If I had a nickel for every time I had a new master plan like this written on my arm, I’d have a couple bucks. I usually stick with them for a week or two, but this beating Andre thing is really strong. I’m committed to it. Lap after lap. Day after day. Week after week. My poor body is paying the price. I’m working my tail off . . . literally. I don’t have a butt anymore. I eat more food than anyone I know, but my jeans are practically falling off me. I’m getting ripped. I don’t even skip when I’m sick. Every practice, I make sure to swim at least two hundred more meters than Andre does. I work my starts after practice. I get there early and work my turns. I’m focused. My dad was disappointed in me last summer after I quit mowing lawns; he said that I had “no work ethic.” I didn’t care about it at the time because I had no idea what he was talking about. But I think I’m getting it.
My mom is worried about me, and says, “You’ve got a hungry look in your eyes, young man.”
I tell her, “That’s because I am hungry!” All the time. I don’t just want junk food, either. Protein and vegetables is all I want these days.
Coach Barker says, “Ding Dongs and Coke won’t make you swim faster.” If they did, it would be cool. But they don’t, so I don’t even bother with them anymore.
I swim in all the events and all the meets my coach will let me, but it’s hard on me. Not just on my body, but my spirit is taking a beating as well. In the summer, I win. I won almost every race I entered, except when I swam against Andre. And then I’d at least get second. But I’m not even close to winning any of these races. Neither is Andre, though. My dad tells me not to sweat it and to “just swim against the clock and try to beat yourself.”
I keep track of my time, but I’m not trying to beat myself. I’m trying to beat Andre. I was three seconds slower than him in the hundred-meter freestyle at the beginning of the season. And now I’m one and four-one-hundredths of a second slower than him. That doesn’t sound like much time, but it’s a lot in the pool. It just sucks because when I shave some time off, Andre does too; it’s a vicious cycle. I hate him, but I sometimes wish he sat next to me in math class or something. I’d study until my brain fell out to get a higher score than him on a quiz.
* * *
The state championships are coming up, and practices are getting even harder. I guess our relay team has been invited to go, and it’s a big deal. Andre and the rest of the seniors get to spend the night in a college dorm together, and they have to shave their heads. I’m so jealous it hurts. We have the junior varsity championships here at Merrian High next week, and it’s my last opportunity to beat Andre before State. It makes me work even harder than I was before, because I know if I can beat him, I’ll be the one with the shaved head!
Everybody shaves off their body hair before the JV championships. The razor is supposed to shave time as well as hair. Apparently, my leg and armpit hair have been slowing me down and I didn’t know it.
The team gathers in the shower room after practice and lathers up. By the time I finish swimming my extra laps, Andre’s head is completely shaved and he’s almost done with his legs. I guess somebody’s pretty confident that I won’t beat him at the JV championships.
Won’t that be embarrassing when people ask, “Why did you shave your head, Andre?”
And he has to reply, “Oh, I was supposed to swim at State, but after Carter smoked me, I didn’t get to go!”
I’ve got to catch up. I want to beat him at everything, leg shaving included. So I slap the cream on my legs. I grab a razor out of a bag and another one off the floor. Andre is only using one razor; I’ll use two. I rip the blades up my legs over and over again. From the foot to the knee, from the thigh to the Speedo. Top to bottom. I’ve got more hair than I thought I did. This is taking some effort. I’m ripping through it, though, and gaining on Andre. The blades get clogged, so I rinse them out real fast and keep moving. I space off for just a second to notice a river of blood running down the drain. Man, that is gross. It’s like a horror movie. Somebody in here is cut—bad. That has got to hurt. No one is screaming, though. I’d be crying like a bitch if . . . Man, is it hot in here? Like steamy/fuzzy. I’m feeling kind of tired all the sudden. Shaving really takes it out of you. Maybe my leg hair is like that guy in the Bible whose strength is in his long hair and when his chick cuts it off, he gets really weak. I’m just pushing myself too hard these days. I can’t even catch my breath. I can’t wait to just go swimming for fun and not kill myself in the pool for three hours a day. I really want to go back to Gray Goose Lake and hit that roooope swing. It’ll be soooo niiicccee. . . .
“CARTER! Carter, get up, dog!” someone yells from far away.
“Mom, get out,” I yell, all groggy. “I’m up!”
Andre is slapping me in my face, so I try to defend myself with a retardo karate block.
“Carter, you’re bleeding, dude!” one of the seniors yells.
“Where is bleed come for?” I mumble, and pass out again.
I don’t remember much else. I don’t have to go to the hospital or anything, but I lost a lot of blood. I’m just going to say it: fourteen-year-olds should not handle razor blades. If I did get checked into the hospital they’d think I was one of those self-mutilator kids. I am when it comes to beating Andre, but I didn’t mean to carve myself up like a turkey.
36. Take Your Mark
Stripping off my jeans before the JV championships is as painful as it is disgusting. I’m covered in a poison ivy–looking rash and have bloody racing-stripe cuts and little mohawks up and down my legs. It only takes fifteen minutes to put my Speedo on, but once I tie the drawstring I start to get excited and focused on the race. I wrap a towel around my waist and head out for warm-ups.
“HHHAAAWWWWWEEE!!!” I scream as my bloody cuts collide with the chlorine and sizzle. Normally it wouldn’t be a big deal to scream at a swim meet, but for some reason a lot of people are here today. It’s not just parents, either. The JV cheerleaders are supposed to come. Which is kind of dumb. I wouldn’t kick them out or anything, but our sport takes place underwater; we can’t hear anything. No “GO”s, no “FIGHT”s, no “WIN!”s. I guess the cheerleaders thought it was stupid too, because the drill team just showed up instead. Man, that’s a slap in the face. What are they going to do, bust out a big dance number? It’s hard enough to walk on a wet pool deck . . . hip-hop is going to be impossible.
Abby files in toward the end of the herd. She looks like someone is holding a gun to her back, forcing her to come to this swim meet, like, “Hey, Abby, how many guys have broken your heart? Oh, only two dudes? Well, how about you get your ass in this natatorium and shake it for both of ’em!” She looks cute despite her deer-in-headlights expression. Andre is doing his Mr. Clean impression, talking to his Hooker slut right in front of Abby. What a jerk. He yawns and kisses his girl good-bye. He looks all relaxed, and I’m a nervous wreck. We’re in the same heat for the hundred-meter freestyle, and I know this is my chance. I want to win so bad it’s making me sick. How sweet would it be to pull this off in front of Abby?
The butterflies in my stomach feel like they’re on crack when the lane assignments are called out. Mr. Clean is right next to me in lane three. My hands are trembling as I try to put my goggles on. I look over at Andre as we step up to the blocks, and he yawns at me. Oh no you didn’t! Mr. State Championship relay team member has decided this little JV meet is beneath him. Oh, I can tolerate the drill team stomping and mooing over there, but this slap in the face, I cannot. Now you’re going to get slapped, dog!
The starter calls out, “Swimmers, take your mark.” Andre better take his mark and get set to be smoked.
The start bell chirps—AAARRTTT—and I’m off like a shot. All of my anxiety and frustration are released in the first four strokes. My cut-up legs are kicking the water as if it’s Andre’s face. I pull the water toward me like I’m pulling Abby back to me. I grunt and snarl under the water. I don’t need air; I’ve got anger, frustration, and lonel
iness for fuel, and I’ve got someone to blame for it all in the next lane. My flip turns are money. I’m cooking! I glance to my right after the third flip turn, but I don’t see him. Dang it, he’s so far ahead of me I can’t even see him. NOOO! He was all relaxed and ready to fly, and I was all tense and ready to sink. My muscles are crying out for mercy and air, but I dig down and demand more. Let’s GOOO! He can’t beat me. He can’t embarrass me like this in front of Abby.
I smash into the wall like I’m trying to break it down. I pull in a full breath of air and rip my goggles off, but I’m all alone on the wall. That’s weird. Everyone is looking at me and shouting. DANG IT, you stopped too soon! I must’ve counted the laps wrong. It’s just four laps, but I really suck at math. I pull my goggles back on and turn to see the coolest thing ever. Seven guys slamming into the wall and gasping for air . . . behind me. Andre included! I beat him. I smoked him! The crowd isn’t yelling at me . . . they’re cheering for me. YES! I pump my fist like Tiger Woods.
Andre (Mr. Fourth Place) lazily sticks out his hand, and I instinctively slap it five. I kind of lose my balance when his big arm shakes me off my feet. I fall toward him, and he gives me a man-shake-hug. Get off me! We don’t high-five, and we sure as hell don’t hug. He doesn’t get to be a gracious loser. He needs to concentrate on just being a loser.
He slowly climbs out of the pool and holds his head low. I’ve beaten him soundly in front of his ex-girlfriend and his soon to be ex–Hooker slut. She’ll totally dump him for being such a loser. I almost feel sorry for him until he YAWNS again! No way; he’s pretending to yawn just to cheapen my victory.
I shaved 1.04 seconds off my time; I’m now exactly as fast as Andre. I haven’t beaten his time, but I have smoked the man. If I’d beaten his time, I’d get to go to State for sure, and I’d be shaving my head soon and wearing my letterman’s jacket.
I was really psyched up for this race. I should have been shaving my legs this whole time. I had no idea how much that fuzz was holding me back. My mom gives me a kiss and my dad high-fives me. They know how hard I worked for this, and they’re really proud of me. All the drill team chicks are clapping and cheering for me. Out of the corner of my eye, I even see Abby smiling, but she quickly looks away when she catches me watching her.
Two days later
The following Monday, the gossip in the hall is that Andre’s mom had to take him to the hospital after the race. I’m guessing that he had a bad case of In Your Face! and needed to have a doctor look at it.
Bag walks up to the boys and me in the hall and asks, “Yo, did you hear about Andre having mono?”
“What the hell is mono?” I ask back.
“They call it the kissing disease because you get it from saliva, and I guess you can die from it.”
I jump around the hall yelling like I just won a million dollars. I know I shouldn’t be this stoked—a guy is dying in the hospital—but I’m going to State! I’m so happy, it doesn’t even get me down that he’s surely going to use this “mono” excuse to explain his defeat or the fact that he got the disease from kissing too many chicks, which is a pimp-ass problem I wish I had.
The seniors on the relay team are all waiting for me after my seventh-hour health class. They pick me up and carry me down to the locker room, where Coach Barker is waiting out front to congratulate me with hair clippers, shaving cream, and a razor in her hand. Awesome! I want to tell them my new rule about razor blades, but there’s no time. In swimming, everything goes fast, and head shaving is no exception. I only thought it hurt to shave your face or legs . . . but the head tops them all! When your head gets cut, it doesn’t stop bleeding. The arms or the knees know what’s up when they get slashed open, but the melon doesn’t expect it. It just bleeds and bleeds. I should go to the hospital, but instead I jump into the pool and swim my butt off for a few hours. And let me tell you, nothing gets the heart racing like swimming. And nothing helps pump blood out of a fresh wound like a racing heart. I may die, but I beat Andre and I’m going to State, so whatever.
We finish practice and I can’t wait to see myself in the mirror. I bet I look so tough. But I don’t. Have my ears always been this big? Did they get a growth spurt that I didn’t notice? In a stiff wind I could take flight with these babies. If I learn to use them properly, I could be very useful as a spy someday. And with these cuts on my head and being so skinny lately, I resemble a special guest on a Jerry Lewis telethon. People would jam the phone lines trying to help poor Carter in his brave battle with whatever horrible disease makes your ears swell, causes you to go bald, and gives you lesions on your head.
And good God, it’s cold! I never knew it, but the hair on your head is good for more than just combing, washing, and putting gel into. It really keeps you warm. No wonder Andre got sick. Well, kissing too many chicks was his downfall, but the case of pneumonia I’ve got coming is going to be a direct result of not having any insulation on my bean.
37. Tickle Me Chemo
The Friday night before the state championships, I’m relaxing at the movies with Nutt and EJ. I’m wearing a new Burton skullcap that my mom picked up for me. All the Dumbo and Tickle Me Chemo jokes are behind me as we figure out the best way to sneak into Keanu Reeves’s new movie. I like to watch his movies just to try and figure out how it’s possible that that dumbass is a movie star. I mean, if he can do it, anybody can.
We catch Doc, Hormone, and Bag coming out of the new Kate Hudson romantic comedy. Busted!
“S’up, ladies? Did you have a good cry?” I say as we all duck into the arcade.
“Shut up, dude,” Doc says. “We thought it was a different movie.”
“Sure ya did,” EJ fires back.
I’ve got to get us off this Kate Hudson subject or it’ll slip out that EJ and I already saw it. “We’re gonna go see Keanu stumble through some dialogue. You wanna join?” I ask.
“Naw, we’re rollin’ to a party at the Chopper’s house,” Hormone says.
“The Chopper, huh?” I ask. She’s a junior on the drill team. Her real name is Christy Schauper. She works the snack bar at the pool, and she gave me free soda a few times, so she’s cool. She has a bit of a Village Bike reputation, and she usually wears her hair in two pigtails. After the Skeleton hooked up with her, he called her pigtails handlebars and coined the name Chopper.
“Can we come?” EJ asks.
“No, we cannot,” I say to EJ. “I have the biggest swim meet of my life tomorrow, and I hate parties. They all turn out the same and . . .”
“Abby’s gonna be there. It’s like a drill team party. You may not be welcome,” Doc says.
“Drill team is like a gang. You can’t just dog one and then show up at their party,” Bag adds.
“Oh,” I say.
That info right there is enough to get me out of going to this party, and I can go watch Keanu do his thing. But Abby did smile at me the other day. Or she, like, smiled because of me. Or we were in the same room and she smiled. My point is, I’m getting somewhere, and the drill team chicks don’t hate me so much anymore. I could stop by.
“Those fatties don’t determine where I go, fool,” I say, all snide.
38. Ride the Chopper
We roll into the Chopper’s house without knocking, because we’re that cool. Plus the fact that she might not let us in because of my reputation as an enemy of the drill team. I give a couple of nods and a few “S’up?”s, but I don’t know very many of the faces. Drill team parties are not nearly as wild as other parties. I don’t have my Mountain Dew–filled beer bottle tonight, but I just keep telling people, “I’m swimming in the state championship tomorrow, and I can’t pollute my body.”
I don’t see Abby, so I do a lap around the party. I look in the kitchen and downstairs, but no Abby. I shoot upstairs, but there’re just people having sex up there. The doors are shut and noises are coming from all the rooms. I check the bathroom at the end of the hall, but nothing. So I head back to the stairs, when Christy Schauper co
mes down the hall. She’s drunk. Really drunk.
“Heeyy, what are you doin’ up ’ere?” the Chopper slurs.
I just look at her for a sec. I’m not positive she’s talking to me, because she’s kind of looking over my shoulder.
“You’re on the swimmy team, right?” she asks.
Yep, she’s talking to me. “Uh-huh,” I say.
“You’re the cute one in the little Speedooo,” she garbles.
Wait a minute, is she talking to me?
“Yeah, we cheered for you, and you won. And, and you’re the freshman that screwed over my girl Abby!” she continues.
“Yeah, that’s all me. My name is Carter,” I say.
She walks up, and I can smell her before she gets very close. Alcohol and cigarettes, a.k.a. “slut perfume.”
“Oh, I know your name, Carver,” she kind of yells.
Eww! When she said “Carver” it produced a cloud of stank that drifts into my face. Yuck.
“So, h-h-have you seen, um, Abby?” I ask, turning away from her stink hole. “Is sh-sh-she here?”
This chick is giving me a cross-eyed look that’s freaking out my stutter.
“She was here until you walked in, but then she split,” she says.
“She broke out because of me?” I ask.
The Chopper doesn’t answer. Instead she grabs my face and smashes her drunk, stinky mouth against mine. Okay, so Chopper and I are making out. Did you see the formula? I’m not into her, and I asked her a question. Foolproof!
The taste is not pleasant. But my horny mind can block out anything. And it would be rude to pull out of a kiss just because she’s smelly and I’m not into her. I wouldn’t call her ugly, but I bet people say she looks like her dad. If any of my boys come up the stairs, I’ll be totally busted in a full-on lip-lock with the Chopper. I could never come up with a reasonable excuse for this. I’m trying to concentrate on the kissing while not breathing out of my nose at the same time.
Carter Finally Gets It Page 18
