I’m in the back of Nick Brock’s truck, trying to pick a bug out of my eye, because Pam is now occupying the Ferrari’s passenger seat. We’re all headed toward her and Bag’s house for an impromptu party. Bag seems worried about his sister in the race car, and this bug seems to be drowning in my eye.
When the truck finally rumbles into the driveway, a full-fledged party has spontaneously erupted. I thought we’d just play some video games and hang out, but my sister is here, along with most of my school, and miraculously, some of them are already drunk. If the Red Cross were as organized as the party grapevine in Merrian, a lot of lives would be saved.
I lose my second game of Wii tennis and start dancing in the kitchen next to a bunch of senior girls. It’s fun, but all I can think about is how mad Bag’s mom is going to be when she gets home from work, and how I wish Abby were here. I really should have apologized to her this morning. I like to copy her moves when we dance, and I want to talk to her about C. B. and tell her about CrossFit. She would dig it. I want to tell her how much my “perspective” has changed. It’s only been a day, but I already miss her. . . . My boys are right, I am whipped!
After a while C. B. leaves to buy more alcohol, and since this isn’t my first rodeo with high school kids and booze, I split before he gets back and learns the secret reason you’re not supposed to buy beer for teens: We’re assholes.
I watch the Ferrari tear off down the road, and grab my bike out of Nick’s truck. I’m looking at my watch, trying to figure out how fast I need to ride in order to get back to school before drama camp lets out, when my sister steps out of the house and breaks my train of thought by yelling, “You better have a good excuse for what you did!”
Dang it! I look into her eyes and know that someone just tattled. “I kind of do, but I can see that you won’t agree, so forget it.”
She’s glaring at me like I stole this bike from a blind kid. “You just think that you’re sooo special because you’re auditioning for this movie and hanging out with this writer, but if you think you can start treating the people who care about you like dirt, you’re going to seriously regret it. Like you’re Christian friggin’ Bale all the sudden?!”
“Shut up! I don’t think that, and I’m going to go apologize right now.”
“Good! Regret is a decent place to start, but you need to
show
how sorry you are. You need to work extra hard to prove you’re remorseful, and you’ll be on your way to getting the things you want.”
Is she telling me how to get Abby to put out more? Why is she using this weird, inspirational code language? That’s not usually her style. “Okay, oracle, so if I’m not supposed to ‘just ask for it,’ how do I get her to give me a blow job?”
Her left eye snaps shut like she’s just eaten a lemon, and her head cocks to the side. I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing.
I throw up my hands and say, “Wait! Let’s start with what
you
think I should be sorry for.”
She considers her next statement very carefully, tapping her lips with her index finger before seething, “I thought that you should be embarrassed that our father is sitting in the backyard with a broken heart and a pile of lumber because his only son is nowhere to be found. . . .”
Dang it, I totally forgot about him!
She continues. “But unless I’m mistaken . . . you’re telling me that you’ve also asked Abby—the best girlfriend you’re likely to ever have—to give you a . . . ahh . . . it’s so disrespectful that I can’t even bring myself to say it.”
“Ah come on, you can too . . . BLOW JOB! It was just a question—I didn’t throw her off the rocket-ship slide. It doesn’t hurt to ask, and you’re the one who told me to use questions in the first—”
Her face contorts even further as she barks, “Stop right there, idiot! I told you to ask questions about her, questions that would make her feel special . . . not degrade her! Do you know how that makes a girl feel?”
I obviously don’t, so she continues, “Like a used object! Things like pushing a girl’s head down into your crotch are techniques that guys use on girls that that they don’t care about. I’m not telling you those things won’t work on insecure skanks, because they do. There are moves you make on girls you respect, and they are different than the ones you use on girls you DON’T. Trust me,
we
know the difference! Pity the boy who thinks he has control. Girls of quality will do these things if and when
we
want to . . . or we won’t. All you can really do is get us
not
to do things. And the best way to
not
get a cool chick to do something . . . is to push her.”
I drop my head onto my handlebars in frustration. She pats my back and says, “Now, don’t beat yourself up, you made a mistake, but you’re lucky enough to have me pointing these things out for you. You’re learning the hard way, but you’re learning. Now, get over to her house and apologize, and then go home and help dad with that deck!”
I raise my head and ask, “Why can’t you help him?”
“Because I’m a girl and—”
“Yes, I’d like a double standard with cheese, please. . . .”
“And he didn’t ask me . . . He wants to bond with your dumb ass for some reason.”
She heads back into the house, and I hear her bark at EJ, “Get off the table, idiot!” He’s spent so much time at our house that she feels obligated to straighten him out too. I think she reserves the more heartfelt tips for me, though. He just gets yelled at.
I pass the liquor store on Merrian Lane and wave to C. B. as he’s loading the Ferrari with beer. He seems puzzled as to why I’m on the road, so I wave a kind of pre-apology for what my friends are about to do. He just gives me a nod.
Drama camp has probably let out, and I’m closer to Abby’s house than school, so I bust a left onto her street. I wonder if she’s already forgiven me and is walking toward my house right now so that she can interrupt my dad’s construction project and ask me to go up to the bedroom so we can “talk” privately. And she’ll cry when I tell her how I confused her for a skank and how sorry I am and how I totally understand how she feels, and she’ll apologize for blowing it out of proportion and telling Nicky about it, and then she’ll slowly take off her clothes so that we can have make-up sex and there will be sunlight streaming into my windows so that I can clearly see her—
“Whoooa!!!” I yell when I realize I’m riding through Abby’s yard and have just crushed a bush and row of flowers. I slam on the brakes and swerve to miss the mailbox before finally skidding to a stop. I look over my shoulder and lock eyes with Abby’s pissed-off mother . . . who was about to trim the bush I assassinated. I can see that she doesn’t appreciate the fact that I just saved her some work, and that she wouldn’t mind putting those clippers in her hand to use on me.
“Sorry,” I yell, looking at the missing swatch of grass.
She looks at my back tire for an explanation and asks, “Can I help you?”
“Uhhhh, is Abby around?”
She tells me that she’s still at drama camp and continues to glare at me. I nervously mutter, “S-S-She’s probably rehearsing for the audition, huh?”
She explains, “No, Abby isn’t planning to audition anymore.”
“What? Why?”
“She doesn’t want to be in the same room with you.”
I’m able to ignore her snotty tone because I’m so pissed about the fact that Abby might not do something that she really wants to because of me. This may be her only chance to audition for a movie, and she’ll regret it forever if she doesn’t, so I tell her mom very seriously, “You should make her.”
She pointedly replies, “I don’t
make
Abby do anything, Carter.”
I look away and think about defending myself with an explanation of the various techniques one might utilize when trying to elicit a blow job, and how I actually chose the method with the least amount of pressure, but I just let the guilt hang there until she sadly says, “You should be nicer to her.”
I look down at the skid mark in her yard and think about what other damage I may have caused around this house in the past year. I don’t give any excuses. I just sigh, “I know,” and pedal off.
I lean my bike against the brick wall of the drama department and walk inside. The usually deafening hallway is now a ghost town. The sound of Abby’s laughter floats out of the little theater and makes me smile. She may not be in such a bad mood after all. I’m making my way through the backstage curtains when a guy’s deep voice stops me in my tracks and sends a chill down my spine. I peek through the black cloth to find her and a lanky college guy sitting on the steps of the theater, drinking Diet Cokes. He’s definitely a drama nerd, but cooler than most of the ones around here. His hair is perfectly sticking up all over the place like a Wienus Bro, and he’s leaning back on his elbows while his long legs dangle into the orchestra pit. Abby is sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees, looking at him like he’s a movie star telling a fantastical tale.
“So, it’s opening night,” he bellows. “It’s just a college show, but everyone else is nervous because they’re all terrified of Shakespeare. I’m backstage, changing my costume, when this little freshman—no offense to you, Abby—comes running up to me screaming, ‘Carter, you’re on! You’re on!’”
Hold up! This is Carter? I bet it’s his first name. Carter is a d-bag name, unless it’s your last name and people just call you that.
He continues telling his lame theater story, in his nasally monotone voice, about how someone forgot their lines and he saved the day. I think I fall asleep for a minute, but he finally wraps it up by saying, “The Duke walks past me again, I grab his leg and yell, ‘The king
really
entreats your patience, good sir!’”
Abby laughs. “That was brilliant!”
Nooo, it wasn’t! I could think of a hundred better ways to make that screwup work. I’m just about to step out there and break off one of my own funny theater stories, when Abby says, “Oh my God, my ex-boyfriend was always putting Jeremy and me into those situations. This one time, during
Guys and Dolls
dress rehearsal . . .”
My brain shorts out for a second and my head twitches.
Ex-boyfriend? Like, me, ex-boyfriend?
And I’m not positive of this because I can’t hear very well with this steam shooting out of my ears, but I believe she just made fun of me! Okay, okay . . . I’m not going to freak out . . . and I’m not going to cry . . . very much! But tears are streaming down my cheeks, and I’m as pissed off that she’s causing me to cry as I am to be the butt of her damn joke. I wipe the water off my face and bolt for the parking lot.
I fling the door to the drama department open and step out into the light as Ms. McDougle pulls into the parking lot. I grab my bike like it owes me money, but the handlebars catch on my gym shorts and rip them open at the crotch, so I shove the bars back the other way. They bounce off the wall and smash into my bare balls . . . really hard.
“Ohhh!” I gasp, and double over with pain.
Ms. McDougle yells, “Carter! Are you okay?”
“Dang iiitttt! NO!” I cry into the grass, and try not to flash her my wounded junk. “Not even close!”
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“W-W-Why don’t you ask your other Carter Casanova College Dumbass in there?!” I yell, and punch the brick wall. “OWWWW!!!” Man, I
am
immature.
“What are you talking about?” she says with great concern. “Was he doing something to Abby?”
“NO, she was doing something to him, though . . . and me!” I’m crying again.
“What did she do to him?” Ms. McDougle demands.
“She, s-s-she made fun of me,” I mutter.
She sighs. “Oh good . . . Not good for you, of course. I just overheard Abby telling him the other day that she was a freshman in college and—”
“So she’s been flirting with him this whole time?!”
I don’t wait for an answer. I just pull my shirt down to cover my exposed nards and hop on my bike before blasting through the streets of Merrian. My poor body has been wrung out today, but I drive the pedals as hard as I can. This bike and body are all I’ve got to take out my frustrations on.
The next day I’m way too sore to even think about helping with the stupid deck, but I don’t have the heart to bail on my dad again. He’s taken another day off of work and is giving me the most pitiful look when I come downstairs. So I get to dig postholes all day and mix concrete with a shovel, yeah! Oh my God, it sucks soooo bad, but it gives me the chance to think about my audition scene and brood over all the ways I might get to yell at Abby. Even if she doesn’t show up and I get paired with another actress, I’ll still put Abby’s face on her body and bitch her out so bad she won’t know what hit her. Before I know it, the day is over, and my dad hands me eighty bucks. My fingers don’t work after gripping that shovel all day, so I have to take the bills with both hands. I’d like to tell him, “I don’t want your money, Father! Getting to spend the day with you was pleasure enough for me!” I know that’s what he wants to hear, but I just can’t do it. Instead, I shove the twenties into my dirty pocket and stumble inside.
Flipping through the channels on the basement TV, I stop to watch a Wienus Bros concert for a while (mostly because the remote sucks down here and won’t change channels, but I’m also interested in Zac-Michael now that he’s trying to steal my part in
Down Gets Out
). I want to hate him, but he seems to be having so much fun and his hair is so awesome that I just wish I was him. How much ass would it kick if performing were your job? You just get up at noon and go sing and jump around a stage like a dork for screaming girls. You might not have to lift eighty-pound bags of concrete that burn your skin and hurt your back even more than CrossFit. And your dad wouldn’t call you a wuss when you pour the bags into the wheelbarrow too fast and run away from the toxic dust screaming because it’s, no doubt, mixing with the moisture in your lungs and trying to make a statue out of you. How’s that for Dickens?!
It must be a “Wienus-athon,” because Hilary Idaho pops onto the screen after the song finishes and yells, “ALRIGHT! Let’s give it up for the baddest brothers on Kidz! Check out my new video, ‘Go! Fight! Win!’ from
Cheer! The Musical
, in theaters now! Let me know what you think! Log onto Kidzchannel.net and post a review, homies!”
The old remote decides that I need to watch her video, too, and I don’t have the energy to get up and change the channel, so I take a deep, painful breath (partly because of Abby and what happened after we saw this movie, but mostly from sore stomach muscles) and watch. It’s a lot of
Cheer! The Musical
footage but then a bunch of stuff with just Hilary dancing and shaking her new boobs. She raps in the video, which is just wrong, but her dance moves are on the money.
I lean closer to the screen (ouch) to see if her boobs are really fake or not. I need a friggin’ pause button. She sings, “The ice you’re on, sucka, is awful thin . . . We gonna GO! FIGHT! WEEEIIIIIAAAAHHHEEEEENNA!!!” She has the black stuff under her eyes like she’s a football player, and she keeps crawling across the field like a cat. It’s pretty sweet, actually.
I hear someone coming down the stairs, but the remote will not help me out. EJ bounds into the room, lifts his shirt, and swivels his hips around before yelling with Hilary on the TV, “Your team ain’t nothin’ but a has-been! GO! FIGHT! WEEEIIIIIAAAAHHHEEEEENNA!!!”
I have to laugh, and it hurts so bad, but he’s jumping all around, kicking and cheering, “Who, who, who’s the gayest kid I know?!”
I don’t say anything, so he repeats, “I said, Who, who, who’s the gayest kid I know?!”
I shake my head and mutter, “Who?”
“Give me a C!”
I mumble, “C.”
“Give me an A!”
“A.”
“Give me an R!”
I say, “Easy fella, you’re the one who memorized the words and dance moves!”
He replies, “How can you not? It’s the most annoying song ever! I’ve seen the stupid movie five times! I’m not even here to see you. I came to borrow a hammer from your dad to try to beat this tune out of my brain.”
“Stop making me laugh, dude. It hurts.”
“Come on, everyone is waiting for us in the CRX. There’s a party by Merrian Park.”
I tell him that I can’t go, and he calls me lame, but I need to study for the audition (and I kind of hate parties).
“You were watchin’ porn before I came down, weren’t you?”
“No, just Hilary Idaho.”
“That’ll do. She’s hot!”
“You know her boobies aren’t real?” I ask.
“Nuh-uh!” he declares. “Are they CGI?”
“Just silicone, I think.”
“Bart says that you don’t want to squeeze ’em too hard ’cause they can pop.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Then he starts humping the air in front of him to the beat of the music and says, “Yo, Nicky put on her cheerleading skirt and nothing else, and we . . .”
“STOP!!! Aren’t the guys waiting for you?”
He runs for the stairs, saying, “Oh crap!” But then he comes back into the room and asks, “So that’s it for you and Abby, huh?”
“That’s it for me. She was flirtin’ with some college guy all week . . . and she made fun of me to entertain him.”
“Abby was talking to Nicky at the pool this afternoon, and I guess the drama teacher told her that you were cryin’ in the parking lot, so she knows.”
I throw up my hands. “I racked myself! I wasn’t crying about—”
EJ interrupts me. “Whatever, dude. You cry at Hallmark commercials. She seems pissed at you for spyin’ on her, but I don’t even think she likes that dude. Nicky told me not to tell you, but why the hell would Abby talk to Nicky in front of me if I wasn’t supposed to report it to you?”
I shrug my shoulders like I don’t know or care, but that info does make me feel better. EJ advises me to not talk to her for a while. To allow her to miss me so much that she goes crazy and comes over with a cheerleading skirt on. He also thinks that we should TP her house, but that doesn’t seem right (deforestation and all). He’s setting up the video game player when I remind him of the five dudes stuffed in the CRX. He sprints up the stairs, singing, “Go! Fight! Win!”
ADD is easier to spot in other people . . . and much funnier.