Carter Finally Gets It

by Brent Crawford

  She shakes her head, pinches the bridge of her nose, and seethes, “You know, you don’t deserve this information.”

  “Probably not, but please continue,” I say politely.

  “Okay, where was I?” she asks.

  “Take her hand, get away from . . .” I respond.

  “Right. Hand holding: if your hands are sweaty, try to wash them with soap and very hot water before any hand holding; it cuts the sweating in half. Now, about the kiss. Don’t grab her by the face and shove your tongue down her throat! Focus on the lips. You don’t want any slobber or tongue action anywhere outside of the lips. Nobody wants a baby calf coming at them with a foot-long tongue. Try to close your eyes if you can. If your eyes are open it means you don’t trust her. But if you start to get dizzy, go ahead and open your eyes—you don’t want to fall down. Always give a peck before tongue. Maybe two pecks if she’s really nervous. But don’t do three! Three pecks just means that you’re scared and you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  I raise my hand. After a moment’s deliberation, she nods that I have the right to ask a question.

  “Yeah, I’m wondering about the ‘no grabbing of the face,’ and the ‘no shoving of the tongue.’ Because that’s exactly what Nutt’s brother, Bart, and Bag say to do. Bart even showed us a make-out montage on his laptop, and every time Keanu, Brad, or Tom kiss a chick, they lead with the hand, secure the face, and shove the tongue.”

  She takes a deep breath and asks, “What is Bag’s full nickname?”

  “Uh, Scumbag,” I reply.

  She calmly says, “Please don’t take advice from a guy named Scumbag, and if you ever get near Bart again, check yourself for lice.”

  “Got it,” I humbly reply.

  She pops my collar up and says, “You’re not in junior high anymore, Carter. What you do affects me. I’ve worked way too hard to be as cool as I am for you to come up and ruin me. So just do exactly what I’ve said and you’ll be fine . . . and have fun!”

  7. Steppin’ Out

  Her speech is over, and I pedal off toward Maria’s house. My head is reeling! How am I going to write all of that on my hand? I’ll have to be the Jedi-Zen-Carter tonight if this is going to work. I’m frustrated and confused and pedaling so fast up a hill that I start riding a wheelie. I’ve never been able to ride a wheelie before! It’s either the workouts or I’m so nervous that I’m uncommonly strong. Whatever it is I just pushed the pedals around four times before the front wheel crashed back down. AWESOME! If I can get five around, I’ll quit football and start training for the X Games. I squeeze the front brake to bust a phat endo, and flip myself onto the concrete face-first instead. WHAM! Dang it.

  A Chevy minivan blasts its horn and screeches to a stop two inches from my face. That was almost bad. Then it goes ahead and gets really bad. The driver’s window rolls down, and Yosemite Sam sticks his head out the window and yells, “AYE! Get out of the road, dumbass!” His red handlebar mustache flies up from the force. He gets out of the van and stomps toward me. He’s much taller than the cartoon, but his hair is fire red and his eyes are bugging out of his head.

  I start laughing because I’m nervous, I almost died, and I’m face-to-face with a Looney Tune. I stop when I see Amber Lee in the passenger seat. Oh, dang it.

  “Sorry!” I sheepishly reply, and peel myself off the ground.

  Amber rolls down her window and asks, “Carter, what are you doing?”

  “Uh, riding over to Maria’s party, bustin’ a couple tricks,” I say.

  “Bustin’ your butt is more like it!” Her dad laughs.

  Wow, that’s a funny joke . . . dick.

  Then he barks, “Throw the bike in; we’ll give you a lift.”

  Oh my! I climb inside the van with my bike, and Amber looks superhot in a lacy white shirt that shows her bra. Yosemite must’ve relaxed the regulations tonight, because her makeup’s much heavier than usual. Kind of slutty, actually. I’m thinking like crazy for a question I can ask as we role out. “D-d-do you do your own makeup?” is all I can come up with.

  Her dad snarls at me in the rearview mirror.

  “Why?” she asks.

  “W-w-why not?” I ask, trying to keep up the inquisition.

  Her dad turns around and asks, “You think she’s wearin’ too much makeup?”

  “Daddy, shut up!” Amber yells.

  “Not too much for me, I-I-I think it looks nice,” I answer.

  Amber turns around and gives me the nicest smile. I asked her two questions, and she flashes me teeth. Questions are sweet!

  I couldn’t have planned my arrival to the party any better than it goes down. About twenty kids are in front of the house. A 50 Cent track is blasting from a stereo inside as Amber Lee steps out of the van, short shorts in full effect. My boys look over as she slides the van door open for me (because of the child safety locks). I pop out with my bike in tow and give them a nod, like, “What’s up, FOOLS!” I step down just as 50 is rapping about his Es-co-lade. I’m stepping out of an As-tro-Van, but my friends have to be thinking, “What a pimp that Carter is!”

  Amber whispers, “Wow, my dad never talks to anybody, especially not cute boys.”

  I may have said, “Yeah, I have a way with parents,” or something clever like that, but Amber Lee just referred to me as cute so I may have just muttered, “Cool,” and ran away . . . I don’t really remember.

  I high-five EJ as the boys start ripping on me.

  “What? You couldn’t ride all the way?” Hormone asks.

  “Her dad almost mowed me down with the van. The least he could do was give a brotha’ a lift,” I reply.

  “Did he call you a varmint?” Bag asks.

  Doc adds, “I heard her dad killed a guy with a tire iron!”

  I was going to tell them that I heard that too, or bust a Yosemite Sam impression, but Abby steps out of the house and my heart skips a beat. Seriously, like a CD from the public library, it goes ZZebbTTT and skips. Holy crap, she looks hot! Where did this girl come from? This is not the chick I knew in home ec at all. She’s wearing a short jean skirt and a tight T-shirt with the number 44 printed across her boobs. Her belly button’s exposed and it’s all good. My brain’s having trouble keeping up with all the new signals. I think I’ve gone cross-eyed for a second, because the 44 just said 4444.

  From football, I know that the number 44 is reserved for linebackers and usually the toughest kid on the team, but she’s stretching the number in a way no linebacker ever could. I usually run away from the kid wearing 44, but I’m thinking about getting closer to this one.

  She smiles at me, and I say, “Hey Ab-Ab, you l-l-look fantastic!”

  She smiles even bigger and says, “Thanks, Carter, so do you.”

  Way to go on the hard-to-get tip, doofus. Dang it, does that count as one of my compliments? I’m only supposed to bust that out if I can’t think of a question. I guess I only get one more.

  “How’s the party?” and “How long have you been here?” were going to be my first questions of the night, but I seem to be stuck on, “H-hhh-haa . . .” It’s her belly button; she’s never broken it out before.

  “H-h-haaa,” I wheeze. Her button’s like kryptonite! It’s weakening my powers—my power of speech. I’m definitely blinking too much. EJ’s just watching me like I’m bad reality TV and he’s got a great seat for the show. The word “cool” may have worked earlier with Amber, so I give it a shot.

  “Cool party” shoots right out. Nice!

  She replies, “Yeah, Maria’s house is perfect for a party.”

  “Have you been here before?” would work perfectly here, so I stammer, “H-h-h-ha-ho-ho . . .”

  EJ busts in to save his oldest best friend with, “Pay no attention to Elmer Fudd here; he stutters when he likes somebody.”

  Why, you good-for-nothing son of a . . . This is why I’m still a virgin! I shoot him an I’m-gonna-kill-you-later smile, and although I didn’t want it pointed out at that moment, he�
��s kind of right. I’ve gone from being totally whatever about Abby to really liking her.

  “Y-y-you w-w-wanna go inside?” I ask her.

  “Sure, they have Cokes and food in the kitchen,” she says as we walk away.

  I whack EJ in the back of the head. Hard!

  Abby walks past the stereo and does a little MTV hip-hop shoulder bob to the beat of the song. Wow, my girl can dance! I need to write that on my hand for later questions.

  “How’s your sister?” Abby asks over her shoulder.

  Dang it! I’m supposed to be the journalist here.

  “Uh, she’s cool. She got me this shirt,” I reply.

  “Oh, cool. I was just going to say I love that shirt. It matches your Shox,” she says, grabbing a Diet Coke.

  I start to blabber, “Naw, Abby, y-y-you really look great. Really, like awesome! Your earrings and that necklace are perfectly coordinated. It’s pooka shell, right? Your whole look is fierce! The shirt and that mini are so cute together, and with your tan you look all beach chic.”

  Oh, good God, Carter! This isn’t Queer Eye. Back off, you stalker!

  She may be thinking “stalker,” but she’s all smiles. No more compliments, though. I start in on my first of a thousand questions. “How’s drill team going?” “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” “Do you guys get along?” “What’s that like?” “What’s your favorite movie?” “How do you think U.S. foreign policy is affecting our economy?” “Do you think oral sex counts as sex? And why?” I left out the last few, but they’re about the only ones. I’m friggin’ Jimmy Olsen digging for clues! The funny thing is, I’m learning a lot about her. Not really from what she’s saying, because I space off a lot, but more by how she’s acting. She’s being kind of giggly and silly. I think she’s nervous. I may be making a girl nervous! I thought I knew her, but the girl she’s giving me here is not the same chick I joked around with in junior high. She’s looking way hotter, but she’s not acting as cool. I, on the other hand, am cool as a cucumber. I even start to crack a few jokes in between questions, and she’s laughing her head off. I think I have the upper hand here, and I’m liking it.

  “I’m gonna go check up on my boys,” I tell her, and then just walk away.

  Man, I am doing really well. I stroll through the party like I’m John Mayer after a concert. I give my nods and my “S’up?”s. My high fives and my low fives. I notice my bike lying in the front yard, where I abandoned it an hour ago. I get punched a couple of times in the arm, not because anyone is mad at me; that’s just what we do. EJ is talking to the big dude from Pizza Barn. I’ve since heard that his name’s Andre, he can bench two hundred fifty pounds, and he’s dating a supermodel. He’s not talking again; he’s just listening to EJ tell the story about how we shaved off one of Bag’s eyebrows last year and how crazy a guy looks with only one eyebrow.

  I punch EJ hello in the kidney. “S’up?” I ask.

  “Ahh! Don’t do that; I’ve got kidney stones!” EJ cries.

  “I know, I thought that would help break ’em up, dog,” I reply.

  I give Andre a “S’up?” and he gives me a nod, looks into the kitchen at Abby, and asks, “Is that your bitch?”

  Now, I may have just punched my best friend in the kidney and he may pee blood tomorrow, but that was a

  pretty rude response to a “S’up.”

  “My bitch?” I ask, for clarification.

  “Are you hittin’ that or what?” he asks.

  I look over at EJ, who’s shocked by this guy’s line of questioning too, and say, “Uh, only when she starts freakin’ out and I have to whack her across the face, like, ‘Pull yourself together, WOMAN!’”

  EJ laughs, and Andre shakes his head and says, “I’ll take that as a no,” then walks into the kitchen and starts talking to Abby.

  “What a jackass!” I say.

  “Jackass who’s mackin’ on your girl,” EJ replies.

  “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” I ask.

  “Pray she’s not into him,” he says, while monitoring the kitchen with me.

  “I know him—Where the hell do we know him from?” I demand.

  “Swim team,” EJ replies. “You know that kid who beats you every summer in the all-city championships?”

  “That’s him? That’s Andre? I hate that kid! I’ve hated him since I was five,” I respond dumbfoundedly.

  “Looks like he’s not a Carter fan, either,” he replies as we watch him touch Abby’s exposed belly button.

  “That’s my button!” I say as a lightning bolt shoots down my spine and I march into the kitchen to start my first fight. A fight I will surely lose. But just as I’m about to jump into the air for a flying-crane kick to the back of his fat head, Abby steps past Andre, grabs me by the hand, and says, “There you are! Excuse us, Andre, I need to ask Carter a question.”

  She pulls me on to the back deck and says, “That guy’s a jerk.”

  “No kiddin’,” I respond. “He called me fat boy summer before last at a swim meet. Twelve is a difficult age for boys, and wearing a Speedo is hard enough without some butthole commenting on your weight issues!”

  Abby touches my chest and giggles. “Carter, you are hilarious.”

  I laugh as well, like I was trying to make a joke and I’m not still mad that he called me fat boy and then smoked me by two full seconds in the race. I chuckle a little more because she’s still laughing, and I try to think of another question. I want to tell her that I was kidding about wearing a Speedo and that I’m starting karate soon, so I can kick Andre’s ass if he bothers her again. But my sister’s instructions are burned like an Outback steak into my brain, so instead of lying or bragging, I say, “Tell me more about drill team camp,” like a robot.

  She doesn’t shut up for five minutes, until Nick Brock, the Skeleton, Scary Terry Moss, and a couple other seniors walk past us and through the back door of the house. They have real beer. One dude’s smoking a cigarette, and the Skeleton just stuck his hand in Maria’s fish tank. I don’t think he caught anything, but Maria’s dad is pissed and yells at them to leave. Man, I wouldn’t tell those guys to do anything. I’d let them burn my house down without a peep. Her dad looks scared too, because Nick Brock is huge, the Skeleton is really tall, and Scary Terry Moss is a psychopath. You can see it in his eyes! He came over to my house last year to hang out with my sister, and he was kind of a dick to me. He pushed EJ down in grade school, and he just kicked Maria’s mailbox as they walked out the front door, confirming the rumor I heard that he knows karate. This guy is the complete menace package! And then he picks up my bike and starts to ride around on it.

  “HEY! No, no, NO, Scary Terry! That’s my bike!” I yell inside my head. But I’m speechless on the outside as Brock gets on my axle pegs and they ride away. He weighs two hundred and fifty pounds; my pegs can’t handle that kind of weight, dude! Nobody else seems upset. I guess they can’t hear the screaming inside my head. I walk out to the driveway like I’m going to do something about all this, but I just watch Brock and Terry ride into the sunset with my Redline 500a. I look back at EJ, and he kind of shrugs his shoulders, like, “Nothing we can do, dude, just let it go.”

  I know I have to, too. I’m so mad at myself for riding my stupid bike to a high school party. I didn’t even lock it up, or hide it, or anything. I saw Abby’s belly button and left my bike for dead in the middle of the yard, where any drunk senior could ride away on it.

  I walk out to the curb just in time to see the seniors laughing and piling into an old pickup truck. The Skeleton carelessly throws my bike into the back, and they drive off. I should call the police, but then Scary Terry would kill me in my sleep. I feel the swell from my loss and I start to cry. At my first high school party I’m crying in the street. Dang it. I take a walk around the block to stop the waterworks and make sure nobody sees. It’s time to say good-bye to my bike-riding days anyway. A bicycle is a kid’s thing, and I’m not a kid anymore. It’s time to grow
up and stop pedaling around. I really want to go home so I don’t have to go back to that party with red eyes, a puffy face, and no bike. But while my pride is strong, my hormones are way stronger. I played Abby as good as I can, and that Andre is going to swoop in on her if I don’t go back. And if I don’t kiss her good night, she’s going to think I’m not into her. And I do not want her to think that.

  As I open the front door I see her sitting on the couch with a drill-teamer named Kathy. The whole room’s looking at me. I see my boys on the stairs and walk toward them, but then I bust a left and head toward Abby instead. She jumps up when she sees me turn. Kathy must not have been saying anything important.

  EJ shoots me a look like, “That’s cold, dude.”

  Abby gives me a hug and asks, “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s no big deal,” I lie.

  “That was your bike, huh?” she asks, all close to my face.

  “It was my Redline five. . . . Yeah, it was my bike, but it was gettin’ old,” I say as the tears start to well up. No, no, no crying! There’s kissing to be done.

  “Oh, Carter, I’m sorry,” she says as she hugs me again.

  “I’ve got to go, Abby,” I say.

  “Okay, I’ll walk you out,” she says.

  I hadn’t planned it, but I think I’m being pretty smooth here. I take her hand, and we walk to the door. I see that Andre and my boys notice, so I give them a nod (pimp). Amber Lee is also glaring in our direction, which is weird, but so is the gallon of sweat that’s dripping from my palm. I need soap and hot water, STAT!

  We head toward a big tree off to the side of the yard, out of the high beams of any approaching parents’ headlights. The last thing I need is EJ’s mom seeing me make out with a girl. Dirt gets out faster from her telephone than the CNN news desk.

  Both Abby and I know what we’re at this tree to do. There’s no doubt; I have a green light. But courage is slow to boil on my fourteen-year-old stove top, and I pester on with the small talk.

  “What are you doing tomorrow?” I ask, without an ounce of interest in the answer.