Carter Finally Gets It (11 page)

I keep a low profile at school for a while and try to keep my nose clean. I haven’t seen Abby in a week. She may have noticed me and broken out in the other direction. I accidentally almost ran into Bitchy Nicky when I was coming out of science class. She didn’t say anything, but she threw up her hands and made a face like I was a fart roaming the halls. Andre made a kissing noise at me in the locker room after practice yesterday. And I probably shouldn’t have, but I flipped him off and walked away.

I’m taking a math quiz and spacing off as usual. We’ve been working on the Pythagorean theorem for the past week, and this is the test to see if we get it. Well, I don’t get it, but I have a funny joke. I call it Py-Fag-Orean’s theorem. If this was a test about jokes I might be okay, but since Mr. Rumpford isn’t into jokes, I’m screwed.

Sarah “the Caboose” Ruiz sits in front of me, and she doesn’t get any of this, either. I know it because she’s gotten up to sharpen her pencil twenty times. I don’t mind that one bit. We don’t call her the Caboose for nothing. She wears tight, low-cut jeans, and I gawk at her booty every time she presents it. Even if I did understand Py-Fag-Orean’s theorem, I would still take a break from it to ogle that thing. It’s like two volleyball pistons under a denim blanket.

She gets up again to sharpen the sharpest pencil in the world. Question number twenty-five means about as much to me as question five did, so I get to gawking. If her wiggly walk was a crime and I was asked to testify against it at a trial, I could give you every detail. She slowly struts up to the front and makes a smooth right turn in front of Ruddy Gill’s open answer sheet. She pauses and bends down a bit to give it a closer look. She moves on to the pencil sharpener, and I move from her right cheek to her left cheek and back again. My eyes drift from the pockets to the waist, to the tops of her short legs, and right into MR. RUMPFORD’S BEADY EYES! Whoa, he spotted me spotting her booty! Dang it, you shouldn’t be looking at me, Rumpford. You should be looking at Sarah and asking why her pencil is so damn sharp and why she keeps looking at Ruddy Gill’s test.

He just shakes his head in disgust. Mr. Rumpford was never fourteen. He could never understand my plight. All he loves is Pythagoras and his stupid theorem. He can’t understand what it takes to get me through a day in this place. He looks away, but I can see a wide smile under his little mustache. He pretends to scratch his face to hide it. No way! He’s laughing. He’s really cracking up at me and bends down like he’s got to tie his shoe. Mr. Rumpford is a human being! He’s caught my horniness red-handed and he gets it. I’ve never recognized a teacher as a real person before. It’s almost chilling. He looks up at me still laughing quietly and shakes his head in mutual understanding. I can now see that long before he grew a mustache and combined short-sleeved shirts and neckties, he was a horn dog too!

I definitely failed that test, but I learned a valuable lesson. Teachers are people . . . underpaid, poorly dressed, lame car–driving people.

Homecoming is in three days, and since I don’t have a date and may never get a girlfriend, I’ve decided to invest in a porno. Nutt’s brother, Bart, sold it to me for thirty-five dollars. It’s at least twenty years old, and it’s a copy of a copy of a poor-quality videotape. There’s no sound and it’s stuck on fast forward, but you can make out that people are definitely doing the nasty on it, really, really fast. Nutt calls it a “research tape.” I watch it in the basement because that’s where we have the old VCR, and nobody goes down there. The last thing I need is for my dad to stroll in and see me abusing myself to lightning-fast pornographic images. Military school will become a reality faster than those people are doing it.

I just finished my nightly research session when EJ calls to talk about shooting hoops at the community center and seeing a movie while everyone else is at the stupid dance. EJ says that dances are lame, but I know he’s never talked to a girl before. How difficult would it be to go from never speaking to hanging out and dancing with one all night? I don’t call him on it, I just joke about him being my “homecoming bitch” and how he’d better get me flowers.

He burns me pretty good with, “If I put out at the movies, you better not talk about it in the locker room.”

I laugh, but I can hear his mom squawking in the background about how he didn’t put his clothes away or how he used wire hangers or some crap, and how he’s grounded for a week.

Man, she’s pulled this B.S. on me soo many times! She’s always busting out rules and regulations at the worst times and totally screwing up my plans. EJ drops the phone and fires off every excuse in the book, but his mom’s a tough nut and EJ’s cracking.

He yells, “Nu-uh, Mooom!”

“Don’t do it, EJ, FIGHT!” I shout into the phone. “I don’t want to stay home while everybody is going to this damn dance!” But the whining is really picking up steam and shifts to crying. I lose hope when he starts gurgling like a baby, and I hang up to save him the embarrassment.

The phone rings thirty seconds later, and I answer, “What’s up, you whiny little bitch?” to bust his chops a little.

But instead of a sniveling homeboy, I get a, “Um, hello? Hello?” It’s a girl’s voice.

DANG IT! It’s some chick for Lynn, and she’s going to tell her that I answered the phone, “What’s up, you whiny little bitch?”

“Uh, is Carter there?” the mystery girl asks.

“Uh . . . let me see if he’s here,” I say.

I collect my thoughts and try to figure out who this might be. “Hello, Will Carter here,” I mutter, as cool as possible.

“Hi . . .” she says in a sultry voice.

“Hey you,” I reply like I know who it is. I hate it when people assume I know their voice. My aunt does that. I talk to her once a year; I don’t know her voice!

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“Not much,” I respond. It’s not Abby, and it’s clearly not Nicky, because there’s no screeching. It’s not Pam, but the mystery voice is super sexy.

“Do you know who this is?” she asks.

“Gisele? Look, I told you, I’m not into you like that. . . .”

“What are you talking about, Carter?” she asks.

“I don’t know, I have no idea who this is,” I reply smoothly.

“I’ll give you a hint . . . I’m probably the only girl at school who doesn’t think you’re scum,” she says.

“Yeah, not only does that not help . . . it’s mean,” I reply.

“Okay, my dad thinks you’re cute. . . .” she says.

What kind of freaky phone sex is this?

She continues, “You told me that you and Abby were just friends, and that you weren’t serious, and that we were gonna go to homecoming.”

“Amber?” I respond like the most brilliant detective on the force.

“Rusty Dollingsworth was gonna take me to the dance, but my dad is being a dick and won’t let me go with him,” she pouts.

Good for your dad! That guy is like twenty years old, a scumbag, and drives his dead grandma’s car.

“So now I can’t go!” she continues.

“Oh, that sucks,” I say. Awesome!

“So, do you still want to take me?”

Does a bear poop in the woods? “REALLY?!” pops out of my mouth before I can get it back.

She laughs. “Good, pick me up at seven.”

“Okay, do you want me to wear something specific that will match with your dress?” (I am not gay; she brought it up in the hall.)

“No, just pick me up,” she says, and then hangs up.

Oh man, I’m a pimp after all. I guess I’ve been playing defense for a couple of weeks and everything’s falling into place.

I call up EJ, and you could tell he was still kind of crying. “Hey, dude,” I say.

“Man
(sniffle),
I can’t hang out on Saturday anymore,” he says, pitifully.

Like I’m supposed to be shocked. Once his mom drops an order, there’s no way around it. EJ is the oldest kid in his family, so he’s in charge of breaking his parents in. But he’s doing a terrible job; his little sister Emmy will curse him someday. My folks, however, have been so bent and twisted by my older sister it’s almost sad. Like, I’m grounded right now, but look who’s on the phone.

“Yeah, it’s cool, dude,” I say, all sly. “I’ll just go to the dance with Amber Lee instead.”

“Yeah right,” he snivels. “Every girl at school hates you, dude.”

“I guess one girl doesn’t, smart-ass! Because I just got off the phone with Amber Lee, and she asked me to go to homecoming—for the second time!” I respond kind of mean.

“No way,” he says.

“Yes way. I’m picking her up, and we’re wearing matching outfits!” I say.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothin’,” I say. “It’s not important. What’s important is that I’m gonna get to have sex with Amber Lee in seventy-six hours!”

“Man, why are these chicks into you all the sudden? Nobody asked me to go to any dance. What the hell’s goin’ on?” he replies, all mad.

“Hate the game, not the player.” I laugh. “Okay, dude, here’s the deal: my sister told me all these secret tricks for talkin’ to chicks and how to get them to put out and stuff.”

“I knew it!” he yells. “What’s the trick, what am I supposed to do with ’em?”

“I can’t tell you, dude, it’s top secret. She wasn’t even supposed to tell me,” I say.

EJ cries, “We’ve been best friends since kindergarten. You can’t become a babe slayer and leave me in the dust! I don’t have an older sister. I’m disadvantaged. All I got is Emmy, who can only drop preschool wisdom like, ‘No pull Barbie’s hair!’”

“That’s probably some early girl wisdom. Nobody likes to get their hair pulled,” I say. “Except this one chick in my porno; I think she’s into it. I can’t really tell, though. I wish they would slow down.”

“Focus, Carter. Give me the secrets!” he demands.

So I tell him everything that Lynn told me, but he thinks I’m holding out on him. He thinks there’s like, some magic pill. I hear there is, but it’s illegal in the U.S. I tell him I have to go get ready for my date, hang up, and do some more research in the basement.

While brushing my teeth I notice some fuzz growing above my lip. Who’s the man? If I’m going to be having sex on Saturday I’d better shave that junk off. And while a boy might go downstairs and ask his dad for help, a man just goes for it. I’m not an idiot. You just slather cream on your face, grab a razor, flex your abs, and scrape everything off. What’s the big deal? I slide the razor up from the base of my neck to the top of my cheek. Then flick the cream off and wink at myself in the mirror. I scrape it all the way back down, and then I go sideways, from ear to ear. I can almost hear the shaving commercial music playing, and a deep voice behind me saying, “The best a man can get!” I’m the man! Man, I look cool. . . . Man, I’m bleeding! The white cream has turned pink and is dripping off my face. It’s funny because it doesn’t hurt, but I’m definitely cut somewhere . . . or everywhere, and bleeding like a stuck pig. Who the hell thought this was a good idea? Yeah, let’s take a sharp-ass razor and push it to my FACE! I need to go to the hospital . . . now! I look like a character from the Saw movies stumbling toward my dad in the living room. He’s panic-stricken at the sight of his only son with two quarts of blood dripping down his face, neck, and chest.

“Good God, what did you do?” he yells.

“I shaved,” I reply with a dumb smile.

“Shave the hair, not the skin!” he yells, running to the bathroom.

He dabs a wet cloth on my bloody chin. I want to tell him that’s one of Mom’s good towels and not to use it. But I sort of babble “Gooo” instead and collapse to my knees. The room is fuzzier than my lip had ever been.

I don’t wake up until the next morning. I’m happy to just be alive and super stoked I haven’t missed the dance. We ought to sue that pretty boy from the shaver commercial. My dad told me he would show me how to shave when my cuts heal, but screw that; I’ll just stay fuzzy.

Nick Brock asked my sister to homecoming. What the hell is that? He needs to be focusing on the big game, not worrying about what kind of head games Lynn is running on him. She’s giddy, which is weird. She’s running around all crazy and laughing for no reason. She seems to have no interest in helping me out with Amber Lee. She’s way too busy yapping to her friends that Nick will be picking her up in his aunt’s BMW. That’s dumb. If I had his truck, I’d never swap it for some lame BMW.

“Do you think I could borrow Nick’s truck?” I ask Lynn.

“What? Don’t be an idiot!” she barks.

If he’s not using it, what’s the big deal? I drove a golf cart last summer. Amber’s dad likes me; he won’t care. Amber will succumb to the sex vibes of Brock’s truck and she won’t be able to control herself. The vibe is from Brock, but I’ll be driving, so she’ll have to release her desire in my direction. Wait a minute. Is Brock going to poke my sister? Dang it, I think that pisses me off. He better not, or I’ll . . . Man, I hope I don’t have to fight Nick Brock. My mom would not like giving me sponge baths and feeding me through straws the rest of my life.

It’s finally Saturday night, and my dad and I roll out. I’m wearing my church suit, and my cuts are barely visible. The suit was way too big for me when we bought it, but it’s just right these days, and I look sharp.

“What do you know about this Nick Brock?” my dad asks.

“He can bench press three hundred twenty-five pounds,” I respond.

My dad raises his eyebrows. I’m not sure if he’s impressed or if he’s thinking whether or not he can beat up a guy who can bench that much. As we pull up to Amber’s house, Yosemite Sam is on the porch. His handlebar mustache is in full effect as he flicks his cigarette into the dirt and walks bowlegged toward our car.

“Oh crap,” my dad says under his breath as he gets out of the car.

“Jeremiah Lee,” Amber’s dad says, sticking his hand out for my dad to shake.

“Huh, ha-ha!” I laugh out loud because I’m scared as hell, and it sounded like he said, “General Lee.” My dad shoots me a mean look.

I’m not sure if “the General” is snarling or smiling when he says, “Amber’s my angel. She wants to dress like a hooker, though.”

My dad raises his eyebrows at me, like, “What the hell did you get me into?”

I jump out of the car to deflect some of the awkwardness. Her dad claps his hands and yells, “There he is! Mr. Slick. What’re ya—runnin’ for president?”

I shake my head and mutter, “No, I’m here to take Amber to the dance. . . .”

“You’re gonna be a good boy, aint’cha? ’Cause I got a blowtorch down at the body shop you wouldn’t like.
SHHUUUUWWW!!!
” he threatens, while acting out the use of said blowtorch.

Sweat must be shooting out of my forehead. My dad tries to keep the conversation away from blowtorches when he says, “Oh yeah, Lee Auto Body! Down on Merrian Lane. We brought our Honda in last year when my daughter plowed into a telephone pole.”

I’m glad my dad is here or I’d be running down the street screaming right now.

The screen door flies open, and Amber steps out onto the porch. WOW, she looks . . . awful! What the hell happened to the hottie I see every day at school? And where did she get that green dress? A bridesmaid in 1990 is looking for it, and some football player somewhere is going to need his shoulder pads back. No wonder she didn’t want me to match her outfit; it would have been impossible. What the hell is in her hair? Is that Quaker State? Why is it all piled on top of her head and then dripping down onto her face? It’s Medusa at fourteen! It’s like a bad dream. I’m going to the dance with the hottest girl in my class, yet her dad will kill me if I touch her, and she’s been ambushed by some demented makeover show.

“You look real pretty, hon,” her dad says.

No you DON’T! You look hideous. Get back in there and try again. Your dad owns a body shop. He knows fenders, bumpers, and how to intimidate, but if he thinks this is “pretty,” we have strayed from his area of expertise.

After an awkward silence I jump into the backseat of the car. I can’t even look at her or I’ll start laughing.

Her dad leans into my dad’s window like a cop giving out a ticket. “Now, she’s gonna sleep over at her friend Nicky’s house tonight, so she’ll just get a ride with Nicky’s mom after the dance.”

She gives me a wink and says, “Yeah, we have to go, Dad.”

What? I have to hang out with Bitchy Nicky? I thought they hated each other this week. Why would Amber have . . . ? Wait a minute. Could . . . Is this a signal? “Sleep over”? That’s got to be code. And what was that wink all about? I wish I could call my sister for a translation, but I believe Amber means we will have sex very soon! What else could it mean? Oh, thank God I brushed my teeth and I’ve done my research. I know all the moves. I can make all the faces. I’ve just got to slow it all down.

We drive to the dance in complete silence. I have no questions—lots of thoughts, but no questions. I can’t ask her if she wants to get a hotel room; I spent all my money on that stupid porno. And if I ask her where she got her dress, it’ll come out, “Where the hell did you get that dress?” I can’t give her any kind of compliment tonight because I don’t want to encourage her in this direction. The thought of actual sex is scrambling my brain. I’m blinking a lot. It’s, like, a hundred degrees in here.

We get to the dance, and she jumps out of the car quick. “I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” she says as she slams the door.

Good news, because I couldn’t stand up right now if the president walked by.

My dad looks at me through the rearview mirror and asks, “You okay, pal?”

“Who, me? Yeah, I’m good!” I say, blinking my left eye uncontrollably.

“Okay, well, take a breath, will ya?” he orders.

“Sure,” I reply. Wow, that felt good. I haven’t been breathing for, like, ten minutes.

“Give me a call for a pickup, be yourself, and don’t do anything her dad’ll kill you for. General Lee has our address,” he says.

“It did sound like he said General Lee, didn’t it?” I laugh and slap him five. My dad and I shared a joke. Yep, I’m becoming a man. Maybe we’ll grab a beer tomorrow.