The Downside of Being Charlie (6 page)

Wait. The drama room? And . . . she's got her backpack, so she's obviously not just running some stupid errand. What's that in her hand? . . . a crisp, new schedule? It's not possible, and yet, there she goes headed toward the drama room.

I see her hand reach for the heavy classroom door and a minute later she disappears into the room. Charlotte VanderKleaton is now in drama. Sixth period drama with me. Sixth period drama that I tried to get out of. Sixth period drama that the wonderful Ms. Sheldon had the good sense to talk me into keeping. I
look up and smile. I jump off the bench and head to what is now officially my favorite class. Happy freakin' birthday to me!

When I get to the door, I take a deep breath. Actually, I take several deep breaths since I start to feel overwhelmed, but I put my hand on the handle and pull. And the door opens and reveals the heavenly sight of Charlotte VanderKleaton, sitting in the seat right next to mine. My ears fill with the arena sound of a thousand fans cheering, and I kind of feel like I might fall over.

I don't know how I make it to my desk, but I do, so I sit down and concentrate on breathing for the remaining five minutes of class. I try not to look her way, but I can't help it. She looks over at me at the same time.

“Hi,” she says.

My God, she speaks. I'm unable to answer or make a sound.

“So, how much have I missed? Just got my schedule changed,” she says. Her voice makes my body pulse with adrenaline. She stares and I realize she's waiting for an answer, but I can feel my throat closing up.

My hand flies up in an attempt to dismiss the whole thing in a cool, “forget about it,” kind of way and I try to make a no-big-deal face, but as I'm doing it, I can feel that it somehow went very, very wrong. Most likely I look as if I'm constipated and swatting an imaginary fly. Nice.

She laughs and says, “O-kay,” and then opens her notebook. She starts doodling as the teacher goes on about some play.

I try to breathe normally, but it's impossible. She must hear my heavy breathing. My whole body is very
aware that she's sitting next to me. A whole school year sitting next to Charlotte VanderKleaton. And I don't have to worry about squishing into the desk or excessive sweating or clothes being stuck in my fat rolls. I can sit here, not fat, next to Charlotte VanderKleaton and be normal, I think. I look at her again, and she smiles back.

The bell rings, and I'm relieved because if it hadn't rang at that precise moment, I would still be in awe of her complete and utter awesomeness. She gets up and walks out the door with the rest of the class. I try to recover.

“Do you need something?” Mrs. C asks and I realize I'm the only student left in the room.

“No, thanks,” I tell her, gathering my stuff and tripping over my own feet on the way out.

After class, I'm in such a good mood that I head toward my locker. I had avoided it all week. Since Ahmed basically screwed me for Janie and Katrina, I decided that carrying my books this year wouldn't be so bad. But already my shoulders were sore and I knew I would eventually have to abort the plan. Why not now? After being in such close proximity of Charlotte, I feel like Hercules: invincible, and ready to conquer the three-headed hound of Hades known as Tanya Bate.

Even from down the hall, I can see Tanya's fuzzy head as she shoves books into our locker. I stop for a minute, waiting for her to leave, but Tanya takes her sweet-ass time, so I head over to her.

“Can I help you?” she asks, giving me a dirty look when I stop in front of our locker.

“I, uh, this is my locker, too,” I tell her.

She surveys me, her big owl eyes taking me in from top to bottom. Was she serious? Was she actually sizing me up?

“So,” she says finally, “you decided to bite the bullet and show up. What? Do I scare you?” She opens her eyes wider and wider until, in fact, she does look pretty scary, since her superthick glasses already make her eyes look huge.

“No, I just . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, save it, chump. I know. Books get heavy. I hear it every year. Anyway, just don't get in my way and I won't get in yours and we'll get along fine. Don't worry, it's not like we're gonna be friends or anything. I know you have your precious social life to worry about, what with your new makeover and everything,” she says looking me up and down.

I feel weird and people turn and look at us, making me wish I could crawl into a hole and hide. I feel like reminding everyone that we don't get to choose our locker partners.

“Sshhh,” I hiss, hoping she will lower her voice.

“And don't expect these kinds of pleasantries in the future,” she goes on, “I do have things to do and places to be.” Oh man, this girl is a total freak.

“See you whenever,” she says and slams the locker shut, even though it's obvious that I have to use it. She whips her frizzy hair in my face as she turns to leave. It brushes up against my mouth. I gag.

Once I recover, I open the locker again only to find that Tanya has taken the top space, leaving only the dreaded bottom empty. I drop to the floor and start
unloading my books, trying to figure out how to best avoid Tanya Bate for the rest of the year. But then I think of Charlotte, and suddenly, Tanya Bate (who, incidentally, smells like peanut butter) is a distant memory.

That night, Dad, Ahmed, and I go to Fresca's for my birthday dinner. It has a salad bar, soups, sandwiches, and a fruit smoothie and frozen yogurt station. When we sit at the table, Dad takes out an envelope and pushes it my way. Money slips out when I open it.

“Sorry, Sport,” he says, embarrassed, “but I didn't really know what you wanted and I figured you could always use cash.” My jaw drops as I pick up the one-hundred-dollar bill.

“Hell, yeah!” Ahmed yells, “Oh, sorry, Mr. Grisner,” he says, looking over at Dad.

“I hope that's okay,” Dad says, looking back at me. “I know your eighteenth is a big deal and all . . .” He looks around Fresca's and seems to be having second thoughts. “Maybe we should've gone somewhere else.”

I don't know if it's because my plans of getting Charlotte VanderKleaton are somehow not as impossible as I had thought or because part of me feels like I owe that all to Dad, but I suddenly feel like cutting him a break, at least for now.

I look around the place and say, “This is great, Dad, really. And thanks.” I hold up the hundred-dollar bill. “I can definitely use this,” I say, hoping I'm convincing.

A small wave of relief comes over Dad's face. Ahmed
cracks some jokes on how he needs a new pair of wing tips, and I bust his chops on how many he already has all the while trying to convince myself that this no-big-deal kind of celebration is exactly what I wanted—and trying to forget that as much as Mom's presence on my birthday always made me hate my birthday, this was the first time she'd missed it.

O
ver the weekend, Ahmed and I hang out at the local mini mall. Lots of people from school hang out there, especially on Friday and Saturday nights since it has a movie theater. I keep hoping I'll see Charlotte since I've deserted the run-bys past her house. I'm pretty sure now that we have a class together, she'll catch on to my stalker-like tendencies (plus I never feel like running anymore).

But I don't see her all weekend long, and by Sunday night I'm going through Charlotte withdrawal. I'm dying for Monday to come.

I look at the pile of dirty laundry in the corner of my room and gather up my clothes to throw into the washer. Then I wonder, maybe I could do something more. I mean, is it possible I might have more to offer than just clean clothes? Ahmed's talk on male grooming rings in my ears. “Listen, Charlie, ain't no shame in putting a little effort into your appearance. Just because you're a guy doesn't mean you gotta walk around with crud on your teeth and nappy hair. Girls appreciate attention to details. Look at the old cats. They always looked sharp.”

I go check myself out in the bathroom mirror. I still
have a big moon pie of a face. Okay, so maybe it's slightly slimmer. I had lost thirty pounds, after all, and I don't jiggle like I used to. I also wasn't obese anymore, (though, technically, I had, in fact, fallen in that category). I was pretty surprised since I didn't think I looked obese. But a five-foot-ten male at 235 pounds qualifies as just that. At least now I could pass for one of those slightly big jocks—with what suddenly looks like the beginning of a huge zit on my lower jaw.

I smile. Maybe I could whiten my teeth. Or maybe get a haircut. Dad was always telling me to get a haircut, but that's because he's so clean cut. I take out the gel and slather my hair, trying to get that cool, messy look. But it just looks like an alien shit on my head and I'm trying too hard, which I am. I decide to not shave for the next couple of days in hopes that it will hide the zit and give me that hung-over musician look. Perhaps a tattoo would complete the look. Maybe then I'd look big and bad instead of just big.

When Monday morning finally does come, I practically jump out of bed. My mornings are pretty heavy, and now, since I'm dying for sixth period to roll around, miserably long. I start getting jittery ten minutes into first, and by the time I'm walking to sixth period, I feel like I'm going into a diabetic shock. But, in the end, I finally get my fix.

Drama.

I'm already sitting at my desk, anticipating her arrival, but I pretend not to notice as she gets into the seat next to me.

“Hey,” she says breathlessly. She has said hey to me
like this every day since she got her schedule changed. I live for these heys.

I nod and smile like I usually do.

“Don't you talk?” she asks this time, laughing. I shift in my seat trying to adjust myself.

I nod and smile. She laughs again. I rack my brain for something to say,
anything, my God, how could I have gotten this far in life without any conversational skills? Come on . . .
But she's got bubble gum in her mouth, and she chews it so sexy that it's all I can focus on. I can't even think straight.

She blows a bubble and sucks it in real fast and little tiny popping sounds go off in her mouth. She smiles and nods like she just did some awesome trick. I laugh, but it comes out like a snort. She laughs too and fake snorts, which despite embarrassing me, also makes me laugh harder. And when Mrs. C starts class, we both face forward repressing stupid giggles. Mrs. C gives us a few warning looks, and finally we settle down.

I sense Charlotte sneaking a few glances my way. I try to find something to do with my hands. I pray she doesn't notice Gynormo-Zit, which is only slightly camouflaged by the peach fuzz I woke up with this morning. I put my left elbow on my desk, and rest my face on my hand, and while this does successfully hide Gynormo, it means I can't look at her without being obvious about it. I try to catch a few glimpses out of the corner of my eye, and each time I look over, she's looking my way too, smiling back. But then, I'm so paranoid about the freakin' zit I can't even enjoy the whole experience.

These are the times I wish I could draw so that at
least I could look superbusy and like I don't notice her looking my way because I'm such a dark, brooding artist and all that matters is my art. I have to find something to do.

I open my notebook with my free hand and decide to attempt to draw anyway. But I don't know what to draw, so I start tapping on my paper instead, pretending I'm thinking really hard about something. But before I know it, the pencil flies out of my hand and across the room and falls right in front of Mrs. C, whose eyes open wide and look at me with that look teachers have that says,
one more thing and your ass is out of here
.

I look over at Charlotte, whose dark eyes sparkle with glee. She's really thinking all this is hilarious. I finally settle on just keeping my eyes straight ahead and pretending she's not right next to me. It's impossible.

“All right, get started,” Mrs. C says and I realize I haven't heard a word she's said and have exactly no idea what it is we're supposed to get started on.

“Come on,” Charlotte says, turning her desk so it faces mine as everyone else starts scattering around the room.

“What? What are we supposed to be doing?” I finally stutter, still in disbelief that she's shifting her desk toward me.

“Weren't you listening?” she asks. I have no clue how to respond. She's sitting there, waiting for an answer again. My brain tweaks out and comes up with all the possible responses I can give, and transmits everything to my mouth where all of it meshes together and has the potential to come out of my mouth in
incomprehensible stutters. This, unfortunately, conjures up memories of Porky Pig from
Looney Tunes
, which is about the last thing I want to think about—a stuttering pig. Charlotte smiles and starts cracking up. I feel my face turning red.