Struck by Lightning: The Carson Phillips Journal

by Chris Colfer

  I had completely forgotten it was Halloween until Nicholas and Scott paid me a visit in the journalism classroom. They were dressed as Batman and Robin. And I’m not talking the dynamic duo from the horrible nineties movies, I’m talking full Adam West and Burt Ward from the sixties. I don’t have gaydar, but DING DING DING DING!

  “Wait, is this happening or did I fall asleep at my desk again?” I said as soon as they walked in.

  “Very funny,” Nicholas said. “It’s Halloween, douchebag.”

  “Who are you dressed as?” Scott asked. “Gloria Allred?”

  Nicholas and Scott looked at each other and laughed hysterically.

  “Did you seriously just come into my classroom dressed like that and laugh at me?” I said. “I don’t think you get to do that.”

  “Let’s just turn in our papers and go,” Scott said to Nick.

  “Sounds great,” Nicholas said.

  They both resentfully handed me their submissions.

  “Thank you, ladies,” I said. I had no idea saying that would upset them so much. Nicholas practically threw a desk at me.

  “That’s not funny!” he yelled.

  “He’s not worth it, Nick,” Scott said. “Come on, let’s go get wasted off pumpkintinis at Claire’s house and watch Hocus Pocus.”

  “You have no idea what you’ve put me through in the last week,” Nicholas said, this time pointing at me. He was so worked up about it. Suddenly all that guilt I had sort of felt a few days ago swept over me.

  They headed to the door, but before they left I shouted, “I’m sorry!” They looked back at me as if they had imagined it.

  “What?” Nicholas said. I don’t blame them for being surprised; I’ve only said those words like three times in my life.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again, making sure they heard me. “Ever since that night in the bathroom I’ve been thinking about things, and I really owe you guys an apology after all of this.”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Scott said. “Blackmail me once, shame on you. Blackmail me twice, shame on me. Let’s get out of here before there’s a third time—”

  “Look, I find it hard enough being at this school, and I wear my disgust on my sleeve,” I said. “I never hold back anything, and it’s still challenging. I can’t imagine what it’s like to keep something so secret on top of all that. If I added anything to the weight already on your shoulders, I’m really genuinely sorry, but you guys really helped me out by being part of the magazine.”

  They waited for a “but,” but there was none.

  “Thanks?” Nicholas said, still uncertain.

  “That’s nice, I guess,” Scott said.

  “And, just to let you know, I’m never going to tell anyone,” I went on. “Scout’s honor. I know how small-minded this town is toward me, and I’m not even a homosexual; I’m just brilliant.” I chuckled, because I was slightly kidding, but I was the only one laughing. Their faces fell and they looked at each other sadly.

  “It’s not just this town—it’s this world,” Scott said. “I mean, besides San Francisco and West Hollywood, it’s kind of a touchy subject everywhere.”

  “And I can’t move to those places,” Nicholas said. “My family would disown me if they found out. My mom was on the ‘Yes on 8’ board. It was her idea to put the happy cartoon family on those yellow signs.”

  “So you’re basically suffocating yourself for people who are incapable of loving you to begin with?” I asked. “That seems like a waste.”

  Scott grunted and folded his arms.

  “Yeah, we’ve heard all the catchphrases before,” he said. “You know, it’s really easy for celebrities and politicians to say that it gets better, but it’s a bit more difficult for us in the real world, where kids are getting killed every day.”

  I had absolutely no right or grounds to say what I said next, which is partially why I was so inspired to say it.

  “Scott, that is the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard,” I said. “No one is saying it’s going to be easy. It may be the hardest thing you ever have to do, and some may have to wait and plan much longer than others. But if your life is being ruined because you’re living in an environment that doesn’t accept you, and you don’t at least try to move to one that does, then you can only blame yourself.”

  They went quiet. I love doing that to people. I didn’t mean to be so preachy, but if you’re gonna come into my classroom, you’re gonna hear what I have to say.

  “I may have no idea what I’m talking about,” I said, a bit ticked off now. “But we’re all a part of a minority waiting for a majority to pull their heads out of their asses.”

  I looked at the time—it was almost six o’clock. The afternoon had flown by. I swear, whenever I’m working on the magazine, I enter a time and space wormhole of sorts.

  “Now, as much as I would love to stay on this soapbox all day, I have a senile grandmother I’d like to get to before visiting hours are over,” I said. “Enjoy your pumpkintinis.”

  And that’s when I pretty much kicked out the caped crusaders; first time I’ve ever had to do that to people in the journalism classroom. They made me feel guilty, sad, and annoyed in a five-minute span and I hate it when people make me feel anything I don’t want to. I was ready to go.

  All the nurses at Grandma’s home were dressed up in Halloween costumes, which did nothing to ease her comfort level.

  “Who are you?” Grandma asked me when I first walked in.

  “Your grandson,” I said, wondering if she was going to kick me out again.

  “Why are all these people dressed up in ridiculous costumes?” she asked me.

  “It’s Halloween, Grandma,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said. “I’ve never liked Halloween very much. I don’t like it when people hide behind masks.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said. There it was: high school in a nutshell.

  11/1

  I practically tackled Mom today when she came inside with the mail. I know I’m being super paranoid, but if by the slightest chance I was accepted already I don’t want to miss the letter.

  Thankfully, I know I haven’t missed it, because Mom’s been really insistent about getting the mail lately; she must know how anxious I am. Usually she waits until the postman can’t fit anything else in the box and rings our doorbell. Maybe she’s coming around?

  I searched through the mail as if the Hope Diamond was hiding under an envelope. There were only bills and tacky vacation ads. I really don’t think I’ve been accepted yet, which makes my stomach turn just thinking about it.

  Every day I don’t get an acceptance letter means I have to make the magazine count that much more. This literary magazine has to be the best thing since spell-check or I’m screwed.

  Thankfully, it’s coming together. Emilio (or Henry … whoever he is) slipped his submission under the journalism door sometime today during school. I have no idea what any of it means; I just wish he would have at least copied and pasted it into a Word document rather than just printing out the web page from the online translator.

  Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers. At least this will add some ethnic spice to the magazine—some completely fake ethnic spice packaged and sold by Caucasian-owned businesses, but at least it’ll be there.

  I expected Claire to be the last person to submit something. I figured she would snoop around to see who had actually turned something in to me before going through with it herself. And, no surprise, my prediction was spot-on.

  Ms. Self-Righteous strolled into the journalism classroom around a quarter after four today.

  “Howdy,” I said.

  “Here’s my entry for your magazine,” she said.

  “Great!” I said. “Is it about contraception?”

  Okay, it was a cheap joke, but I couldn’t resist. This really stuck a fork in Claire—she practically threw a tantrum.

  “You know what?” Claire said. “It must really be nice to have plans to journey
out into the world, but some of us don’t have that capability. Some of us are stuck here and have to make the most of it. So excuse me for wanting to have a little fun my senior year. It could be the last chance I get.”

  It was dramatic and to the point. I could tell she had practiced this defense before, but I doubt it was meant for me. I think this was what she had been telling herself.

  She tried to storm out of the classroom, and I should have just let her go, but I’ve been so stressed out lately I guess I was looking for something to argue about.

  “And why are you incapable?” I asked her before she got to the door. “Why are you stuck here?”

  She looked back at me but didn’t have an answer. I hate bringing up the past, especially memories I’m a little embarrassed to remember, but one really meaningful one involving Claire came to mind, as if it had been in my back pocket.

  “Second grade, Mrs. McCoy’s class, we all went around the room and said what we wanted to be when we grew up,” I said. “I said I wanted to be a Nobel Peace Prize winner and you said you wanted to be a—”

  “Ballerina,” Claire said. I was shocked she still remembered.

  “What stopped you?” I asked her.

  Claire had to think about it. “They all laughed at me,” she said.

  “But I didn’t laugh at you,” I said. I remember wanting to laugh, but I held it in. I guess even then I thought laughing at someone’s dream was one of the cruelest things one person could do to another.

  Claire went silent again. I could tell she was thinking about what I’d said, and hated it. Claire’s biggest fear: someone like me in her head.

  “In what grade do we stop believing in ourselves?” I asked. “In what grade do we just stop believing, period? I mean, someone has to be a Nobel Peace Prize winner. Someone has to be a ballerina. Why not us?”

  She stormed out of the room. This time I didn’t stop her.

  “And I can’t be the only one who gets that.…” I said heavily to myself.

  Young people and dreams are like baby turtles on the beach. The eggs hatch and they have to scramble to the water before the birds get them. We all have our sights set on water, but only a lucky few make it there unscathed. Life has a way of swooping in and picking off the forces and beliefs that motivate us.

  I’m so glad this turtle managed to dodge the birds.

  Okay, you know how you know you’re out of your mind with exhaustion? When you metaphorically refer to yourself as a baby turtle! God, I need a vacation after all of this!

  Once I get Claire’s submission typed into my computer, the literary magazine will officially be complete, and I will be the proud creator of what must be the Eighth Wonder of the World!

  What a couple of weeks it’s been! Had I known when I started this project I was going to be so immersed in everyone’s problems, I might have had stronger reservations. Seriously, when did I become all these people’s therapist? I’m blackmailing these assholes, not raising them.

  They can still go fuck themselves with the sharpest stick in the woods for all I care…but that’s the thing: Am I starting to care? Am I starting to see the shit-wads as human beings and not vicious life-sucking crustaceans now? Has blackmailing people turned me into a better-rounded person?

  God, I hope not.

  11/2

  Malerie and I were hanging out in the journalism classroom today after school (I swear I am one pillow and blanket away from making it my official residence). We were going through piles and piles of “her writing” that could be submitted for the magazine. I’m still helping her out with this whole “satire” thing.

  My cell phone started ringing, which is an odd thing since it’s rung twice since I got it. (Usually it’s just Mom asking me if I can pick her up some Midol and a box of Good & Plenty on the way home from Grandma’s.)

  “I just turn my phone off while I’m at school so I don’t hear it not ringing,” Malerie said.

  Even more shocking was who was calling me. Honestly, it was the last person in the world I ever expected to hear from.

  “Who is it?” Malerie asked.

  “My dad,” I said. I was so flabbergasted I almost forgot how to answer the phone. “Hello?” I said tentatively.

  “Hey, Carson,” he said. “I didn’t mean to call you after school; I’m sure you’re busy with your homework and so forth.”

  It was so weird to hear his voice. It felt a little like he was a deceased family member communicating to me from the beyond.

  “Anyway,” he went on, never pausing for air, “I have some really exciting news to tell you. I’m getting married! Her name is April and we’re expecting a baby! You’re going to have a baby brother!”

  I almost shat my pants. Literally, the floor was almost covered in my shat. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” was all I could say, hence the choice of words.

  “Yes, we’re very happy, thank you,” Dad said. “Anyway, she wants to meet you, so is there any way you could make it over for dinner sometime soon? Say, eight o’clock tonight?”

  I’m not crazy for thinking that this is a totally fucked-up situation, right?

  “I’d have to think about it,” I said. My head was spinning so fast I’m not sure if I even knew my own name.

  “Please do—in fact I’d really appreciate it,” Dad said. “Hope to see you soon!”

  “Okay,” I said, and got off the phone.

  “What happened?” Malerie asked me.

  I wasn’t sure myself, so all I could do was relay the bullet points of what my brain was still trying to process. “Apparently my dad is getting married.”

  “Congratulations!” Malerie said, and raised her hand to give a high five. I didn’t respond.

  “I guess,” I said. “He wants me to have dinner tonight with his fiancée and, well, baby mama.”

  “Are you going to go?” she asked me.

  I didn’t know. I hadn’t even thought about whether I was going to attend this…event. “I’m not sure,” I said. “Things are complicated between me and my dad because there is absolutely nothing between the two of us. Does that make sense?”

  “Totally,” Malerie said. “Things are awkward between me and my dad too. He doesn’t really have a relationship with me, because he doesn’t know I exist.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Sorry to hear that.”

  She totally just one-upped me on the deadbeat-dad situation. Now I really feel like I have to go. Oh well, I guess it couldn’t be that bad. It’d be nice to have a meal that wasn’t microwaved for a change, assuming this woman was cooking.

  No wonder Dad came over to have Mom sign the divorce papers—that sneaky bastard! And I didn’t think about Mom. How in hell am I going to break the news to her?

  11/2 again

  It’s just before midnight and I’m back from what has to have been one of the most uncomfortable and awkward dinners in the history of mankind. I’m telling you, the Last Supper has nothing on this.

  It started with me rehearsing in the bathroom mirror for almost an hour what I was going to say to Mom. The best way I could think of breaking it to her started with me saying, “Mom, you know that episode of Dr. Phil you saved?” So I figured the best thing for me to do was to just sneak out of the house.

  I walked past the living room to the door as quickly and as quietly as I possibly could. Of course, the one time she’s conscious at seven-thirty in the evening had to be tonight. To make matters worse, she was in the middle of watching one of those Lifetime movies about a woman suffering from domestic violence, so I knew she was already not in a good state of mind to hear this.

  “Where are you going?” she asked from the couch.

  “I…” It took me a while just to say that. “I’m going to dinner with Dad.” It still surprised the hell out of both of us.

  “Why?” Mom asked.

  “Um…” I said. This was the moment I’d been dreading. “Apparently, he’s getting married.”

  It took a few seconds
for Mom to process the information.

  “Oh, really?” she said. “I didn’t know that. Good for him.” Her eyes immediately went toward the television, but I knew she wasn’t watching it. Her eyes became watery as she held in whatever was building up inside her.

  My own heart felt like it had fallen out of my body just telling her; I couldn’t imagine what she must have felt like. Mom and I have had our issues, but no child should ever have to see their parent look like that.

  “He wants me to go meet his fiancée, so that’s where I’m headed,” I said.

  “Have fun,” Mom said. “Get home at a decent hour … and all that parenting shit.”

  “Okay,” I said. “’Bye, Mom. Love you.”

  I didn’t want to leave her, but I was almost glad I wasn’t going to be there for the rest of the night. I didn’t want to witness how Mom was going to handle it. I knew it wouldn’t be pretty.

  I got into my car, did my series of tricks to get it started, and drove off hating the night before it had even started.

  Dad texted me April’s address, where they apparently had been living together for the last seven months. Way to drop a line, Dad.

  Her house was in a really nice part of town. It was painted yellow with white trim and had a picket fence around the front yard. There was even a welcome mat. It completely threw me off. I had no idea what to expect.

  I still don’t know why this woman would have moved to Clover. Dad must have convinced April the suburbs were a good place to raise a child. Is there a gene in women that makes them all secretly want to be June Cleaver? Clearly, there was one in April.

  I rang the doorbell, which was positioned on the stomach of a kitty-cat doorbell cover. It was weirdly sweet. It made the house seem like the kind of place you’d eat freshly baked cookies or get murdered in. You know what I mean?

  “I’ll get it, I’ll get it,” I heard my dad say. He opened the door. “Hey, Carson, come on in.”