I bust a fast left toward my house, and the right side of the truck comes up off the ground like The Dukes of Hazzard (awesome). I guess before you turn you have to slow down. I’ve never seen my street at sixty miles an hour before. I hardly recognize it. I try to bust a right turn into my driveway, but I sort of merge into my neighbors’ yard instead, and rip through their bushes. I barely miss the corner of my house and smash the mailbox into a million pieces. The truck crushes the hedges I was supposed to trim last Sunday (scratch that off my list of things to do). I try to slam on the brakes, but I accidentally smash the gas pedal again, and we fly right over a rock retaining wall my dad built last year. I see Lynn fly up into the air like a wet piece of spaghetti and crash back down into the truck bed.
“Dude, we just got air!” EJ yells as the front bumper smashes down and breaks off.
We barrel over the bumper, crush my basketball goal, blast through the wooden fence in the backyard, and finally skid to a stop, taking up a bunch of grass with the big tires. I hit the lights on the truck and shut it down. The engine is smoking and making all kinds of banging noises. It doesn’t seem to want to turn off.
My dad flies out the back door in his underwear with a flashlight and a golf club. He means business. His eyes are all big and blinky, trying to wake up and figure out what’s going on in his backyard.
“Hey, Mr. Carter,” EJ says, like he’s just come over to say hi.
“What the hell is going on out here?” Dad yells.
“Nick let me drive his truck, Dad!” I say, all proud.
“I can see that. Why did he do that?” Dad asks.
“Uh, well, he got really tired and fell asleep,” I reply.
“Where’s Lynn?” he asks.
“Oh, she’s in the back here,” EJ says. “But she’s asleep too, so, shhhh.”
Hearing her name, Lynn raises her head from the truck bed. She’s covered in dirt, has a bloody nose and straw sticking out of her hair. She’s not sure what’s going on, so she slurs, “Uhhh, heeyy, Daaadddy!” and stumbles out of the bed and staggers into the house.
“You’re drunk!” Dad barks. (Nothing gets by my old man.)
Lynn says, “Shhhh!” from inside the house.
He turns and asks me, “What the hell is going on?”
I shrug my shoulders and mutter, “I was just driving the truck.”
“Since when do you know how to drive?” he asks.
“Since never, Mr. Carter. He’s a terrible driver!” EJ blurts out.
My dad shakes his head as he surveys his busted-up yard, broken-down fence, and the smoking truck hissing on his back patio, before he finally sighs, “Good lord, well . . .”
He might have been getting ready to say something about how everything is fixable and what’s important is that everyone got home safe and how his son is a hero. That may have been what he was going to say, when that police car whizzes by with the lights flashing.
“Looking for you, by any chance?” he seethes.
“How should I know what they’re lookin’ for? I been drivin’!” I reply.
He throws the flashlight across the yard and snaps the golf club across his knee. He’s shaking with anger, or he’s starting to freeze. “Damn it! I don’t know how to handle this! You were good kids, like, a month ago! What the hell is going on with you, son?”
“I honestly don’t know,” I reply. “Everything is just harder than I thought it was going to be, and I’m not doing very well at any of it! My life’s a friggin’ mess . . . I don’t like girls anymore . . . I’m flunking all of my classes except drama. . . .”
“Wait, y-y-you don’t like girls?” He looks like he’s eaten a habanero pepper when he asks, “S-s-so you think you’re gay?”
My jaw falls open, and EJ doubles over with laughter. “Ha-HAAA!!!”
I bark, “Get outta here, E!”
“I thought I was spending the night. . . . You don’t wanna cuddle?” He laughs.
I angrily point toward his house, and he cackles off into the night.
Dad continues, “Not, not that there’s anything wrong with being gay, son. . . . Your mother and I, w-w-we love you no matter what.”
“You do? Wait, what?! Why do you think I’m gay?” I ask.
“I don’t know, you just said that you were into drama and you don’t like girls anymore,” he barks.
“I did? Well, I guess I could be. My friends tell me I’m gay all the time, and I really do like the acting class, so it’s a possibility. It’s too soon to tell, though, I think . . . I’m only fourteen. But what I meant to say was that girls positively don’t like me anymore.”
He scratches his head and tries to figure out how this talk has spun so far out of control. We’re both trembling because he’s horribly underdressed and I’m jacked up on two liters of Mountain Dew. He seems to be wrapping it up when he says, “Well, we’re behind you . . . or we’re with you, no matter what you decide.”
“Thanks, that’s good to know,” I reply awkwardly.
He turns to go back into the house but stops short. “Hey, another thing. I keep finding a porno playing on the basement VCR. Is that yours?”
“Uh, maybe,” I reply.
He sighs, “Well, okay. It’s just, it’s always playing in fast-forward like a weird matinee show when I get home from work, and it kind of creeps me out. Why don’t you turn it off . . . when you’re through with it?”
“That’s a good question, Dad. I think I may be retarded or something. My drama teacher says I’m ‘in the moment.’ She thinks it’s a good thing,” I reply.
“Well, knock it off,” he barks. “If your mom finds that kind of thing, she’ll freak out. She still thinks you’re a little boy, and you’ll have to see a counselor or something, and we can’t afford it right now, so give it a rest. And another thing, those movies and porn in general—it’s not good for you. It shows you everything wrong. That’s not how it works at all.”
“Oh, I know that, Dad,” I say with certainty.
“You do?” he asks.
“Yeah, I couldn’t go that fast if I practiced every day,” I reply.
“Just knock it off!” he orders, and marches in the house shaking his head. Poor guy.
Approximately 4 1/2 hours later
I’m rudely awoken at nine a.m. by the sound of banging in the backyard. It feels like I just fell asleep. Brock and my dad are out there fixing the demolished fence. My dad is banging the hammer really close to Nick’s face. It’s loud, and Nick obviously doesn’t like the noise this morning. My dad is kind of funny.
Lynn isn’t up yet, which is best for everyone, so I put my coat on and go down and throw some grass seed around where the skid marks are worst. We have to push the old truck into the street because it won’t start.
“That’s weird,” I say to Nick. “It was running great last night.”
I put all the rocks and logs back together where I smashed the truck through the retaining wall. It looks good as new (more or less). After my dad goes inside, Brock comes up to me with his crushed bumper in hand. I start to slowly back away when, surprisingly, he says, “Sorry if I got you in trouble last night.”
I think he just apologized to me for ruining his truck.
“I’m not tryin’ to tell you what to do, Nick, but you don’t need to . . .”
“Yeah I do; you look up to me, and I let you down by getting that drunk.” It may just be the cold wind, but it seems like he’s about to cry.
Everybody looks up to Nick Brock because he’s so tall, but I do because he’s so cool. If there was some cheesy music playing in the background I’d throw my arms around his twenty-inch neck and cry, “It’s okay, Brocky, I still love ya!” Instead I kick a rock and say, “Dude, driving your truck was awesome.”
He laughs. “Looks like you had some trouble with the landing. . . .”
“I didn’t mean to jump it!”
He holds up the bumper and chuckles. “So we got some air, huh?”
“Dukes of Hazzard style, bro! If you were awake you would’ve dug it.”
He’s still laughing, so I go ahead and clear my conscience, filling him in as to why he might get pulled over in the near future and thrown in jail for resisting arrest. “I also may have run a cop off the road. . . .”
The nice big brother vibe exits the conversation, and his kind expression morphs to pissed off. Not good!
“But I may not have,” I yell while sprinting away from him. “There was a lot going on!”
34. Thrash
I dive into the Merrian High indoor pool on the first day of practice and slip through the water like it’s the finest silk from China . . . not freezing cold, chlorine-laden, urine-tainted Merrian tap water. Ahhh! The water feels sooo good. The world seems perfect at the bottom of a pool. All sounds disappear. It could be July again, and my biggest problem could be what trick to bust off the diving board, but my lungs start to sting and I jump to the surface to fill them with musty air. The snow remains piled high outside the windows, and Andre is jumping into my lane. The stupid swimming coach has put us together. I can see how such a mistake could be made—freshmen, football players, all-city first and second place—but this isn’t going to work. We’re not friends, and I’m not sharing a lane with the punk.
I swim toward Coach Barker to file a protest, but she yells out, “Eight hundred warm-up! I want it fast!” before I can get to her.
Eight hundred what? Meters? Are you crazy, lady? I was thinking of doing a thousand for the whole practice. It’s the first day; let’s not get carried away. But all the other guys swim off, including Andre. Oh no you don’t, punk! I take off after him. Coach may call this “a warm-up,” but with this jerk in my lane, it’s a race to the DEATH. I fly past him: Eat my wake, bitch! Man, I’m doing great. I feel strong. It must be all those weights I’ve been lifting. I’m churning up the water faster than I ever have. The first hundred meters is a breeze, but the flip turn starting the second hundred is a little sloppy. My shoulders seem to have caught fire and are starting to burn up. I’m breathing every stroke now, and my lungs might be bleeding. Andre is gaining on me, and I’m fading fast. My arms are still moving, but I don’t think I am. Andre passes me like I’m standing still. DANG IT! Oh, I’ve got nothing, after only two hundred meters, I’m no longer just not moving, I’m starting to sink! I grab the lane line.
Coach Barker notices and yells, “Freshman, get off of my lane line! Let’s GOOO!”
Okay, bitch, I already don’t like you for putting me in this lane with Andre. And now I’m dealing with the repercussions of your dumb-ass decision, so cut me some slack. I shake my head, and with all the strength I have left, I raise my thumb as if to say, “You got it, Coach!” But I don’t move.
Andre passes me again, and the punk has the nerve to stop, and the breath to say, “Pussy!” before swimming off.
I just huff and puff at him. I hope he gets that I’m huffing and puffing in anger. If I could spare a scrap of life, I’d extend a finger at him too, and it wouldn’t be my thumb. I let go of the lane line and get going again. Slowly. Andre passes me a couple more times, but I finally finish the warm-up. Well, six hundred meters . . . five fifty at the least. But I’m definitely warmed up!
The first practice is nuts. I can’t keep up for anything. I’m giving it everything I have and cheating like crazy, but it’s just not enough. Andre isn’t keeping up either, but he’s doing better than I am. Lap after lap, hour after hour. I would’ve quit after ten minutes of this crap and been home by now . . . if Andre weren’t here. But that punk is here, pushing me forward, driving my legs to kick, and forcing my arms to thrash this water until they fall off. But I won’t let my arms really fall off, because that would make Andre way too happy. I’ll finish this practice doing a dog paddle if I have to, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me quit.
At dinner, I eat my usual helping of Mom’s famous (not) turkey tetrazzini. And I’m still starving. I’m going to need double the usual amount to fill me up. Only problem is, I can’t reach the serving bowl. It’s two feet away, but it may as well be a mile. I can’t get it. My brain is sending the signal to my arm to get some more tetrazzini, but the shoulder’s paralyzed. I’ll starve to death before this arm will reach out the two feet I need it to.
I can only manage the strength to get to my room and collapse onto the little bed. I’m dead asleep at six forty-five. No pajamas, no teeth brushed, just eyelids and dreams. I’m chasing Andre all night long. He’s in a car and I’m running after him. He’s in a boat and I’m swimming after him. I’m on a bicycle and he’s on a rocket ship. For twelve hours and twenty minutes I chase him. I’m as tired when my dad wakes me up as when I crashed onto the mattress. Running after a guy in your dreams does not make for restful sleep.
35. The Gayest Ben
I thought I knew what soreness was all about until this morning. Mom will have to send a note to school with Lynn:
Carter will not attend classes today because he is paralyzed.
They say swimming is the best exercise. Well, whoever “they” are, they don’t know Coach Barker. Her brand of swimming can kill you! But I’m going back. Andre isn’t getting a lane all to himself, and he’ll never know what a “pussy” I really am. My Advil breakfast does the trick, and I’m okay as long as I stay perfectly still. I feel pretty good, in fact. I didn’t do any homework last night, but I just aced a math quiz. I don’t need to study more; I just need to sleep more.
I try to hang out with my boys at the lockers, but a stench has filled the halls today. Like a peppermint acid spill.
“It smells like an Altoids factory exploded around here!” Bag yells.
“What is that?” I ask.
“That’s the smell of gayness,” J-Low says.
The football/wrestling coach walks up and starts laughing. “Whew, somebody found the Bengay!”
It reeks, but the stuff must work, because from the smell of it, everybody is using it. My eyes are watering like crazy, but my sinuses are clear as glass.
“I put some on my neck,” Hormone adds. “But somebody took a bath in it!”
“Man, my neck is sore too,” I say, as if someone asked. “I just took a bunch of Advil, though.”
Coach gives me a disgusted look and says, “Why, did you swim into the wall?”
Everybody’s cracking up like that’s the funniest joke of all time, and Coach struts down the hall all proud because he made a fourteen-year-old look dumb. Way to go; why don’t you go back to the chalkboard and work on some more zingers, jerk.
“Who is the Gayest Ben?” J-Low asks, like a newsman sniffing out a story.
All of the winter sports started yesterday. It could even be one of the drama geeks, because they started rehearsals for a show called Stomp. It would be me if I’d known about the stuff. I’m glad it’s not, though, because it’s so much fun looking for the biggest wuss in the school. I wonder who’ll earn the nickname Gayest Ben for life.
After science class I know that I’ve only got one more hour before I have to go back to the pool. I’ve never not wanted to go swimming before, but I’ve never not wanted to do anything more than I don’t want to swim today. I would rather eat my Speedo than put it back on. It’s sopping wet when I find it wadded up at the bottom of my locker. I didn’t plan very well for this yesterday. Hell, I didn’t think I’d live through the night, let alone be back at this locker looking for goggles.
Andre is by himself stretching when I come into the pool. He looks like he’s been working out or something.
He’s all shiny like a bodybuilder in his little Speedo. I have to wear a towel or shorts. I never just rock the Speedo by itself. As I walk past the diving boards I’m hit by a wall of peppermint stench. The closer I get to Andre the wider my sinuses open. I may have found the Gayest Ben!
“It’s stinky in here . . . huh, Ben?” I ask him.
He doesn’t respond. YES! He’s so sore from yesterday, he’s covered hi
mself in greasy antipain cream. I love it. One more Advil and I’d be in a coma right now, but nobody knows that but me! Everybody can smell Andre’s pain from a mile away. The team doesn’t say anything through the stretching part of practice, but no one gets very close to him, either.
We all jump in the pool a little slower than yesterday. I also can’t help but notice that there are a few less dudes in the pool today.
“Two hundred warm-up. Take it slow, fellas,” Coach Barker yells.
We take off, and I’m not setting any records today, but I’m going. My lane is disgusting. A cloud of grease follows my lane partner, and I get a nasty taste of minty grossness every few minutes, but I love knowing Andre hurts.
The warm-up is done, and we all rest on the wall for a second. I bet we’d have a few more bodies in the pool if we’d done a little more of this yesterday, Coach.
“Are you sore, Carter?” Andre pants.
Oh no you don’t, sucker. You and me? Not friends! You are my sworn enemy. And if I’m a little sore, it’s your damn fault. “Nope, not really,” I say, and take off for the first set of really hard laps.
I don’t talk to him during the rest breaks; I don’t talk to him ever. We may share this lane for four years, but I’ll never say a word. Usually I’m the king of jacking around at swim practice, skipping parts of the drills, and not really trying very hard. But not anymore! Not in this lane. I am all business.
The biggest deal in swimming is the four hundred–meter relay team. Only four slots and it’s all about your individual time. You could be the coolest guy in the world, but if you’re a split second slower than the biggest prick on the planet, you’re out! Andre is the fourth-fastest guy (behind three seniors), and I’m number five. So not only did the prick letter in football, but he’s going to get one for swimming too. We both beat out a junior that was on the relay last year, so I get to be the anchorman for the junior-varsity squad. No letterman’s jacket, but it’s pretty cool for a freshman. I’m faster than ever, but it’s not enough. I can get him. I will beat Andre. I could get a silver medal in the Olympics, but if Andre got the gold, it would be a total failure. I want to smoke him.
Carter Finally Gets It Page 17
