The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second (9 page)

I don't know what Bink sees in her. To hear him talk, he likes everything about her—the plaid schoolgirl skirts, knee-high white cowboy boots, cheap plastic butterfly barrettes, the smell of her shampoo, even that she was “quirky.”
Quirky?
For God's sake, quirky isn't something you date; it's something you make fun of until it totally loses it, runs to its bedroom, throws itself face down on its Barbie comforter, and sobs into its diary about how everyone's so
mean
.

“You know what I don't understand, Charles?” she asked. Her voice let me know she wasn't interested in my answer. “Why do you have to hate everyone as much as you hate yourself?”

She opened her handbag, grabbed a tube of out-out-damn-spot lipstick, and slathered a coat of war paint across her pucker. Dana eyed herself in her compact and smacked her lips, making this disgusting popping sound.

“Look, Dana,” I said, still with no enthusiasm. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was such an ass at your party. I'm just sorry.”

“You
are
sorry.”

She stepped from her desk and planted a kiss in the middle of my forehead. My fingers touched the lipstick.

“Don't bother, it's practically waterproof.” She smiled at me. “Truce.”

 

Soccer practice was shorter than usual—running laps and free weights mostly. Afterward, I wanted to call Rob to see how his audition went—hell, just to talk to him—but First was in the parking lot, leaning against the Oldsmobile's fender. I pretended not to see him, but he ran after me, grabbed my shoulder, and spun me around.

“Where do you think you're going?” he asked. “You're going to learn to drive if it kills me.”

“Kills us both is more like it,” I said, yanking the keys from his hand. As I got behind the wheel, First made this big production about how, even in a vacant parking lot, my driving was the same as playing Russian roulette with a revolver with only one empty chamber. I wanted to gun the engine and drive us into a lamppost. With my luck, I'd end up a paraplegic and First'd insist on teaching me how to drive my motorized wheelchair.

Having your dad teach you to drive's no rite of passage. It sucks. It really, really sucks. We spent two hours in that damn car, drove thirty miles, and never left the lot.

Chip, check your mirrors.

Why? Is my mascara running?

Let's try to parallel park again. Don't use that tone of voice with me. What are you going to do when they make you parallel park during your road test?

Find a valet?

It wasn't fun for either of us. First had to be praying he'd hear from the God of the Old Testament—the one he empathized with; the divine micromanager who got off on asking fathers to kill their sons. Screw any Johnny-come-lately angel types telling him to stop 'cuz it'd only been a test of faith. First'd not only demand a grade, he'd be a total apple-polisher, saying how he was the only one that actually finished the test, how his knife was sharper than Abraham's, how Abraham had only bound Isaac, but First'd trussed me up and even made a lovely sage dressing with walnuts and prosciutto.

After driving with First, I knew I should call Rob, which wasn't exactly as easy as it sounded, mostly 'cuz I was worried about total chickenshit things. Like, what if my voice wasn't deep enough, and Rob, thinking I was some four-year-old girl who'd mistaken a real phone for her Fisher-Price version, hangs up? What if I talked too much and then revealed every single embarrassing moment of my life—like how when I was two First made Mom take me to the pediatrician 'cuz he thought my potty training was taking too long to kick in and I wasn't getting “housebroken” fast enough—and Rob realized just how big of a freak I am, decided he could never speak to me again, and begged his dad to send him back to boarding school? What if I didn't say anything? What if he didn't? What if the two of us just sat with the phones glued to our ears, trying not to breathe too heavily into the mouthpiece?

Overanalyze much, Charlie? Maybe, but what was I supposed to do? It's not like the people that I know who are together are stellar examples of the art of conversation. Bink and Dana? What they do can't really be called talking, it's more like Bink blocking out Dana's incessant car-alarm complaints about how nobody cares about the suffering in Uganda or Utah; how her summer trip to Europe taught her that Americans are fat, sinful, and lazy 'cuz they can't make
real
coffee, they insist on indoor plumbing that includes both
hot
and cold running water, and they think cheese is an appetizer (
it's a dessert, Bink
); and how the Irish saved civilization and the French saved culture (from whom exactly? England, Germany, Russia, the United States, or just about any other country whose population includes a small asthmatic child with a slingshot or really sharp, dirty fingernails?).

And the other couples I know aren't exactly role models. Mom and First? All they seem to do anymore is fight about car payments, who didn't refill the gas tank, missed anniversaries, Mom's nylons being draped over the shower curtain, and First's boxers and black dress socks never making it to the hamper. Mr. and Mrs. B? I suppose they talk and all, but it's all about boring stuff like social justice and school carpools for Bink's sisters.

So after an hour or so of beating myself up over what I'd say to Rob and how I'd sound, I
carpe diem
-ed and picked up the phone.

“Hi, is Rob there?”

“Hey, pup. What's going on?”

“It's me, Charlie.”

“I know. I'm not the kind of guy who calls telemarketers pup.”

“Oh, okay. That makes sense, I guess,” I said, practically choking on my own stupidity. I blushed and was
sooo
glad Rob couldn't see me. “Ummm…yeah…I was just calling to say hi.”

“You already said hi. Are you going to hang up now?” Rob laughed, sounding completely relaxed. Me on the other hand, I sounded like somebody had put my lungs in a vise and was quickly squeezing the air from them. If I did end up suffocating, that was fine by me. I wanted to die. A slow painful asphyxiation would be better than my self-inflicted death by chronic embarrassment and terminal idiocy.

“I'm sorry. I guess I'm nervous.”

“About what? You haven't called someone you're dating before?”

“Have you?” I asked, defensively.

“Charlie, it's not like you're my first boyfriend. I dated a guy at Phelps last year. We broke up when he graduated.”

It was stupid, but I got a little jealous. Like part of me actually wished that Rob had never thought about liking guys until he met me.

“What about you?” Rob asked.

“Me. I've dated plenty of guys,” I said, trying to sound so cocky and full of myself that Rob would know I was joking. “The Great Lakes Naval Academy…I dated everyone there. Broke all their hearts. When last year's class of graduates had to ship out, guys were throwing themselves off their boats to be with me. It was sad, really. I was on the dock and they'd be trying to climb out of the water, and I'd just have to push their heads down with my foot and tell them, ‘No, go back to your ship. Serve your country.'”

“Really?” Rob asked in mock disbelief. I started crushing hard on the sound of his voice. It was something I could imagine waking up to for the rest of my life, even if it was only to hear it nagging about where cheddar fell in the dinner lineup, dirty laundry, or Rosa Parks' bus route. “Well, Charlie, you're a regular Casanova.”

“That's me, alright.” I was feeling more comfortable, and so naturally my verbal diarrhea kicked in. “I saw this TV special on him…Casanova…and in it, they said one of the reasons he got so much action was 'cuz he'd tell hot women that they were smart, and smart women they were hot. Apparently, he figured the way you got a chick to pull up her skirt during the Renaissance was by giving her the compliment she didn't expect to hear.”

“So, Casanova,” Rob said, “how would you compliment me?”

I felt my central nervous system completely collapse. My nerves, spinal column, brain, they all went dead. No matter what I said, I'd be screwed. If I told Rob I thought he was hot, he'd think I thought he was too dumb to swallow his own drool; if I said he was smart, he'd think I thought his pants weren't worth getting into. I did the only thing I could do. I was honest.

“I'd say I just want to be in the same room as you.”

Rob got quiet for a bit, so I figured I must've said the right thing. We talked for a while longer—about how he did on his auditions—awesome—school, the soccer team. Toward the end of the call, Rob said he used to think he'd miss New York, and he still kind of did, but he was glad he met me, 'cuz I made things easier.

“How?” I asked.

“Well, it's being with someone who's funny and cute.” That's when he noticed it was past ten and he said he had to get off the phone or his dad would kill him. We did the good-bye thing, saying how much we missed each other and couldn't wait to see each other at school tomorrow.

How awesome is it that Rob thinks I'm cute? At least I hope he really thinks I'm cute. What if he said that 'cuz he thinks I'm smart? I need to go to bed before I give myself an ulcer.

Wednesday, September 5

Today was incredible. Kyle Weir totally got busted for calling Mr. B a fucking Jew. Even more awesome, Rob and I traded hand jobs. I still can't believe it. I got a hand job. A real one. With somebody else's hand. I came all over the place—Rob's hand, my chest, neck, face—which was kind of gross, but really cool. I used to think that when it came to sex, I did my best work alone, but now I'm all about the teamwork.

It happened in choir, but only 'cuz Mrs. Reed was out sick and we had this substitute teacher who didn't know music. We were supposed to fend for ourselves while she read
Woman's World
or
Better Homes & Gardens
. Choir kids don't exactly have a reputation for being hell-raisers, so it's not like she had to worry about us going all
The Lord of the Flies
and shouting “die, Piggy, die” as we chased Tom Benson around the practice room.

Everyone spread out across the room and cracked their books, but I grabbed Rob and dragged him to the sub. I asked if the two of us could go to one of the private practice rooms and rehearse. She must've been totally oblivious, 'cuz when I said “rehearse,” my voice didn't just put air quotes around the word, it spelled out what I really meant.
Gee, can Rob and I go to a practice room so we can, like, roll around together and maybe play with each other's knobs?
The sub didn't bother looking up from her celebrity recipe for a no-fuss-no-muss-no-bake tuna casserole and nodded.

When Rob grabbed some sheet music, I got worried that he thought I was serious about practicing. Rob winked at me. “For cover,” he said, smiling ear-to-ear. Once we were in a practice room, Rob dropped the music, grabbed my ears, pulled my face to his, and kissed me. I guess jug ears aren't so bad when a cute boy's using them for handles.

“Hi, boyfriend,” he said as he broke away. We'd been frenching for so long my jaw was numb. He stroked my hair and cupped my face in his hands. He smelled like Polo—the real stuff.

“Hi,” I whispered into his mouth. Rob lay on his side and I got next to him and closed my eyes. We made out—light, quick kisses on each other's ears, lips, eyes, hair, and noses (he half-nipped, half-sucked mine, which sounds weird, but felt
way
cool). We were both in shorts. Today's high was supposed to hit, like, 87 degrees and we kept rubbing our bare legs together like crickets.

I didn't think anything could feel better and then Rob rolled on top of me, his legs at my sides. He pulled my shorts past my hips and snaked his hand into my underwear. He eased the waistband down, trapping it under my balls. I squirmed and tried to flip to my stomach, worried that when Rob saw how small my dick was, he'd make fun of me. Thank God, I was hard. I didn't look like a total inchworm. Rob stroked me slowly—his hand was warm—and massaged a pearl of pre-come from the tip of my dick. I shivered goose bumps from my toes to my shoulders. Rob leaned in to kiss me and I got nervous. Sure, I'd been wanting to do this since, like, forever, but I was scared. What if I screwed up and he found out I was a virgin? I scooted back.

“What?” he asked, all blue eyes and concern.

“I'm still a…I…I haven't done anything like this.” My chest was pounding.

“It's okay,” he said, nuzzling his lips where my neck met the back of my ear. “We'll go slowly.”

I nodded. But then it dawned on me—I didn't want to go slow. I wanted this—wanted Rob touching me. I tore off my shirt like it was on fire and yanked open Rob's shorts.

“Easy, pup,” Rob said, laughing and pulling his shirt over his head.

I felt him—wow!—he had a big blue vein running along the shaft. It seemed bigger than it looked in the locker room shower. Really wide, too, with a big mushroom-shaped tip that wouldn't fit through the center of a toilet paper roll. Okay, so I've tried with mine and I can.
It's not like I'm a horse.
His pubes were really soft, too. The best part was him smiling and saying it was really cool that I was so excited.

Side by side, we jacked each other off, watching what made the other feel good. Sometimes, he'd buck his hips, pumping his dick in my hand. Other times, he'd gasp, sucking air through his teeth. Right before he shot, his lips got all red and he pulled my face against his pecs so my mouth was over his nipple. He begged me to suck it, which seemed weird, 'cuz I didn't think guys could be sensitive there. I flicked it with my tongue and it got hard and pointy. He told me to bite it and when I did, Rob arched onto the balls of his feet. He was almost hyperventilating, but I kept stroking. He gushed, spilling over my knuckles and into his pubic hair.