Carter Finally Gets It (16 page)

“Yeah, but I got no game. I just can’t talk to ’em,” I say in defeat.

Nutt responds, “You should use the massage technique, bro.”

Of course I ask what the massage technique is, and he explains it’s a move his brother heard about, where you just walk up to a girl and start rubbing her shoulders. You don’t say a word, you just make the move and she’s supposed to melt in your hands. It makes perfect sense to me because of my language barrier with girls. I should rely on action instead.

I spot a girl that might be just right. She’s by herself next to the rope swing, and the boys think she’s perfect. She doesn’t go to our school, and she doesn’t seem to be missing a leg or anything, so they send me in. I approach from the rear. She has a decent butt and okay hair, so I turn around and shoot them a thumbs-up. I’m sure she has boobs, but she’s wearing a coat, so they have little effect on me. If we were at this lake in the summertime it would be a different story, because she’d be wearing a swimsuit; and although she’d be impressed with my skills off the boards, I could never just roll up on a chick in a bikini and start rubbing her shoulders. I’m having enough trouble finding the courage to go after her puffy jacket. I’ll just stand behind her for a second and plan this out.

Nutt yells from behind me, “Get in the fight, man!”

He’s such a dumbass, but he’s right about this! What’s to plan? Take charge and grab her! My heart is pounding as I extend my shaking hands. . . .

I’m not sure if the massage technique works or not, because she just bent down and is puking into the lake for all she’s worth. She’ll never know what she missed out on by drinking too much tonight. I turn away quick because puke freaks me out, and I see my boys laughing their asses off. I also see Abby crying by the diving boards as Andre walks away from her. He struts through the crowd and right up to the slut from Blockbuster, who, because of me, everyone will think is a pirate until she wears shorts again in the spring. Dang, that guy is a jerk. Abby’s crying hard. I think she was crying harder by the football room windows, though. Not that this is a competition or anything . . . I’m just saying. A half-moon is lighting the lake behind her, and she looks so pretty. Andre is a fool. I should try out the massage technique on Abby.

She spots me watching her cry. Our eyes meet, and she approaches me head-on. She looks so sad. Her heart doesn’t deserve this. She needs a massage. She’s all hot and intense as she strides toward me. She sees the error of her ways, and she needs her Carter back. It’s okay, pumpkin, I know. Stop that crying, I forgive you. . . .

WWHHAACCKK!

The sharp sting of her right hand slapping my face snaps me out of the dream. OUCH!

“Do you hate me?” she barks.

“What?” I ask, grabbing my jaw.

WHACK!
She connects a left-hand slap. I grab the other side of my jaw and think some anger is being misdirected here. It’s being directed at me and my face, and we’ve done nothing. People are drunk, but intoxicated or not, folks love a fight.

“How could you, Carter?” she asks.

“How could I what? W-w-what are we talking about?” I reply.

WHACK!
Another slap. OW! She’s quick. I have to get on those karate classes.

“Please stop hitting me,” I say.

“Don’t patronize me!” she yells. (How can I patronize anyone? I don’t know what that word means.) “I thought at the very least you were my friend. All I ever did was like you, and you’ve done nothing but screw me over. You knew Andre was cheating on me, didn’t you?”

My lightbulb finally goes on. “Oh, that?” I say.

She cocks back again, but I step aside to avoid this slap. Fourth time’s a charm!

“What did I ever do to you?” she squeals. “I always thought you were so cool. I thought you were different. But you’re just like all the other guys. You’re worse!”

I just stare at her. I’m so embarrassed I can’t speak. No stutter or anything, just . . . nothing. Everyone is staring at me. I’m beet red from humiliation and slaps. I want to tell her that she’s the most beautiful girl here tonight and that I love her more than words can say; that I never meant to hurt her. That she’s right about me . . . I’m not cool. I’m an insecure prick who honestly thought I shouldn’t tell her about Andre and the Blockbuster slut because I didn’t want to cause her any more pain. . . . But that’s crap! Because if I really cared, I would have told EJ or Bag to tell Nicky. But what I really didn’t want . . . what I truly couldn’t handle was for anybody to make fun of me for caring.

I don’t say any of that. I might have, but the police sirens start blaring in the distance and the fire drill on crack has begun. “COPS!!!” someone yells, and kids scurry in every direction like it’s a surprise the cops have shown up. We
are
breaking into this place. There are two hundred screaming drunk teenagers here; the police are going to be notified. What’s the mystery? It’s only my second party and I can already see the pattern.

Abby darts off, and I run away from her. I’m headed for the CRX, but as I approach, it’s already pulling away, and sparks are flying up from the muffler. The engine is starting to smoke, and the bumper is dragging on the ground. Ten guys have already squeezed in, and one kid is riding on top. It’s just too much for the little engine. But Hormone doesn’t let up on it for a second. That poor little Honda had the misfortune to come into the hands of a fifteen-year-old boy, and that’s the end of the line for a car. There’s no resale value. No trade-in. We’re going to kill it. It’s not just Hormone’s first car, it’s the entire freshman class’s. It belongs to all of us, but I’m not getting a ride from it tonight. The cops have blocked the exit, and it’s chaos! I grab my backpack and make a run for it. EJ sees me duck into the brush and ditches his new girlfriend. That boy’s coldhearted, but I’m glad he’s with me, because I’m scared of the woods. We’re running fast. It’s freezing and I’m not sure where we’re going, but this is really fun. So far, getting to run from The Man is my favorite part of high school parties.

We run for a half hour or so before we finally find a road. We split the rest of the flat Mountain Dew, but basically I’ve consumed an entire two-liter by myself. That can’t be good for you. We jump into a ditch when we hear the roar of an engine coming from behind us.

“Oh man, COPS!” EJ whispers.

No red or blue lights are flashing, but the engine sounds really mean. Nick Brock’s old truck rumbles over a hill and smashes down some small trees. It’s got big tires and four guys standing up in the back. The stereo is blasting and my sister is laughing in the passenger seat. It looks so tough as it blasts through the ditch and up onto the street. Then the truck drives over the road and crashes into the ditch on the other side. Not quite as cool. There’s only so much a badass truck can do when its owner’s plastered. Nick is punching the steering wheel when EJ and I run up.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, baby, it’s all good,” Nick slurs. He’s thinking something over. “Hey, Carter? You got your learner’s permit?” he asks.

“Hell yeah, I got it,” I lie.

“You’d better get her home for meee. . . .” he says, and then falls asleep into the steering wheel.

“Wait, what? You want me to drive your truck, Brock?” I ask.

“Hell no. No way, CARTER!” Lynn yells as she opens the passenger door and falls out of the truck into the ditch. She’s out cold. It must be late because it’s definitely bedtime for these party people. I’m feeling pretty good, though, whatever time it is. Mountain Dew is the bomb. If it weren’t for the stinging pain in my stomach and the shaking in my hands, I might use this stuff to keep me focused at school. The drunk guys load my sister into the back with them, and EJ and I push Brock over to the middle seat. This truck is awesome! I’ve never driven an actual car before, but a golf cart is pretty much the same thing, I hope. I put my seat belt on and turn the key—
WWWRREEEKK!

“And that’s the sound a truck makes when it’s already turned on,” I say to EJ. Everyone cheers from the back. “Shut up!” I yell at them like a soccer mom.

“You got it, dude.” EJ smiles encouragingly.

I’ve got to get us out of this ditch, so I put the stick into R, and push on the gas pedal. The engine roars, but nothing’s happening. I press the pedal harder. We’re rocking backward a bit, but not enough to get this big old truck out of the ditch. I smash the pedal all the way to the ground, the engine screams, and the truck starts to shove itself backward. Now we’re moving! We’re free of the ditch and absolutely flying in reverse.

“I didn’t know cars could go this fast backward!” I yell over the whining engine.

EJ doesn’t say anything constructive. He’s too busy yanking on the seat belt and screaming, “STOP!”

Okay, I’ve just got to take my foot off this skinny pedal and smash down the other one.
EEAAAARRRRRRRTT!
The tires screech and the truck slides to a stop.

I shift the stick to D before anyone can say anything, and squash the skinny pedal again. We peel out, and EJ is giggling like a girl. The guys in the back are screaming. Not sure what they’re saying, because things are loud at sixty miles an hour. It’s hard to keep this truck in a straight line, and it’s harder to see things coming at you at seventy miles an hour. On my bike I can see stuff and think about it before I get to it, but when you’re going eighty miles an hour, the stuff’s long gone before you can figure out what it was. Like the girl we just flew by looked like Abby, but at ninety miles an hour, who can tell? She definitely had a nice butt; I can tell that at any speed. I really think it was Abby, though. So I take my foot off the skinny pedal and press on the fat one, hard.

EEAAAARRRRTT!
The tires screech and the truck skids to the right. I’m pressing on this pedal as hard as I can, but we’re still hauling ass sideways. I thought we’d just stop, but at a hundred miles an hour, it takes some time and rubber. There’s so much smoke from the tires when we finally stop I can’t even see EJ. We pull Brock off the dashboard, and I put the stick back on the R. After a minute or two of flying in reverse we get to the girl. It is Abby, and she looks as surprised to see me behind the wheel as I am to be here. She must be impressed, but I’m not positive, because we just flew right by her. DANG IT!

EEEAAARRRRT!
We slam to a stop, but she keeps walking.

“You need a lift, little lady?” I yell, with my head out the window.

EJ thinks it’s funny, but maybe Abby didn’t hear me. I peel out and almost run her over as we fly by her again.

“That’s it, Carter, break her heart and then mow her down!” EJ yells as I hit the brakes and screech to a stop about fifty feet in front of her.

I stick my head out the window again and yell, “You need a lift, little lady?” That joke is a winner, I’m sure of it. But it doesn’t even get a smile out of her. EJ gives me a disappointed look for busting it out twice.

We fly by her again. Two things at once is hard enough for me. But driving for the first time and apologizing to a girl is just too much. Without stopping, I slam the stick into P and jump out. The truck screeches, jerks, and clangs to stop. I’ve got to remember never to do that when I get a car.

“Abby, wait!” I yell. “Um, did you get a haircut?” (Bad question.)

“Oh, save it, Carter!” she snaps, and keeps walking.

“Can I give you a ride home?” I ask.

She just shoots me a mean look and picks up her pace.

I respond to her look. “You can hate me all you want, but you shouldn’t be walking out here by yourself. You don’t even have to talk to me. The rest of these guys in the truck all think I’m a dumbass too!”

“What other guys?” she asks.

I look back to the truck and discover that I’ve lost all of my passengers except EJ, Lynn, and Brock. “Never mind. . . . Come on, Abby, it’s cold out here and dark. You’ve had a really bad night. The odds of some creepy dude trying to pick you up and do things to you are pretty high, don’t you think?” I say.

“You’re the only creepy dude I see out here,” she fumes.

I forget how quick Abby is. “That was pretty good,” I concede. “Look, I’ll just drop you off.”

She doesn’t say a word, but she turns around and stomps back to the truck and opens the passenger door. EJ slides over onto Brock’s lap.

“What are you doin’? Get in the back!” I whisper at EJ.

“No way, dude,” he protests. “It’s freezing out there, and you’re a terrible driver. You’d better buckle up, Abby!”

I point at his face as if to say, “You’ll pay for this later,” shift into drive, and head for Abby’s house. I keep the speed down to a respectable sixty miles an hour. I was hoping to have a heart-to-heart talk with Abby as we flew down the road, but I’m pretty busy with all the driving responsibilities. Gas pedal, brake pedal, steering wheel, turn signals, deejaying. There is a lot to do. EJ and Brock are blocking my view of Abby, and with EJ yelling, “CARTER, CARTER, watch the ditch! Red light! Slow down! Look out!” like a little bitch the whole time, I can’t get a word in.

We screech to a stop in front of Abby’s house, and she jumps out before I can say anything. No thank-you, no good-bye, just a nice view of her butt walking into the house. I like the view, but I still think it’s rude.

I peel out, not because I’m angry or anything, but just because that’s how you drive this truck. A dull thud comes from the back, and I turn to see my sister rolling around in the dirty truck bed. Thank God she’s unconscious, because when she wakes up, I’ll be in big trouble. I look back at the street and realize that I’m driving on the wrong side of the road. Dang it! I’ll just calmly steer it back onto the right side of the road. What’re the odds of another car coming over the top of this hill at three o’clock in the morning?

Pretty good if it’s your first time driving and your name is Will Carter.

I see the headlights, and EJ screams to reinforce my theory that we’re about to die. I can’t move my arms or legs to do anything about it, but thank God the other car can, because I’m just going straight at this point.

Cops must take special driving classes to learn how to skid away like that just in time. Dang it!

EJ confirms it. “COP,” he gasps as the police cruiser slides into a ditch.

“Ohhh, was that the cop who busted me at the party?!” I scream.

“I think I saw a mustache!” EJ replies.

“Should I stop?” I ask.

“Yeah, you should stop . . . if you want to see what jail’s like!” EJ cries. “Punch it!”

I accelerate down the road and look in the rearview mirror but don’t see anything except Lynn bouncing around. Maybe the cop thinks I’m a foreigner. If I were driving this truck in England, I would be A-OK, but we’re in Merrian, and that cop’s lights are now flashing back there like he doesn’t care where I’m from. I really hope it’s not the cop from the party. How embarrassing must it have been to lose a fourteen-year-old prisoner? And I’m sure that rottweiler gave him a look too, like, “You dumbass, Barney!” Nobody likes to be put down by a dog. Especially not a cop.

I bust a fast left toward my house, and the right side of the truck comes up off the ground like
The Dukes of Hazzard
(awesome). I guess before you turn you have to slow down. I’ve never seen my street at sixty miles an hour before. I hardly recognize it. I try to bust a right turn into my driveway, but I sort of merge into my neighbors’ yard instead, and rip through their bushes. I barely miss the corner of my house and smash the mailbox into a million pieces. The truck crushes the hedges I was supposed to trim last Sunday (scratch that off my list of things to do). I try to slam on the brakes, but I accidentally smash the gas pedal again, and we fly right over a rock retaining wall my dad built last year. I see Lynn fly up into the air like a wet piece of spaghetti and crash back down into the truck bed.

“Dude, we just got air!” EJ yells as the front bumper smashes down and breaks off.

We barrel over the bumper, crush my basketball goal, blast through the wooden fence in the backyard, and finally skid to a stop, taking up a bunch of grass with the big tires. I hit the lights on the truck and shut it down. The engine is smoking and making all kinds of banging noises. It doesn’t seem to want to turn off.

My dad flies out the back door in his underwear with a flashlight and a golf club. He means business. His eyes are all big and blinky, trying to wake up and figure out what’s going on in his backyard.

“Hey, Mr. Carter,” EJ says, like he’s just come over to say hi.

“What the hell is going on out here?” Dad yells.

“Nick let me drive his truck, Dad!” I say, all proud.

“I can see that. Why did he do that?” Dad asks.

“Uh, well, he got really tired and fell asleep,” I reply.

“Where’s Lynn?” he asks.

“Oh, she’s in the back here,” EJ says. “But she’s asleep too, so, shhhh.”

Hearing her name, Lynn raises her head from the truck bed. She’s covered in dirt, has a bloody nose and straw sticking out of her hair. She’s not sure what’s going on, so she slurs, “Uhhh, heeyy, Daaadddy!” and stumbles out of the bed and staggers into the house.

“You’re drunk!” Dad barks. (Nothing gets by my old man.)

Lynn says, “Shhhh!” from inside the house.

He turns and asks me, “What the hell is going on?”

I shrug my shoulders and mutter, “I was just driving the truck.”

“Since when do you know how to drive?” he asks.

“Since never, Mr. Carter. He’s a terrible driver!” EJ blurts out.

My dad shakes his head as he surveys his busted-up yard, broken-down fence, and the smoking truck hissing on his back patio, before he finally sighs, “Good lord, well . . .”

He might have been getting ready to say something about how everything is fixable and what’s important is that everyone got home safe and how his son is a hero. That may have been what he was going to say, when that police car whizzes by with the lights flashing.

“Looking for you, by any chance?” he seethes.

“How should I know what they’re lookin’ for? I been drivin’!” I reply.

He throws the flashlight across the yard and snaps the golf club across his knee. He’s shaking with anger, or he’s starting to freeze. “Damn it! I don’t know how to handle this! You were good kids, like, a month ago! What the hell is going on with you, son?”

“I honestly don’t know,” I reply. “Everything is just harder than I thought it was going to be, and I’m not doing very well at any of it! My life’s a friggin’ mess . . . I don’t like girls anymore . . . I’m flunking all of my classes except drama. . . .”

“Wait, y-y-you don’t like girls?” He looks like he’s eaten a habanero pepper when he asks, “S-s-so you think you’re gay?”

My jaw falls open, and EJ doubles over with laughter. “Ha-HAAA!!!”

I bark, “Get outta here, E!”

“I thought I was spending the night. . . . You don’t wanna cuddle?” He laughs.

I angrily point toward his house, and he cackles off into the night.

Dad continues, “Not, not that there’s anything wrong with being gay, son. . . . Your mother and I, w-w-we love you no matter what.”

“You do? Wait, what?! Why do you think I’m gay?” I ask.

“I don’t know, you just said that you were into drama and you don’t like girls anymore,” he barks.

“I did? Well, I guess I could be. My friends tell me I’m gay all the time, and I really do like the acting class, so it’s a possibility. It’s too soon to tell, though, I think . . . I’m only fourteen. But what I meant to say was that girls positively don’t like
me
anymore.”

He scratches his head and tries to figure out how this talk has spun so far out of control. We’re both trembling because he’s horribly underdressed and I’m jacked up on two liters of Mountain Dew. He seems to be wrapping it up when he says, “Well, we’re behind you . . . or we’re with you, no matter what you decide.”

“Thanks, that’s good to know,” I reply awkwardly.

He turns to go back into the house but stops short. “Hey, another thing. I keep finding a porno playing on the basement VCR. Is that yours?”

“Uh, maybe,” I reply.

He sighs, “Well, okay. It’s just, it’s always playing in fast-forward like a weird matinee show when I get home from work, and it kind of creeps me out. Why don’t you turn it off . . . when you’re through with it?”