The Downside of Being Charlie (29 page)

I clear my throat and start, “Um, hi, and thanks. Thank you, Dr. Hoyt and Rennington College for this opportunity.” I take a deep breath because I really feel like I'm going to fall over. “So, um, yeah, my name is Charlie Grisner.” Am I talking? Are these words really coming out of my mouth? “And this is my collection. The inspiration for it is my mom.” My voice starts quivering as soon as I mention her. I don't know if I can go through with this, but then I just start thinking of Mom and Dad and me and everything that's happened, what's happening right now, and what might happen in the future. And I just keep talking.

“See, my mom. She's not like other people.” My voice refuses to recover; it shakes and trembles. “She leaves. She's left a lot throughout my life. I've never known where she goes, I don't know why she goes, but
she does, and she leaves us behind. And it's hard on me and my dad and I . . . we've never known what to do about it so . . .” I don't look at him because if I do, my voice will stop working all together. “We just go on, but that was a mistake because, because we almost, she almost . . .” But I can't say it, I can't say she almost died because . . . I can't. “And it made me realize how much I love her, and it made me want to understand her and stop blaming her and hating her for leaving.”

The room is silent and I can feel the swell of emotion in my chest rising to my throat. I clear my throat, look down, and will the stinging in my eyes to go away. I have to do this. I have to say this.

“I thought that maybe these pictures might help me figure her out, figure us out, my dad, me, my family. That maybe I could see in them what I can't see when life is going on all around us. Maybe in the frame of a picture, I might be able to zoom in and piece things together, because . . .” I stop and take another deep breath. “Because, I need to know who she is, who we are. I don't want to pretend everything's okay anymore. I just want to know who she is.”

More words start coming out of my mouth, and the more I talk, the more I realize that I had been afraid of Mom in some ways and how even though she's the one who left, we're the ones who stayed clear of her. I think of Tanya Bate and how people won't go near her. I wonder what we're all afraid of, because in the end, we're all the same. Even those who are different. All we have to do is come out of the boxes we build around ourselves because the truth is we're the ones who close
ourselves up, hide ourselves in our own tiny compartments, leaving no room for anyone else. And if we come out and learn to trust people and actually care to know one another, then maybe we would understand each other better. I keep going on and on, and even though I think I'm not making sense anymore, I can't stop talking, even as I look over everyone's heads and the arch above them.

I scan the audience, which is the worst thing I can do because Dad is crying, which makes me start to choke up and then I see Mr. Killinger who is nodding and cheering me on. And there's Ahmed, the way he's always been, weird and spazzy and cool and the greatest friend in the world. He pounds his fist over his heart and throws me a peace sign.

And next to him is Charlotte, whose eyes are glistening and who I don't understand and maybe never will. She's looking back like she's seeing me for the first time, and there's something about the way she does it that gives me hope that maybe now she'll let me get to know her, too, the real her. And I know that as soon as I'm done with this damn speech, as soon as the two of us can be alone, I'm going to tell her everything. And also, how she doesn't have to live up to some unrealistic idea of who I perceive her to be because if anyone knows that nobody's perfect, it's me. And I won't ask her to save me because I know she can't, the same way Dad couldn't save Mom. I just want to know who she really is, and I want her to know who I really am.

Then it starts—an applause so loud and crazy that I think the earth might shatter and swallow me whole.
And it's over; I'm done and I'm not even sure what I said, but I know it was right because I feel like the world's been lifted off my chest, where I've been carrying it all this time. I look around, notice people looking at me; but not like they feel sorry for me, not like they pity me. I think they understand me. I want to remember this—the applause, the looks on their faces, how good it feels to say what I had to say. I look over at the pictures of Mom on the wall, and it's bittersweet. She's here, but not here.

I look out at the audience again. And that's when I see her, standing by herself in the main room right outside of this one. She's framed by the arch that separates the two rooms. And it's like I dreamed her up because she's smiling and she's clapping and tears are falling down her face, like she's proud of me. I can't remember when I felt so full. And I don't try to figure out if she hatched some elaborate escape from New Day Center, or if she convinced one of the counselors to bring her here on a day pass, or if she'll still be here if I blink. I don't know because I don't know Mom. But I'm glad she's here now. Maybe, just maybe, the laws of the universe will work in my favor this one time. I think of all the crap I've been dealt and wonder if this is the beginning of something new. Maybe things will be okay this time. Maybe I'll finally learn who Mom is. Maybe we'll be all right for once.

I close my eyes and see all the puzzle pieces floating around in my mind. I hear them and watch them click in place—and that's when they finally become clearer to me. I see how nobody can save any one person, but also,
how everybody needs someone. I see how shutting yourself up in a tiny compartment can suffocate you. I see how bottling everything up and stuffing it down can weigh you down. I see how sometimes you need complete darkness to see things you couldn't or didn't want to see before. I realize that sometimes what's real isn't pretty, but what's pretty isn't always real. And now I see that I can be the real Charlie Grisner.

I take a deep breath, open my eyes, and breathe.

My eternal gratitude to my family:

 

My husband, Fernando: Because I never knew such goodness before you—everything good can be traced back to the day I met you.

 

My children, Ava and Mateo: Because you inspire me to be better. Because you teach me lessons nobody else can. Because your sweetness cuts right to the heart of me.

 

My brother, David: Because in your quietness, I've always sensed a kindred spirit.

 

My parents, David and Miriam Torres: Porque ustedes han vivido el sueño Americano y saben que estas calles no son hechas de oro, pero de lagrimas y gran sacrificio. Como los quiero y admiro. De sus lagrimas, flores.

 

Also, my sincerest thanks and appreciation to those who guided me on the road to publication, particularly:

 

My friend Margarete Bermudez: Because you read the really early, terrible drafts of this and you're still my friend.

 

My agent, Kerry Sparks: Because you saw something in this and believed in it. Thanks to you, Charlie found a home and I realized a dream.

 

My editor, Marlo Scrimizzi: Because your incredible talents truly completed this book and made it the work it is today.

 

Ryan Hayes: For the amazing cover and interior design that just so perfectly fits Charlie's story.

 

And the team at Running Press for helping make this book a reality.

JENNY TORRES SANCHEZ studied English at the University of Central Florida and taught high school for several years.
The Downside of Being Charlie
is her debut novel. Sanchez also writes short stories, many of which are rooted in her Hispanic culture. She currently lives in Florida with her husband and children. Visit her online at
jennytorressanchez.com

© 2012 by Jenny Torres Sanchez

 

All rights reserved under the Pan-American and International Copyright Conventions

 

 

 

eISBN : 978-0-762-44532-5

 

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011933870

 

eISBN : 978-0-762-44532-5

 

 

Edited by Marlo Scrimizzi

 

Typography: Century Schoolbook, Futura, and Eurostile

 

Published by Running Press Teens
An Imprint of Running Press Book Publishers
A Member of the Perseus Books Group
2300 Chestnut Street
Philadelphia, PA 19103–4371

 

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