parents, their parents’ neighbors, my teacher—hell, even the bus driver. If I had a runny nose, Mom’d practically have to snatch me out of First’s arms to stop him from taking me to the emergency room for a chest X ray. I’m not kidding. This year, I had to make my doctor tell him not to follow me into the exam room for my annual physical. There was no way in hell I was gonna listen to him give Dr. Gumatay the third degree on why I was still underperforming in the dangly bits department. Basically, First’s MO has been let’s-give-Chip-a-peptic-ulcer-by-preschool-an-AA-member-ship-by-eight-and-psychiatric-bills-larger-than-the-GDP-of-the-Republic-of-Slovenia-by-his-sophomore-year.
The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second Page 3
