Struck by Lightning: The Carson Phillips Journal

by Chris Colfer

  I ran off, mostly in case he thought of killing me, and because my work with Colin was finished. I got back to the journalism classroom and Xed out Colin’s picture. I had one more victim left! Just one!

  It’s really hard finding a moment when Claire is alone. She’s like the Clover High Hillary Clinton. I must have followed her around campus the entire rest of the day. She doesn’t even shit alone—she makes some of her cheerleading minions go with her to the bathroom. I’ve always suspected she doesn’t wipe her own ass.

  I didn’t want to waste any more time. I ultimately decided to just write her a little note at the bottom of her yellow flyer, something I knew she wouldn’t let others see.

  How does it feel being the Walker boys’ girlfriend? it said. I prayed she would notice the strategically placed apostrophe.

  Later, after school, I found her and the cheerleaders practicing a pyramid in the quad. I walked up to her and subtly handed her the yellow flyer. Okay, I may have chanted “Two, four six, eight … heard you like to fornicate!” too. I couldn’t resist.

  “You dick!” she said. But her already big eyes grew even larger when she read the flyer. I guess the apostrophe worked! The queen bee was my bitch now!

  I skipped back to the journalism classroom. The Rocky theme played in my head. The hard part was over! I was almost there! All I had left to do was tell the Clovergate victims what I wanted from them at the meeting on Friday.

  I may not have any literary magazine submissions yet, but I have their attention, and that alone feels like a victory!

  10/18

  CLOVERGATE DIA CUATRO

  If I thought the night I caught Nicholas and Scott was my birthday, today must be Christmas. So Feliz Navidad to me! You’ll understand this Spanish madness in a minute, don’t worry. …

  Let me start this entry off by saying I’ve had a lot of morality issues since I started this whole blackmailing escapade. Even I, Carson Phillips, thick-skinned and virtually heartless, have a conscience. It started, of course, with Nicholas and Scott in the bathroom and has quietly been eating at me ever since.

  Have these people made my life a living hell for the past four years? Yes. Do these people deserve being treated like this? In my opinion, yes. Am I a horrible person for doing this to them? Maybe. Is this the most selfish thing I’ve done to date? Definitely. Will the guilt I’m starting to feel outshine the greater good I’m trying to accomplish for the future? Hopefully not.

  Am I a hero in this story, or am I the villain? Which side is the author of my first unauthorized biography going to take?

  I also worry about the repercussions constantly. What if I get caught and “blackmailing” goes on my permanent record? Will Northwestern accept me with a scarlet letter? If not, then I’ll really be stuck in Clover forever.

  This kind of thinking puts me in weird depressing funks and I wish I hadn’t flushed those pills Mom got for me.

  It’s such a gamble, and the stakes are so high. But no one ever got anywhere by sitting still, and I keep reminding myself of that. What I’m doing right now may be selfish and wrong, but I’m doing it for all the right reasons. So that validates it, right?

  I’ve always thought I’m going straight to hell, and after this week, I’ve pretty much cemented my fate. I’m sure Vicki will be there too; maybe I’ll finally get her to write for me down there.

  I just hope there’s a Daily Hell I can write for. I could do witty editorials like “Hell: Hath It Lost Its Fury?” and maybe weekly updates on who is torturing whom. I’m guessing there will be a plethora of CEOs and politicians to interview. There won’t be any religious groups to offend in hell, so I imagine I can write anything I want. Maybe it won’t be so bad!

  Wait—am I actually positively depicting hell? Whoa, I’ve had a rough week.

  But then, after all these doubts and worries and macabre premonitions, a day comes along that makes me think God is on my side. Like he’s sitting up in the clouds saying, “Here you go, kid, keep doing what you’re doing!”

  And today, that message practically came with a bright red bow tied around it. I’ll explain. …

  Since I had a lot of success passing out the flyers, I went to the teachers’ room to make copies of a poster I made advertising the publication of the literary magazine. I may have been a little full of myself, but I figured I’d be so busy working on the magazine over the next couple weeks I wouldn’t have time to make them then.

  It’s been two years since I taped over the lock on the teachers’ room door and no one has noticed. I went to the copy machine and found a warning notice that had been put on it:

  NO STUDENT USE ALLOWED.

  Clearly, this was intended for me. I ripped it off and made five hundred copies; I wasn’t going to miss a single corner of this school.

  While I was waiting for the copies to print, I heard a loud commotion from inside the supply room around the corner.

  “Quick, inside here!” I heard a woman’s voice say.

  “¿Dónde está la estación de tren?” a man said.

  There’s a small and awkwardly placed window that sees right into the supply room (which actually inspired my theory that Clover High used to be an institute for the mentally insane). I peered in through the window, and in between the shelves of supplies I could see Emilio getting it on with Ms. Hastings! Mr. Gifford’s receptionist!

  “I could get fired for this, and I really need that dental plan!” she squealed as Emilio kissed her neck.

  “Necisito tomar prestado un libro de la biblioteca,” Emilio said passionately.

  She slammed him against shelves of pens and staplers. It was kind of hot.

  “It’s normal for men to be with older women in your culture, right?” Ms. Hastings asked, suddenly getting self-conscious.

  “Tenemos varias alpacas en la granja de mi padre,” Emilio said.

  Ms. Hastings grabbed his neck and forcefully kissed him.

  “I have no idea what you’re saying, but you are so hot!” Ms. Hastings said, and shoved his face in her breasts. “And young, and tan, and imported! I feel like I’m in Eat, Pray, Love!”

  “¡Por favor, pásame un pedazo de pollo frito!” Emilio growled.

  “Wait,” I said to myself. “Pollo?” How was chicken brought up?

  Ms. Hastings slapped him. “Was that dirty talk? I love dirty talk.”

  She slammed him against rolls of butcher paper. I was starting to feel sorry for Emilio—he was getting the shit beat out of him. Maybe my theory about Ms. Hastings was wrong; maybe her ex-boyfriend was the one who was hiding from her.

  “You’re so Spangalicious, I love it!” Ms. Hastings screamed.

  Their breathing became louder and louder and louder, they pulled each other’s hair, tongues were united—it was Fifty Shades of Gringo!

  “Ms. Hastings?” a voice from outside the teachers’ room said.

  “Coming!” Ms. Hastings peeped. I’m certain it was a double entendre.

  Emilio tried following her out the door but she stopped him from doing so and disappeared into the hallway. I wanted Emilio to wash his hands just so I could shake them. Even I needed a cigarette after that.

  Emilio’s cell phone rang. “¿Hola?” he said. He looked around to make sure he was alone. I ducked behind the copy machine. “Hey, what’s happening, bro?” he said.

  Wait a second, I thought to myself, did he just—?

  “Nothing, I was just feeling up a receptionist,” he said … in perfect English! “I’m one away from beating my record, man! This morning I literally put the ‘dic’ in ‘valedictorian’!”

  He looked up and saw me on the other side of the window. El panic loco.

  “I’ll call you back, bro,” Emilio said.

  We. Need. To. Chat, I mouthed at him.

  I texted Malerie immediately. I figured I could use a hand with this one.

  “I’m taking the PSAT,” Malerie texted back.

  “I’m tired of your excuses, Malerie!” I te
xted.

  Ten minutes later, Malerie and I were in the journalism classroom, shining a bright lamp in Emilio’s face. Malerie even had her camcorder aimed right at him. It was just like Law & Order, except not predictable.

  “So, Emilio, how long have you been a fornicating exchange student?” I said, feeling clever. “And I would tune down the Telemundo. Malerie is in Spanish Four; she knows a fake Spaniard when she sees one.”

  “Sí.” Malerie nodded. “I’m also fluent in Celtic and Elvish. Now speak! What aren’t you telling us?” Clearly, Malerie was back in character. “Is Emilio even your real name?”

  Emilio sank into his seat and lowered his head in shame. “My real name is Henry Capperwinkle,” he said.

  I tried my best not to burst out laughing hysterically but my eyes watered and my shoulders pulsed up and down. Henry Capperwinkle?! Was he serious?! I’m laughing right now thinking about it. That shit is funny!

  “I’m from San Diego, not El Salvador,” Henry said.

  “Sea World! I knew it! He smelled very faintly of dolphin,” Malerie said, and pointed at him. “What else? Tell us the truth!”

  I just stayed quiet and let her do her thing.

  “The only Spanish I know is from level-one Rosetta Stone, which I stole,” Henry said. “I’ve been saying the same ten phrases over and over again and no one seems to notice. The people here are total idiots!”

  “Huh,” I said. He made an interesting point.

  “Please don’t tell my host family,” he said.

  “But why would you do this?” I asked him, much more intrigued than resentful. You know me: I kind of respect anyone working the system to their advantage.

  “Are you kidding? For just a couple hundred bucks a month I get food and housing,” he said as his focus faded off. “And girls. Girls like nothing more than a guy who speaks a little Spanish. Just a little ‘rrrrrrr’ of the tongue drives them crazy.”

  “It all makes sense now,” Malerie said. “All those Doctor Who e-cards I sent you in Spanish—they meant nothing to you!”

  “How long have you been doing this?” I asked.

  “A couple years,” Henry said. “It was a buddy of mine’s idea. He goes to Lincoln High. They think he’s Nigerian. The guy is white as rice but no one looks into it because they’re afraid it’ll seem racist if they do.”

  I just stared at him. I was totally impressed, but I wasn’t going to let him know that.

  “Dude, you can’t blame me,” he said.

  “Yeah, I can,” I said. “I can blame you mucho.” Luckily, I had one more yellow flyer left I had been planning on saving for a scrapbook. “This is for you, si se puedeophile.”

  After school, Malerie and I pinned Emilio’s picture to the Clovergate board and put an X through it. Clovergate Day Four has been an unexpected success!

  Yo soy un afortunado hijo de puta! Which, according to Google translation, means: I am one lucky son of a bitch!

  10/19

  CLOVERGATE DAY FIVE: THE MEETING

  Today is the day: Make it or break it.

  I couldn’t sleep at all last night. I kept tossing and turning with horrid visuals of how this meeting could go if it didn’t work out the way I wanted.

  Anyone can have dirt on someone else, but how was I going to convince these people I had the means to use it against them? What if they all flat-out refused to cooperate? Would I actually expose the information I had on them? Would anyone else at school believe me? I’m not exactly Miss Congeniality.

  I could start off by releasing one person’s info, to see if it spread. Would people be more eager to participate if they saw one of their friends’ lives ruined? Who would I use as the pawn? Was I capable of ruining someone’s life? If I did that, was I any better than them?

  My work was cut out for me. I had to persuade everyone I had an influence over the student body while also convincing them I was heartless enough to go public with their secrets—a very hard thing to do when you’re the only editor of a failed school newspaper.

  All day at school I had horrible pains in my stomach and chest. I was so nervous that I was afraid of getting the runs for real.

  My eyes were glued to the clock all day. Finally the last bell rang and school was out. It was time.

  I went into the journalism classroom and tidied it up a bit while I waited. I was so excited to be having guests in my classroom. It had never had more than seven people in it before. I even considered running out to the store to get some hors d’oeuvres but reminded myself this wasn’t a party.

  I made Malerie come to support me. She seemed more nervous than I was. She found a stool and perched in the corner of the room, watching everything through the side-screen of her camcorder.

  It was starting to get late and the weekend was getting closer. It had been nearly an hour since school had ended, and not a single Clovergate victim had come.

  Was no one taking me seriously? Was I even remotely threatening to them and their reputations? Were they all together somewhere just laughing at my yellow flyers?

  A few more minutes of worrying later, I realized I was giving my peers way too much credit. One by one, they all started moseying into the journalism classroom.

  Vicki and Dwayne were the first to arrive.

  “Well, well, well,” I said. “It’s about time.” I was reserved and played it cool; I don’t know where my calmness came from.

  “Relax. We had detention,” Vicki said.

  Detention! All the victims had after-school activities; that’s why they were who they were. I’d forgotten.

  Claire was the next to arrive. She took one look at Dwayne and Vicki and said, “Oh no.” The princess didn’t like being in the company of peasants.

  Nicholas and Scott showed up next. Really, Nick and Scott? You show up together to a meeting where you’re being blackmailed for being together? But then again, I realized they’re always with each other. How has no one put A and B together before? Worst closet-couple ever!

  Remy was next to show up and was petrified to see the rest of the school council. The council members all gave each other cordial nods, but it was still awkward, like when you see people you go to church with at Hooters.

  Coach Colin came next. He and Claire didn’t even make eye contact. Smart. (Take note, Nick and Scott! Now that’s how you shamefully hide a spoon-buddy!) Colin was the only one to notice the Clovergate board. I’d forgotten to take it down.

  Everyone was quiet. They gave each other looks like, You too? I could tell the question What are they here for? was eating at them.

  Emilio … I mean Henry … whoever he is … was last. Everyone looked at him and then back at me. Even him?

  I locked the door behind him and stood at the front of the classroom. My heart was practically jumping rope in my chest.

  “Hello, everyone, and welcome to the journalism classroom,” I said.

  “You fascist!” Remy said.

  “¡Inodoro!” Emilio said.

  “Enough with the names!” I said. “Look, I’ll make this short and sweet. You’re all here because I’ve got dirt on you.”

  They all groaned and huffed like a pack of bloated coyotes.

  “I know why I’m here, and I’m pretty sure we all know why Dwayne’s here,” Vicki said. “But why are the rest of you here?” She eyed Claire creepily.

  “That’s for me to know, and the rest of you to never know, if all goes as planned,” I said.

  “This is bullshit!” Nicholas said. “Not to mention illegal! Do you know how many lawyers my family has? Seven.”

  The rest seemed to agree with him.

  “¡Enséñame los pompones!” Emilio said.

  I had just gotten them here. I couldn’t lose them yet.

  “If any of you would like to share the information I have on you, please feel free to do so and leave the room,” I said. The room went dead silent. They all looked at one another, each quietly encouraging someone else to go first. Luckily for me, they w
ere all too proud to do so.

  “I didn’t think so,” I said.

  “I’m late for Hello, Dolly rehearsal,” Scott said. “What do you want from us?”

  “As you all know, I am starting a school literary magazine,” I said, cutting to the chase.

  “You want us to buy your school literary magazine?!” Claire said in a mocking tone. It pissed me off. Did she really think I had gone to all this trouble just to sell them something? She was the idiot for having sex with a coach, not me!

  “No, Claire,” I said. “I would never expect you to recognize an intelligent publication, let alone purchase one! But your friends and family? Yes! Why? Because you’re all going to be in it. I want a literary submission from each of you!”

  It was out in the open, and they all moaned like the whiny bitches that they are.

  “So that’s what this is all about?” Dwayne laughed.

  “This is ridiculous,” Vicki said.

  “¡Tu aliento huele a animales de la granja!” Emilio yelled.

  “Wait, I’m not even a student here,” Colin said from the back.

  “That’s because I want something more from you,” I said, and then pointed at Claire. “And you. I want a submission from every football player and cheerleader.”

  The room erupted in complaints. They thought I was out of my mind on some kind of totalitarian power trip. And to be fair, I was.

  “You can’t make me or my cheer team or anyone else do anything!” Claire yelled. She was so high-strung and high-pitched, I thought her head was gonna fly off her neck. “There’s a reason why you and Precious in the corner over there are the only members of your club, and it’s because everybody hates you. Even if you spread whatever information you have on us around school, no one is going to believe you, got it?!”

  The others cheered her on and muttered their agreements. Scott did a solo round of applause. Remy nodded her head as though to the bass of a hip-hop track. Malerie kept looking behind her, trying to see where Precious was.

  My posture started to slump. I’d been afraid this was going to happen. Their complaints got louder and louder and I fell deeper into my own self-doubt. It was happening, my biggest fear: They were realizing they outnumbered me and I couldn’t beat them.