Breaking Point (10 page)

Mr. Good raised an eyebrow, as unaccustomed to being disagreed with as I was to disagreeing. Then, a smile, quick and blinding as Charlie's. “Of course. Rosita can drive you home.” He nodded at Charlie. “Two minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” Charlie said for the third time.

“Good meeting you, Phil.”

“It's Paul,” I said, finally. But Mr. Good had already left.

I gathered my stuff while Charlie put on tennis shoes and socks. He walked me to the kitchen. Who was Rosita? The maid, I guessed. I didn't ask. The house was silent, and so was Charlie. The kitchen had a cabinet in the center, with pots and pans dangling lethally from the ceiling. Charlie stopped under them, turned to me. “My father.” He stubbed his shoe against the peach-colored tile. “My father's a little…” The word
crazy
hung in the air, but Charlie said, “See, I'm ranked in the state, and he thinks I'm good enough… I could go all the way, skip college, go pro. Like Jennifer Capriati. Ever hear of her?”

The name was vaguely familiar. I nodded.

“She grew up around here. She's on the pro tour now. Anyway, Dad, he has me in all these junior tournaments, the JOB, Fiesta Bowl, even flying to Australia—my whole Christmas break. He thinks I can qualify for pro tournaments by senior year. If I work hard enough. I'm good enough, too. From there…”

“That's great.” But not surprising. Charlie excelled at everything, after all.

“I'm good enough to do it, but I'm lazy. Too many outside interests, my dad says. I need to work on just tennis. I need to.” He'd slipped away, not talking to me anymore, but to himself. “I have a private coach, but that's not enough. It's not enough. That's why Dad takes off work to coach me. I'm damn lucky he can do that, right?” Charlie glanced outside. I looked too. Across the pool, Mr. Good bounced a ball with his racket on the blazing green court. He nodded at Charlie, then his watch. “Takes practice, though, perseverance, Dad says. Live to win. Win. Win.” Punching his thigh with each repetition of the word. “We're very close.” He smiled, looking out again. “I'm really lucky.”

“Sure.”

A woman, it must have been Rosita, came in. She was beautiful, the buttons of her white uniform almost popping over her tanned breasts. I couldn't help staring. Even the help was perfect here. Charlie said something in Spanish, explaining I needed a ride, I guessed, and where I lived because I heard the word
Kendall
. She went for the keys. Charlie glanced outside. “You okay here? Can't keep Big Chuck waiting.”

I nodded, and he left. I slouched against the counter, waiting for Rosita.

Charlie walked past the pool, across the trimmed grass, grim as a soldier. But when he stepped onto the court, he smiled and hit his father's serve dead-on. They volleyed, Charlie lulling Big Chuck into a false sense of security with easy back-line shots, then suddenly smashing the ball barely over the net, out of reach. The yellow ball caught sunlight against blue sky. And I wanted to be Charlie as much as ever.

It was starting to piss me off that Charlie ignored me at school. Like Thursday, I passed him near the library. He didn't acknowledge me. Binky had been expounding on her theory of why Motter's toupee looked different, days it rained. When I glanced at Charlie, she stopped.

“You don't really want to be friends with him, you know.”

“Right.” Then, I remembered myself and said, “With who?”

“Charlie Perfect.” Smirking at my discomfort. “He doesn't have any real friends, just hangers-on. Stooges.” She turned and stared at Charlie's back. He was out of uniform, as usual, in white shorts. “He hung with David Blanco last year, and you can see where that's gotten him.”

I stopped. “David Blanco?” Then, “No, he didn't.”

Binky shrugged. “Must have imagined it.”

She started on Motter's toupee again. I nodded, barely listening. Maybe I even laughed. She was usually pretty funny. But it bugged me. Why would Charlie have been friends with David, then me? Was it some kind of goof he pulled—take a loser to lunch?

Charlie was in the computer lab that afternoon. I tried to ignore him. I started to sit in back, saying nothing. Before my butt hit the seat, he turned toward me.

“Hey, Einstein.” He smiled like usual. With his hand, he beckoned me over. I didn't want to go. Yet it was like he had a remote control.

“Another research project you need me to do?” I said, trying to sound ironic.

Charlie didn't pick up on it. “No, just screwing around on-line.”

I came closer, close enough to see the icons across the top. He clicked the X in the corner, closing the window before I could read the screen.

“What, like a chat room?”

“Chat rooms are for losers.” He gestured toward the chair by his. “Incredible stuff on the Web, like I said.” He closed his pen, one of those expensive ones you close by twirling. “How can I help you, Paul?”

I didn't sit. “You're the one who called me over.”

“So I was.” He frowned at the empty seat. “Hadn't thought it was against your will.”

“No.” Still standing, but edging toward the chair. “It wasn't.” The chair hit my calves. I backed into it.

“You've been smiling and waving all week, Paul.”

You haven't waved back
. But I didn't say it. It seemed petty. “I wasn't sure you saw me.”

“I saw you.” He smiled now, beatific. “I told you the first day, it's important to be aware of your surroundings.”

“Then why—?”

“Why is it so important I wave in the hallways?”

“Why's it important?” I looked at my hands. “'Cause everyone thinks I'm a dork with no friends.”

He stared at me. There was the click of the wall clock, advancing a minute, the racket of the AC. Finally, Charlie's voice.

“I'm disappointed, Paul.”

And he looked disappointed. I stared at my hands harder.

“I thought you liked me, Paul. I don't invite just anyone to my home. But now, I find out you only want to impress people.”

“That's not it.”

“What then?”

I wanted to ask him about what Binky had said, about David Blanco. But I didn't. Instead, I said, “We're friends, like, one day a week. Other times, you act like I'm a leper.”

“Surely not.” He removed the pen, studied it. “I don't hang with many people, Paul. I'm not a crowd person.” The gold pen gleamed as he twirled it in his small fingers.

“I see you with Meat and St. John sometimes,” I said.

“St. John and Meat have proven their loyalty time and again. You, I'm less sure of.”

“What do you mean?”

“Here you are, saying, ‘Make me cool, Charlie. Elevate my miserable status.' Why should I? What have you done for me besides want something?”

What about the nights of the Mailbox Club, the risks I'd taken?

“I just thought we were friends,” I said.

“We are friends. I told you we were.” Charlie smiled, finally, charitable. “It's just, you want more. I can't give you that right now. I really don't know you that well.”

That was true, I guessed. I wanted a best friend, someone to hang with all the time. I'd always been alone before. Maybe I didn't know how to act with a friend? So I said, “What would I have to do? To prove I'm loyal?”

The AC ground to a stop. Silence. Charlie replaced the pen behind his ear.

Finally, he said, “Well, there is one thing.”

“What?”

“Your mother works here, right? In the office?”

He knew that, I knew. “Right.”

“So she has keys and stuff?”

I nodded. What did Mom have to do with anything?

“And you're some kind of computer genius, right?”

“I wouldn't exactly say…”

Tipping his head to one side. “Don't be modest.”

“Okay, maybe.” But thinking,
Yeah, I'm pretty smart
, wanting to show off.

He looked toward the closed door. There was no noise outside, like anyone walking by could hear us. Charlie said, “See, I got a D in biology last semester, Zaller's class. All A's and one D. She had it in for me.”

I nodded.

“I changed it on my report card so Big Chuck wouldn't freak. He freaks about that stuff.”

I nodded again, thrilled to be in his confidence.

“Change it.”

“What?” I glanced at the door, even though I knew it was closed. “How would—?”

“Log on to the school computer and change it.”

I almost laughed. It was like a movie, computer hackers or something. But Charlie was serious. He'd seen the same movies. Finally, he said, “Should've known you wouldn't.”

He was serious. I wanted to do what he asked. He'd done so much for me, including me with his friends, having me over his house. Things he didn't have to do. And there was the promise of more, of being his friend and really belonging for the first time in my life. I wanted that more than anything, enough to do
almost
anything. But still…

“It's just … my mom would get fired if I was caught. I'd be expelled.”

“And we could have been arrested the other night, but we weren't. I saw to it. I took care of my friends.”

That stopped me a second. I faced him. He seemed so disappointed, disappointed in me. And I remembered his father. I could tell it was important to Charlie to please Big Chuck. I understood that miserable feeling. I wanted to say yes, but I couldn't. Pranks were one thing. This was the big leagues. I just wasn't that kind of person. I glanced away. “Sorry.”

I couldn't look at him, but I couldn't leave, either. I listened to him rolling the mouse around, jiggling it just to keep the screen from blanking out. “Sorry,” I repeated.

“It's fine.”

“It is?” Still not daring to look.

“Sure.” He stopped jiggling. “Isn't it time you left?”

I looked. Quarter after exactly. Maybe he wasn't angry. He must have known his request was outrageous, probably expected me to say no. Maybe it was even some sort of test. I managed a glance. He was smiling. “See you around?” I asked.

“Sure.” Turning back to the computer. “'Bye now.”

He kept smiling. I didn't—couldn't—look back. Just gathered my books and left before his smile faded.

The next day, Friday, I made my way across the gray and brown locker room after P.E. I hated volleyball even more than soccer. I'd been hit twice in the face, a personal worst even for me. The second time, I was sure the server, Pierre, had aimed at me. That hadn't happened in weeks.

I twirled the combination lock, flung open my locker. Empty. After glancing around for the uniform polo and khakis I knew I wouldn't find, I sat on the bench, contemplating the prospect of three years at Gate. I'd been so near the pinnacle, and I'd thrown it away. Now, Charlie had thrown me away. I sat the rest of the afternoon, P.E. classes going in and out. I knew I should go out in my P.E. clothes. I'd get in trouble for missing sixth and seventh periods. I didn't care. The final bell rang. I walked to the library. An hour later, I rode home, ignoring Mom's questions. I went to bed.

Charlie didn't come by, of course. So, I spent most of the weekend ignoring Mom and wondering what Charlie and his real friends were doing. But Sunday morning, Mom looked out the window.

“Oh my goodness,” she said.

“What?” I glanced away from the television. Mom and I had been getting along all right, because we weren't talking much. This time, her freaked-out tone caught my attention.

She kept looking ahead. “There are birds all over our car.”

I didn't need to look, but I did. We ran downstairs, past the car wash station and the makeshift basketball hoop that swarmed with neighbor kids laughing and yelling in their private language, neither English nor Spanish. We reached the car. It was covered in birds, bird shit. Birdseed. I put my arm around Mom's shoulders and promised to wax the car.

It was then I faced my mistake. I'd offended Charlie. That wasn't something you did.

But I wasn't mad at Charlie. I was mad at myself for not appreciating what I had.

Monday's sermon was “How the Holy Spirit Convicts Abusers of Power.” I wondered if anyone at Gate even
noticed
what Phelps was talking about. Or was he just up there talking to himself—and maybe to me?

“Dad?”

“Who is this?”

I hadn't had the nerve to call him at work. When he'd lived with us, he'd forbidden us to bother him there. He'd said it was because his work was important. He had no time for small talk. He'd probably been out with Stephanie. Or on his desk with her. Now, I called him at work. I'd figured he couldn't tell his new secretary not to put his son's calls through. I'd figured right.