The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second (8 page)

Back in Rob's room, we both acted awkward and skittish. It was the bed. The thing was there, smack in the middle of the room, but we both acted like if we went near it, things'd get snack-time-in-the-Garden-of-Eden messy.

I was terrified that as soon as we started making out, he'd figure out I was a virgin, and he'd laugh 'cuz it was so pathetic. Overreact much, Charlie? Nah.

Finally, Rob asked if I wanted to watch a movie. I didn't, but I figured a movie'd keep him from seeing how much of a dork I was. Rob popped in a DVD—
Labyrinth
—'cuz he noticed at the Village Squire that I liked Bowie, and 'cuz he liked it when he was a kid—and kicked off his shoes. I toe-to-heeled out of mine and nudged them under the bed, afraid they might stink. Rob turned off the light and we climbed on the bed, staying as far apart as we could—me at the foot, lying on my stomach, Rob at the head, knees tucked to his chest.

We must've both dozed off, 'cuz when Mr. Hunt rapped on the door, saying we needed to hit the hay, we jumped. The movie was over. Rob found the remote and clicked off the DVD player, leaving the room lit by the TV's blue haze. He hopped off the bed, pulled his shirt over his head, dropped it to the floor, and shimmied down to his boxers. Rob sailed into the bathroom and grabbed his toothbrush. I dug through my bag for mine and stripped down to my Jockeys, worried I might get hard.

I joined Rob in the bathroom. He smiled at me in the mirror. His retainer was in a yellow case on the counter. He gargled, spit, and then slipped behind me so I could have the sink. I fumbled to squeeze a glob of Crest onto my brush as Rob wrapped his arms around my waist and stood on his toes. He pressed against me and his nipples grazed the skin of my back. It tickled.

“Quit it.”

“No, I want to,” Rob said.

His fingertips slid past the elastic band of my underwear. My dick jerked up and Rob snapped the waistband against Mr. Five-Incher's head. I winced and tucked him back into my Jockeys, and then went back to brushing my teeth. Mr. Five-Incher wasn't having any of it. A wet spot formed on the cotton fabric and Rob traced it with his index finger. My face went red. I stopped breathing and it felt like the bones in my legs had dissolved. Rob pressed his lips along my shoulder blade, kissing my skin, then he darted back to the bedroom and dove into bed. I followed, leaping after him as my toothbrush clattered into the sink.

How was I? More self-evaluation:

I woke up way before Rob with a major case of morning wood. I thought about humping his hand until he woke up, but I really needed to take a leak in the worst way. I untangled myself from Rob, tiptoed to the bathroom, and tried to pee without making a mess of everything.

Girls have it easy. Sure, they have periods and babies and menopause and all. Big deal. Try pissing through a hard-on. Waiting for it to go away doesn't work. It's a proven fact that a teenaged boy can't lose wood if he's gotta piss. He can pound one off and then try peeing when it's back at half-staff, but sometimes he can't bust a nut if he's gotta go. He can try the cold shower routine, where he prays the freezing water will make him lose it before he sprays his chest. There's the screw-it-piss-through-it option. No guy'll admit doing it, but sometimes it's the only way to get the job done. You stand over the bathroom sink (or any sink for that matter) on your tippytoes, point Mr. Happy at the drain, and let it rip. Sure, it sounds gross, but it's just another one of those things guys don't talk about—like farmer blows in the shower or seeing if they can suck themselves off. I can't; I nearly sprained my neck trying.

I did a variation of the screw-it-piss-through-it method, 'cuz if a guy shoots in his shorts and lets it dry, things down there get stuck. He's gotta go slow with the undressing. If he's glued to his underwear, he can't do the Band-Aid thing—the fast tug so the scab doesn't come off—because that'd hurt way too much. So, I uncemented my underwear with a few drops of water from the faucet and then managed to shimmy into the toilet sandwich position—my butt cheeks on the seat like the top slice of bread, the seat where the meat would be, and Mr. Five-Incher hooked under it like he was the bottom slice. I pushed him down at his base so he wouldn't spray the bathroom floor and soak my shorts.

When I finished, Rob was still asleep and drooling a little on his pillowcase, so I grabbed a pair of baggy basketball shorts and an oversized T-shirt, put them on, and went downstairs. I heard Mr. Hunt arguing with Nurse Julie.

The gist of the fight was that Mrs. Hunt would need a ventilator soon, maybe a feeding tube. According to Julie, she wouldn't last long without either. She said it'd be cruel if he didn't do something now. Mr. Hunt said he'd decide what was best for his family.

“Bullshit,” Nurse Julie said. “I'm talking about a living, breathing person. She needs this treatment now or she'll get worse.”

“Okay, we put her on your machines. Then what? She's never getting better. It must be nice knowing how other people should live their lives. I only know what she wants—and it sure as
fuck
isn't this.”

Julie burst into tears. Mr. Hunt told her—in a voice so calm it was scary—to get her crap and get out of his house. I crept from the kitchen, making sure my bare feet didn't make any sounds on the hardwood floor. When I felt carpeting, I turned and saw Mrs. Hunt's profile. She was in her chair, facing an open window. She'd heard them. I felt sick. When she saw me, her eyes smiled. She struggled to say something, but no words came. I sat across from her on an ottoman and touched her hand. It wasn't withered or anything, just curled into a fist.

“It's pretty bad now, isn't it?”

Her eyebrows arched. Was that a yes?

“And Rob doesn't know?”

Her eyes closed, then opened slowly. No.

I didn't know what to say.
Gee, sorry you're dying. That's kind of a bummer, isn't it? Can I getcha something? No? You sure? Coffee, maybe? Okay. Why am I standing here with my thumb up my ass, looking sorry for you? 'Cuz I don't know what else to do. The whole dying thing isn't exactly a conversation-starter. Wanna see the hickeys your son gave me last night?
That'd go over real well.

What I couldn't figure out was why Mr. Hunt hadn't told Rob his mom was in such bad shape. Maybe he was worried Rob couldn't handle it. That he'd totally lose it and turn into this chain-smoking, vomit-and-piss-stained, raging drunk, guzzling rubbing alcohol straight from the bottle; crashing at flophouses; selling blood, plasma, sperm, spinal fluid, and the fillings from his teeth to scrounge up a handful of change for a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 banana-flavored wine. Or maybe he was freaked Rob would off himself and he'd find him swinging from the rafters in the attic, bicycle chain around his neck, toppled chair at his feet. I decided it was probably best just to keep my mouth shut for once.
Hard to believe, right?

Half an hour later, Rob came downstairs wearing only his Calvin Klein underwear and rubbing sleep from his eyes. He conned his dad into letting us skip church, but only if we made sure Rob's mom had her medicine and her Robert Ludlum book-on-tape, and that we checked on her once in a while.

Rob asked why Julie couldn't do it, and Mr. Hunt said he'd let Julie go. She couldn't provide the support he needed anymore. I guess it wasn't a total lie, but still. Rob shouldn't worry, though. Mr. Hunt was looking into other options.

We spent the day playing video games, talking about which guys on the team needed to play better, telling stupid jokes, and bragging about all the crap we'd do once we were out of school. Rob said that if they'd let him in, he'd go to some famous New York music school. What was weird was Rob talking about the stuff he'd do with his parents—like going back to New York to visit family over Thanksgiving and finding a way to get Mrs. Hunt to one of our games.

After dinner, Rob drove me home. He didn't want me to leave—I think he wanted more bed time, too—but Rob needed to practice for an audition he has on Tuesday with some piano teacher in Chicago. I guess the guy plays for the symphony or something big like that and only takes the best students. Afterward, Rob and his dad are going to visit Rob's uncle in Lakeview.

Rob was really cute when he pulled into my driveway. Every time I tried to get out of the car, he'd grab my shirt, pull me in, and we'd kiss. Then he'd complain I did it wrong and said I had to keep doing it until I got it right.

We were in the middle of a long kiss—Rob's hand cupping the back of my neck—when he stopped and jerked away. He grabbed the steering wheel, white-knuckling it, and sighed really hard. Rob looked at me, opened his mouth, stopped, and then blurted out something so fast it sounded like he was speaking Korean.

“What?” I asked.

“—go out with me. Be boyfriends?”

I
ummm-ummm-ummm
-ed and couldn't stop myself. My throat started making these weird choking and gurgling sounds. I must've seemed like a complete moron. All I managed was a tiny, “Okay.”

“Awesome, pup,” Rob said.

I smiled. I could get used to him calling me pup.

He pulled my face into his. We kissed, only this time it was different. It was slow, like there was this charge between us. An electrical current arcing from his lips to mine. I didn't want it to stop, but Rob pulled away. He needed to get going or his dad would kill him. I promised to call on Monday, gave him one last peck on the cheek, and got out of his BMW. He flashed the car headlights at me. I waved good-bye and he pulled away.

Inside, the Ps had left a note—they'd gone out and would be home later. Fine by me. If they'd seen how giddy and bouncy I was, they probably would've gotten all D.A.R.E.-this-is-your-son-on-drugs suspicious, sat my ass down, shined a flashlight into my eyes, and checked my arms for track marks. With the house to myself, I raced upstairs and stripped. My boner snagged on my Jockeys as I tugged 'em off. I hopped on the bed face down, humped the mattress, and frenched the pillow, pretending Rob was under me.

I have a boyfriend. Not that I can really tell anyone without getting a prison-style beat down, but still, I have a boyfriend.

 

Today sucked though. First made me help him replace a bunch of his “Elect Stewart” campaign signs. Seems someone has been changing the L in “Elect” to a J, which had First ready to chew 16-penny nails and made me kinda wish I'd thought of it.

Since First had me out most of the night, I just now got a chance to call Rob. Mr. Hunt answered, saying Rob was in bed already. I insisted he tell Rob I called. I didn't want Rob thinking I'd freaked out about being his boyfriend. I must've sounded panicked, because Mr. Hunt only stopped laughing to say, “Relax, I'll tell Rob you called. Now go to bed, Charlie.”

It's 11:30 p.m. and I still have homework.

I have a boyfriend. How cool is that?

Tuesday, September 4

I finally did it. I bit the bullet and told Dana I was sorry for ruining her party. Actually, she browbeat me into doing it. Doesn't matter either way. It's done.

Before first period, I looked for Rob, forgetting he had his piano audition today. I stupidly walked into the Pit where Kyle Weir—just 'cuz he's an asswipe—tripped me. My books skidded out of my hands and a bunch of seniors grabbed 'em and passed them around the Pit. As I got on to all fours, Josh McCullough stepped on top of one of my hands to keep me from getting up, calling me a fag. My face burned and my eyes watered. I shoved McCullough off me, got up, and rushed to creative writing, not even trying to get my books. That would've made me look like a bigger dork.

The room was empty. Mrs. Bailey was probably in the teacher's lounge spiking her coffee. Not that I blame her. I'd drink, too, if I had to spend my mornings listening to vitamin D-deprived-pseudo-Goth girls reading poetry about how the color of their souls was black. I found a desk I hadn't sat in yet. With my luck, today Bailey would announce that the mark of a true genius was finding one's place on a well-crafted seating chart.

“I don't know why I'm doing this, but here.”

It was Dana. She dropped my stuff on the desk.

“Gee, Dana. Thanks,” I said with zero appreciation.

That was a stupid move. If I had faked some sincerity, she would've left. Instead, she jerked a desk around, plopped in it, and tugged at the bottom of her T-shirt. Her nipples were pointy and hard and one of 'em poked out so far the eye of the Latin American revolutionary on the shirt looked like it was about to explode. It was gross.