Struck by Lightning: The Carson Phillips Journal (10 page)

“Hey, Carson,” Malerie said to me. “Why isn’t Justin Walker on the board? Or what about that one cheerleader who told everyone her boobs were real but then got kicked in the chest at a pep rally and had silicone dripping down her shirt? It seems like they’d be good candidates too.”

“Don’t worry, they’ll be in the magazine too,” I said. “If I can get Claire and Colin under my thumb, I should have control over all the other athletes and cheerleaders also.”

“You’re going to be so powerful,” Malerie said. “Which is funny, because you’ve always reminded me a little of Margaret Thatcher.”

“Thanks?” I said. I’m hoping it’s because I also wear a lot of blue.

I gathered up my final two copies of the yellow flyer and headed out of the journalism classroom. I decided to start with Colin. He was the first faculty member I would be attempting to blackmail, so I was extra anxious.

I went out to the baseball field. Colin had just finished with a PE class.

(This is off topic, but I want you to do something for me. Put a picture of high school students roaming the yards during PE and a picture of inmates roaming the yard at a prison together. Look between the two. See the difference? No? BECAUSE THERE IS NONE!)

I took a deep breath and centered my thoughts. Imagining my first steps on the Northwestern campus gave me courage and I walked up to the young coach.

“Hey, Colin!” I called to him.

“Football tryouts are over, son,” he said, not even making eye contact with me. Douchebag.

“No, thanks, I’d rather have paper cuts on my corneas,” I said. “And please don’t call me ‘son.’ You were a senior when I was a freshman, remember? I tutored you in biology.”

“You’re that newspaper boy, aren’t you?” Colin said. “Did you come out here to interview me?”

“Nope,” I said. It seemed best to strike quickly. “The
Clover High Chronicle
doesn’t have a sports section, but the
statutory
section is free.”

He dropped the bats and baseballs he was carrying.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. The way he was looking at me, though, like a venomous snake, told me he begged to differ.

“I think you do,” I said.

He looked like his head was about to explode. I was happy he had dropped the bats.

“Are you accusing me of something, boy?!” he yelled, and stepped toward me.

I raised a hand, mostly to block the spit as he talked, but the motion silenced him like I was a Jedi.

“Let’s not play the question game, shall we?” I said. “It’s one sport I’ll beat you at. I’ll get to the point with
this. I know about you and Claire Mathews and have a video to prove it. If I go public with it, you’ll lose your job, your trophies, and your reputation, and you’ll never be allowed back into this high school world that you clearly love so much.”

Looking back at this moment, I probably should have approached him in a more populated area. Colin could have easily snapped my neck and buried me under the pitcher’s mound. But instead of killing me, he just sort of retreated into himself and became quiet. It was kind of sad.

“What do you want?” he said.

I handed him a flyer. Was this dude gonna cry on me?

“I want you to be
there
at that time,” I said. “I also want to recommend not sleeping with students—
strongly recommend
.”

I ran off, mostly in case he thought of killing me, and because my work with Colin was finished. I got back to the journalism classroom and
X
ed out Colin’s picture. I had one more victim left! Just
one
!

It’s really hard finding a moment when Claire is alone. She’s like the Clover High Hillary Clinton. I
must have followed her around campus the entire rest of the day. She doesn’t even shit alone—she makes some of her cheerleading minions go with her to the bathroom. I’ve always suspected she doesn’t wipe her own ass.

I didn’t want to waste any more time. I ultimately decided to just write her a little note at the bottom of her yellow flyer, something I knew she wouldn’t let others see.

How does it feel being the Walker boys’ girlfriend?
it said. I prayed she would notice the strategically placed apostrophe.

Later, after school, I found her and the cheerleaders practicing a pyramid in the quad. I walked up to her and subtly handed her the yellow flyer. Okay, I may have chanted “Two, four six, eight … heard you like to fornicate!” too. I couldn’t resist.

“You dick!” she said. But her already big eyes grew even larger when she read the flyer. I guess the apostrophe worked!
The queen bee was my bitch now!

I skipped back to the journalism classroom. The
Rocky
theme played in my head. The hard part was
over!
I was almost there!
All I had left to do was tell the Clovergate victims what I wanted from them at the meeting on Friday.

I may not have any literary magazine submissions yet, but I have their attention, and that alone feels like a victory!

10/18

CLOVERGATE DIA CUATRO

If I thought the night I caught Nicholas and Scott was my birthday, today must be Christmas. So
Feliz Navidad
to me! You’ll understand this Spanish madness in a minute, don’t worry. …

Let me start this entry off by saying I’ve had a lot of morality issues since I started this whole blackmailing escapade. Even I, Carson Phillips, thick-skinned and virtually heartless, have a conscience. It started, of course, with Nicholas and Scott in the bathroom and has quietly been eating at me ever since.

Have these people made my life a living hell for the past four years?
Yes
. Do these people deserve being treated like this?
In my opinion, yes
. Am I a horrible person for doing this to them?
Maybe
. Is this the most selfish thing I’ve done to date?
Definitely
. Will the guilt I’m starting to feel outshine the greater good I’m trying to accomplish for the future?
Hopefully not
.

Am I a hero in this story, or am I the villain? Which
side is the author of my first unauthorized biography going to take?

I also worry about the repercussions constantly. What if I get caught and “blackmailing” goes on my permanent record? Will Northwestern accept me with a scarlet letter? If not, then I’ll
really
be stuck in Clover forever.

This kind of thinking puts me in weird depressing funks and I wish I hadn’t flushed those pills Mom got for me.

It’s such a gamble, and the stakes are so high. But no one ever got anywhere by sitting still, and I keep reminding myself of that. What I’m doing right now may be selfish and wrong, but I’m doing it for all the right reasons. So that validates it, right?

I’ve always thought I’m going straight to hell, and after this week, I’ve pretty much cemented my fate. I’m sure Vicki will be there too; maybe I’ll finally get her to write for me down there.

I just hope there’s a
Daily Hell
I can write for. I could do witty editorials like “Hell: Hath It Lost Its Fury?” and maybe weekly updates on who is torturing whom. I’m guessing there will be a plethora of CEOs
and politicians to interview. There won’t be any religious groups to offend in hell, so I imagine I can write anything I want. Maybe it won’t be so bad!

Wait—am I actually positively depicting
hell
? Whoa, I’ve had a rough week.

But then, after all these doubts and worries and macabre premonitions, a day comes along that makes me think God is on my side. Like he’s sitting up in the clouds saying, “Here you go, kid, keep doing what you’re doing!”

And today,
that
message practically came with a bright red bow tied around it. I’ll explain. …

Since I had a lot of success passing out the flyers, I went to the teachers’ room to make copies of a poster I made advertising the publication of the literary magazine. I may have been a little full of myself, but I figured I’d be so busy working on the magazine over the next couple weeks I wouldn’t have time to make them then.

It’s been two years since I taped over the lock on the teachers’ room door and no one has noticed. I went to the copy machine and found a warning notice that had been put on it:

NO STUDENT USE ALLOWED.

Clearly, this was intended for me. I ripped it off and made five hundred copies; I wasn’t going to miss a single corner of this school.

While I was waiting for the copies to print, I heard a loud commotion from inside the supply room around the corner.

“Quick, inside here!” I heard a woman’s voice say.

“
¿Dónde está la estación de tren?
” a man said.

There’s a small and awkwardly placed window that sees right into the supply room (which actually inspired my theory that Clover High used to be an institute for the mentally insane). I peered in through the window, and in between the shelves of supplies I could see Emilio getting it on with
Ms. Hastings! Mr. Gifford’s receptionist!

“I could get fired for this, and I really need that dental plan!” she squealed as Emilio kissed her neck.

“
Necisito tomar prestado un libro de la biblioteca
,” Emilio said passionately.

She slammed him against shelves of pens and staplers. It was kind of hot.

“It’s normal for men to be with older women in
your culture, right?” Ms. Hastings asked, suddenly getting self-conscious.

“
Tenemos varias alpacas en la granja de mi padre
,” Emilio said.

Ms. Hastings grabbed his neck and forcefully kissed him.

“I have no idea what you’re saying, but you are so hot!” Ms. Hastings said, and shoved his face in her breasts. “And young, and tan, and imported! I feel like I’m in
Eat, Pray, Love
!”

“
¡Por favor, pásame un pedazo de pollo frito!
” Emilio growled.

“Wait,” I said to myself. “
Pollo?
” How was chicken brought up?

Ms. Hastings slapped him. “Was that dirty talk? I love dirty talk.”

She slammed him against rolls of butcher paper. I was starting to feel sorry for Emilio—he was getting the shit beat out of him. Maybe my theory about Ms. Hastings was wrong; maybe her ex-boyfriend was the one who was hiding from her.

“You’re so Spangalicious, I love it!” Ms. Hastings screamed.

Their breathing became louder and louder and louder, they pulled each other’s hair, tongues were united—it was
Fifty Shades of Gringo
!

“Ms. Hastings?” a voice from outside the teachers’ room said.

“
Coming!
” Ms. Hastings peeped. I’m certain it was a double entendre.

Emilio tried following her out the door but she stopped him from doing so and disappeared into the hallway. I wanted Emilio to wash his hands just so I could shake them. Even
I
needed a cigarette after that.

Emilio’s cell phone rang. “
¿Hola?
” he said. He looked around to make sure he was alone. I ducked behind the copy machine. “Hey, what’s happening, bro?” he said.

Wait a second
, I thought to myself,
did he just—?

“Nothing, I was just feeling up a receptionist,” he said …
in perfect English
! “I’m one away from beating my record, man! This morning I literally put the ‘dic’ in ‘valedictorian’!”

He looked up and saw me on the other side of the window.
El panic loco
.

“I’ll call you back, bro,” Emilio said.

We. Need. To. Chat
, I mouthed at him.

I texted Malerie immediately. I figured I could use a hand with this one.

“I’m taking the PSAT,” Malerie texted back.

“I’m tired of your excuses, Malerie!” I texted.

Ten minutes later, Malerie and I were in the journalism classroom, shining a bright lamp in Emilio’s face. Malerie even had her camcorder aimed right at him. It was just like
Law & Order
, except not predictable.

“So,
Emilio
, how long have you been a
fornicating exchange student
?” I said, feeling clever. “And I would tune down the Telemundo. Malerie is in Spanish Four; she knows a fake Spaniard when she sees one.”

“
Sí
.” Malerie nodded. “I’m also fluent in Celtic and Elvish. Now speak! What aren’t you telling us?” Clearly, Malerie was back in character. “Is Emilio even your real name?”

Emilio sank into his seat and lowered his head in shame. “My real name is Henry Capperwinkle,” he said.

I tried my best not to burst out laughing hysterically but my eyes watered and my shoulders pulsed up and down.
Henry Capperwinkle?!
Was he serious?! I’m
laughing right now thinking about it. That shit is funny!

“I’m from San Diego, not El Salvador,” Henry said.

“Sea World! I knew it! He smelled very faintly of dolphin,” Malerie said, and pointed at him. “What else? Tell us the truth!”

I just stayed quiet and let her do her thing.

“The only Spanish I know is from level-one
Rosetta Stone
, which I stole,” Henry said. “I’ve been saying the same ten phrases over and over again and no one seems to notice. The people here are total idiots!”

“Huh,” I said. He made an interesting point.

“Please don’t tell my host family,” he said.

“But why would you do this?” I asked him, much more intrigued than resentful. You know me: I kind of respect anyone working the system to their advantage.

“Are you kidding? For just a couple hundred bucks a month I get food and housing,” he said as his focus faded off. “And
girls
. Girls like nothing more than a guy who speaks a little Spanish. Just a little ‘
rrrrrrr
’ of the tongue drives them crazy.”

“It all makes sense now,” Malerie said. “All those
Doctor Who
e-cards I sent you in Spanish—they meant nothing to you!”

“How long have you been doing this?” I asked.

“A couple years,” Henry said. “It was a buddy of mine’s idea. He goes to Lincoln High. They think he’s Nigerian. The guy is white as rice but no one looks into it because they’re afraid it’ll seem racist if they do.”