The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second (5 page)

“Look, Chip,” First said, “things have to change. Understand?”

“Yes.”

That was it. We ate in silence.

I didn't get off so easily at church. I never did—not since Steve Marshall and I got caught cheating on our Ten Commandments test in confirmation class.

I'm not sure if this is about religion or academic integrity, but:

Today, church was really bad. We opened our hymnals to “Eternal Ruler of the Ceaseless Round,” a classic Lutheran tune composed for a bunch of fat, tone-deaf Germans who can plow through four mind-numbing verses without once sounding joyful or inspired. Look, I'm a pretty good tenor, I've been in choir for three years, but even I was chipping notes right and left. The only person who wasn't was some baritone a few pews in front of us. Rob Hunt. Mister I-Went-to-Phelps-and-Girls-Like-Touching-My-Enormous-Cock.
Show-off.

Announcements came next. Our hopes and prayers were with our boys in uniform in Iraq and Afghanistan, with Mrs. So-and-So recovering nicely from surgery for a deviated septum, and with the list of old farts who kicked the bucket. Pastor Taylor then asked that we join him in giving a warm welcome to the congregation's newest family. Mr. Hunt and Rob made their way forward and thanked Pastor Taylor, who asked Mr. Hunt to say a few words.

Dork the Elder introduced himself. He was Paul Hunt. They'd moved to Crystal Lake from Manhattan, which'd been an adjustment since he'd never been west of the Mississippi. It was a lame joke, but the congregation laughed. He'd gotten married in this very church to his lovely wife, Kathy.
She's the wind beneath my wings
. She grew up in the area. A few years ago, she'd been diagnosed with eh-Alice, which meant she probably wouldn't be around much. (I asked Mom what eh-Alice was. “
Not ‘eh-Alice.' ALS. Lou Gehrig's disease. Ask your father.”
) Mr. Hunt worked in advertising, but he'd be working from home most days. Blah, blah, blah. I stopped listening until he introduced Dork the Younger.

“Hi, I'm Rob,” he said, giving an awkward elbow-tucked-into-the-hip wave. He looked at me and smiled. I blushed. Behind me, Shannon Debold giggled.
Great.
He'd smiled at her. Could I be more pathetic? “I'll be a senior this year at South.”

After the service, Dork the Elder stood in the middle of Luther Hall, the church's multipurpose room, thanking the umpteen-millionth woman for asking about his wife and politely declining her offer to “bring something over to the house, maybe a nice hot dish.” They were convinced Mr. Hunt was “a good Lutheran,” even though he was from New York.
You know it's positively crawling with I-talians, A-rabs, and Catholics
.

We went up to meet Dork the Elder. First clasped both his hands around one of Mr. Hunt's and pumped it vigorously while pigeonholing him in the corner next to the Boy Scout trophy case. He didn't let go, not even when Mr. Hunt politely tried to pull away.

“It's great meeting you, Paul. I'm Charles Stewart. This is my wife, Laura. My son, Chip.”

“Charlie,” I corrected for all it mattered.

Mom and I shook Mr. Hunt's hand as he glanced past us, like he was wondering how he'd ended up stuck here. I was used to it. Nobody ever wants to be around First. Most people shower with a Brillo pad after meeting him. Okay, so I exaggerate. But there is something about First that makes people seem a little uncomfortable. Maybe it's the whole politician thing—that hey-little-buddy-we're-all-in-this-together-and-I-feel-your-pain vibe that he gives off almost every time he opens his mouth.

“Sounds like our boys'll be at the same school,” First said. “Maybe they'll have a few classes together.”

“I doubt it,” Mr. Hunt said, checking his watch.

“Well, Chip's smarter than he looks. Aren't you?”

I shrugged. He wanted me to brag, but I didn't like it. First's jaw clenched as he did one of those mental relaxation exercises Mom tells him to do when I'm getting on his nerves.

“Oh, I'm sure Charlie's very smart. But school's not exactly Rob's strong suit.”

“Too busy with the girls, eh?” First winked, nudging Mr. Hunt with frat-monkey familiarity. Mom gave First a leave-the-man-alone-already look, but he ignored it.

“Something like that.”
Yeah
,
something like spreading their legs and pumping them full of his boy juice
.

Mr. Hunt leaned past First, looking for somebody to rescue him. It didn't happen, 'cuz, and I'm guessing here, nobody wanted to hear his spiel for campaign contributions. “So, you're in advertising. Write any jingles I know?” First asked.

“I don't write the music.” Mr. Hunt grabbed my elbow and smiled at the Ps. “If you don't mind, I'll have Charlie show me to the men's room.”

“I can show you,” First said, not realizing that this was Mr. Hunt's plan for an escape.

“Please, I don't want to steal you from your wife.”

“Steal me from her? You can have her.” Mom elbowed him. “What?”

We ducked away, Mr. Hunt nodding at well-wishers.

“Nice save,” I said, leading him to the bathroom across from the church office.

“He seems like a nice enough guy. A little aggressive. You're lucky to have him.”

“Maybe.”

“Give him time. You'll be surprised how smart he gets when you're twenty-five.”
Yeah, maybe then monkeys'll fly out of my ass.
Do adults ever realize how dumb they sound? I mean, really.
First, smart?
Please.

“The bathroom's to the left.” I pointed down a small hallway.

“Actually, I need to make a call,” he said, pulling a cell phone from his pocket.

“It's quiet in the office.”

Mr. Hunt thanked me. Through the window, I saw him say something to Pastor Taylor's secretary. She gave his arms a gentle squeeze and excused herself. I couldn't be sure, but I think she dabbed tears from her eyes. Everyone was treating the Hunts like they were so fragile and precious. Like if you breathed on 'em, they'd shatter. It was ridiculous.

Even if Mr. Hunt didn't, I needed to take a leak. I walked to the farthest urinal of the three and unzipped. Steve Marshall walked in and stood at the urinal next to me,
sooo
violating the Men's Room Code. Everyone knows that when there're three johns and two guys, the one-urinal-buffer rule's in effect. Both of you take the ones at the end, leave the middle open, and stare straight ahead. But Marshall didn't. He went right for the middle one and made this big production of pulling his dick out, like he was daring me to look.

Marshall's not a homo, just a perv. His whole family is a bunch of nymphos. His little sister accused a junior high gym teacher of fondling her mosquito-bite tits, even though she totally flirted with him, sitting in his lap and stuff. I never believed it, 'cuz when I was in junior high, Mr. Forde seemed like he was more into Steve. Forde always watched us showering, pointing out the guys with small dicks. He even popped a boner when he used Bill Minor to demonstrate some wrestling move. Anyhow, the school bought her story and Mr. Forde got canned.

“Is it true, Charlie?” Steve asked after he'd flushed. “Did you ruin Dana's party?”

“What?” I stared at him.

Steve's one of those guys who, even though he's a senior, still looks like he's ten. A real midget—the kind of guy who gets asked if he needs a booster seat at restaurants.

“You know, getting arrested for skinny-dipping.” He nodded his head, all excited like.

“I didn't get arrested.”

“Yeah, that's what I thought. You're too big a pussy.”

“Screw you. The cops were there. They cuffed me.”

“Really? That's awesome.” He folded his arms across his sweater-vest. “You know, I was gonna go to Dana's—”

“But you weren't invited?”

“Jerk,” he said, pouting.

 

Back in Luther Hall, First and Mom now had Rob Hunt cornered.

“Speak of the devil; Rob, this is our son, Chip,” First said, roping an arm across my shoulders.

“Charlie,” I said. Mom patted down one of the cowlicks in my hair. I could've died. I wanted to ask if we could go already, but First would've bitten my head off.

“Hey,” Rob said, his dimples flashing.

He'd taken off his suit coat, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt. Staring at the V under his Adam's apple, I wondered what he'd look like naked. Rob must've asked me something, 'cuz everyone was waiting for my answer.

“Huh?”

“Your mom said you're in choir and on the soccer team, too.”

“Yeah. You play?”

“Forward. My dad sent my game tapes to the coach. I guess I'll be playing varsity. Is the team any good?”

I wanted to tell him not as good as Phelps School's team, which probably got its field re-sodded after every practice and had World Cup players as coaches.

“We almost went to state last year. We've got a strong chance this year. Conference's definitely a lock.”

“Who's goalie?”

“Charlie is,” Mom said, glowing. “He's been voted to the All-Conference team three years straight.”

I glared at her.

“What? You're shy all of a sudden?” Rob grinned.

“Hey, sport,” Mr. Hunt called to Rob, not wanting to get within ten feet of First. “Let's get a move on.”

“Well, see you tomorrow,” Rob said, then nodded at the Ps. “It was nice meeting you both.”

We left, too, grabbing lunch at this Cantonese place we always go to. Over egg rolls and Mongolian beef, Mom and First lectured me about seeing my guidance counselor, about taking my SATs or, hell, even the ACTs, and trying to find some college that'd take someone like me.

When we got home, I went to my room—my Fortress of Solitude—and put a CD in the stereo. Yeah, I'm a total dork for treating my room like a superhero hideout. And it is as bad as it sounds. It looks like it did when I was an eight year old obsessed with outer space. Mom and I had stenciled larger-than-life scenes from her dad's old comic books on the walls—Flash Gordon locked in a sword fight with Ming the Merciless, Buck Rogers blasting his ray gun, Clark Kent peeling open his shirt to reveal the top of the “S” on his costume, stuff like that. The only thing that's changed is the smell. It's total locker room: the funky musk of sweaty jockstraps and undershirts, generic body spray, and spooged-on socks.

I spent the afternoon getting ready for school tomorrow, cramming new folders, notebooks, and a handful of pens and pencils into my backpack. I called Bink for a lift in the morning, but he'd promised Dana a ride. He wasn't gonna have both of us in his car, especially when Dana had vowed she “was
sooo
going to kill” me.

I hung up and tried on some of the school clothes Mom bought for me last weekend. There was no way I'd ever be cool. The jeans she made me get suck.
I'm not getting you those. They look worn out
. The shirts she'd picked were the cheap, no-name, store-label kind.
Not at those prices, Charlie. Here, take these.
No matter what I wore, I still looked like a freak. I was too bony, my face was too pink, and my ears were way too big. In the bathroom mirror, I pinned them back with Scotch tape to see if that helped any. It did. But it's not like I could go to school with my ears taped.

I looked kinda hot. Well, hot enough that I figured if they could clone me, I'd make out with myself. Well, if the clone and me were the last two “people” on Earth. And yeah, I actually got hard, sat on the toilet, and pulled my pud, fantasizing about a hockey team circle jerk, then Bink and Rob wrestling around naked, and then Bink sticking his dick in Rob Hunt's mouth. I washclothed the goo off my stomach, put on my clothes, and went downstairs.

“What's with the tape and the ears?” Mom asked.

I'm pathetic.
Really, truly, sadly pathetic.

 

 

Monday, August 27

School sucks—there's a shocker.

It's only a matter of time before I catch crap for being the only senior taking the bus, which I'll be doing until I apologize to Dana or pass that damn driver's test. I'd rather walk than tell her I'm sorry. But nobody noticed today. Everyone was too busy
ooohhhing
and
aaahhhing
about Rob Hunt driving to school in a black BMW. At South, crap like that's important. The kids here practically demand your parents' tax return to see if you're worth talking to. Apparently, nobody told Rob there wasn't a dress code, 'cuz he climbed out of the beemer wearing dark slacks, a white shirt (with cuff links even), and a tie. For a second, Mr. Fuller, one of the school deans, actually thought he was a student teacher.

Anyhow, South's the same as it ever was. All of the preps, jocks, and cheerleaders still sit in the Pit, a gigantic sunken atrium smack in the middle of the school. Last year, when my ancient civilizations/world history/Latin teacher, Mrs. Lardner, described the Hindu caste system, she drew a whackin' big diagram of the Pit on the chalkboard. With Mrs. Lardner everything's either “whackin' big” or “cute little”—whackin' big cathedrals, whackin' big pyramids, cute little monks, cute little Earth goddesses. On her diagram, she marked the Brahmans (rich kids, varsity jocks, cheerleaders), the Vaishyas (JV jocks, kids whose parents owned retail stores, girls that put out and didn't get pregnant), Shudras (stoners who sold cheap, band and choir geeks, the Vocation Ed and Home Ec types, the girls who put out and got pregnant), and the rest. We, the Untouchables, weren't allowed near the Pit. We got the cafeteria.