The Downside of Being Charlie

by Jenny Torres Sanchez

  “No more for you, Ahmed,” she says as she walks out of the kitchen. She speaks to him in a harsher tone than she uses for me. Secretly, I love it and secretly, I love Mrs. Bata. I feel guilty that on more than one occasion, before I ever saw or met Charlotte, she was mainly the focus of my fantasies.

  “So what’s up, player, you okay?” He can tell something’s up. He grabs another piece of baklava. Thanks to Ahmed, I am very well versed in the difference between player and playa.

  “Playa,” Ahmed had explained to me one time, is the urban-street butchering of player. Player is a class A cat who knows how to take a chance, take a gamble, you know, play the game of life. A playa is a bastardization of the original definition and refers to a guy’s game with the opposite sex. So while a playa might know how to play the ladies, he is by no means as sophisticated as a player. “Never say playa, Charlie. Always say player. It’s not a mistake, my man, it’s an educated decision.” The first time he came at me with that, I was like, Holy Bat Balls, Batman! If Ahmed put that much thought into class, he would probably get As instead of Cs.

  I shrug and take a small bite of the tiny piece of baklava. The sticky nuttiness melts in my mouth. I don’t look up or respond, so he changes the subject, and that’s why Ahmed, who eats junk food by the pound in front of me without even thinking how much it sucks for me, is my best friend.

  “Hey, guess what? That extreme sports show is on,” he says without waiting for me to respond with, “What?” I wonder why people say guess what when they don’t really want you to guess. “I just saw a guy bust his freakin’ knee. The bone was sticking out and everything! I can’t believe they showed it, but they kept replaying it and then zooming in and out, in and out.” Ahmed goes on about the stunt the guy was pulling and what went wrong, growing more excited by the second.

  He jumps off one of the kitchen chairs and starts acting out the faulty stunt. He rolls on the floor in slow motion, holding on to his knee and fixing an exaggerated look of pain on his face. I finish the banana.

  “Come on, I’ve got it DVR’d.” He jumps up and we head to his room. After more unsuccessful attempts to get me out of my funk, he finally says, “All right, my man, lay it on me. What’s the deal?”

  “Forget it,” I tell him as he starts bouncing a basketball off one of his walls.

  “Spill it,” he says. I know he means it, but I just don’t feel like delving into all the ridiculous wrongness in my life.

  “It’s a bunch of crap, dude, forget it.”

  I know I should tell him about it, or them, or however you quantify all the things that suck right now, but there’s too much. I don’t even know where to begin nor do I want to deal with it.

  Ahmed shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders. “Fine.” I feel like a jerk.

  I zone out and stare at the extreme sports show, which Ahmed supplements with a running commentary, and it eventually makes me crack a smile every now and then. After about two episodes, I start feeling slightly normal.

  At around 9:00, I finally feel good enough to head back home. Mrs. Bata sends me armed with baklava for Dad, which I decide to dig into right away since he’s not home to enjoy it. He shouldn’t get any of Mrs. Bata’s baklava anyway. It’s dark outside and just quiet enough to make me feel a bit jumpy and unsettled on the walk home alone, especially when I think of how I thought I saw Mom’s ghost yesterday. But . . . no, I’m just psyching myself out. I walk faster anyway and unwrap the baklava, not letting myself think about how I shouldn’t eat it. I take a bite and polish off the first square and then wrap up the rest for later.

  My mouth and stomach yearn for more. I look at the foil in my hand. I shove more in my mouth, relishing the taste. Two minutes later, it’s all gone. I crumble the foil in my hand tighter and tighter. I come home to an empty house and go to bed.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Charlotte acts completely normal on Monday, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe Friday wasn’t as bad as I thought it was. Maybe it only seemed that way because of Mom’s call. Maybe I still had a chance with Charlotte.

  Mrs. C is talking, but I’m not paying attention because all I can think about is how I can’t screw things up with Charlotte anymore. If I were smooth, I would ask her out on a real date—like to dinner and a movie or something. But I don’t have the nerve because even though I think she’d probably say yes, I can’t take the chance that she might say no, especially with how I might have come off to her Friday night. Besides, a real date requires food, and right now, I don’t know if I could even control my eating in front of Charlotte. I imagine her horrified face as I reach for my eighth slice of pizza, apologizing even as I stuff my mouth. No, it’s better to just hang out.

  So I tell her about how I haven’t really started on Killinger’s photography project except for some random shots and how that sucks because it’s a big deal and I really like photography and blah, blah, blah, but I finally get to the point. I ask her to go scouting around and take pictures with me. And thank God, she loves the idea and tells me to meet her at her house after dinner. I head to the parking lot feeling like I’m on my way to making things okay again.

  After dinner, I go to Charlotte’s and she answers the door. I follow her inside.

  “Come upstairs to my room, I just gotta grab my camera,” she says. My palms start to sweat. I’ve never been in a girl’s room before. Never. I have no sisters, friends who are girls, no friends with sisters, no girl cousins (or guy cousins since Mom and Dad are both only children)—hence, no girls’ rooms. And now I was going to see the room of Charlotte VanderKleaton.

  I imagine her room must be green. She’d never go for something typical like pink or purple. And there are probably all kinds of really cool Charlotte things in it, like a guitar. And her shelves are probably filled with really good books that no one else understands. And her walls are probably lined with posters of bands that no one has ever heard of before. And on her dresser there must be rows of strawberry lip gloss.

  She opens the door.

  “Sorry about the mess,” she says as we trek through clothes, an overturned bowl of popcorn kernels, headbands, and shoes. “Guess I should’ve picked up but . . .” She looks down the hall. “It’s kind of, uh, out of spite.”

  Her room is actually yellow—bright, sunny, yellow, with a pink and purple border.

  She looks at me, sensing my disapproval, and rolls her eyes.

  “My mom insisted on decorating my room, and it wasn’t worth fighting over. Anyway, this,” she says, motioning to the mess, “is just to piss her off and keep her out. Not that it matters. She comes in here and goes through everything while I’m gone, then leaves it pristine, and I get a lecture on what a slob I am as soon as I get home.” She studies my face. “You think I’m a bitch, don’t you?”

  “No, I get it,” I say, though I’m struck by the irony that Charlotte has to try to keep her mom away while mine can’t seem to get far enough away....

  “I guess if I kept it clean, it wouldn’t be such an issue. But it’s the principle, you know? It’s my room. But I think she just thinks . . .” She looks up at me and shakes her head. “Forget it. It’s so dumb.”

  I want to tell her it’s not, and to keep going. But instead she plops onto her bed and I sit next to her and then I forget what I was thinking about because I realize this is where Charlotte VanderKleaton sleeps. This is where her body lays, in girl pajamas . . . or no pajamas. I quickly realize that I should stop thinking about this.

  Think of dead bunnies—dead bunnies, dead bunnies, dead bunnies, and . . . Ms. Gripper’s feet. Ms. Gripper has the grossest feet. It’s not like I go about noticing people’s feet, but hers you can’t miss. I can’t believe she wears sandals to school. They’re all rough and crusty and one toe is missing a nail. That does the trick.

  “So, what do you wanna do?” she asks.

  “Thought we were gonna take pictures,” I say and hold up my camera.

  “Oh, right!” Charlotte gets up
and rummages through her top dresser drawer. I think I saw lace panties. And it’s almost too much. I mean, the only time I’ve ever seen underwear like that is on headless mannequins in department stores, and even then it gives me the slightest rush that makes me feel like I’m some sort of sick freak. But these are Charlotte’s panties. That she wears. Holy crap, Charlie, get a grip! Grip . . . Gripper’s feet, Gripper’s feet, Grippers feet!

  She pulls out a camera and shoots a picture of me before I can recover. She cracks up, so I laugh, and I just hope she’s forgotten about the other night and what a drag I was. Because maybe if I got up and walked over to her right now, she’d let me kiss her.

  She looks at me expectantly, and I know she’s waiting for me to do something. Get up and kiss her, I think. But I can’t because being in her room makes me nervous and I can’t help wondering how much she would let me kiss her, or if she would let me do more—and exactly what that “more” would be. And I know I’m over thinking this. I should just get up off my ass and kiss her already. But I don’t. I look down and fiddle with my camera instead, letting the only chance I have pass me by.

  “So, let’s get going then,” she says. Damn it.

  We head to the park and Charlotte starts snapping away. But I take a little more time trying to find something to photograph. A bare tree catches my eye. I lie down on the grass and shoot its bare arms reaching out for the sky. I review it in my digital screen. Not bad. Charlotte comes over and does the same.

  “Hey, that’s pretty cool,” she says, reviewing her own picture.

  I wonder if I could do a nature thing. But dead trees? It’s nice and all, but probably at least three other students will do the same thing—the whole bare and desolate theme. I look over at Charlotte who is taking a picture of her shoe. And then I get an idea.

  I could take pictures of her for my project. She seems just right in this setting, exactly what I imagine her to be: perfect. Maybe I could capture the whole oneness with earth thing. Maybe it’s not the most unique idea, but I figure I can give it a try.

  I tell her about my idea. At first I think she’s going to love it, but for a second, I see a strange look cross her face. Did I weird her out? Does she think I have creepoid tendencies? But just as quickly, it’s gone, and she starts gushing about what a great idea it is and how flattered she is to be my muse. She starts chattering away about what we should do, but I’m not really listening because all I can focus on is how great her face looks and how lucky I am that she’s here with me.

  The next day, Charlotte and I decide to head back to the park to take more pictures. Yesterday I’d gotten this pretty cool one with her hair flung up in the branches of this tree so the strands look like branches too, and her head is turned to the side so you see the profile of her face. And before I print it, I’ll adjust the contrast so she is completely blacked out and all you can see is the bright sky and black tree with the outline of her face and her wild crazy hair strung up in the branches. Then everything together will give the appearance that the tree has a face. (I also made sure not to get too many good photos so I’d have an excuse to hang out with her again today.)

  Right before we head to the park, Mark and Danny pull up in Mark’s car and get out with big stupid grins on their faces. Charlotte skips over to them.

  “So, Chunks, you ready?” Damn him and the whole Chunks thing. Did I miss something?

  “Ready for what?”

  “Tomorrow’s the big day,” he declares. “I’m baking tonight!”

  Oh.

  Danny and Mark high-five each other, and Charlotte makes a face.

  “Oh my gosh, seriously?” she says. “Are you really actually doing that?”

  “Yep, wanna come over for a taste test?” Mark asks. Charlotte rolls her eyes. “Don’t be a jerk.”

  The sting of Charlotte’s words is visible on Mark’s face.

  “Just kidding,” he mumbles, “about the taste test, not the baking. That will be funny. And you promised you’d help, Chunks, so be ready.” He gives me an evil grin and plops down on Charlotte’s front steps. “So, what’s the plan, kids?”

  He’s in no hurry to leave. He knows whatever the plan was, it didn’t involve him, but now he’s going to make sure it does.

  “We were just heading out to take more pictures for Charlie’s photography project,” Charlotte answers.

  “So, you’re into photography, Chunks?”

  Yeah, shithead, I am. Do you want me to cram my camera up your ass?

  “Uh, yeah, it’s cool,” I say.

  “He’s really good,” Charlotte says and smiles at me.

  “Aw, real sweet, Chunks. You gonna be one of those wedding photographers or something?” He glares at me and laughs before returning his attention to Charlotte. “So, Char-Char, Danny and I were just heading to the mall to hang out. Wanna come?” he says, smiling sweetly at Charlotte.

  “Nah, I’m gonna work on this with Charlie. But I’ll call you later.”

  Mark tries to hide his disappointment by shrugging his shoulders, but it’s still obvious. “All right,” he says. They head out and he gives his car a few revs while looking at us before peeling out of Charlotte’s driveway.

  Charlotte and I walk to the park, but the whole thing with Mark makes the outing feel crappy because I can’t help thinking about what I’m expected to do tomorrow. Then, in the middle of shooting Charlotte, I look up at the sky and can’t help remembering Mom’s eerie phone call again. But I’m determined not to screw it up today, and I force myself not to think about it.

  I keep taking shots of Charlotte and pretend that the way she keeps posing for the camera isn’t frustrating even though it is. I don’t want to capture Charlotte acting. I want pictures of how she is when she thinks no one else is watching her. I want to tell her to be herself and to stop trying so hard, but I feel funny telling her what to do, so I just keep snapping away and hope that I can get a couple of decent shots. When Charlotte pulls out a mirror to touch up her makeup, I know it’s time to quit. She looks a little embarrassed when I tell her we’re done. I might have hurt her feelings, but she recovers quickly, flashes me a smile, and starts talking about how much fun she had as we walk back to her house.

  True to his word, Mark hands me a brownie wrapped in a plastic bag the next morning. He tells me to do it early so we can laugh at her the rest of the day. I stash it in my backpack for first period and try to think of why I should go through with this. I don’t think it will even be that funny. So Tanya will walk around like a space cadet. Big deal. Everyone already thought she was a big weirdo anyway. So Mark will get the satisfaction of pulling yet another prank on her, like I care. So Charlotte will think I’m cool and fun and more like Mark. Images of the way Charlotte smiles at Mark flash through my head. Did she actually like him?

  But then I think of the way she smiles at me, the way she chooses me, sometimes over Mark. Why would she do that if she didn’t really like me? I feel miserable and by the time first period is over, I’ve talked myself into a pretty serious depression. The bell rings, and I head over to my locker. Tanya’s already there. It’s now or never, but I don’t want to do it. I really don’t. And yet . . .

  “Hey,” I mumble to Tanya when I get to our locker. I take out a couple of books, not caring which ones they are. I shove them in my backpack and take out the plastic bag.

  “Want some?” I say, holding the bag out to her. She looks at it, and then at me, then back at the brownie.

  “A brownie?” She narrows her eyes. It’s the first time I haven’t seen them supersized. “Why?”

  She knows something’s up.

  “I’m just asking,” I say and stand there feeling awkward as she eyes the bag suspiciously. I can almost see the cogs turning in that big cuckoo-clock head of hers. Of course she can figure it out. Of course, Tanya, someone who’s been shoved down, pushed around, and humiliated on a daily basis since the third grade would question any random act of kindness and see it for what it
really is.

  “Well?” she says. I try not to make eye contact, but her eyes are hypnotic in the most disturbing way. And then I realize what a shitface I am. This is stupid. Why the hell did I agree to it? For Charlotte? Was this what she really wanted? Someone who could pull off some crappy prank? Sure, Tanya is pretty much a certified freak, and it’s not like this could possibly damage her already infamous reputation, but she doesn’t deserve this. And I don’t want to do it because I’m not even sure why I’d be doing it. I don’t think it would suddenly make Charlotte choose me over Mark anyway. I shove the brownie in my pocket and shake my head.

  “Forget it,” I tell her. She gives me a dirty look.

  “It’s stale,” I try explaining to her. “I shouldn’t have offered it to you. I . . . just, forget it.”

  “You’re a jerk,” she says and stands there like she’s waiting for me to refute it, but she’s right. I am a jerk. And now Tanya knows just how much of a jerk I am, a stupid, clumsy jerk at that. Even though I don’t care what the spaz thinks, it still bothers me.

  “I know,” I say to her and shrug my shoulders. “Sorry, okay?”

  The bell rings, but Tanya stands her ground and keeps staring at me. It makes me feel sheepish and uncomfortable and since I’m in no mood for a showdown, I turn to leave and ditch the brownie in the trash as I walk away. I can feel Tanya’s big owl eyes blaze into my back.

  After photography, Charlotte is outside Mr. Killinger’s class waiting for me. My heart soars at the idea that she’s there for me, but then she grabs my arm and leads me away from the classroom door abruptly.

  “What did you do with that brownie?” she whispers frantically. It takes me a minute to switch gears.

  “I threw it out,” I tell her.

  “In front of Tanya?”

  I nod. Charlotte sighs loudly. “Great, well, the little nark must have fished it out somehow, and she turned you guys in. Guess who just got suspended?”