The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second (14 page)

Home.

Today's pep rally was awesome. Well, not the pep rally, that pretty much sucked balls. We all knew Marian Central would completely trounce us. They always do. Of course, Weir was the only one who didn't see it that way. He'd been sitting next to me in the bleachers, a Star of David sewn to his shirt, ranting about how it wasn't fair that he wasn't part of the gridiron brain trust anymore. According to him, if he could play, South might actually stand a chance at winning.
Yeah, right. Marian Central could play their powder-puff team and we'd still lose.
What saved the pep rally was when they announced the homecoming king and queen (
who elects a monarch?
) and Dana Flannigan totally wigged out. That was classic.

After the school fight song, Principal Michael strutted to the center of the gym with Mrs. Bailey, who was holding two sashes, a tiara, and a scepter. Principal Michael cleared his throat, as if naming the homecoming king and queen was this big deal we were actually supposed to get excited about and wasn't just another exercise in high school Darwinism—survival of the coolest.

One of the band geeks—some total putz—did a drum roll as Principal Michael opened the envelope and announced that the homecoming queen was—here's a shocker—Kim Green. Kim rushed over to get her sash and tiara, tears of over-rehearsed surprise cutting channels through her bottle tan. I groaned and rolled my eyes, which ticked Weir off.

“Don't worry, Stewart, everyone knows you're still the biggest queen at South,” he said, slamming my bicep so hard the left side of my body went numb. I couldn't come up with a snappy comeback and that pissed me off.

Anyhow, when Principal Michael said, in his best game-show-announcer voice, that Neil'd been elected king, things really got good. Bink was just about to have his sash clumsily draped over his shoulder by Mrs. Bailey when, out of nowhere, Dana marched across the floor in calf-high Doc Martens, plucked the microphone from a stunned Principal Michael, and said into the mike, “This is ridiculous.” She walked over to Kim, wrapped both of her fists around the sash, and tore it in half. Nobody said or did anything. They just sat there like the whole thing'd been staged and they were waiting for whatever was supposed to happen next.

It wasn't until Kim started wailing, all prom-night-Carrie-covered-in-pig's-blood, that people realized something was wrong. I laughed.

Deans Fuller and Warnoski charged Dana from behind, and in one motion grabbed the microphone from her hand, swept her up by her feet and armpits, and “escorted” her from the floor. The gym booed.

Dana was actually at the game tonight, but only 'cuz when she was in the principal's office after school, she'd threatened to file assault charges against the deans, take her case to the school board, and, if need be, the Supreme Court. She had a constitutional right to free speech, a right upheld in
Tinker v. Des Moines
, and blah, blah, blah. I'd stopped listening by that point, and the only thing that actually stopped Dana's jabbering was seeing Bink getting tackled—for the second time—in our own end zone.

Saturday, September 15

Today has been the worst day of my life and it's only three in the afternoon. Seriously, I wish someone killed me in my sleep last night. If the homecoming dance tonight is anything like today…

This morning, Mom caught me. Not in a my-back-to-the-door-only-the-fly-unbuttoned, me-making-little-hand-jive-jerking-motion incident that could be ignored with a polite oops-I-should've-knocked-let's-never-speak-of-this-again apology.

No, she saw it all—the underwear and jeans at the ankles, the little red dick strangled in a fist, a metal cigar tube from First's humidor wedged up my butt. She barged in when I was too far along to stop. I already had that Jerry's Kids look on my face—the twitchy, stupid, vacant eyes, the drool pooling at the corner of my mouth, the scrunched-up nose.

I was
unnnhhh-unnnhhh-unnnhhh
-ing to the finish line when Mom pushed open the door and stepped into the bathroom. I freaked. I tried covering my crotch and jumping out of sight, but I tripped over my pants. (
Where exactly did I think I was going to hide? Behind a hand towel?
) My chest hit the floor. The cigar tube popped out and skidded across the tile. The tube rolled against her shoe, trailing baby lotion, and Mom shrieked, shielding her eyes. The spill didn't stop Mr. Five-Incher. He kept right on going—throbbing one last time before spitting up his junk. Mom couldn't get away fast enough. She backed out, eyes buried in the crook of one arm, the other flailing as she said, “Ewww…sorry…sorry…ewww…”

When my heart finally started beating again and I was sure Mom was safely barricaded far away, I made sure that the bathroom door was locked—like a thousand times—and took my shower. Christ, why couldn't I have spanked it there in the first place? Afterward, I hacked my face apart while shaving. I practically had an entire roll of toilet paper pinned to all the bloody little cuts. That's when I noticed the whackin' big zit on my chin. I don't think I could've popped it using a pair of pliers. Trust me, I almost tried.

After getting caught jerking off, I didn't think things could get worse. I was wrong. I got a haircut.

The old guy who cut my hair was a real winner. His hands smelled like ass, and while he butchered my hair, he'd shift to one leg, hitch his sagging butt into the air, and let one rip. Half the time, he acted like nothing happened, but the rest of the time, he'd grimace at me like I was the one with some rotting thing inside me.

And if the hands that smelled like crap, the farting, and the Alfalfa cowlick (an Eiffel Tower of hair jutting from the back of my head) weren't bad enough, the bastard practically cut my ear off.
Snip…snip…“Ouch, Goddamn it!”…snip…snip…“Oh, sorry, is that the top of your ear on the floor?”

I look like a lopsided Doberman.

Homecoming's in two hours and everyone's
sooo
going to think I'm hot. The whole zit, cowlick, and gauze pad taped to the ear—they're showing that look on all the fashion run-ways. Screw being cool or popular. Just once in my life, I'd like to be human wallpaper.

Fat chance of that happening tonight. Rob and I are triple-dating with Bink and Dana and Steve and Joan. Bink's supposed to pick me up and then we'll drive over to Dana's. While he's making goo-goo eyes at Dana and her mom and dad are snapping even more pictures for the Flannigan family
foy-yay,
I'll go next door and grab Rob. Then we're supposed to pick up Joan and Steve.

All of us will then be crammed into Bink's station wagon. Shoot me now. It was Dana's idea. She's on one of her Save the Earth kicks. She thinks that by taking one car we'll stop the rain forests from killing the baby seals or something. It'd be a helluva lot easier if we drove separately. I guess if it gets too crowded we can fold Steve in half and tuck him away in the glove compartment.

I should get ready. I'm leaving my bedroom door open, though. I don't need Mom thinking I'm abusing myself again.
God, when will the humiliation end?

Sunday, September 16

It wouldn't be homecoming without confessions of love; blow jobs in the school parking lot; crappy music and ugly dresses; bullying, boozing, and bleeding; the cops; more blow jobs; and still more confessions of true love.

Bink got here a little early on Saturday, which thrilled Mom. I couldn't blame her. His arrival made it easier for us to forget the Incident Which Must Never Be Spoken Of. We're both pretending like that one moment in time never existed. It's better this way. It means the Stewart family is just like everyone else. Denial—it's the glue barely holding millions of American families together.

Bink was a huge relief, 'cuz the usual Stewart denial tactics (thinking happy thoughts, discussing the weather, avoidance) had failed. It's scary how often you can bump into someone you're trying to avoid, even when it's just the two of you in a four-bedroom house. Once Bink got here, Mom stopped worrying about what other household items I might've experimented with—pens, candles, pop bottles, hot dogs, flashlights. (During lunch, she'd stopped making a salad after eyeballing the cucumber and carrots suspiciously. She trashed them, claiming they were spoiled. I knew better.
Produce died for my sins.
)

Mom dragged out a disposable camera and made Bink and I pose. Big dopey smiles.
You're growing up so fast.
Side by side and looking serious.
So handsome in your coats and ties. Neil, let me see the corsage you got for Dana. I can't believe it, seniors in high school already.
Bink holding me in a headlock.
Seems like it was yesterday when you were taking swimming lessons together.
The final shot—us sliding through the front windows of the station wagon.
Careful, you'll ruin your clothes.

As we drove past mailboxes, whisking lawn sprinklers, and a dad helping his kid learn to ride a bike, Bink asked about my ear, pretending to be all sympathetic-like so he wouldn't come across as that big of a jagoff when he told me not to piss off Dana. I wasn't supposed to say anything about her hair, dress, corsage, the boutonniere she got him, or her freak-out during Friday's pep rally. Basically, I'd need a court-appointed attorney or U.N. peacekeeping force if I wanted to open my mouth.

The whole Flannigan brood—five generations of Irish Republican Army baby factories—met us in their driveway,
ooohhh
ing and
aaahhh
ing about how nice Bink looked in his sports coat. Bink
aww-shucks
-ed and kidded about not spilling anything on it 'cuz it was getting returned in the morning. The Flannigans laughed, but I'm not sure Bink was joking. Dana actually looked really good. I complimented her, and everyone—
I mean everyone
—stared at me. They wouldn't have believed me if I was strapped to a polygraph and doped up on sodium Pennzoil or whatever that truth serum stuff is. That was all I needed to exit stage right and head over to Rob's.

I didn't get a chance to knock. Rob swung the door open like he'd been waiting for me for hours. As soon as he saw the bandage on my ear, he started acting like I was dying from an open, sucking chest wound.

“Charlie, are you okay?”

“It's nothing. I'm fine.”

“What happened?”

“I got cut by the stupid barber. Seriously, it's nothing. I'm fine.”

When he was convinced I wasn't gonna collapse into his arms, dying from blood loss, Rob dragged me to the kitchen, practically skipping, and showed me the boutonnieres he'd gotten us. Mr. Hunt stood next to Rob's mom, holding an expensive-looking digital camera, and smiled at us. Mrs. Hunt looked really tired and worn down. Her skin was way pale and cracked. It seemed to sweat out that chemical-sweet, hospital-death smell. There was this brace thing-y around her neck that went from her breastbone to just under her chin. Besides the oxygen mask, there were all these tubes running in and out of her—one of 'em snaking alongside her wheelchair to a bag filled with piss.

“Here,” Rob said, bouncing up to me with a boutonniere. He was beaming. I did my best to smile. I didn't want him thinking I was worried about his mom's condition. “Let me put it on you.”

Teeth clenched, Rob fumbled with the pin and my lapel. I blushed, then to stop, I twisted my face up like Rob'd stuck me with the pin and I was in agony. Rob's dad laughed and snapped a picture.

There were more photos—me pinning on Rob's boutonniere, Rob's arm around my waist, mine around his shoulders, the two of us at the piano, holding hands. It felt weird—not bad, just different. I wasn't used to being in photos like that with another guy. It was pretty cool, but a little awkward.

I debated giving Rob the watch I'd slipped into my coat pocket, but decided not to. That would've made Rob and his dad totally geek out. We never would have made it to the dance. They'd be too busy picking out china patterns and drapes.

Leave it to Marshall to be a dick. When we picked him and Johanna up, Steve noticed right away that Rob and I had the same boutonnieres—white roses and baby's breath.

“Aww, how sweet. Matching corsages. You two gonna play kissy-face tonight?” Steve asked, lisping and flouncing his wrists.

“That's the plan,” Rob said.

Rob frenched me like he was flossing my teeth with his tongue. When he stopped, he became this total hard ass, reached over his seat, and slugged Steve square in the chest. It was awesome. The punch was hard—a brick dropped on a timpani drum—but I didn't feel sorry for Marshall. It served him right.

“Any other problems you need help with?” Wheezing, Steve shook his head and sucked a hit from his asthma inhaler. “Good.”

We drove to the Olive Garden in silence. Everyone was scared of saying something that'd give Rob a reason to put 'em in traction. The whole drive, we listened to morbid, easy-listening crap on the radio. By the time we pulled into the parking lot, the twenty-nine crewmembers of the
Edmund Fitzgerald
were at the bottom of Lake Superior; Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and The Big Bopper's charred bodies smoldered in a snowy Iowa cornfield;
rigor mortis
was setting in on Marilyn Monroe's naked corpse; and some gambler on a train bit the dust. Cheery stuff. It fit the mood.

At dinner, Steve acted like if he so much as breathed funny, Rob'd tear his arms off and beat him to a bloody pulp. Steve would start to say something and Rob would pick up his bread knife, trace its edge with a finger, and watch Steve clam up. Nobody seemed to mind. Honestly, I think they liked it. It was nice having one meal without hearing Marshall brag about how he could swallow a string of spaghetti and rope it out his nostril.