“Charlie,” I tell him. My voice sounds hoarse and shaky.
“You ain’t from around here. Whatcha doing around these parts, Charlie? You brought us anything?” He gives a slight nod to the other guys and suddenly I hear more footsteps coming up behind me, and I know I’m in trouble. One of them takes my backpack right off my back and starts digging through it.
“No, I mean . . . sure, take it. I’m just, I’m just going for a walk,” I explain.
“A walk? You fucking kiddin’ me? Hey, guys, this kid is just going for a walk.” He laughs, turns back to me, and steps closer into the light. He’s either my age or younger, but he looks older somehow. “Where you think you’re at, huh? Fucking Sunnyville?” The other guys laugh too.
I shake my head, suddenly very aware of what a stupid idea this was coming here.
“Listen, Charlie,” he says, “I don’t usually do favors, but I’m gonna do you one. You don’t want to hang around here. And if you wanna walk, you probably should walk right back that way, to your little suburban neighborhood, and not come around here no more’cause the truth is, we’re really not as nice as we seem.”
“Okay,” I say, “you’re probably right. I mean . . .” The rest of the guys circle around me. My heart is pounding in my ears, and my whole body feels weak and twitchy.
“Listen, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you guys.” Everything in my body is telling me to run, but I force myself not to take off because if I do, these guys will definitely hunt me down. The pack moves in closer.
“Yeah, I know, but still, everything’s got a price, you know?” he says.
The guy who took off my backpack says, “Payday,” as he fishes out my iPod and the envelope with money.
“Anything else on you?” the first guy says. I’m still fighting the urge not to run, and my heart is pounding so hard it’s getting hard to think. It’s difficult to breath and the nausea from the cigarettes returns.
“I ain’t got all night, man, and if you don’t hand over your cash, my boys are gonna check your pockets for you, and I know you don’t want that, right?” I nod and then quickly shake my head no. I dig into my pocket and take out the change the toothless woman gave me.
“Good, well . . . I wouldn’t stay around here too long.” He starts walking back to the car where they were all hanging out and his friends follow. “Thanks, for stopping by,” he calls back and waves my money in the air.
I cross the street and start walking back the way I came from. I hurry past their stares. As soon as I’m past their driveway, I take off. I run like a little wuss. I run like I’m running for my life, which I’m pretty sure I am. I run without stopping, without seeing, without caring how stupid I must look to these guys, even as I hear them laughing and hollering behind me. I run even as my face freezes with the dumb tears that I can’t control. I run even as my lungs want to explode inside my chest. I run and run and run, like a squealing pig, all the way home.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dad’s flight ends up being delayed, and he doesn’t get home until after I get back, which is right before the sun comes up the following morning. So, in fact, my attempt at running away does go unnoticed. When he gets home, he comes into my room and sits on my bed. He just sits there on the edge with his elbows on his knees and his hands over his eyes. I pretend I’m sleeping. He whispers my name a couple of times, pats my leg, but I don’t respond. I’m not about to make this easy for him.
I stay in bed most of the day, at least until Ahmed finally calls the house and asks if I want to go see a movie.
“What the hell, man, I’ve been calling and texting you all day,” he says when I finally answer.
“I lost my phone.”
“That blows.”
“Yeah, long story,” I say.
“So, what the hell happened?”
“Tell you later.”
“You sure?” he insists.
“Yeah, positive,” I tell him, refusing to go into everything right this second.
“Fine, your call,” he concedes. “Anyway, you know that new flick about those old New York gangsters from the twenties? It’s out now. You in?”
I don’t really feel up to it, but I don’t want to be confined here with Mom and Dad. I’m pretty sure if I don’t leave, they are going to suck the life right out of me.
“Sure, I guess.”
“Cool! One’s playing in thirty minutes, so we gotta jet, like now, though. Pick you up in five minutes.”
I get ready, pulling on some dirty jeans and one of my old T-shirts that is stretched out and too big on me. I look homeless, but I don’t care. I’m just pulling on my sneakers when Dad comes in.
“Sport, we need to talk.”
I continue tying my Converse. Talk? He can talk to my ass.
“Sport, please,” he says. Sport, what a joke.
I go to grab my wallet and house key but then remember I got fucking mugged last night while Dad was with his girlfriend and Mom was crying in her room. I walk around, pretending like I’m searching for something. I grab a hoodie and walk out of my bedroom.
“Charlie, come back here, please hear me out.”
I make a bolt for it downstairs.
“Charlie, don’t walk out that door.” I pull my hoodie on. Was he serious? Did he just seriously tell me to not walk out the door? The anger that has been simmering inside me bubbles up. I whip around as he comes down the stairs.
“You are the last person who should tell me not to walk out. You’re the one who walked out, Dad. You and Mom, so just leave me the hell alone, all right? Don’t tell me not to walk out! Why don’t you stay here and take care of her bullshit for once!” I yell before slamming the door so hard I think I may have broken it.
Even as I run down the walkway, headed toward Ahmed’s, I can’t believe I just said what I said. I’d never talked to Dad like that in my life. Even though it felt good to actually speak up for once, it also means I’ll have more shit to deal with when I get back. At the corner I see the Roller Skate coming, then Ahmed pulls up to me on the curb.
“What’s up, I thought I was picking you up?” Ahmed says as I get in.
“Yeah, I know. I had to get out of there.”
“Gotcha.” Ahmed speeds away. He starts to talk about the premise of the movie.
“Hey, how was your date?” I cut in, trying to sound normal.
“Cat, I didn’t even tell you! Girl is a poser. She didn’t know any Sammy flicks, which is fine, you know, I don’t discriminate. But she kept acting like she knew who he was. So I made up some fake movie and said he was in it, and she was all like, ‘oh yeah, I loved that one!’ I mean, be real, you know? I think she wants to hang out more, but it’s not in the cards.”
“Sorry, man, that sucks.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “It happens. What about you? Did you hang with Charlotte?”
When he mentions her name, I think of last night and how I ran into her on the street. How I undoubtedly screwed up the already slim chance I might have had with her—and to make things worse—I looked like an asshole. The same feeling I had from smoking too many cigarettes last night comes back. But she was always hanging out with Mark anyway. If she actually liked me, what the hell was she doing with him all the time? None of it made any sense, and I needed to talk about all this like I needed a hole in the head, but I ask Ahmed anyway.
“So, be honest, okay?” I say.
“Always am, my man. What’s up?”
“You think Charlotte’s a poser?”
He rubs his chin and considers this a moment, which makes my stomach sink.
“That chickie’s hard to figure out,” he says finally. “Honestly, man, and I know this might hurt, but you said be honest.” He looks over at me. I nod.
“Basically, I think she’s genuine enough, but I also think she digs both you and Mark, and she’s just gonna keep hanging with both of you until one of you gets tired of it and calls her out on it.”
“Y
ou think I should call her out on it?”
“I don’t know.” He turns real serious for a minute. “I mean, if you feel about her the way I felt about, you know, that one who did me wrong and shall remain nameless, then I get it.”
“This sucks,” I say.
“I know it, cat, I know.” I don’t say anymore since this conversation is pointless. I don’t think Charlotte and I will be hanging out much more. We ride in silence for a little while. Then I remember I can’t pay for my movie ticket.
“Dude . . . you’re gonna have to spot me. Some modern-day gangstas mugged me last night.”
“What?” Ahmed looks like he just got hit with a taser.
I sigh and just start explaining. At first I wasn’t going to say anything, but I figure I might as well. I’m too tired to come up with anything but the truth. So I tell him about Dad’s affair, how Mom went crazy, and how I had to pick her up at the hospital with Killinger. And then I tell him how I headed into no-man’s-land and got a pretty little mugging after running into Charlotte and Mark. Ahmed just keeps looking at me like I’m out of my mind. The really strange part is that even after I explain all this craziness, it doesn’t even seem that strange or wild to me anymore, which is probably crazy in and of itself, but whatever.
“Holy shit, Charlie . . . I mean, HO-LY SHIT! Are you seriously carrying all this crap around with you? And you’re asking me about my freakin’ date? Why are you just telling me this now?” he yells. I shrug.
He looks at me with his eyes as big as Tanya Bate’s, which almost makes me laugh. “You should’ve come to my house,” he says.
“In my defense, I didn’t know I was heading into a fucking rumble with Ponyboy and company, and yes, I should’ve, but I wasn’t thinking straight after the whole thing with my mom.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says and nods like he gets it. “But still, you better freakin’ unload immediately from now on. I’m serious. We’re best friends, Charlie. Solid, you dig?” He looks over at me.
“Got it,” I say, and for a moment I contemplate whether I should tell him about throwing up, too. But I can’t. When I think about me bent over the toilet, with my face in the crapper like that, it makes me feel pathetic. I don’t think I can say it out loud.
We get to the theater, park the Roller Skate, and get our tickets before heading to the concession stand where Ahmed buys a large tub of popcorn, and I hint that maybe he should get a couple of the king-sized chocolate bars too. He does, as well as the drinks I suggest we’ll need to wash it all down with. My mouth starts watering as we carry the food to our seats. As the theater darkens for the previews, I open the pack of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and shove one in my mouth.
The movie starts. I cram popcorn in my mouth and slurp away on my soda. I’m glad Ahmed is too engrossed in the movie to notice how much I’m eating. The movie is pretty good, and even though there’s a lot of shooting and gore, it’s not bad—not like the crappy movie I saw with Charlotte. A feeling of dread washes over me when I think of her again. I eat more junk until all I can focus on is how the food is making me feel stuffed. I can’t stand the feeling of it sitting in my stomach. Then I’m consumed with the thought of all the calories I just ate. I don’t want to care, but I do. I know I have to get rid of it. I can’t pay attention to the movie anymore until I do.
Halfway through, I get up and go to the bathroom. It’s empty. I lock the stall, retch it all up fast, and start to feel better.
I stay at Ahmed’s house that night, the next night, and through the weekend. Dad calls a bunch of times, and even though Mrs. Bata pleads with me to talk to him, she tells him I won’t come to the phone. I overhear her counseling him to give me some time—that she’ll take care of me. I seriously consider asking her if I can move in, but actually, seeing the perfectness in Ahmed’s house starts to depress me. So I finally decide to go back home. Even though I don’t want to deal with Dad yet, part of me just wants to get it over with already.
I start making the walk back home. I turn my corner and from here I can see the garage door is open.
The rental car, which I know Mom got while her car was in the shop, is gone now, but her car isn’t there yet. And I know it means she’s gone, again. I stand still on the sidewalk for a while and stare at the empty garage.
I don’t think I can do this anymore. I still can’t decide if I should thank God that she’s gone and I don’t have to deal with her craziness, or if I should want her back, despite having to deal with her craziness. I don’t want to go any closer to that mess. I look at the sky, and wonder if there really is a heaven. I don’t think there is, but if there is, I wish I could go there now. Or maybe the earth could open up and swallow me, and I could become part of this concrete sidewalk. Maybe I would turn into a weed that sprouts up between the cracks. I wish I were a weed.
I look back in the direction of Ahmed’s house. But I’ve already been over there too much. I wonder if I should go see Charlotte, but I shoot down the idea as soon as it enters my head. Just go home, I tell myself. The truth is, no matter where I go for a distraction, I’ll still have to go home eventually. I take a deep breath and head toward the insane asylum.
When I open the door, Dad immediately comes to the foyer.
“Okay,” he starts before I have a chance to say anything, “so I know you’re pissed and you have every right to be. But we gotta talk.”
“I already know she’s gone again,” I say.
He sighs and drops his head. “I’m sorry, Sport. Can we sit down?” he asks looking at me still standing in the front doorway. I close the door but don’t move.
“Please.”
It’s not that I’m being spiteful, really. I mean, sure I want to make this hard for him. But I don’t move because I can’t. I actually would rather sit, sink, and disappear into the couch, but my feet don’t move—just in case I need to make a run for it again.
“Fine.” Dad sits on one of the bottom steps and rests his arms on his knees. “I know things are messed up, Sport. And, yes, Mom’s gone, and I don’t know where she went. Again.” Are we really talking about this? He looks up at me and waits for me to say something. My throat is closing up.
Maybe if you weren’t cheating on her, she would stay.
“Charlie,” he starts again, “I made a huge mistake. I . . .” He can’t bring himself to actually say it, and I can’t bring myself to let him off the hook. I wait silently.
“I knew from the start what I was doing was wrong, there’s no excuse for it. And it did contribute to Mom leaving, this time. But Charlie, she’s left so many times before, you know that. She just goes. It’s always been that way, ever since I met her.” I know it’s true, but I wonder if it was always this bad. I try to remember exactly how often she left when I was younger, but I can’t. Was she really always this way? How much worse had it gotten? How did he—we—miss it?
I look at Dad who looks like he’s wondering the same thing. He sighs. “I don’t know, maybe I thought I could save her somehow. Maybe I thought it would change, if I loved her enough.” His voice cracks. “Sometimes, it didn’t seem so bad, but . . . ,” his voice trails off. He waits for me to say something, but I don’t.
“Sport . . . ,” he starts. And it’s so stupid, but that’s what sets me off. That’s what makes me not able to listen to him anymore. Hearing him call me Sport over and over again.
“Just leave me alone, all right? And stop it with the Sport crap, okay? Why do you call me Sport, anyway? I hate it! I hate that nobody ever calls me Charlie!” I head up the stairs, past him, and up to my room. He looks crushed as hell, but I don’t care. I just want to stay mad.
I try to sleep, but I can’t. I lie down in my dark room and stare at the ceiling, trying to make sense of everything. I don’t know what to feel. I don’t know what’s right or wrong.
I start wondering if maybe I’m an orphan and imagine that my real parents are out there in the world somewhere, still miserable because they lost me. Ma
ybe we were on some camping trip when I was really young, and I woke up early one morning and went wandering in the woods by myself. And maybe I stumbled upon Doug and Carmen and they told me I was miles from the campgrounds and they would take me back. But they didn’t because they simply could not part with me. And since Carmen bribed me with chocolate frosted doughnuts, I never asked about my real parents again. Maybe my real dad invented . . . I don’t know . . . the Internet because he took all his pain and desperation and channeled it into tracking down his long lost son. And maybe my real mom . . . God, what would she be like? I can’t picture her. I don’t know why, but I can’t. All I see is Mom. . . .
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The day before Thanksgiving break, Mr. Killinger reminds us that we should already be working on the final touches of our collection. This sucks. I only had those shots of Charlotte that I hadn’t done anything with because they hadn’t turned out how I thought they would. And now I didn’t have the nerve to ask her to go scouting anymore because even though both of us pretend like the other night on the street never happened, I know things aren’t totally right with us.
“Hey, Charlie,” Mr. Killinger calls over to me after class as everyone files out of the room. I stay behind. “How are you? How are things at home?” he asks casually as he puts stuff away around the room.
“Cool.” My standard answer.
“Really?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah. Mom’s gonna get some help, and I’m pretty sure she’s taking some kind of medication. I think she’ll be okay,” I lie. Even if I wanted to, how the hell could I even begin to tell him the truth? “She’s already cooking for Thanksgiving, making a bunch of pies.” I roll my eyes and half smile, surprised at the lies escaping my mouth, lies I wish were true. “Even bread pudding. Bread pudding is my favorite.” Shut up, shut up, shut up. “She feels bad after everything, so she’s making all our favorites. She’s usually not like that, you know?” SHUT UP!
The Downside of Being Charlie Page 14
