Carter Finally Gets It

by Brent Crawford

  “You’re a good kisser, for a freshman,” she babbles.

  “Uh, thanks. You’ve kissed a lot of dudes, I bet,” I reply.

  “Oh, I want you soo bad,” she says like a porn star. At least I think that’s what a porn star would sound like. Does this mean I’m going to get to do it? Right here, right now, with the Chopper? She pulls away and gives me a kind of cross-eyed sexy look. It doesn’t take much to rev a fourteen-year-old engine. Yeah, let’s do it, baby! She opens a bedroom door, but I guess people are already using the room, because a guy’s voice shouts, “Get outta here!”

  This is her house, but she shuts the door. She kisses me really hard again and tries another door. But this one is locked. And so is the last one. Dang it. Well, I guess that’s the end of that.

  “Let’s go out to the shed,” she says as she grabs my hand and leads me downstairs.

  I’m hoping “the shed” is her pet name for some secret, sexy, love room in the house.

  EJ’s eyes get really big when he sees us come downstairs holding hands. He’s as confused about what he’s seeing as I am. We’ve only been here for five minutes and I’ve somehow lassoed the Chopper. Or been lassoed; I have no idea.

  He shoots me a look like, “You are making a BIG mistake, old friend.” But that’s an easy look for him to shoot. He had sex with the Caboose four times. I’m still shackled to my virginity like a ball and chain. The Chopper and I are going out to the shed to chop it off. Oh man, this is not how I thought this would go. And EJ has witnessed the whole thing. I’m screwed!

  She takes a swig from a liquor bottle as we walk out into the freezing-cold backyard. She lights up a cigarette, I guess to be sexy, but it’s just more stink on the pile to me. She kisses me again, and I really wish she’d stop doing that. It tastes like she’s been drinking gasoline. The cigarette isn’t just gross, it could be dangerous. We walk around her house, and I get my first glimpse of our love nest. “The shed” is just that: a metal hut where her dad keeps the lawn mower and junk. I can see my breath, it’s so cold. Hers is so foul I bet you could see it in August. The shed is lit by a single strand of Christmas lights. Which I guess is romantic. My heart is racing as she flicks the cigarette into the yard and shuts the metal door with a clang.

  Oh boy. I’m trying to appear relaxed while she spreads out a blue plastic tarp. But my trembling body is telling a different story. I’m shaking because I’m nervous, but I’m also freezing. I’ve got my skullcap on, but without any body hair or a coat, it’s friggin’ brisk. The Chopper must not feel pain, because she’s starting to disrobe. The Christmas lights barely illuminate her struggle to get her T-shirt off. Her boobs are big, but her bra could be cuter. It’s kind of a flesh-colored number that my mom would wear (Sears catalog, page 47). Get your mom out of your head, freak!

  I guess the T-shirt is caught on one of her dangly earrings, because she’s stuck. Maybe I should help. She’s just kind of stumbling around the shed with her bra exposed and her hands above her head. Okay, that’s pretty funny. She looks around to see who’s laughing at her. She reminds me of my dog when you put a sheet over his head and he struggles to get out. That really gets me laughing, and she can hear it, dang it.

  “Are you laughing at me, freshman?” she slurs from under the shirt.

  “No, I just thought of something else that was funny,” I cover.

  “I ought to beat your ass!” she yells.

  What? “Is that like, dirty pillow talk, or do you really want to fight?” I ask.

  “Oh, you think you’re funny, Carver?” she slurs.

  “My name is Carter.” I laugh. “Not Carver.” (Although that would be a good nickname with all these cuts on my head.)

  When I’m nervous, I laugh. I can’t help it. I’m supposed to be having sex here, but I’m trembling and giggling my head off in a shed with a girl called the Chopper whose head is stuck in a T-shirt.

  “Ha-haaaaa!” I cackle uncontrollably. Oh man, this isn’t going right.

  The Chopper is a mean drunk, because I think she just took a swing at me. She’s pissed, but she can’t see very well and is coming at me now!

  “Hey, hey, simmer down, Chopper,” I say in an effort to calm her.

  “DID YOU JUST CALL ME . . . CHOPPER???!!!” she barks.

  Well, that backfired. Some nicknames are given to your face, and some are only used behind your back. I’m guessing “Chopper” is reserved for behind-the-back use only, because she charges me and yells, “You mother . . .” She’s coming fast, but I step out of the way just in time to dodge the Chopper charge and—BAANNGGG!—she smacks into the metal door, face-first. Her T-shirt didn’t seem to soften the blow at all. I’m guessing she’s knocked out, because she bounces off the door and does a lazy spin into the weed whacker and takes out a rake on her way down. That had to hurt.

  The Chopper’s KO’d in the first round. The door did the most damage, but that weed whacker didn’t do her any favors. She’s just lying there and starting to bleed.

  I’m not exactly sure what the protocol is here. I’m definitely not having sex. I really want to just break the hell out of here, round up my boys, and split. I doubt she’ll bleed to death, but she’ll definitely freeze if I leave her out here. I’m not in love with ol’ Chopper, but I don’t want her to die.

  “Christy?” I say, shaking her. “You okay?”

  No response. I can tell she’s breathing because her stink stack is still pumping fumes into the air. Yep, this is me, “gettin’ lucky”! I’ve got to get her into the house. This is going to be awkward. What’s really embarrassing is that I can’t lift her. First I try to carry her all romantic, like the cover of a trashy book at the supermarket, but my arms can’t do it. There’s this exercise that we’re always supposed to do for football called squats, where you put a bunch of weight on your shoulders, then literally squat down and try to stand back up. I hate doing it. I’m always skipping it, but I wish I’d done it a few more times, because then maybe I’d have a snowball’s chance in hell of lifting this chick. Man, she’s heavy. After a few minutes I get her over my shoulder. I push up with all my might. My legs tremble, but I start to feel some movement. I’m getting her; I’m squatting the Chopper!

  “Uuhhh!” I grunt as I lock my legs out. Yes! Now I’ve got to try to get her into the house. One step, two steps . . . DANG IT! I should have opened the door first. I fumble with the latch for a second, but the Chopper is slipping. I need to raise this latch. Then I see the big dent in the metal door where her head rammed into it.

  I start laughing and lose my balance. The Chopper and I fall to the ground. I instinctively do a spin move so she doesn’t crush me, and I land on her instead. (Who says chivalry is dead?) Poor Chopper was looking for love when she came up those stairs tonight, but she found me instead.

  I manage to get her back up on my shoulders again, but I smash my head into the rake in the process, knocking my new skullcap off and slashing one of the cuts on my head open. Now I’m bleeding too, dang it! I’ll have to come back for the hat, because I’ll never be able to do another set of Chopper squats.

  I stumble across the yard. What seemed like a few steps when we came out here now feels like a mile with a drillteamer on my back. I thought I’d be out of breath about now, but I never dreamed it would come from this activity. I can feel the hot trickle of sweat pouring down my face. But when I catch my reflection in the sliding-glass door, I can see it’s a stream of warm blood running from the top of my bald head, down my forehead and nose, then dripping off my lips. I look like Frankenstein’s evil helper, Igor, carrying a virgin back to his cave. Well, Chopper’s no virgin, and I never thought I was evil until I tap on the glass with my foot and yell, “Open up!”

  Bitchy Nicky opens the door and lets out a bloodcurdling scream: “EEEEEEE!”

  I stagger past her and into the house. Now, I’m positive I didn’t see a record player spinning earlier, but I swear I just heard one scratch to silence when I cross the thresho
ld. Choppy and I must really look a sight, because no one’s talking. I try to set her down gently. But I’m so worn out, I just drop her to the kitchen tile with a thud. Everyone gasps.

  “Oh come on, she isn’t exactly light!” I protest.

  And sure enough, the damn earring releases its death grip on the T-shirt, and her blood-soaked face pops out for all to see. Everybody screams.

  “Oh my God! What did you do to her?” Nicky yells.

  “Uhhh, she . . . fell? Into the door. Out in the shed,” I say innocently. I’m sure I don’t look super innocent with all the blood rolling down my face.

  “She fell? She fell?! That’s what they all say, isn’t it?” Nicky scowls.

  “Who? Who’s ‘they,’ Nicky? She rammed into the metal door with her shirt over her head, that’s it!” I exclaim.

  “Why would she do that?” Nicky pesters. “And why did you shave your head; you look terrible!”

  “I’m swimming in the state cha—”

  Bag jumps into the conversation with, “What were you doin’ in the shed with Chopper, Carter?”

  “Not now!” I bark.

  There will be an open season of endless burns coming my way as a result of this stunt. But now is not the place, and it isn’t even close to the time.

  “Oh, Carter!” Nicky seethes. “I just thought you were a jerk, but you’re evil, you know that? You’re a dangerous menace. And I’m going to see to it that you go to jail!”

  Now, I have no doubt that Nicky is going to be an awesome lawyer or judge someday, but she’s only fifteen years old—she has no real authority at a drill team party. She can’t send me to jail. I don’t think. I mean, what would be the charge? Most terrible lover, ever? If that’s a crime, then I’m going down, but I don’t think it is. A couple of drill team chicks pull the Chopper’s shirt back down and are cleaning up her face. I grab a few paper towels for my bleeding head and apply pressure. I’m on my own at this point.

  The Chopper finally stirs, and she’s calmer than the last time she was awake, but she’s still mad.

  “What the hell? How the . . . ? What did you do to me, Carver?” she yells.

  Nicky jumps in to cross-examine. “Yes, what did he do to you?”

  “What’s it to you, bitch?” the Chopper asks.

  “Thank you! You ran into the door and I carried you inside. That’s it!” I tell her.

  “Why is your head bleeding?”

  “I cut it yesterday and it just got reopened. I’m swimming in the state cham—”

  “You carried me into the house?” the Chopper asks, kind of touched.

  “Yeah,” I say. “No big deal; you’re not heavy.”

  She smiles. (Now, that’s a gentleman.)

  The mood of the room seems to have lifted, so I say, “Hormone, can you take me home? I gotta go to bed.”

  39. The Boys of Spring

  Spring is in the air. I know this not because flowers are blooming or birds are singing again, but because it’s time for spring tryouts. The sports we get to choose from are: baseball, track and field, tennis, and golf (all of my boys play ball, and Nick Brock too). I played T-ball when I was little, but I never played baseball. The Little League season is in the summer, and my swimming schedule never allowed time. Plus, my dad thinks baseball is the most boring game ever. He’s right, but I really want a Merrian High baseball hat, because they’re awesome. They’re fitted and black with a red M written in cursive on the forehead. You can’t buy them; you have to be on the team to get one.

  It’s not so much that I want to “play baseball,” as much as I want to “be a baseball player.” Chicks dig them. My sister has never seen a baseball game in her life, but if there’s a baseball player giving an interview on TV, she stops dead in her tracks and watches, like she’s the editor of Sports Illustrated. The guys who play baseball and wear the fitted hats never shower. They chew tobacco. They’re always dirty, and they totally get chicks.

  My itty-bitty glove from T-ball isn’t going to cut it, so I borrow EJ’s dad’s mitt for the tryouts. I should’ve bought cleats, pants, and some black paint to put under my eyes, but I didn’t have time. The state swimming championships were on Saturday, and the first day of baseball tryouts are on Monday. I could have picked the baseball junk up on Sunday, but I had to watch TV all day. Seriously. I may or may not have been a little depressed and needed to take my mind off something. The state championships may have gone awesome. It’s possible that I swam so fast my relay team won the state title, and all the senior guys carried me out of the pool on their shoulders, yelling, “CARTER, CARTER, CARTER.” Or I may have jumped off the block a moment too soon and disqualified the whole relay team. And ended the seniors’ high school swimming careers with a disappointing failure, removing any proof that they’d made it to State and destroying any chance that I had of getting a varsity letterman’s jacket as a freshman. Any of these things may have happened. I don’t really recall. I’ve blocked that day out of my memory completely.

  I show up to the first day of baseball tryouts without a letterman’s jacket (you do the math). My baseball costume is pretty sweet for somebody who’s never played. I’ve got on Bag’s LA Dodgers shirt, Nutt’s KC Royals jacket, Levi’s NY Mets hat, and my football cleats. I definitely look like a ball player. I’ve never actually watched an entire baseball game before (my ADD won’t allow it), so I don’t know all the rules. I’m terrified that a ball will hit me in the face, but I have no doubt that baseball is going to be my thing. I love all the gear, but you don’t get your official uniform until you make the team. They cut the losers on Wednesday after practice.

  My boys are trying to help me out with the technical stuff. EJ runs up to me and yells, “RELAX, dude!” Brock tells me to “Keep your eye on the ball” when I whiff for the thousandth time. Nutt keeps reminding me to “Look where you’re throwing!” when I whiz the ball over his head. I’m more focused on looking cool and am hopeful that the skills will follow.

  When I throw the ball I just want to sling it as hard as I can. I’ve got to show the coaches that I’m worthy of a hat. That I’ve got “wheels for feet” and a cannon attached to my shoulder. That I’m “raw talent” or “moldable clay” that they can shape into the greatest baseball player they’ve ever coached. I grit my teeth when I make a throw, I sling my whole body around and fire the ball. I really don’t aim, so the ball never arrives quite where I mean it to. And my feet always leave the ground, which they tell me is bad. Sometimes I fall on my face from the effort. It’s cool to hit the ground when you catch the ball, like a Derek Jeter diving catch, but with me, it’s more like there’s just too much going on with the running and the opening of the glove, and I just fall down. I hope the coaches haven’t noticed. They have to have noticed the raw talent, though. Every time I throw the ball, a kid yells, “CARTER!” as it sails past him. I haven’t actually hit the ball yet, but Brock keeps telling me I’m taking some good cuts.

  By Wednesday, I’m really starting to get the hang of it. I hit a couple of foul balls. They don’t count as hits, but I think they show major progress. My arm cannon is getting some control, and I borrowed a sweet Yankees shirt from J-Low. I can’t see why they would cut me from the team. I probably shower too much, but I could work on that.

  We meet in the baseball room (a.k.a. the football room) after practice. All the older guys and freshmen pile into the room. It’s tight, but we’re a team. We’re a unit. The coach has a clipboard in his right hand and a tape measure in his left. They’re going to measure our heads right now. I could have my hat by tonight!

  The door closes and the coach rattles off the same spiel he probably gives every year. “Fellas,” he says, taking off his hat, “this is the worst part of my job. But we only have so many slots, so we gotta cut a few of you. It’s not that you’re not . . .”

  I figure I’ve got a few minutes, so I look out the windows and think back to when this room was the football room. When the air was crisp, you could smell
burning leaves, and a lynch mob was waiting for me out there. (Good times.) I can still hear Abby sobbing, and the drill team girls with their torches and sticks. Beating their bare chests and demanding my release so they could drag me back to their village and have their way with . . .

  “Cory Day, Gene Arioli, Nick Brock, Paul Skelton, Ben Kriesman . . .” the coach continues as he looks down at his clipboard.

  Dang it! I have no idea what’s going on. Is he reading out names of guys who made the team or are they the names of guys cut from the team? Is Nick Brock getting cut from the team? I’ll quit if they cut him.

  Coach continues, “Emilio Johnson” (EJ), “Josh Loos” (J-Low), “Bill Kasson” (Doc), “Andre Durlan” (thorn in my side), “Todd O’Connell” (Nutt) . . .

  Okay, he’s calling out a lot of names. I doubt this is the list of guys getting cut, because all those guys are really good. I’m not hearing my name, though. Say it. Say “Carter!” Raw talent, remember? I’m your Play-Doh. I could be great if you’d just say “Carter.” This is my crew. Just because I suck at hitting and throwing a ball, you can’t cut me from my friends.

  “Kurt Harmon” (Hormone), “aaand Matt Sparks” (Bag), “and that does it,” the coach says as he looks up from the clipboard.

  Dang it! Did I just get cut? Or did he call out my name when I was spacing off? Usually I snap out of an attention-deficit dream if I hear my name, so if he said my name, I probably would’ve noticed.

  “If you weren’t called, I’m sorry. It was a tough decision, but we only have so many slots. If you were, stay put; we’re gonna take the hat measurements. But if you weren’t called . . . go ahead and get your gear,” Coach says.