Still, First was the one who got me started with soccer. And he was the one who explained how I had to repeat second grade, telling me at the Tastee-Freez over a chocolate-dipped soft-serve that Miss Gunther said I was so special that she wanted me to stay with her and act like the best big boy I could to show the other kids how they needed to be.
I gotta say, though, when it’s just between me and Mom or me and First, the fights are different. With Mom, it’s not that we’re fighting as much as fencing—feints and parries, and hits with no real sting. Most of the time, we don’t even make it to a full-on fight. Like this summer, Mom was pissed that I was wasting my life and she kept harping on me to go outside and blow the stink off my body. So, me being a total smart-ass, I grabbed her hair dryer and an extension cord, pulled the shirt off my skinny chest, plopped my ass down on the front stoop, and air-blasted my underarms. Mom, from the other side of the screen door, laughed and told me to get dressed, and the two of us went out for lunch.
That’s not how it is with First. Ever since I started high school, it’s like the two of us have been locked in this eternal, man versus nature struggle. He’s the gardener and I’m the bonsai tree he spends every day keeping small, shaping as he sees fit, bending to his will. When I’m feeling cocky, I like to think of myself as the Colorado River and he’s the Grand Canyon; he may be old and some people might find him impressive, but I know that little by little, I’m eating away at him.
Needless to say, after the crap I pulled Friday night, I wasn’t expecting the Ps to go easy on me. If I was lucky—and that was one whackin’ big if—the two of them would ground me for life plus five. But it’s not like that would’ve been a big deal. It’s not like I’ve got this great social life where hot guys line up to let me grope ’em. I really didn’t care what they did to me as long as I got to stay on the soccer team. I’d go nuts if I had to come home right after school every day. That’s why I set my alarm for earlier than normal. I wasn’t about to give Mom and First more reasons to rag on me. Must be nice to sleep in, Mister. I would have liked to, but your mother spent the night trying to convince me that a fifty-fourth trimester abortion wasn’t an option.
Still groggy, I took a quick shower, somehow managed not to play with myself, and got ready for church—clean white shirt, tie, slacks, dress shoes—and went downstairs. I started making breakfast. Mom came into the kitchen in her bathrobe, wet hair in a towel, like she’d pulled another all-nighter trying to get First to understand that the stupid crap I pulled was just that—stupid teenaged stunts—and it wasn’t—at least not entirely—an orchestrated attempt on my part to make his life miserable.
Behind me, Mom ran the faucet, added water to the coffee-maker, and flipped on the radio—Star 105.5, Billy Joel. She hummed along and since she hadn’t started in on lecturing me yet, I kept my mouth shut and pretended to concentrate on scrambling the eggs. When the coffee was finished, she poured a cup and sat on a kitchen stool kitty-corner from me. I dumped the eggs into a bowl, covered them with a towel to keep them warm, and went to the fridge for some bacon. Mom stopped me.
“You look nice,” she said, fixing the knot in my tie and smoothing my hair. A compliment? I was screwed. There are times when a compliment is the cigarette before being walked out in front of the firing squad.
“I’m dead, aren’t I?” I asked as I fried the bacon. She didn’t answer. “I knew it.”
“What’d you expect, Charlie? That we’d appreciate a phone call dragging us out of bed in the middle of the night?”
“I know—”
“I don’t think you do,” she said, setting her mug on the counter. “You don’t know what it’s like getting a phone call and not knowing where your son is. You could’ve been dead for all we knew.”
“Like Dad would care.”
“Enough. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Sorry.”
“If you’re sorry, why’d you do it? You knew it was stupid, right?”
I knew this was a trap, so I didn’t answer. I forked the bacon from the skillet to a paper-towel-covered plate.
“Your father is expecting an explanation.”
“I don’t know why I did it, okay? I don’t. It’s just that—”
First, already dressed for church, stepped into the kitchen. He’d probably been listening for a while. He grabbed a mug of coffee and crossed behind me to stand by Mom.
“It’s what?” Mom asked.
“It’s not easy being me.” Even I had to admit that sounded whiny.
“So this is what you do?” First asked, eyeballing me over the brim of his mug.
I looked at him and saw everything I hate about myself—my gangly build, big goofy ears, the giant schnoz my grandparents say makes me like some old-time Hollywood actor, my pointy chin. When we smile, First and I have the same dorky, Cheshire-cat-who-ate-the-canary, playing-card joker grin. Sometimes, I’ll stare at guys like Bink or Kyle and think they’re not much better looking than I am, and that somebody, somewhere, might actually think I’m hot. Well, okay, maybe not hot, but at least kinda cute. Well, at least not dog-scaring ugly. Then I remember what a screwed-up geek I am.
“Look, Chip,” First said, “things have to change. Understand?”
“Yes.”
That was it. We ate in silence.
I didn’t get off so easily at church. I never did—not since Steve Marshall and I got caught cheating on our Ten Commandments test in confirmation class.
I’m not sure if this is about religion or academic integrity, but:
Cheating was a cinch. All you had to do was write all the “thou shalt nots” on the side of your shoe, cross your leg, and copy the answers. Steve Marshall—a weasely little jackass—tried telling me I’d go to Hell for cheating in church. But I said Lutherans don’t go to Hell for cheating, we get eternal damnation for having self-esteem. We could lie, cheat, and steal as long as we believed in Jesus, never felt a sense of pride or self-worth, and avoided Pastor T’s “fish-breathed, bead-counting Mary-lovers.”
Today, church was really bad. We opened our hymnals to “Eternal Ruler of the Ceaseless Round,” a classic Lutheran tune composed for a bunch of fat, tone-deaf Germans who can plow through four mind-numbing verses without once sounding joyful or inspired. Look, I’m a pretty good tenor, I’ve been in choir for three years, but even I was chipping notes right and left. The only person who wasn’t was some baritone a few pews in front of us. Rob Hunt. Mister I-Went-to-Phelps-and-Girls-Like-Touching-My-Enormous-Cock. Show-off.
Announcements came next. Our hopes and prayers were with our boys in uniform in Iraq and Afghanistan, with Mrs. So-and-So recovering nicely from surgery for a deviated septum, and with the list of old farts who kicked the bucket. Pastor Taylor then asked that we join him in giving a warm welcome to the congregation’s newest family. Mr. Hunt and Rob made their way forward and thanked Pastor Taylor, who asked Mr. Hunt to say a few words.
Dork the Elder introduced himself. He was Paul Hunt. They’d moved to Crystal Lake from Manhattan, which’d been an adjustment since he’d never been west of the Mississippi. It was a lame joke, but the congregation laughed. He’d gotten married in this very church to his lovely wife, Kathy. She’s the wind beneath my wings. She grew up in the area. A few years ago, she’d been diagnosed with eh-Alice, which meant she probably wouldn’t be around much. (I asked Mom what eh-Alice was. “Not ‘eh-Alice.’ ALS. Lou Gehrig’s disease. Ask your father.”) Mr. Hunt worked in advertising, but he’d be working from home most days. Blah, blah, blah. I stopped listening until he introduced Dork the Younger.
“Hi, I’m Rob,” he said, giving an awkward elbow-tucked-into-the-hip wave. He looked at me and smiled. I blushed. Behind me, Shannon Debold giggled. Great. He’d smiled at her. Could I be more pathetic? “I’ll be a senior this year at South.”
After the service, Dork the Elder stood in the middle of Luther Hall, the church’s multipurpose room, thanking the umpteen-millionth woman for asking about his w
ife and politely declining her offer to “bring something over to the house, maybe a nice hot dish.” They were convinced Mr. Hunt was “a good Lutheran,” even though he was from New York. You know it’s positively crawling with I-talians, A-rabs, and Catholics.
We went up to meet Dork the Elder. First clasped both his hands around one of Mr. Hunt’s and pumped it vigorously while pigeonholing him in the corner next to the Boy Scout trophy case. He didn’t let go, not even when Mr. Hunt politely tried to pull away.
“It’s great meeting you, Paul. I’m Charles Stewart. This is my wife, Laura. My son, Chip.”
“Charlie,” I corrected for all it mattered.
Mom and I shook Mr. Hunt’s hand as he glanced past us, like he was wondering how he’d ended up stuck here. I was used to it. Nobody ever wants to be around First. Most people shower with a Brillo pad after meeting him. Okay, so I exaggerate. But there is something about First that makes people seem a little uncomfortable. Maybe it’s the whole politician thing—that hey-little-buddy-we’re-all-in-this-together-and-I-feel-your-pain vibe that he gives off almost every time he opens his mouth.
“Sounds like our boys’ll be at the same school,” First said. “Maybe they’ll have a few classes together.”
“I doubt it,” Mr. Hunt said, checking his watch.
“Well, Chip’s smarter than he looks. Aren’t you?”
I shrugged. He wanted me to brag, but I didn’t like it. First’s jaw clenched as he did one of those mental relaxation exercises Mom tells him to do when I’m getting on his nerves.
“Oh, I’m sure Charlie’s very smart. But school’s not exactly Rob’s strong suit.”
“Too busy with the girls, eh?” First winked, nudging Mr. Hunt with frat-monkey familiarity. Mom gave First a leave-the-man-alone-already look, but he ignored it.
“Something like that.” Yeah, something like spreading their legs and pumping them full of his boy juice.
Mr. Hunt leaned past First, looking for somebody to rescue him. It didn’t happen, ’cuz, and I’m guessing here, nobody wanted to hear his spiel for campaign contributions. “So, you’re in advertising. Write any jingles I know?” First asked.
“I don’t write the music.” Mr. Hunt grabbed my elbow and smiled at the Ps. “If you don’t mind, I’ll have Charlie show me to the men’s room.”
“I can show you,” First said, not realizing that this was Mr. Hunt’s plan for an escape.
“Please, I don’t want to steal you from your wife.”
“Steal me from her? You can have her.” Mom elbowed him. “What?”
We ducked away, Mr. Hunt nodding at well-wishers.
“Nice save,” I said, leading him to the bathroom across from the church office.
“He seems like a nice enough guy. A little aggressive. You’re lucky to have him.”
“Maybe.”
“Give him time. You’ll be surprised how smart he gets when you’re twenty-five.” Yeah, maybe then monkeys’ll fly out of my ass. Do adults ever realize how dumb they sound? I mean, really. First, smart? Please.
“The bathroom’s to the left.” I pointed down a small hallway.
“Actually, I need to make a call,” he said, pulling a cell phone from his pocket.
“It’s quiet in the office.”
Mr. Hunt thanked me. Through the window, I saw him say something to Pastor Taylor’s secretary. She gave his arms a gentle squeeze and excused herself. I couldn’t be sure, but I think she dabbed tears from her eyes. Everyone was treating the Hunts like they were so fragile and precious. Like if you breathed on ’em, they’d shatter. It was ridiculous.
Even if Mr. Hunt didn’t, I needed to take a leak. I walked to the farthest urinal of the three and unzipped. Steve Marshall walked in and stood at the urinal next to me, sooo violating the Men’s Room Code. Everyone knows that when there’re three johns and two guys, the one-urinal-buffer rule’s in effect. Both of you take the ones at the end, leave the middle open, and stare straight ahead. But Marshall didn’t. He went right for the middle one and made this big production of pulling his dick out, like he was daring me to look.
Marshall’s not a homo, just a perv. His whole family is a bunch of nymphos. His little sister accused a junior high gym teacher of fondling her mosquito-bite tits, even though she totally flirted with him, sitting in his lap and stuff. I never believed it, ’cuz when I was in junior high, Mr. Forde seemed like he was more into Steve. Forde always watched us showering, pointing out the guys with small dicks. He even popped a boner when he used Bill Minor to demonstrate some wrestling move. Anyhow, the school bought her story and Mr. Forde got canned.
“Is it true, Charlie?” Steve asked after he’d flushed. “Did you ruin Dana’s party?”
“What?” I stared at him.
Steve’s one of those guys who, even though he’s a senior, still looks like he’s ten. A real midget—the kind of guy who gets asked if he needs a booster seat at restaurants.
“You know, getting arrested for skinny-dipping.” He nodded his head, all excited like.
“I didn’t get arrested.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. You’re too big a pussy.”
“Screw you. The cops were there. They cuffed me.”
“Really? That’s awesome.” He folded his arms across his sweater-vest. “You know, I was gonna go to Dana’s—”
“But you weren’t invited?”
“Jerk,” he said, pouting.
Back in Luther Hall, First and Mom now had Rob Hunt cornered.
“Speak of the devil; Rob, this is our son, Chip,” First said, roping an arm across my shoulders.
“Charlie,” I said. Mom patted down one of the cowlicks in my hair. I could’ve died. I wanted to ask if we could go already, but First would’ve bitten my head off.
“Hey,” Rob said, his dimples flashing.
He’d taken off his suit coat, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt. Staring at the V under his Adam’s apple, I wondered what he’d look like naked. Rob must’ve asked me something, ’cuz everyone was waiting for my answer.
“Huh?”
“Your mom said you’re in choir and on the soccer team, too.”
“Yeah. You play?”
“Forward. My dad sent my game tapes to the coach. I guess I’ll be playing varsity. Is the team any good?”
I wanted to tell him not as good as Phelps School’s team, which probably got its field re-sodded after every practice and had World Cup players as coaches.
“We almost went to state last year. We’ve got a strong chance this year. Conference’s definitely a lock.”
“Who’s goalie?”
“Charlie is,” Mom said, glowing. “He’s been voted to the All-Conference team three years straight.”
I glared at her.
“What? You’re shy all of a sudden?” Rob grinned.
“Hey, sport,” Mr. Hunt called to Rob, not wanting to get within ten feet of First. “Let’s get a move on.”
“Well, see you tomorrow,” Rob said, then nodded at the Ps. “It was nice meeting you both.”
We left, too, grabbing lunch at this Cantonese place we always go to. Over egg rolls and Mongolian beef, Mom and First lectured me about seeing my guidance counselor, about taking my SATs or, hell, even the ACTs, and trying to find some college that’d take someone like me.
When we got home, I went to my room—my Fortress of Solitude—and put a CD in the stereo. Yeah, I’m a total dork for treating my room like a superhero hideout. And it is as bad as it sounds. It looks like it did when I was an eight year old obsessed with outer space. Mom and I had stenciled larger-than-life scenes from her dad’s old comic books on the walls—Flash Gordon locked in a sword fight with Ming the Merciless, Buck Rogers blasting his ray gun, Clark Kent peeling open his shirt to reveal the top of the “S” on his costume, stuff like that. The only thing that’s changed is the smell. It’s total locker room: the funky musk of sweaty jockstraps and undershirts, gen
eric body spray, and spooged-on socks.
I spent the afternoon getting ready for school tomorrow, cramming new folders, notebooks, and a handful of pens and pencils into my backpack. I called Bink for a lift in the morning, but he’d promised Dana a ride. He wasn’t gonna have both of us in his car, especially when Dana had vowed she “was sooo going to kill” me.
I hung up and tried on some of the school clothes Mom bought for me last weekend. There was no way I’d ever be cool. The jeans she made me get suck. I’m not getting you those. They look worn out. The shirts she’d picked were the cheap, no-name, store-label kind. Not at those prices, Charlie. Here, take these. No matter what I wore, I still looked like a freak. I was too bony, my face was too pink, and my ears were way too big. In the bathroom mirror, I pinned them back with Scotch tape to see if that helped any. It did. But it’s not like I could go to school with my ears taped.
I looked kinda hot. Well, hot enough that I figured if they could clone me, I’d make out with myself. Well, if the clone and me were the last two “people” on Earth. And yeah, I actually got hard, sat on the toilet, and pulled my pud, fantasizing about a hockey team circle jerk, then Bink and Rob wrestling around naked, and then Bink sticking his dick in Rob Hunt’s mouth. I washclothed the goo off my stomach, put on my clothes, and went downstairs.
“What’s with the tape and the ears?” Mom asked.
I’m pathetic. Really, truly, sadly pathetic.
Monday, August 27
School sucks—there’s a shocker.
FIRST PERIOD: CREATIVE WRITING
SECOND PERIOD: STUDY HALL
The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second Page 4
