The Downside of Being Charlie (8 page)

Did I want to go on a hayride with Charlotte VanderKleaton? Did the sun shine? Was water wet? Suddenly I don't give a crap about Blanche DuBois. I look over at Charlotte and offer her what I hope is a casual nod. She gives me a thumbs-up. And just like that, life is good.

The bell rings just as another group is in midpresentation. Mrs. C says we'll continue tomorrow and everyone rushes out.

“So, the hayride is on Thursday. It's supposed to be really fun,” Charlotte says. We stand outside the drama room. Even though we've been working on the presentation together and I've been in class with her for over a month now, I still feel weird around her. There are a hundred thoughts going through my head right now. Was she really asking me to go somewhere with her? My mouth doesn't work.
Don't mess this up. Act cool.
Just speak
.

“Cool,” I say.

“Cool,” she says. Yes, this is all very, very cool. “Mark said it's a haunted hayride.” She opens her eyes wide with excitement.

Mark? My soaring heart plummets to my feet, like a duck just shot down by some camouflaged jerk and his rifle. Of course Mark would be coming. Mark whose car is parked outside her house almost every day. Mark who walks with her to class. Mark who so obviously wants her, too. And did she say haunted hayride? As in Ol' Gilly's haunted hayride? As in the haunted hayride I swore I'd never participate in again no matter what? I try to recover and not reveal my disappointment, that I actually thought she was asking me out.

I stand there, wondering how the hell I can back out of this now since I have no intention or desire of seeing Mark and Charlotte all chummy chummy together for an enchanted evening. Then out of nowhere, like some kind of devilish imp with supernatural powers, Mark appears.

“Hey, Char-Char, what's up?” He smiles and then barely nods in my direction. “Chunks,” he adds. Did he just call her Char-Char? I'm going to puke. My face heats up and I cringe at being called Chunks in front of Char-Char.

“Hey! I was just telling Charlie about the Halloween Hayride. He's coming, too.”

“Really?” Mark asks. Charlotte nods, and I shrug my shoulders, pretending not to notice the edge in his voice.

“Yep. Who did you ask?” she says.

Mark stands there for a minute just staring at her,
then at me, then finally says, “Diana.”

“Great! She's supersweet,” Charlotte says. “Do you know Diana?” she asks looking back at me.

“No.” I study Mark who is studying me like I have three heads and someone just told him I'm the king of Spain.

“You'll like her, she's supernice,” Charlotte says.

Wait . . . was I getting set up with Diana? Was she some freshman dweeb or something? Was this a joke?

Ahmed comes strutting down the hall a minute later. “Dude, stay away from your locker,” he says, fanning the air in front of him. “Smells like ass. I'm not kidding.”

“What?” I ask, wondering why of all times, Ahmed has to approach me with a comment like this right now.

“Must be stink bombs, a whole shit load of them, in your locker. It's the worst!” he says, grimacing. “I can still smell it.”

“Oh yeah, sorry, Chunks.” Mark laughs. I hate the sound of Mark's laughter. It's one of those laughs that's way too loud and forced, like he's having the time of his life, and calls way too much attention to stupid things that don't merit so much attention. My ears pulse.

“Oh, gross,” Charlotte whispers with a disgusted look on her face.

“My backpack's in there,” I tell them. “And Tanya's not even here today.”

“Oh, really?” Mark says. “No way!” He feigns disappointment and then looks directly at me and says, “That sucks.”

I meet his glare but say nothing.

It figures. It had been too quiet. In the past month,
there had only been a few run-by crumpled papers chucked at Tanya's head and a couple of crude notes and drawings slipped through the locker vents that I'd thrown out before she found them. I'd been waiting for something bigger (though I'm not sure how you top feces), and here, at last, were the beginnings of Mark's revived machinations. Charlotte gives Mark an annoyed look.

“Sorry,” he says, shrugging his shoulders, “really, I had no idea, Chunks. But a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do.”

Charlotte rolls her eyes. Ahmed looks thoroughly confused.

“Whatever, no big deal,” I mutter, wondering how bad it can really be.

“Okay, so we're going to meet here at school on Thursday around eight. But I'll see you before then . . . ,” Charlotte says.

“Yeah, right, no problem,” I tell her, still trying to figure out how I can get out of this.

“Great. See you tomorrow,” she says. “Sorry about your locker.” She gives Mark one last meaningful look and turns to leave.

“Wait up, Char-Char,” Mark says and follows her.

“I'll give you a ride. Good luck, Chunks!” he says, throwing one last evil grin at me. I watch them go, and fight the urge to run after Mark and tackle him to the ground. He was screwing everything up. What the hell just happened?

“What was that all about?” Ahmed asks.

“I'll explain later. Let's go,” I say, heading to my fart locker.

“Sorry man, but you're on your own. I'm not going near there again. It's baaaaad . . . bad, bad. You dig? Meet me in the parking lot, but hurry 'cause I have my mom's citizenship thing to go to today,” he says, smacking me on the back.

Ahmed is right. It's bad. Real bad. I can smell it way before I get to the hall, and it stops me in my tracks. My stomach lurches as a thousand rotten eggs infiltrate my nostrils and I wonder if I can just ditch my backpack for now. But I have a ton of homework, including an essay due in AP English tomorrow that I'd already started working on. I have to go in. I hate Tanya Bate. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't be dealing with this shit right now. Those bombs were for her, not me. But a flash of Mark's evil grin makes me wonder if that's true.

I race down the empty hall holding my breath. I quickly work the combination, and, of course, it doesn't work the first time. Or the second. Or the third. By the fourth time, I have to breathe through my mouth, which is just as bad because instead of smelling a thousand rotten eggs, it's like I'm eating a thousand rotten eggs. I gag and dry heave. My eyes fill with tears and I can feel my ears burning as I try one last time, but the locker won't open. I give up. It's no use. I run back down the hall trying to hold my breath, but I keep gagging and tasting the toxic smell. Once I'm far enough away, I take a deep breath, but Ahmed was right, the smell gets stuck in your nose. I call him and let him know what's taking so long.

“What are you gonna do?” he asks after I explain I can't get my locker opened.

“I dunno, but I need my essay. I guess I'll go to the office and see if they can get someone to open it, but it's gonna take awhile,” I tell him, knowing he has to hurry home, “just go. I'll figure out a way to get home.”

“You sure? I'd wait, but . . .”

“Yeah, I know. Don't worry about it. I'll just walk home,” I say.

“All right, I'll talk to you later.”

I head to the office and tell the front desk attendant that I can't get my locker open, but I leave out the part about the stink bombs because it's too embarrassing. The lady is old, and I have to repeat the whole thing three times before she understands. Then she has to repeat the story to someone else, I guess to the all-knowing High School Oz who makes all the decisions and who finally grants her authority to call the custodian.

After numerous calls to the custodian—and yet another repetition of the situation over the fuzzy static of the all important walkie-talkie used by administration and office personnel—she turns back to me and says, “Go on. Joe will meet you at the locker.”

I head back and see Joe, aka the custodian, heading toward me with cutters in his hand. Everyone knows who he is because he's been here forever and is exactly the kind of cantankerous old man who looks like every kid seriously bothers him. But nobody messes with him because even though he's old, he still looks like he wouldn't think twice about beating the crap out of anyone who messed with him. He even has a huge tattoo of a heart and skull on his forearm, which makes me wonder if he's ever killed anyone. I suddenly get to thinking
about Joe's life, and I wonder what lead him to be a high school custodian.

“You the boy who can't open your locker?” he calls. I nod and lead him down the hall. He starts complaining of the smell, “Jesus, what the hell is that?” he mutters.

Again, I'm too embarrassed to admit that the smell is coming from my locker.

“Holy shit,” he says as we walk closer to the smell. I look over at him a little surprised.

He laughs, gives me a funny look, and says, “You guys go around cursing your asses off and then act surprised when I say it. Watch out.” He pushes me out of the way as he whips out the cutters to bust the lock. He clamps down hard only once, and I notice the name “Gina” written across the heart tattoo. I wonder who Gina is.

“Gonna have to buy a new lock,” he says. I nod and shrug my shoulders, trying not to breath in the fumes, which is impossible. By now, I feel nauseous.

“There you go.” He takes off the lock. I mutter a thanks and open the locker door. The smell explodes out, pushing Joe and me several steps back.

“Holy damn, that smells like toxic shit,” he sputters. “Who the hell would do that to you, kid?” he asks.

I can't begin to go into the whole thing about sharing a locker with Tanya, so I just shrug and say, “Some friends playing a joke.”

He shakes his head. “Some friends.”

He pulls out a dirty handkerchief from his back pocket and covers his nose and mouth with it before stepping forward to take a look. He shakes his head, “Damn stink bombs. Never seen anyone go to the trouble of setting off
so many at one time.” He shakes his head again.

I look down at the floor, not wanting to make eye contact with this old man who's been around the high school scene long enough to know that nobody who's somebody gets this arsenal of stink bombs put in his locker, no matter who he's sharing it with. If he only knew that there had, in fact, already been shit in my locker this year. He grabs the garbage can in the hall and slides it down to my locker.

“Well, go on. Grab your stuff and get the hell out of here. I'll take care of this,” he says.

“I can help,” I tell him.

He looks at me for a minute, giving me a sympathetic look before dismissing me with a wave of his hand.

“Go on, kid, it won't take me long,” he says.

I grab my corroded backpack, shove a couple of books I need into it, and mumble another quick thanks as I leave.

“So long,” he says. I don't reply because something about the way he says it makes me feel sad, and he probably thinks I'm already the biggest wuss on the planet.

When I get to the front of the school, I keep walking. My backpack is ripe with stink, and each step makes me feel sicker. By the time I get home, I'm full-blown nauseous but start the whole process of trying to de-stink my stuff.

I empty out my backpack and wipe down my books, but even after being doused in Lysol, there's still the hint of sulfur on everything. Great, I'll smell like a lingering fart for the next week. I throw my backpack in
the washing machine and grab my essay.

When I'm done, Dad calls to check on me and tell me he's definitely going to be late again tonight. When he asks how school was, part of me wants to tell him about the whole locker thing, but I don't because I'm embarrassed about it. I don't want him to know that I've gone through all the trouble of losing weight, and that I'm still pretty much a loser.

After I assure Dad that school couldn't be better and hang up, I get a text from Ahmed:

I text back:

When I get to Ahmed's, I briefly explain the latest encounter with Charlotte and the Halloween hayride invite. I'm still trying to figure out whether I'm, in fact, being set up with someone, just being invited as a friend, or was quite possibly supposed to go out on some weird group date with Charlotte. Ahmed is jumping up and down on his bed like a crazed chimpanzee, telling me what an idiot I am and that the only possibility is that she digs me.

“Hot diggity, man!” he yells. “You know Janie Haas has been practically knocked off her throne because of Charlotte VanderKleaton, right? Not that Charlotte is prettier, no offense, but she does have that certain . . .
je ne sais quoi
,” he says, slipping back into smooth Rat Pack mode for a millisecond. “And now,” he says as he jumps one last time and lands his ass on the bed, “the chickie is
into
you!” He shakes his head, “It's your year, my man. Definitely your year.”

“What about Mark?”

“Screw Mark! Seriously, cat, you have much to learn. If she wasn't into you, she wouldn't have brought it up. And if there was something really going on with her and Mark, that fink would be all over her like a mink on a rich dame. Trust me, the chick digs you. Hey! You ever think about how we're, you know, cats, and girls are chicks and how cats get the little chickies and . . . uh, eat them. Wait, that sounds kind of sick. Hold on . . . do cats
actually
eat chicks? I've never seen one do that. Unless you count Sylvester and Tweety, and technically Tweety was a canary, right? And Sylvester never actually ate him . . . or her. Wait . . . oh shit . . . was Tweety even a girl?” Ahmed is short-circuiting. I swear, sometimes his constant cool cat and spazzo personas are in direct competition with each other.