Struck by Lightning: The Carson Phillips Journal (5 page)

“We don’t have to listen to him; he’s just here because he’s the editor of that stupid paper,” Remy told the others.

“Dude, why do you care?” Justin asked me. “It’s not like you go to them anyway.”

“Because they’re stupid!” I said.

“Fine, then you choose a theme, Carson!” Claire challenged me.

All the shit-wads turned and looked at me with menacing glares. Scott even snapped a formation in my direction.

“Okay,” I said, and thought about it, but not too hard, as any idea I pulled out of my ass was going to be better than their asinine recommendations. “You all like TV, right? Why not do Famous Television Couples? People could be Fred and Wilma, Mulder and Scully, or Lucy and Ricky. …”

They glanced at each other coyly. They knew my idea was the best, and it
sucked
for them.

“Heidi and Spencer!” Scott shouted excitedly.

“What?!” I said. “No…no, that’s not what I meant—”

“Jon and Kate!” Remy said.

“Snooki and the Situation!” Justin said, and pulled up his shirt to show off his abs.

“Are you serious?!” I said. “That’s reality television—that’s ridiculous!”

But the damage was done. Tomorrow morning, they’ll be announcing the theme for the 2012 Clover High Sadie Hawkins dance: Famous Reality TV Couples. And I am totally to blame for it.

Bastardizing my brilliant idea is strike three! I officially hate them.

I realize I hate student council meetings because they make me doubt myself: If I can’t get
them
to listen
to me, what makes me think someday I can get the world to? But then I convince myself that is a perfect example of how high school exists in a dimension of its own and does not reflect the real world.

I looked down at my notebook and added spikes to my execution/torture device before the meeting was over. It was soothing.

10/5

I spent quite a bit of time with Grandma after school today, more than I normally do. Usually I just sit with her for an hour or two and get my homework done while she talks nonsense to herself.

“And that’s why I’m not voting for Nixon,” she’s declared a couple of times. “That man is so crooked he has to screw on his boots in the morning! Mark my words!”

But for whatever reason, today she said something that really struck something in me.

It started off like any daily visit. I drove to the Clover Assisted Living Home right after school; thankfully I made it out of the student parking lot alive. I waved at Kathy, the home’s receptionist, as I walked past the front desk and down the hall to Grandma’s room. (Kathy has never waved back. I’ve never even seen her blink. She just stares at the front door all day long. I’m thinking her title of “employee” may change to that of “patient” very soon.)

“Hi, Grandma,” I said when I walked through the door. She was sitting on her bed, knitting a creation of some kind.

“Who are you?” she asked me with big eyes. Hearing this hurts every time.

“It’s Carson,” I always say back to her. “Your grandson.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “My grandson’s just a little boy.”

“I got bigger,” I said with a shrug.

For a split second I could have sworn she recognized me, but I may have just been hopeful. She got out of her bed and headed out the door.

“I’ll be right back,” she said.

A few minutes passed and I sat down and started my homework. I could hear her talking to one of the nurses outside.

“I need to use the oven,” she said.

“You can’t use the oven,” the nurse said.

“But I have a guest—he might be hungry,” Grandma insisted.

A couple more minutes later Grandma returned with a paper plate full of Oreos.

“Here we are, fresh from the oven,” she said, smiling, and handed me the plate.

I couldn’t help but grin. “Thank you.” I reached into my bag and handed her last week’s
Chronicle
. “I brought you the latest edition of the
Clover High Chronicle
.”

She took it and glanced down at it for only a second and then back at me.

“My article is called ‘Small-Town Sex Scandal,’” I said. “It’s just like ‘Janitorial Genocide,’ the other article you liked so much—”

“Do you know my grandson?” she asked me.

She’s asked me this a million times, but I don’t think you can ever get used to a family member asking you who you are.

“I think so,” I said.

“I miss him,” Grandma said, and her eyes became sad. “He never comes to visit me anymore. He used to write me stories.” Her face began to light up again.

“Did he?” I asked.

“I remember the first story he ever wrote me,” she said with a big smile. “‘
Once upon a time, there was a boy
.’” She let out a long chuckle.

“I remember too,” I said. As weird as this feels to say, I was really happy the memory had survived the crash.

“I told him it could use a little development, so the next day he brought me another story,” she said. “‘
Once upon a time, there was a boy who wanted to fly
.’”

I had completely forgotten about that.

“I’m worried about my grandson,” Grandma said, and her face became sad again. “He’s changed over the years. I think his parents are about to divorce, you see. He used to be so happy, but now he walks around with so much negative energy. Sometimes a personal rain cloud can be deadly, you know.”

She walked to the window, nodding her head, and looked at the garden outside. Even with Alzheimer’s, she still had poignant things to say. She looked back at me, about to add something else to her point, but I could tell it was lost when she made eye contact with me.

“Do you know my grandson?” she asked me again.

“I thought so,” I said.

Grandma shrugged and went back to her knitting.

I finished my homework but stayed until it got dark;
I didn’t want to leave her. It’s a rarity to actually see
Grandma
when I visit Grandma, so I wanted to soak up the visit for all it was worth.

She eventually fell asleep and I decided it was time for me to go, but I thought about what she had said the entire way home. I know I’m bitter and a little jaded, and mildly enjoy it, but am I a sad person? Am I happy?

I plan on being happy in the future for sure, but it isn’t here yet. So what does that make me, exactly? I’ve never been someone who could live in and analyze the present
moment
.

I got home at about a quarter to ten. There were fresh prescription bottles from the pharmacy on the kitchen counter, so I was happy to see Mom had made it outside, even if she was lured by drugs. She was sitting on the back patio, looking up at the stars, drunker than a skunk.

“Where have you been?” she said.

“Munich,” I said.

She rolled her eyes. “Some people get to go home to wonderful fiancées and sonograms, and I get a smart-ass kid I never even wanted in the first place.”

This may seem like an incredibly harsh thing
for her to say to me, but I’m used to my mother’s drunken laments. I’m guessing she had seen someone pregnant at the pharmacy and it had sent her over the edge. Anything that reminds her of my dad is a sore subject.

“I was unwanted, huh?” I said.

“Never have a kid to save a marriage—it doesn’t work,” she went on. “I could have been something! I could have been a
pharmacist
! But I settled for settling down because I thought that’s what I wanted, because that’s what I thought
he
wanted.”

“It’s never too late to change your life, Mother,” I said to her.

“It was too late years ago,” she said—or slurred, rather. “You’re lucky, Carson. You’re young and naïve. All those dreams you have about getting out of this town and becoming something still seem reachable. You should hold on to that for as long as you can.”

And after she said that, her eyes became watery.

“Good night, Mother,” I said, and went back into the house. I was afraid if I listened to her grumble any more I might believe her.

I guess Grandma’s not the only person in my life who talks nonsense. Luckily for me I’ve learned to only take to heart what the woman with Alzheimer’s says.

Good night. Thank God it’s Friday.

10/8

I hate Mondays with every fiber of my being. So granted, I was in a bit of a mood since this morning, but this day can go lobotomize itself. It started where I believe the core of all mankind’s frustration begins. You guessed it! The student parking lot.

I was just about to pull into a parking spot (I even had my blinker on, which is pointless) when this huge Jeep came out of nowhere and stole it. If I hadn’t slammed on my brakes at the exact moment I saw it, my car and I would be in pieces right now.

It was being driven by some stupid girl on the softball team. She wasn’t paying attention to anything except the three friends she was giving a ride to school and the horrible music that was blasting from her speakers.

That’s not even what bothered me. What really chapped my ass was her bumper sticker: IT’S A JEEP THING—YOU WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND.

For whatever reason, it just lit a fuse inside of me. I
got out of my car, slammed the door, and walked right up to her window.

“Hey!” I said, and banged on the glass. She looked me up and down, made some little noise in the back of her throat, and turned back to her friends. “I know you can hear me! Your car doesn’t have a roof!”

“Can I help you?” she said through her nose.

“Yes, you can,” I said. “I was wondering what it is that I don’t get?”

“Whaaa?” she said. She was so stupid she couldn’t even pronounce a proper
t
sound.

“Your bumper sticker,” I said. “I don’t get it. What exactly am I incapable of understanding because I don’t drive like Crocodile Dundee?”

“Dude, you need to change your tampon,” the Jeep girl said, and her friends cackled.

“I can’t use a tampon if I’m dead,” I shouted. (Yes, it was lame.) “Learn to drive!”

I got back in my car and found a spot across the lot.

So like I said, I woke up in a mood and the rest of the day didn’t improve it. I battled through a typical day of incompetence and juvenile encounters. Some
jackass fed Pepto-Bismol to the seagulls during lunch so there was bird shit and innards everywhere. Poor custodians.

Finally, I made it to journalism. I was hoping and praying something would happen there to better the day. I was hoping Dwayne had seen
Manslaughter III
again and remembered it this time. I was hoping Vicki would have at least written down
it’s cloudy
. I was hoping Malerie would have at least changed a word in each sentence she copied.

My grandpa had a saying before he died: You can hope in one hand, shit in the other, and see which is filled first.

Hoping got me nowhere. Those fuckers didn’t do a damn thing.

“We print tomorrow and none of you have written anything!” I said.

“I collated these kitten pictures,” Malerie corrected me, and showed me a stack of cat pictures she had printed from the Internet. Not sure what the hell she was planning to do with those.

“Do any of you actually want to be here?” I asked them.

“
I
want to be here,” Malerie said, and gestured to her cat pictures.

“Well, it looks like I’ll be here all night, doing what you all should have done, again,” I said.

“Will you cut the soliloquy short?!” Vicki blurted out. “This doesn’t matter! No one reads the
Chronicle
anyway!”

“The art classes use it to papier-mâché things,” Dwayne said.

I jerked my head in his direction. Was he telling the truth? He must have been; Dwayne is too brain-dead to be purposely snarky. Well, it got to me and I went silent. I hate looking vulnerable in front of them.

The bell rang and they scattered like roaches. Vicki stayed behind. I hated the way she was looking at me; pitying me. Nothing makes me feel more pathetic than when the
goth girl
feels sorry for me.

“Carson, why do you care so much?” she asked me. “Just don’t…okay?”

She left with the others and I was alone in the journalism classroom. I took a beat to think about what she had said. I suppose to her it wouldn’t make sense why
I’m always so passionate. But did it to me? Did running a failing high school newspaper really make my future more secure?

“Because I
need
something to care about,” I admitted to myself. I think I hate showing vulnerability to myself more than I do to other people.

I considered just reprinting an edition from last month. Since no one “reads” the
Chronicle
, I supposed no one would notice. But had I done that, I would almost have been proving them right, and I’d rather shit broken glass bottles than let them win.

So I’ve been sitting here in the journalism classroom for the last four hours after school trying to pull another edition of the
Clover High Chronicle
out of my ass.

Speaking of which, I’ve had to pee for the last hour and a half. God, I hope the bathrooms are still open.

10/8 again

So…I’ve just been staring down at this journal for the last twenty minutes trying to find the words to describe what just happened in the boys’ bathroom. … Then again, I’m still not sure what exactly just happened.

I walked down the hall (I don’t call it a trench when everyone has gone home) to the bathroom. I’m usually the last one at school, so I was just happy it was open…and apparently so were others.

The sound of giggling (yes, giggling!) and moaning hit me as soon as I walked through the door. Oh yeah, people were getting it on in there! Is that not the grossest thing you’ve ever heard?

I looked down and saw two pairs of feet under a bathroom stall. I cleared my throat, letting the stall lovers know they had company. They totally weren’t expecting it and panicked. I
thought
I could slightly recognize the little whispers through the quick rustling that happened after, but nothing could have prepared me for what was next.