Carter Finally Gets It

by Brent Crawford

  Pam walks up and says, “Hey, heartbreaker.” She has no idea.

  “Hey,” I respond. “Who’s your date, Colonel Sanders?”

  She rolls her eyes and proudly sneers, “His name is Mike, and he’s in college.”

  “Yeah? Looks like he’s been in college for a while,” I say, all sly.

  “Shut it, Carter!” she replies. “Who are you here with?”

  “Amber Lee.” I beam.

  “Really? I thought she was with Rusty Dollingsworth,” Pam responds.

  Why would she think something like that? “Nope, my dad just dropped us off,” I say.

  “Oh, well, that’s good. You and Abby both work fast,” she says.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Andre,” she says.

  “What about him?” I ask.

  “Abby is here, with Andre,” Pam says, all nonchalant.

  “WHAT?!” I screech as my jaw drops open, and I look back over my shoulder at Andre and the hottie he’s with. That isn’t a Hooker . . . that’s my Abby! Son of a . . . Why are his hands around my Abby’s waist? Aha! This is why he was the lead witness for the prosecution at my trial. It all makes sense. Andre set me up.

  My sister swoops in from out of nowhere and pushes my mouth closed. “I guess you hadn’t heard about that?” Lynn asks.

  “No,” I say, dumbfounded.

  “Well, what do you care; you’re here with Amber, right? Go dance with her,” she orders, and gives me a shove in the opposite direction.

  I walk through the crowd in a daze and look for my date. An R. Kelly song just came on, so it would be a good time for slow dancing. Why is Abby at the dance with that jerk? It’s his fault her heart got broken. He made me tell the football team about the movie theater action. I didn’t want to, but he intimidated me. Man, if he weren’t way bigger than me, I’d . . . Man, I’ve got to learn karate!

  I finally spot Amber’s hair from across the gym. It’s huge! It’s all bobbing around. What is that hair doing? Dancing? Dang it! Amber Lee is dancing with Rusty Dollingsworth. She’s not wearing that awful green dress anymore, either. She’s really not wearing much. It’s like a Victoria’s Secret type of teddy dress (spring catalog, page 17). But why’s she dancing with Rusty’s dumbass on our first date? This will make a funny story for EJ to tell at our wedding. I’ll just stare at them for a while, and then they’ll stop, and I’ll get to dance with Amber in that lingerie thing.

  Rusty must be getting the hint, because he finally lets go of my date’s butt and is walking toward me.

  “Hey, freshman, you wanna take a picture?” Rusty asks, all up in my face.

  “Uhh?” I say.

  “Because a picture’ll last longer.” He laughs.

  “B-b-but, I b-b-brought her,” I stammer with great authority.

  “Yeah, and I’m takin’ her home! So beat it, kid,” he yells.

  “But, we were gonna . . . She’s my date,” I say just loud enough for no one to hear.

  Does he not know of my legend? Was he sick the day I beat up Scary Terry Moss? He can’t just cop my lady and walk out of the gym holding her hand. Where are they going? The dance just started. I follow them out and watch as they get into Rusty’s dead grandma’s car and drive away. I wonder what General Lee will think of this?

  What the hell am I supposed to do now? I’m not going to cry or anything, but my chest is caving in. I lean my hot face on the cool glass of the gym door when the lightbulb finally switches on: Amber’s dad wouldn’t let her go out with Rusty, but I would do just fine for a ride to the dance. That green dress is in a trash can somewhere, along with my feelings.

  “How’s your date going, Carter?” a mean voice asks from behind.

  I turn around to see Bitchy Nicky staring at me with the snidest look on her face. Abby is right behind her. Their dresses are tight, their hair is smooth, and the makeup is on thick. Just a couple of mean, hot assassins doing a night’s work.

  “Could be better,” I mumble as I turn and walk past them into the gym.

  I catch Abby’s eye for a second, but then look away. I don’t know how involved she was in setting me up, but she seems to be enjoying the results. Shouldn’t she be dancing with Benedict Andre?

  “Hurts, doesn’t it?” Nicky adds for good measure.

  Man it does, too. Worse than any smack off the diving boards, hit in football, or punch in the mouth. It physically hurts. But I keep walking through the gym and I don’t look at anybody. I walk all through the school, every floor, the cafeteria, the art halls, the drama department, the science wing. It’s so quiet. I wish school was quiet like this during the day. I could maybe hear myself think. I might make it through this year if everyone would just be quiet for a minute. And if I’d stop falling on my face all the time, that would help too.

  25. Put It in Gere

  I start walking home, but I discover my church shoes are made for sitting or standing, not walking. I have to stop at the gas station to take a break. I would take my shoes off, but I think my heels will start gushing blood.

  An old-ass BMW pulls up to the gas pump and backfires. BANG! I look over and lock eyes with the embarrassed passenger. My sister’s instinct is to give me a dirty look, but then she gives me a look of pity.

  “What are you doing, Carter?” she asks through the open window.

  “Just hangin’ out,” I reply.

  She gets out of the car and asks, “Are you okay?”

  “I’ve been better,” I say.

  “Yeah, I heard. I’m sorry. Girls can be mean,” she says.

  “Ya think?” I say.

  “Get off the ground; you’re in your church suit, idiot!” Lynn snaps.

  At least some things stay the same in this crazy world.

  Brock walks up to me, slaps my hand (ouch), and says, “Come on, we’ll give you a ride home.”

  Again, I know that the cool thing would have been to turn the ride down. I’m positive my sister does not want me on her date, but my feet are killing me, and I don’t want to call our dad for a ride. He’ll just ask me what happened, and then I’ll have to go over all the details. He’ll forget about the joke we shared earlier, and how we were more like friends for a minute, and he’ll go back to thinking I’m a dumb-ass kid.

  We get to my house and I slowly limp toward the door. My pride hurts worse than my feet.

  “Hey, Carter, wait up,” Nick yells to me, and breaks away from Lynn.

  He walks over because I can’t walk to him, and awkwardly says, “Hey, dude, um, I took a dump in your basement before we left tonight. . . .”

  I just stare at him. Thank you for sharing.

  “Did you whack off before you went out?” he asks.

  What the hell line of weird-ass questioning is this?

  “Uhhh . . .” I stammer, not sure where we’re going.

  He looks at me like a muscle-bound child psychologist and says, “I think you may have left a porno playing in the basement? Either you or your dad?”

  Oh noooo! I think about framing the old man for the embarrassing slip, but I’m so red that he has to know I’m guilty. Man, I’m a dumbass. ADD and horniness are a bad combo.

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Yep, Put It in Gere, stuck on fast-forward? That’s yours?” he asks.

  “Yep,” I shamefully reply. “Is that what it’s called?”

  “Where did you get that thing?” Brock asks.

  “Nutt’s brother, Bart,” I reply. Man, is he going to confiscate my educational video?

  “Dude, I got a copy of that thing four years ago, from my buddy Dave’s cousin. Why is yours stuck on fast-

  forward?” he asks.

  “I don’t know, I bought it that way,” I say.

  “You paid for that?” He laughs.

  “Yeah, thirty-five bucks,” I reply.

  “Wow, good deal, Carter.” Brock chuckles. “Well look, I stuck it in the Dirty Dancing case, so that’s where it is. You’ve got to turn the thi
ng off when you’re done with it, man,” he says like my long-lost brother.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I couldn’t even tell it was porn for, like, a minute; then I recognized the damn thing. Every guy at our school must have a copy of it,” he says with a smirk.

  “Yeah, ’cause it’s awesome!” I reply. Brock and I are really bonding.

  “Uhh, not really. Don’t think that anything on those tapes is real. If you come at a real girl with any of that porn crap, you won’t get too many opportunities. I pitched all mine ’cause they were messin’ me up,” he says.

  “What, because the moves are out of date?” I ask.

  “No, man.” He laughs and walks back to my sister and the old Beamer.

  Man, that dude knows a lot about chicks . . . and he’s dating my sister. Dang it!

  I limp inside to throw that thing away. I don’t want my mom to go down there some night to watch Dirty Dancing for the thousandth time and see the dirtiest, fastest, horizontal dancing of all time. I wonder how many dudes are watching this movie right now, and how I can get a copy that’s not stuck on fast-forward? Focus! We’re throwing it away.

  26. Scrub Squad Killa

  Nobody is making fun of me about the homecoming disaster. Which is worse than getting burned for it, because it means that people feel sorry for me. I try not to think about it and go back to my usual ways. Being tardy, getting by, and dragging my ass to football practice every day. All I do is wait around for the couple of minutes that we work on kicking. I’m not one of the starters on offense, so I have to be on the pretend defense when the real offense is working out their new plays. Coach calls us the “practice squad,” but we call it “scrub squad,” because the real offense could mop the floor with us. I usually try to do as little as possible when I’m on the scrub defense. They run the play, and the guy in front of me smashes me away from the guy with the ball. I only try hard after Coach yells, “Quit doggin’ it, Carter!” Otherwise, I’m on autopilot.

  The new play today is the same sweep, slant, something, blah blah we always run. The ball is hiked and pitched out to Andre. He’s about to run over a few of my scrub squad brothers on his way to scoring another pretend touchdown. But for some reason, my neck gets real tight and I bust a spin move like I’ve seen guys do on TV. Then I swing around the end of the line like a crazy man. Nutt sees me coming and tries to block me, but I mow him down.

  Andre busts around the line and sees me coming at him. He breaks left and is running toward me with fire in his eyes. The running back wouldn’t normally run directly at the guy trying to tackle him, but this isn’t about football. This is about Abby! I was running as fast as I could when we made eye contact, but somehow I’m going faster now. Andre ducks his head down in preparation to run me over, but I lower my body to get underneath his oncoming helmet. I hear him snarl and I let out a squeak. I hope it sounds tough.

  WWHHAAMM! We collide. I have never hit anything so hard in my life, and I hope I never do again. Our forces come together like two high-speed freight trains on the same track. Something has to give . . . and it’s not going to be me! I drive my legs as we collide, I blast up into his stomach. He holds on to the ball with both hands while I wrap my arms around the back of his knees. My anger boils over as I lift his massive body off the ground and drive him back down to the earth. BOOOM! He lets out an “UUUOHHH” as I grind my shoulder into his gut. We slide for a couple feet, and I think I may have broken my neck, but I jump up and run back to the huddle like someone is chasing me. Everyone is super quiet, staring at me. My neck may really be broken or I’m bleeding from the ears and I don’t know it.

  Coach breaks the silence with, “Good God, CARTER! Oh my lord!” He’s jumping around and grabbing at his chest.

  Well, that’s it. I’ve finally done it. I’ve killed the old bastard. He always said I’d do it, and now his worthless, scrub team kicker has clobbered his star freshman running back and it’s too much for him. He’s having the heart attack.

  “Where the hell did that come from?” Coach asks. Even his last words will be about this stupid game. I don’t respond to the question because I really have no idea.

  Andre gets up slow, but he gets up. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares at me. Man, he is really big. He’s a lot stronger than me, and now he’s really mad at me. I could’ve thought this through a bit more carefully.

  The ball’s hiked, and it’s in Andre’s hands again. He sweeps around to the left this time, and I’m coming for him. I’m a one-man scrub defense and this sucker isn’t scoring one more touchdown! He can score all he wants in the games, and he might score on Abby, but NOT on this practice field. Not on this day! WHAAACK! I nail him again, even harder than the last time. We both get up slow. If this were a cartoon, I’d have little birds flying around my helmet. But it’s no cartoon, it’s football! I shake off the haze before the next play. And another WWHHAAACCKKK! awaits Benedict Andre. This practice could last all night. I’m not stopping. Another play, another bone-crushing hit. My arms are bloody, my shirt’s torn, my chin is all cut and bruised. My ears are ringing, and . . . did I mention I think my neck is broken?

  Coach throws every play in his book at me. I’m not cheating either, because I’ve never opened that book. I don’t know any of these plays or where they’re going. All I know is nobody can block me, and this jerk-off isn’t scoring. I’m playing football! The only kicking I’m doing today is kicking Andre’s ASS! Coach is loving it.

  I don’t know what Andre’s problem is. I’d be happy to let him be the football star, and I’ll be second-string whatever, but he moved on my girl. And he did it publicly. WWHHAAACCKK! I want blood. And I get it, too. Mostly it’s my blood, but he’s hurting . . . I hope. Mercifully, it starts to get dark, so Coach has to blow the whistle and end the war.

  He spits the whistle out and yells, “Great practice, men! That’s smash mouth football! Carter, I don’t know where you been hidin’, son, but I’m glad you finally showed up. You really showed me something tonight; you showed your TEAM something! You’re a starter from now on!” Coach yells.

  Oh, dang it! If I do this every day, I won’t see fifteen. I need a chiropractor, a shower, and a stretcher. Normally I just get dressed and go home, because I rarely sweat. Today I’ve got dirt in my teeth and blood in my hair.

  The hot water stings my cuts, and ribbons of mud and blood run down the drain. Andre turns on the shower right next to me. Punk! You can’t use one of the other ten showers? We don’t say a word to each other. I’m just trying not to fall down. He must know what a prick he is. He must have gotten held back or something, because, good lord, he’s a whole lot more of a man than I am. But I’m not looking! How could I be looking? I can’t turn my neck.

  I get in the car with my dad, and he says, “Jeez, that practice was long. You guys are over an hour late. Who’s the new guy?”

  “What new guy?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, the tall guy who was beating up on Andre the last two hours. I’ve never seen him before,” he says.

  I just smile on the inside because my face hurts so bad. My dad didn’t even recognize me. I want to yell, “It’s me, Pop! I’m the new guy!” but I’m too exhausted and I don’t want to get his hopes up that I’m going to be a stud from here on out, so I keep it zipped. Man, I must be a lazy punk most of the time if my own father couldn’t ID me.

  There’s no way I can stay focused like that for a whole game. Forget it. The other team will have to hurt my feelings in some way; they’ll have to personally piss me off in order for me to clobber them. I’ll start looking at cheerleaders or a dog on the sidelines and they’ll score while I’m spacing off. My team is better off with me on the bench. There’s no need to worry about it for long, though. I’ll break my neck for real, and get myself a fly-ass wheelchair with hand controls and a water bottle and everything. Girls will gather around me and pat my head. I’ll be the team mascot. That won’t be so bad. They couldn’t like me any less.<
br />
  27. Arcade Backfire

  EJ and I are chillin’ out at the arcade on a Saturday night (pathetic). I wanted to go to the movies or sit in an ice bath, but EJ’s ADHD has lots of fuel here, and there’re always hot chicks at the arcade, so here we are.

  “You see me gettin’ wicked eye contact with the chicks at the Ms. Pac-Man?” EJ asks.

  “Yeah, I do, ’cause you’re staring at ’em. They’re scared and trying to figure out whether or not to call security on you.” I laugh.

  Even though Lynn’s advice seems to have blown up in my face, EJ still asks for clarification on how to use it. “What I don’t get is,” he says as he hip checks the Star Wars game, “how you like ’em for real, but pretend not to. But you really like ’em underneath it all, right?”

  “Dude, I don’t know why it works, it just does. Why don’t you go practice on one of those Ms. Pac-Man chicks? Quit stalkin’ ’em and go talk to ’em. Just pretend you’re not into ’em and then ask a question. What’s the worst that could happen?” I ask like a fourteen-year-old Dr. Drew.

  “I don’t know what to ask ’em,” he says. “You go talk to ’em, Carter.”

  “Man, I’ll start to stutter, and that doesn’t help anyone,” I say. “Girls hate me, that’s just a fact. I’ll go with you, though.”

  Every great pilot needs a wingman. A guy by his side who tells him how much fuel he has and how he’s doing. The pilot has one job: fly the plane. Or in this case, talk to the girl. The wingman just helps the pilot out. Like a corner man at a prize fight or a coach on the sidelines.

  I don’t think EJ’ll go through with it, though. He’ll just stare at these chicks until his mom comes and picks us up. But he thinks it over for a second, rolls his eyes back into his head, and breaks for the Ms. Pac-Man machine.

  “Whoa, slow down, turbo!” I say, but he doesn’t hear me. The pilot makes a move; the wingman follows.