What am I supposed to do, though? Go hang with the self-righteous Young Life kids? Drink Kool-Aid, read the Bible, and listen to them blabber on about “the power of abstinence” and saving themselves for marriage? I’ll have to jump over the campfire and yell out how I’m saving myself for the first slutty girl who’ll let me do it to her! And they’ll tell me how I’m going to hell for sure. I don’t think I’m going to hell, but I’m definitely visiting tonight. I guess these parties are going to be like football and everything else. I’ll just show up and get it done. Just another thing I hate, but I do anyway.
Lynn throws her arm around my shoulder and says, “Pretty crazy, huh?”
I just shake my head and say, “This isn’t fun.”
“Very few people actually enjoy these parties,” she replies.
“Whose house is this?” I ask. “Their parents are gonna kill ’em.”
“It’s nobody’s house. It’s for sale. The guys just broke in,” she says, pointing to a FOR SALE sign on the floor. “They couldn’t get that big dining room table out, I guess. And the fish tank too.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem now,” I say as the fish tank crashes to the ground, shatters, and shoots glass and water everywhere. “Is this illegal? Are we like, stealing this house?”
“Yeah, but these guys do it all the time,” she responds.
Then I hear a very familiar squeal, and turn to see two seniors carrying EJ toward the dining room. He’s weak from all the puking, but he’s kicking and flailing as best he can. Just when things couldn’t get much crazier, the living room fills with red-and-blue lights, and someone yells, “COPS!”
The police are here. It’s about time! If I had thought of it earlier, I would have called them myself. The party becomes a fire drill on crack. People are pushing and shoving to get out the back door, out the garage, or out the broken windows. If Brock had really crashed me through that wall, we would all be home free with another back door available. I push EJ out the kitchen window and dive after him, when I hear a cop yell, “Don’t move—Police!” Man, I never thought I’d hear that. And I always thought I’d stop if I did. But nobody else is stopping, so damned if I’m going down for all this.
I wipe the grass off my face and run through the backyard. I jump a fence and look around for EJ. Nutt and Bag point at a figure flying across the yard next to us. It’s EJ, and he may be drunk but he’s really booking it. His eyes are filled with terror, his arms are flailing, and he’s screaming. He must really be scared of going to jail. That, or he’s worried about the huge, snarling, rottweiler on his heels! The dog’s slobbering, barking, and gaining on him. Nobody wants to get caught by the cops, but about twenty of us stop to see if EJ is going to get eaten by this dog or not.
“HAAAAHHHH, NOOO, doggie!” he yells, and runs as fast as his untied shoes will carry him. Which is normally really fast, but it looks like the dog’s got his number.
“RUN, FORREST!” Bag yells out, and we all laugh.
EJ loses one of his Pumas, but he doesn’t even pause. The dog must outweigh him by fifty pounds. He’s just about to the fence, and that dog is so close it can almost taste EJ’s ass. My best friend dives headfirst over the fence and slides for about ten feet on his stomach.
We all cheer, “Yeah, EEEEJAAY!”
But we shut up quick as that big dog takes flight. It jumps over the chain-link fence like it’s not even there. Everyone sees the pending doom, except EJ, who is drunkenly laughing about his near-death experience. Silly boy doesn’t know what hit him when the dog clamps down on his right butt cheek. Oh man, the rottweiler is shaking EJ around like a new toy. EJ is screaming for help, but everybody is long gone . . . except me. He doesn’t stand a chance on his own, and I can’t leave my wingman like this.
I run at the dog, and in my deepest adult voice I yell, “BAD DOG! DROP IT!”
The dog must have heard that before, because it drops EJ and looks up at me. Hmmm . . . What to do now? I did not think this through completely. The dog has lost interest in EJ and is now looking at me like I’m what’s for dinner. For my first trick I jump the fence to get away from him, and to get EJ’s lost Puma. We wear the same size, and I might need to borrow these someday. And this dog is going to make the left one his bitch if I don’t. But the dog doesn’t like seeing me in his yard at all, and starts to whine and bark.
“NO! NO! Bad dog!” I yell, but the dog just flexes his big neck muscles and shoots me a mean look through the fence. That worked once, but it knows I’m just a punk-ass kid who shouldn’t be in its yard. I have no authority here, and we both know it. The dog takes a run at me and sails into the air. Now, who’s the A-hole that built a three-foot fence for an attack dog with a five-foot vertical leap? The dog lands on all fours in his own yard as I bust a superman and land on my face in the yard where the party once raged. I jump up and sprint toward EJ, who’s showing a full moon as he runs away. The back part of his Levi’s is still lying on the ground. His mom could totally fix them, but then he’d have to explain what happened, and his mom would want to know where this vicious attack dog was and try to talk to its owner, and then EJ would get nailed for being drunk at an illegal stolen-house party. So it’s best to just tell her, “I musta lost ’em?” Most people can’t use that excuse, but EJ and I are always losing pants; I lose about four a year. No explanation; they just disappear.
I kind of forgot that we were running from the law, as well as this attack dog. But I get a heavy reminder when a two-hundred-pound cop tackles me to the ground and yells, “DON’T MOVE!”
I know he weighs two hundred because all of that weight is resting on my neck as he wrenches my arm behind my back. Ouch! What the hell? Are we filming an episode of Cops here, Barney?
He’s yelling behind my back, “One-one-nine, officer has suspect in custody!” I guess by “suspect,” he means me, and by “custody,” he means in agonizing, friggin’ pain, with my face pushed into the grass!
“Can’t breathe, dude!” I wheeze.
“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you burglarized this house and destroyed it!” he barks back, putting my wrists in zip tie handcuffs.
I hear the plastic Zzzip, and I can’t move. The dog’s barking all loud and happy like he’s cheering for the cop. Shut up, dog. The cop lifts me to my feet by my wrists, and if there’s a more painful way to lift someone up off the ground, I’d like to know what it is.
“OWW! I-I-I d-d-didn’t . . . I’m just a freshman!” I protest.
“Well, you’re in big trouble, freshman!” he says. “What’s your name?”
“C-C-C-Ca . . . EJ,” I say.
“Where do you live, EJ?” he asks.
“Just right over there,” I nod.
“Where is that, exactly?” he prods.
This dude is going to try to talk to my parents, and that is the last thing I need. I’m still grounded!
“Just right over there, right over that hill.” I nod and try to point with my cuffed hands.
I’m not lying to him; I’m honestly pointing toward my house. It is just right over that hill . . . and then three miles down the road. I’m pointing and nodding away when about twenty kids pop out from behind a garage and run in every direction.
The Skeleton points at me and yells out, “You’re dead, freshman!” as he leaps over a fence and sprints away.
“I was pointing at my house, not your dumb hiding place!” I yell back.
The cop takes off after them and screams into his walkie-talkie, “One-one-nine . . . Officer needs back-door backup . . . in the rear. Suspects everywhere! Repeat, back-door backup needed. Hot pursuit!”
Three cops fly out the back door and run after the kids. I’m back on the ground, but from laughter now. Officer needs back-door backup in the rear. Hot pursuit! Oh, that’s classic. I wish someone else could have heard that. I really wish I didn’t have handcuffs on.
The attack dog is wagging his stubby tail like he wants to play with me some more. We’re b
oth confused. EJ pops out of a bush in the other yard, runs over, and slaps me in the face. WHACK!
“Ow! What the hell was that for?” I yell.
“What are you giving my name to the cops for?!” he barks.
“Sorry, I got nervous. It just popped out. I wouldn’t have given ’em your name if I’d known you were listening.”
He squints his eyes at me and contemplates slapping me again, then whisper/yells, “Let’s bail!”
“No way, dude, I got cuffs on,” I whisper/yell back.
EJ is laughing now because he’s drunk; but this isn’t funny.
“Shut up, dude!” I yell for real.
“You got cuffed and stuffed!” He laughs and humps the air. “Officer needs ‘hot back door in the rear’!”
“You heard that?” I laugh.
“Yeah, let’s go!” he yells.
“No!” I yell back.
“Did the cop tell you to stay? Did he specifically say you had to stay here?” he asks.
“Nooo, but I think it’s implied,” I respond, and show him the cuffs again.
“I’m outta here, man,” EJ says, flashing me his full moon as he runs away.
I look over at the dog, whose mean look is now gone. His tail isn’t wagging, and he’s sort of shaking his head in disappointment, like I should’ve split with EJ.
“Wait!” I whisper/yell and run after my bare-assed best friend. If the cop catches me, it’ll be tough to explain the look that rottweiler just gave me, and why I listened to a dog on legal matters, but I’m gone.
We look like a pair of escapees from a mental hospital, or an S&M sex convention. My shirt is all ripped up and my hands are bound behind my back. EJ has puke all over his shirt, buttless pants, and only one shoe. And we’ve got a long way to go.
“Dude, get behind me so no one can see the cuffs,” I tell EJ, while still panting and tripping along.
“No way, you get behind me so my ass isn’t hangin’ out,” EJ says.
“I’m not staring at your bare ass for three miles, dude!” I bark.
“You know Nicky and Abby are right about you, Carter. You’re self-centered,” EJ pants.
“Big words, drunkie!” I say, and knock into him.
“I’m not drunk, fag,” he slurs. “I just don’t want people lookin’ at my junk,” he snaps and pushes me.
I stumble a bit and narrowly miss running into a tree. I yell, “Don’t push! I’ll fall down.”
An evil lightbulb goes on in EJ’s eyes, and he kicks my left foot behind me as I’m running. I fight gravity for about two and a half steps and then eat it. My face skids on the wet grass and my legs flip up over my head. I hear a pop come from somewhere near the top of my spine, and I know you’re not supposed to move when you’ve broken your neck, but I’ve got an ass to kick!
He tries to apologize, but he’s laughing so hard he can’t get it out. I finally fumble up to standing, and charge him like a bull. I ram him in the chest—and slip on the grass. I gain my footing quickly, but accidentally crash the top of my head into his chin. His teeth smash together with a CLACK, and his eyes fill with shock and tears. I think his orthodontist is going to be pissed.
“I was jokin’!” EJ cries as he cocks his fist back to Friday and punches me in the stomach. I could see it coming, but what can I do?
“Yeah, how funny is this?” I wheeze, and kick him in the ribs. This is a poorly conceived fight if there ever was one. The odds would be surprisingly even, though, I think.
I kick him in the ribs again after he punches me in the ear. We’re both crying. I never thought EJ and I would fight like this.
“Ah, did I hurt your feelings?” EJ cries, and swings wildly at my head. “It’s not like I stole your fat girlfriend, or blocked one of your sideways ten-yard field goals!”
Man, EJ is a mean drunk. He’s got the ammo to hurt my feelings like no one else, so I run at him and ram my head into his chest again. I hope this is hurting him as much as it is me. Neither of us has a brother, so I’ve never thought we were especially tough. But I’m in a fight with my hands tied behind my back; that’s pretty bad ass.
I jump into the air and try to give him a flying karate kick to the head, but it doesn’t go very well, and I, more, knee him in the shoulder and we both fall to the ground. I boot him in the back. Why is he drunk? I needed a wing-man at that party. I need to tell him about seeing Pam naked, but I headbutt him in the shoulder instead. I need to tell him about how scared I am at football practice. I need to tell him how much it hurt when Amber Lee set me up at the homecoming dance. But instead I kick him in the stomach because he left it wide open. He rolls away from me, and I go for a headbutt to the kidneys. I bring my head down with vicious force, knowing that if I connect properly he’ll pee blood tomorrow. But fortunately for him and very unfortunately for me, he quickly moves away, and the kidneys cease to be a target.
Instead of a thud and painful scream, I get a surprisingly loud SLAP as my face connects with his bare butt cheeks. I’m so mad, I smash my face into it again.
“Dude, get outta my ASS!” he laughs.
“Shut up, dude.” Well, maybe this is a little funny. I’m so out of breath it’s hard to laugh, but I do. Thank God the fight is over. Because drunk or not, EJ had the upper hand.
We cut off my handcuffs and find an old plastic Hy-Vee bag for EJ to make a diaper out of and walk home.
“You look like a homeless sumo wrestler,” I say.
He laughs. Not so much a drunk laugh, but more of a regular EJ laugh.
“I saw Pam naked tonight,” I confess.
“No you didn’t!” he gasps.
“Yeah, I did and it was incredible. She’s not a natural blonde,” I say.
He lets out a sexually frustrated squeak, and I know we’re back on track.
30. Our Winter’s Discontent
Football is over (thank God) and winter is on the way. It’s time for the basketball, wrestling, or swimming season to start. Pick your poison. All my boys play basketball or wrestle. I thought about playing b-ball, because I’m one of the taller guys in my class now, but I still suck at shooting the ball, dribbling it, and passing. So I may save myself the humiliation. Wrestling would be cool if it was the WWE Smack-Down type of wrestling. But it’s not. It’s just rolling around with sweaty dudes wearing a singlet (a cross between Daisy Duke shorts and a girl’s swimming suit) and always having to lose weight so you can wrestle a kid who’s four pounds lighter than you. That doesn’t sound fun to me, so I’m going to swim back and forth in a pool for two hours every day, wear a Speedo, and take in as little oxygen as possible (can’t wait!). I’d never admit it, but I kind of like the Speedo. It feels like you’re naked. My boys dog me for owning one, but I’m caring less and less about what’s said in the halls. Who knew you could get used to humiliation?
Coach walks up to our crew at lunch. The football coach is also the wrestling coach at Merrian High. I guess the thinking is, if you’re tough enough to play football, you’ll be stupid enough to join the wrestling team.
Coach looks right at me and says, “Hey, Tinker Bells, shouldn’t you two have your water wings on and your nose plugs in for synchronized swimming practice?”
I look around to see who else he’s talking to. I swivel in my chair and make direct eye contact with Andre’s punk ass. Coach continues, “My toughest guys are joining the
swim team?! What’s the world coming to?”
I almost crack a smile, because Coach just referred to me as “tough,” then Andre shuts it down by saying, “Sorry, Coach, I’m the all-city champ. I gotta swim, but maybe Carter’d wrestle for ya, ’cause he sucks.”
I just glare at him and explain to Coach, “I got second.”
“Yeah, distant second!” Andre laughs.
“The only thing distant around here is you and reality,” I retort, but nobody laughs.
Coach breaks in. “Hey, if you don’t have the strength and mental fortitude it takes to wrestle a man to t
he ground and bend him to your will, maybe the dive team is where you belong,” he says, and then struts away.
Yeah, the dive team comment hurt, but I had to fight off a laugh when he was talking about “bending another man down.” Andre raises his eyebrows at me as if to say, “What was that?” But I do not respond. I’ve got people I raise my eyebrows at, and people I do not. I can’t waste any facial gestures on backstabbing, chick-thieving punks who call me suckie in front of other people!
Just then, Abby walks up to our table and makes me feel even worse. She purposely doesn’t look at me and walks off with Andre. I grab my backpack and rummage through it for something to do. Nobody knows that I’m just hiding my red face and looking for my balls. I’m also trying to figure out why my chest gets so friggin’ tight and my neck tenses up so bad every time I get near her. I can’t breathe, and I feel like I’m going to fall down or do something stupid every time we pass and pretend not to notice each other. I see Amber Lee sometimes too, but I can just cruise by her without feeling much of anything. I used to think she was so hot, but not anymore. She still has a nice butt, but I can look past it now and know that she’s mean. It makes the rest of her ugly to me.
I’m not seeing much of EJ either, because he’s practicing a lot for basketball tryouts and he kind of has a girlfriend all of a sudden. Sarah “the Caboose” Ruiz. He talked to her! We were all shocked. He asked her, “What time is it?” one day in the hall. That’s the question he came up with. Huge clock on the wall behind him; he walks up to her with a straight face and busts out, “What time is it?” She tells him, and he says, “Thanks!” and then runs away. It didn’t look like he was late for something, or anything, but more like he was running away from a monster.
He retardedly asked her twice more, “What time is it?” She finally asked him, “Why don’t you get a watch?” and then he replied, “Don’t need one. . . .”
She naturally asked, “Why?”
And then he dropped the tightest line on her I’ve ever heard: “Because I like asking you.” (My boy is so goofed up he fell into the smooth!) The Caboose smiled, and that’s it. Now they’re making out in the halls. It’s not a miracle. Just ask a question and then blow them off. That’s the secret. He did it so terribly that the gods of love must have shaken their heads and said, “Hell, why not throw this horn dog a bone!”
Carter Finally Gets It Page 14
