“Why do you keep talking about Grandma? She’s dead, moron,” Lynn barks.
“Did she die? Are you sure she’s dead? ’Cause you saw her body at the funeral, did ya? Did ya see it, party girl?” I ask.
She looks at me like a lawyer on TV and asks, “What do you know?”
“Everything,” I reply like a badass sheriff. “Oh, I GOTCHA!”
Her eyes narrow, and a bit of steam drifts out of her red ears. She knows she’s caught, and for the first time in our lives she’ll have to negotiate with me. After two minutes of tense debate, the terms of our arrangement are set. She won’t clean my room or do me any favors except sign the notice of suspension and not tell the ’rents about the fight or any events pertaining to said fight. I will refrain from any language concerning Lynn, Grandma, or parties in connection to one another. If any terms of our agreement are broken . . . Full disclosure! The dam will break and knowledge will flow.
I’m not super happy with the deal, but I’ll do better next time. Man, I hope there’s a next time. It’s really cool talking to my sister like we’re equals or friends or something, because she’s really fun to hang out with. She really is a psycho, and I’m not the only one who thinks it, but she’s got tons of friends. You have to be pretty cool to pull that off. I don’t want us to hug and kiss all the time like some weird cult kids, but a conversation every now and again would be kind of nice.
Abby calls because she’s worried about me. That’s how chicks do with outlaws. They call or they bake cakes with files in the middle so their man can bust out of jail. Next she’ll get “Carter Forever” tattooed on her lower back. That would be so hot!
EJ’s number pops up on the other line, and I want to ask him about his lips, so I make quick plans to meet Abby at the movie theater tomorrow after school, and hang up (pimp). EJ sounds like Buckwheat, and I can barely understand him, but I know he’s jealous. He’s jealous I got suspended, but more so that I didn’t get punched in the mouth. I tell him all about how Nick Brock got my bike back and how I rode in his truck. He tells me that he heard Pam tell her friend all about the fight and how we both sounded tough.
“To hink, Ham and er ig oobs are talkin’ out us,” he babbles.
“Awesome,” I add. “We should get in fights all the time, huh?”
“Uh ugh, doo, my liss look like Ick Yagger. I’n not getting in any ore fighs, doo!” EJ passionately garbles.
Well, I’m not getting in any more fights if EJ isn’t going to be there to take the punches.
* * *
The first day of suspension is like a dream. It’s a beautiful fall day, and I tell my dad that I’m so stoked to have my bike back that I don’t need a ride. I pedal around the neighborhood, practicing wheelies until both parents take off. I watch some TV, take a nap, and make sure not to eat anything that would cause anyone to fart or vomit tonight at the movies. I was going to kick some footballs and do some homework, but time really flies when you’re doing stuff that you want to do. I look at the clock after
Oprah
and realize school’s already out. How the hell did that happen?
I ride like the wind and get to the movie theater just as Abby’s walking into the parking lot. I ride up behind her all slow. Should I scare her, like “BOOO!” or should I be all like “Heeyyy,” nice and smooth? She’s wearing a short skirt, her legs are strong, shaved, and shiny. How do you get legs to shine like—
“WHOA!” Almost wrecked into a fire hydrant. A fast swerve into the grass saves the day. This is why they don’t let kids my age drive cars. In a car, I would have driven across three lanes of traffic and taken out a bus or something because of my gawking. On a bicycle, however, the only one in danger is me.
She hears the “Whoa!” and turns to see me recovering from the near collision. I go for a lame save by jumping off my bike, shooting her an eyebrow raise and a “S’up?” She climbs on my axle pegs, wraps her arms around my neck, and we “carpool” the rest of the way. So awesome.
She says she wants to see The Rock’s new movie, but once the lights go down we don’t watch that movie for a second. I couldn’t tell you who was in it or what it was about, or anything. We could be at a Drew Barrymore movie, and The Rock may be an extra in it, for all I know. The only plot worthy of my attention is this bra. Who designs these things, Brink’s?! It’s got flaps, straps, hooks, and loops. It stretches when you need it to stay still. It’s got this metal barrier under the boobs to prevent me from going commando underneath the whole operation. It must be made out of Kevlar and elastic, because there’s no getting to these boobs! I grab at the lock sideways, up and down, push, pull, twist, jerk. Nothing works.
After twelve rounds, Abby sticks her hand behind her back and flicks it open one-handed! She must have pushed some kind of safety switch or something. She’s hasn’t had these boobs for very long and she’s already a pro with the bra, so there’s hope for me. I’ll just focus and practice.
I’ve obviously done something excellent in her presence and I’m being rewarded. If I could put her boobs on my trophy shelf they would be my most prized award. I’m breathing so heavily Abby has to tell me to “Shhh” a couple of times. You’d think I’m running a marathon and not just getting some boob. I try to pull her shirt up so I can have a look at them, but she throws down the karate-chop block. That move is apparently off-limits.
I think getting boob is called first base, but I don’t play baseball so I’m not sure. What’s really hurting my brain is trying to figure out if her short skirt is a green light to steal second base or not. Second base is touching on her panties, private parts, and all that, I’m pretty sure. Is it a green light or is it just a fashion choice? Do I go for it or not? Oh man, this is a tough one. What if I shove my hand up there and she’s not into it and karate chops me in the nuts? Or maybe it’s like the first kiss. If she’s wearing a green light and I don’t go for it, she’ll think I’m not into her, or I don’t like her that way. But that’s ridiculous!
I place my hand on her knee like some sort of ultra-cautious leg doctor probing for irregularities. It’s a nice knee, but her joints are not my focus right now. I have other ideas about legs. Like, where they’re coming from and where they’re going. The examination is going well with my right hand. My left hand, however, has not left her boob, and I hope it never will. I lost all feeling in my lips an hour ago and I’ve run out of saliva. I need Gatorade!
The movie sounds pretty good. This is probably the part where you’d think The Rock is going to fail, but he finds some deep down strength that pulls him through, and he manages to save the day. I’ll have to come back and watch it without Abby. In fact, I’m never seeing a movie I’m interested in with this chick again. Don’t get me wrong, this is way more entertaining than anything I’ve ever seen. I’ve worked my way up to the upper part of the knee, but I wouldn’t call it quite thigh yet. I need some of The Rock’s courage, and quick!
I think the movie is about over, because the fighting noises and loud music have stopped. The Rock’s making his final jokes and wrapping things up. I’ve got about three minutes to steal second base. It’s go time! I slide my hand up, and up . . . and UP! I open my eyes and stop the kissing because Abby appears to have stopped breathing. About a minute left. Now or never. If a trembling body and a distant blank stare is a green light, then I’ve got it! I’m going in. Under the skirt. I’m in! I’m here. This is it. WOOO!!! I’ve made it. What the hell do I do now? It’s definitely warmer under here, like a denim treasure cave. I’m like a blind doctor on his first day at the hospital. I believe my patient has gone into shock. She’s not blinking or breathing. Her checkup is over, I guess, because the credits are rolling and she jumps up. Maybe she has to pee? I can only hope to pick that bra lock apart as fast as she just put it together.
The walk out of the theater is kind of weird. Should we hold hands? What am I supposed to say? “Did you enjoy the film?” or “Gee, thanks for letting me grab at you for the last couple hours.”
I’m kind of dizzy when I ask, “Uh, do you want to see another movie?”
She seems dizzy too, and replies, “Huh? Uh, no, no I need to go home.”
“Yeah, you have school tomorrow . . . Sucks to be you!” I laugh awkwardly. “I’m planning to get up at the crack of ten thirty!”
She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t even seem to have heard my joke. She quietly says, “I have to go.”
“Okay, well, I’ll see ya,” I say, as she walks out the door with her head down. That was weird, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here. Do I chase her down and make sure she isn’t crying? I should at least give her a ride home on my axle pegs, but my stomach is killing me and I’m so dizzy that I’d wreck the bike for sure. My mom always tells me, “Just be yourself,” and I don’t feel like chasing her down and listening to her cry (if that’s what she’s doing). What I feel like doing is seeing the next showing of The Rock’s new movie and getting some candy and a huge cherry Coke, because my mouth is dry as dirt from all that kissing!
Suspension days fly by even faster than summer-break days. I’m back in school. I hoped there would be a parade in my honor for removing Scary Terry from the general population, but everybody seems to have forgotten how awesome I am. J-Low called me Ali once, but nobody else picked up on it, so it’s the same old, same old. One inconvenient difference is that I start shaking when I get close to the Behavioral Disorders class. Which is a problem because it’s right next to my locker.
School’s a pain in the ass even when you vaguely understand what the hell is going on, but when you’ve been out of it for three days it’s practically impossible to keep up. We’re studying Shakespeare in English. Which is ironic because I thought I spoke English until Ms. Holly broke out the Shakespeare. If that’s English, I don’t know anybody who speaks it. If I started talking Shakespeare jibber-jabber, I’d get my ass handed to me. That ain’t English! And you can tell me all day long how Shakespeare’s a genius, but that doesn’t change the fact that he sucks. I was supposed to read
Romeo and Juliet
on my break. And I did try, but you can read that junk for like two hours and all you’ve finished is one page. I have to reread the same line a thousand times before I realize that all he is saying is “I love you” or “You’re a punk, let’s fight!” Just say it, man. Make your point. I don’t have the time or the attention span for all this “Withering, carrion lark” crap! Fortunately, I’ve developed a system for feigning interest. I just look right at the teacher and nod my head from time to time. I might even add a quiet “Huh” every once in a while when the teacher’s voice goes up in pitch. If you look out the window and space off, they catch you every time, but if you space off while you’re staring at the teacher’s mouth, they never suspect. I’ll even write down a thing or two every now and then. Mind you, my notes never have anything to do with what the teacher is babbling about; it’s usually a funny story I want to tell EJ or Abby later.
I’m watching Ms. Holly’s mouth at the moment, not a clue what’s coming out of it. She could be speaking Chinese for all I’m getting. Her mouth is HUGE! It’s like her whole family are all giants and she’s the smallest one, but her mouth is the same size as the rest of her giant clan. I bet she could eat a whole sandwich in one bite. She’s a sight to see just talking regular. But when she gets to blabbing that Shakespeare, her face is like a cartoon character, flapping, spitting, chomping, and squawking, “Thee, Thou, Thoo, Thuist!”
“Mr. Carter,” she says, “you seem especially interested in the works of Shakespeare. What do you think Romeo is trying to say here?”
Dang it, I went too far! You see, I’m such a good actor now, that I can go from pretending to pay attention to accidentally looking like I’m fascinated. I bet Robert De Niro has the same problem.
“Mr. Carter?” Ms. Holly asks again.
“Uh, well, it, it’s tough to say. I-I-I think, he’s really talkin’ about . . . love?” I say with insecurity. Just a shot in the dark.
“Very interesting,” Ms. Holly says. “He’s in the fight of his life with Tybalt, but you think he’s talking about love?”
“Yep, Romeo is all about the love,” I say.
Stick to your guns; she said it was interesting, not wrong.
“Fantastic, Carter! He’s explaining his love for Juliet and how that love must include her kinsman Tybalt. Love is what this speech is all about! It’s being masked with physical violence and posturing, but that’s very insightful of you to see through it,” she says.
No, lady, that is very lucky! See why the dumb kids think I’m smart? I do stuff like that all the time. I’ll fail the test on Tuesday, but today I’m “fantastic” and “insightful”!
I’ve made it four hours, but my books are getting heavy and I need my calculator and history folder. I don’t want to, but I’ve got to go back to the scene of the crime. It’s crazy, but I don’t think I can go back to my own locker. I know Scary Terry’s in jail, but what if he isn’t and he’s down there waiting for me? What if the other B.D. kids want a piece of me for getting rid of their leader? Or that bald teacher is pissed at me for disobeying a direct order and dropping his favorite nut ball? I’m trembling as I come around the corner. I think I have post-traumatic stress disorder. You can still see the dents in the locker where Terry kicked it. I feel the same choking fear. I can see Terry punching himself and EJ standing next to me. I can feel the other kids staring at me, and that same adrenaline rush, like a heart attack. The bell rings and I’m just standing here all alone in the hall, trying to pull myself together.
I need a little push, and I get it. A soft hand on my back makes me jump. It’s Abby. She gives me a sweet look and
asks, “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, just gettin’ my books,” I say as cool as I can.
I look at Abby and how pretty she is today and how cool it is that she walked up just then. I grab her hand and walk the last three steps to my locker.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’m good. You okay?” I ask like a dope.
“Yeah, sorry I acted like a freak after the movie,” she says.
“What?” I ask. “You didn’t act like a freak. I mean, you didn’t vomit; I think we’re really improving!”
She laughs and kisses me on the cheek like an angel who let me touch on her boobs and panties. She’s really great.
She turns away and says, “I’m late for gym, so . . .”
I give her a wave and say, “Okay, I love you.”
What the . . . ?
Oh NO, CARTER!
It just slipped out with my post-traumatic retardation! Oh, that was dumb. Abby turns beet red. It just flew out, like when I say it to my mom or something. I guess when your heart talks for you, it doesn’t send the signals to the brain for evaluation. I didn’t even get the chance to stutter it. “I love you.” There it is, out of nowhere. Like a rogue ninja who breaks away from his master. There’s no getting him back!
Abby looks up at me with wide eyes and a gaping mouth, staring at my shocked face. I must look like she did when I stole her second base.
“Carter, I . . . I love you too,” she replies, and kisses me on the lips.
DANG IT! How did we get here? This place isn’t even on my map. Two dates and she’s locked me up! Do I have to meet her parents and all that junk? I’m going to have to go shopping with them on Saturdays. I thought attention deficit was a tough disorder, but this post-traumatic stress is the granddaddy of all disorders! My brain was M.I.A. and I declared my love for someone.
What if my boys find out? Romeo is not a good nickname. And it’s coming for sure if word gets out.
Still, the kiss Abby gave me was probably the best one I’ve ever had. The best it ever could be. (If I’d known it would be our last, I would have tried to make it last longer. I would have slipped her tongue or something. Just a slow soft peck will be all I’ll have to remember her by.)
As she turns away, I see a shadowy figure watching us from the stairwell. I’m a little worried it’s a teacher about to swoop down on us for Unlawful PDA. Or Lynn watching me break one of the cardinal rules by smooching in the halls. She hadn’t mentioned it, but I’m pretty sure saying “I love you” after two dates is a NO-NO!
The shadowy figure, it turns out, is going to get me into a hell of a lot more trouble than any teacher ever could. The figure is one of my favorites, in fact. Amber Lee waits for one of her so-called “best friends” to float past her, before slinking toward me.
“Isn’t that sweet. The two of you kissing in the hall,” she says.
“Yeah, we p-p-probably shouldn’t do that,” I stutter.
“No, you guys are cute. Are you two getting serious?” she asks.
“W-w-wwh-what? Me and Abby? Naw! W-w-we, we’re . . .” I stammer.
“You’re just hanging out?” she says.
“Yeah, sure, hanging out,” I lie. I don’t know why I said that. It just flew out like the “I love you” did. Post-trauma is no joke, kids.
“So, are you guys just, like, friends or what?” she asks.
“Yeah, totally . . . w-w-we, we’re friends,” I reply. That is not a lie! Abby and I are friends.
“Friends who kiss, huh?” she asks.
“Yeah, that too,” I blabber.
“Carter, you’re a player, aren’t you?” she asks.
“No,” I reply.
“So, are you taking your little friend to homecoming?” she asks.
“Abby? Uh, no. W-w-well, I’m not really sure,” I reply.
“So, like, you could take me if you wanted to?” she asks.
“Yeah, I could do that,” I reply. This is just a hypothetical line of questioning, I’m sure.
“You should then. My dad thinks you’re cute and harmless. So do I. So you could ask me to go to homecoming, and I can say yes to you,” she says.
“Really?” I reply in shock. Not the smoothest of responses, I know.
“Yeah,” she says.
“Cool,” I respond with a nod.
“So, you should . . . ask me, Carter!” she orders.
“You wanna go to homecoming . . . with me?” I ask.
“Yes I would, thanks for asking,” she replies, all sly.
What the hell is happening here?
“So call me and we’ll figure out what to wear and what time you should pick me up,” she says.
“Uh, okay, I got my bike back,” I say.
“I am not riding on your axle pegs to the homecoming dance, Carter!” she snaps.
“No, no! Of course not. I was just saying. Like, I thought you’d want to know. But like, for a joke, me in a suit and you in a dress, on my pegs. Ha-ha, can you imagine?” I blabber.
“Yeah, I’ll see you, Carter,” she says as she swishes away. Man, she is fine. What the HELL? I’m back at school for five minutes and all hell has broken loose! This is the life of an outlaw! Juggling chicks, breaking rules, and breaking hearts. Oh God, what am I going to do about Abby? What am I going to do about my sister when she comes at me with a machete for telling a girl I love her and then asking a different girl to homecoming in the same passing period? I really do love Abby, I think, but I’ve been in love with Amber Lee since the first day of sixth grade. If Abby really does “love me too,” she’ll want me to be happy, right? She’ll be really excited about this.
I just stand there frozen through most of fifth hour and try to get a handle on the situation. On the bright side, I’m not worried about Scary Terry anymore. He’s the least of my problems at the moment. I wouldn’t even mind it so much if he came out of that B.D. room and punched me in the jaw. It’s about the only thing that could stop my mouth from running today.
I show up at Mr. Rumpford’s math class three days and forty minutes late. He seems to be aware of my dilemma by the hopelessly lost look in my eyes. He doesn’t even waste his breath, he just motions for me to take my seat and continues to write on the overhead projector. The isosceles triangle means very little to me on a regular day, but today I’m in a love triangle, so it’s pointless.