The Downside of Being Charlie

by Jenny Torres Sanchez

  “Okay, see you later. I’m making something special for dinner.” She winked and left me with the big mess she had just made. I couldn’t believe it, and yet, I could.

  Now, my options were to walk around like balloon boy the rest of the day or pop approximately thirty balloons and return home empty-handed, which would require some kind of explanation for Mom. Either option seemed ridiculous, which was why I was grateful when Ahmed, wonderful remedial-reading, general math, Ceramics I, II, and III–taking Ahmed, came up with the most brilliant idea in the world.

  “That’s a lot of freaking balloons,” he said, “a lot.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s too bad, really just too bad,” he said.

  “I can’t walk around like this,” I said, my voice shaking and not catching his drift.

  “I mean, it’s just too bad,” he said again.

  “What the hell are you talking about!” I yelled, dumping all my frustration onto him. “What’s too bad?” I said, “That my mom is insane? That I look like an idiot? That this,” I said as I raised my fist holding all the balloon strings, “is supposed to brighten my day?”

  “Well, yes, all those things are bad,” he said, “but what’s really bad, really, really bad,” he continues, “is how some dumbass is going to bump into you and make you lose your grip on those things, and how they’ll just . . . float away.” And even though I’m totally straight, I remember thinking how much I loved Ahmed and that he was quite possibly the best guy on earth.

  I was suddenly eternally indebted to both Ahmed and the architectural genius who designed open school campuses. Instead of one huge building, there are a bunch of small buildings that each house a row of lockers and several classrooms. Outdoor walkways connect them all together to form one semi-eerie minicompound. It’s a total bitch in the heat (especially when you’re over two hundred pounds) and sucks when it rains, but insanely perfect when your mom shows up with a trillion balloons that you have to get rid of—fast. Ahmed gave me a light push and I opened my hand. We grinned at each other. The bundle of tangled strings slipped through my fingers easily.

  “Now you don’t have to lie,” he said as we watched them go higher and higher. Despite the horridness of what I had just experienced, I had to admit, they looked pretty spectacular against the blue sky. The wind carried them away, and we watched as they got smaller and smaller and finally disappeared.

  “Yeah,” I said as I watched my problem float away, and I remember wishing all problems were that easy to get rid of.

  Today, though, Mom’s gone. There’s no arguing about me staying home—no crazy-ass balloons to embarrass me with. I’m glad I don’t have to think about her.

  Dad comes downstairs right before I head out. “Sport, hey! Happy Birthday!” he yells. He hugs me and slaps me on the back a few times. “I can’t believe it. Eighteen years ago today, your mom and I . . .” He stops suddenly and looks away. It’s weird how we can’t bring her up when she’s not here. He shrugs it off. “Well, I just want you to know I’m proud of you,” he says.

  “For being another year older?”

  “No, I mean, yeah. You’re growing up, Charlie, and you really know how to handle yourself. Look at you,” he says, “you weren’t happy with your weight and you changed it.” Wasn’t that because you made me? “Anyway, you’re really something, you know? In lots of ways, you have more will than I do.”

  Dad is getting a little too sentimental. Even though what he’s saying is nice, I don’t feel like partaking in this feel-good moment. In the back of my mind, I can’t help but wonder what he’d be saying or how he’d be looking at me right now if I were still fat.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say a little awkwardly as I gather my backpack. Ahmed is here and honks his car horn.

  “We’ll celebrate later, okay?” he calls out as I head out the door.

  “Sure,” I call back.

  When I get into the Roller Skate, Ahmed throws a cigar at me and a Best of Dean Martin CD.

  “Happy eighteenth, player! Now you can officially vote, buy cigars, and purchase . . .” He clears his throat and adjusts his tie in true Sammy Davis Jr. fashion. “Gentlemen’s magazines.” He raises his eyebrows and laughs. I laugh too and thank him for the CD and cigar even though I neither smoke nor can stand the smell of cigars. Dean Martin is pretty cool, though. “And since all you ever do is listen to your iPod, we can keep this in my car,” he says, plucking the CD right out of my hand and tearing off the wrapper.

  “Thanks a lot,” I say, not surprised because pretty much every gift Ahmed has given me has found its way back to him. I put the cigar in my backpack as the Roller Skate zips us off to school.

  The day goes as usual and then during drama, the very class I’m trying to switch out of, I get called down to the guidance office to discuss a schedule change.

  My guidance counselor, Ms. Sheldon, wears a bright green shirt that hurts my eyes. She has short, gray hair that resembles a buzz cut, and she wears red-framed glasses attached to an elaborate bejeweled chain. In the four years I’ve been at this school, this is the first time I’ve met her. She is happy to meet me, she says, and why haven’t I been in to chat with her before? I shrug my shoulders since there’s really no way to answer that question. I look around and notice the many pictures of students and big bubbly girl-writing on handmade cards decorating her office. Apparently, stopping in to chat is something lots of other students have done.

  “So this is your senior year! Are you excited?” I nod.

  “And look at you, with all these AP classes and a, oh my gosh, a 3.8 grade point average? That’s impressive. Really, congratulations,” she says, turning to me and smiling. I fiddle with my watch.

  “I do notice one small setback, though,” she continues, “no extracurricular activities, Charles, and that’s something colleges are definitely looking for these days.” She looks at me over her glasses.

  “Yeah,” I say and take a deep breath. It’s not like I hadn’t thought of that before.

  “Why?” she asks.

  “Just . . .” I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know,” I tell her, which is entirely false. The truth is that fat doesn’t do extracurricular activities. Fat always gets in the way. Fat makes you stay home so people don’t notice you or say shit behind your extra wide back.

  She nods. “Well, your grades are fabulous, so maybe if you join some clubs this year, you’ll still have no problem getting into the college of your choice, which brings me to this. You want out of drama, I see?” she says, looking at the schedule change request form I filled out after school on the first day.

  “Yep.”

  “Well, you’re not the first one, but I’ll tell you this, I think you should seriously consider keeping it. Staying in drama might offer a great extracurricular opportunity for you.”

  I shift in my seat uncomfortably. No, just get me out of there. I don’t want to be talked into staying in the class, but she keeps going on and on, and the more she talks, the more I sink into the quicksand of compliance. I can’t say no now. She’s been talking nonstop for the past fifteen minutes.

  “. . . not even on stage, but you can do some work backstage and . . .”

  First Tanya Bate . . . now this.

  “. . . love to see a student challenge himself, try new things, and it might even be a great topic for a college essay. So, what do you say, Charles?” I say screw you, lady.

  “Sure,” comes out instead.

  “Great! I’m proud of you. You’ll see, it’ll probably end up being your favorite class.” Doubt it.

  Ten minutes later, I’m still reeling as I stumble back to class with no schedule change. How do they do that? She looked nice, and yet, the old bat had somehow duped me into staying in drama. I decide to skip the rest of class and go sit on a bench, mentally composing my bio to post on FML.

  As I sit feeling sorry for myself, thinking what a crappy birthday this is turning out to be, Charlotte VanderKleaton appears out
of nowhere and walks past me. I sit still and stop breathing, hoping she won’t notice the loser sitting here with absolutely nothing to do. I stare at the cracks on the ground until she is a safe distance away. I see her going in the direction of the drama room.

  Wait. The drama room? And . . . she’s got her backpack, so she’s obviously not just running some stupid errand. What’s that in her hand? . . . a crisp, new schedule? It’s not possible, and yet, there she goes headed toward the drama room.

  I see her hand reach for the heavy classroom door and a minute later she disappears into the room. Charlotte VanderKleaton is now in drama. Sixth period drama with me. Sixth period drama that I tried to get out of. Sixth period drama that the wonderful Ms. Sheldon had the good sense to talk me into keeping. I look up and smile. I jump off the bench and head to what is now officially my favorite class. Happy freakin’ birthday to me!

  When I get to the door, I take a deep breath. Actually, I take several deep breaths since I start to feel overwhelmed, but I put my hand on the handle and pull. And the door opens and reveals the heavenly sight of Charlotte VanderKleaton, sitting in the seat right next to mine. My ears fill with the arena sound of a thousand fans cheering, and I kind of feel like I might fall over.

  I don’t know how I make it to my desk, but I do, so I sit down and concentrate on breathing for the remaining five minutes of class. I try not to look her way, but I can’t help it. She looks over at me at the same time.

  “Hi,” she says.

  My God, she speaks. I’m unable to answer or make a sound.

  “So, how much have I missed? Just got my schedule changed,” she says. Her voice makes my body pulse with adrenaline. She stares and I realize she’s waiting for an answer, but I can feel my throat closing up.

  My hand flies up in an attempt to dismiss the whole thing in a cool, “forget about it,” kind of way and I try to make a no-big-deal face, but as I’m doing it, I can feel that it somehow went very, very wrong. Most likely I look as if I’m constipated and swatting an imaginary fly. Nice.

  She laughs and says, “O-kay,” and then opens her notebook. She starts doodling as the teacher goes on about some play.

  I try to breathe normally, but it’s impossible. She must hear my heavy breathing. My whole body is very aware that she’s sitting next to me. A whole school year sitting next to Charlotte VanderKleaton. And I don’t have to worry about squishing into the desk or excessive sweating or clothes being stuck in my fat rolls. I can sit here, not fat, next to Charlotte VanderKleaton and be normal, I think. I look at her again, and she smiles back.

  The bell rings, and I’m relieved because if it hadn’t rang at that precise moment, I would still be in awe of her complete and utter awesomeness. She gets up and walks out the door with the rest of the class. I try to recover.

  “Do you need something?” Mrs. C asks and I realize I’m the only student left in the room.

  “No, thanks,” I tell her, gathering my stuff and tripping over my own feet on the way out.

  After class, I’m in such a good mood that I head toward my locker. I had avoided it all week. Since Ahmed basically screwed me for Janie and Katrina, I decided that carrying my books this year wouldn’t be so bad. But already my shoulders were sore and I knew I would eventually have to abort the plan. Why not now? After being in such close proximity of Charlotte, I feel like Hercules: invincible, and ready to conquer the three-headed hound of Hades known as Tanya Bate.

  Even from down the hall, I can see Tanya’s fuzzy head as she shoves books into our locker. I stop for a minute, waiting for her to leave, but Tanya takes her sweet-ass time, so I head over to her.

  “Can I help you?” she asks, giving me a dirty look when I stop in front of our locker.

  “I, uh, this is my locker, too,” I tell her.

  She surveys me, her big owl eyes taking me in from top to bottom. Was she serious? Was she actually sizing me up?

  “So,” she says finally, “you decided to bite the bullet and show up. What? Do I scare you?” She opens her eyes wider and wider until, in fact, she does look pretty scary, since her superthick glasses already make her eyes look huge.

  “No, I just . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, save it, chump. I know. Books get heavy. I hear it every year. Anyway, just don’t get in my way and I won’t get in yours and we’ll get along fine. Don’t worry, it’s not like we’re gonna be friends or anything. I know you have your precious social life to worry about, what with your new makeover and everything,” she says looking me up and down.

  I feel weird and people turn and look at us, making me wish I could crawl into a hole and hide. I feel like reminding everyone that we don’t get to choose our locker partners.

  “Sshhh,” I hiss, hoping she will lower her voice.

  “And don’t expect these kinds of pleasantries in the future,” she goes on, “I do have things to do and places to be.” Oh man, this girl is a total freak.

  “See you whenever,” she says and slams the locker shut, even though it’s obvious that I have to use it. She whips her frizzy hair in my face as she turns to leave. It brushes up against my mouth. I gag.

  Once I recover, I open the locker again only to find that Tanya has taken the top space, leaving only the dreaded bottom empty. I drop to the floor and start unloading my books, trying to figure out how to best avoid Tanya Bate for the rest of the year. But then I think of Charlotte, and suddenly, Tanya Bate (who, incidentally, smells like peanut butter) is a distant memory.

  That night, Dad, Ahmed, and I go to Fresca’s for my birthday dinner. It has a salad bar, soups, sandwiches, and a fruit smoothie and frozen yogurt station. When we sit at the table, Dad takes out an envelope and pushes it my way. Money slips out when I open it.

  “Sorry, Sport,” he says, embarrassed, “but I didn’t really know what you wanted and I figured you could always use cash.” My jaw drops as I pick up the one-hundred-dollar bill.

  “Hell, yeah!” Ahmed yells, “Oh, sorry, Mr. Grisner,” he says, looking over at Dad.

  “I hope that’s okay,” Dad says, looking back at me. “I know your eighteenth is a big deal and all . . .” He looks around Fresca’s and seems to be having second thoughts. “Maybe we should’ve gone somewhere else.”

  I don’t know if it’s because my plans of getting Charlotte VanderKleaton are somehow not as impossible as I had thought or because part of me feels like I owe that all to Dad, but I suddenly feel like cutting him a break, at least for now.

  I look around the place and say, “This is great, Dad, really. And thanks.” I hold up the hundred-dollar bill. “I can definitely use this,” I say, hoping I’m convincing.

  A small wave of relief comes over Dad’s face. Ahmed cracks some jokes on how he needs a new pair of wing tips, and I bust his chops on how many he already has all the while trying to convince myself that this no-big-deal kind of celebration is exactly what I wanted—and trying to forget that as much as Mom’s presence on my birthday always made me hate my birthday, this was the first time she’d missed it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Over the weekend, Ahmed and I hang out at the local mini mall. Lots of people from school hang out there, especially on Friday and Saturday nights since it has a movie theater. I keep hoping I’ll see Charlotte since I’ve deserted the run-bys past her house. I’m pretty sure now that we have a class together, she’ll catch on to my stalker-like tendencies (plus I never feel like running anymore).

  But I don’t see her all weekend long, and by Sunday night I’m going through Charlotte withdrawal. I’m dying for Monday to come.

  I look at the pile of dirty laundry in the corner of my room and gather up my clothes to throw into the washer. Then I wonder, maybe I could do something more. I mean, is it possible I might have more to offer than just clean clothes? Ahmed’s talk on male grooming rings in my ears. “Listen, Charlie, ain’t no shame in putting a little effort into your appearance. Just because you’re a guy doesn’t mean you gotta walk around with
crud on your teeth and nappy hair. Girls appreciate attention to details. Look at the old cats. They always looked sharp.”

  I go check myself out in the bathroom mirror. I still have a big moon pie of a face. Okay, so maybe it’s slightly slimmer. I had lost thirty pounds, after all, and I don’t jiggle like I used to. I also wasn’t obese anymore, (though, technically, I had, in fact, fallen in that category). I was pretty surprised since I didn’t think I looked obese. But a five-foot-ten male at 235 pounds qualifies as just that. At least now I could pass for one of those slightly big jocks—with what suddenly looks like the beginning of a huge zit on my lower jaw.

  I smile. Maybe I could whiten my teeth. Or maybe get a haircut. Dad was always telling me to get a haircut, but that’s because he’s so clean cut. I take out the gel and slather my hair, trying to get that cool, messy look. But it just looks like an alien shit on my head and I’m trying too hard, which I am. I decide to not shave for the next couple of days in hopes that it will hide the zit and give me that hung-over musician look. Perhaps a tattoo would complete the look. Maybe then I’d look big and bad instead of just big.

  When Monday morning finally does come, I practically jump out of bed. My mornings are pretty heavy, and now, since I’m dying for sixth period to roll around, miserably long. I start getting jittery ten minutes into first, and by the time I’m walking to sixth period, I feel like I’m going into a diabetic shock. But, in the end, I finally get my fix.

  Drama.

  I’m already sitting at my desk, anticipating her arrival, but I pretend not to notice as she gets into the seat next to me.

  “Hey,” she says breathlessly. She has said hey to me like this every day since she got her schedule changed. I live for these heys.

  I nod and smile like I usually do.

  “Don’t you talk?” she asks this time, laughing. I shift in my seat trying to adjust myself.

  I nod and smile. She laughs again. I rack my brain for something to say, anything, my God, how could I have gotten this far in life without any conversational skills? Come on . . . But she’s got bubble gum in her mouth, and she chews it so sexy that it’s all I can focus on. I can’t even think straight.