Struck by Lightning: The Carson Phillips Journal (14 page)

“Hey, Vicki,” I said to her. “Do you have something for me? Something that could possibly be submitted to a literary magazine?”

She looked up at me with her trademark evil stare.

“Relax, before blood drips out of your ass,” she said to me, and reached into her bag, which was sitting next to her. One of her fingerless gloves was pushed down a bit and I saw several marks on her wrist:
Vicki cuts herself
.

I couldn’t help but gasp quietly to myself. “Vicki…” I said.

She immediately became super self-conscious and pulled up her glove.

“Here’s my submission,” she said, and shoved a paper into my hands. She got up and started to briskly walk away from me.

It was one of those moments when you want to help, but don’t know how. You think of a million things to say but are afraid you aren’t the correct person to say them. I knew I was the last person on Earth who
should say something to her, but screw ethics, I did anyway.

“Vicki, wait!” I said, and walked after her. “Do you need to talk to someone?”

“Fuck off,” Vicki said, and walked faster from me.

“Look, I may not be an expert on whatever it is that you’re going through, but there have to be better ways of coping than harming yourself!” I said.

Vicki stopped and turned around to look at me. Her eyes were watery. I couldn’t tell if she was more embarrassed or ashamed.

“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve telling me how to live my life, Carson,” she said. “It’s my life—how I deal with my problems is my business, got it?!”

“Okay … I’m sorry …” was all I could say. She walked off, but I stayed standing.

I felt so sad for her (and I hadn’t thought I was capable of sympathy). I also couldn’t help feeling thankful I had never turned to something like that. No matter how hard things got for me, I don’t think I’d ever see a solution in doing
that
to myself.

But who knows what she was really going through? Who knows what was really going on? You’d think
after thousands of years on this planet the human race would have released some kind of handbook for teenagers, telling them how to get through
teenagehood
and get help for their issues. Yet here we are, struggling through it in our own ways.

It reminds me of something Grandma used to say whenever she would see a homeless person on the street: “There, but for the grace of God, go I.”

10/31

I spent the majority of my Halloween bitching with the gays. (I’ve always wanted to say that.) I’ll walk you through it. …

Once again, I wasn’t invited to any of the Halloween parties after school. Not that I’ve ever wanted to go. After homecoming, dressing up isn’t very appealing to me. I had way too much stuff to get done with the magazine anyway. I’ve got less than a week left and I’ve been hauling ass to get this shit done.

I had completely forgotten it was Halloween until Nicholas and Scott paid me a visit in the journalism classroom. They were dressed as Batman and Robin. And I’m not talking the dynamic duo from the horrible nineties movies, I’m talking full Adam West and Burt Ward from the sixties. I don’t have gaydar, but
DING DING DING DING
!

“Wait, is this happening or did I fall asleep at my desk again?” I said as soon as they walked in.

“Very funny,” Nicholas said. “It’s Halloween, douchebag.”

“Who are you dressed as?” Scott asked. “Gloria Allred?”

Nicholas and Scott looked at each other and laughed hysterically.

“Did you seriously just come into my classroom dressed like
that
and laugh at
me
?” I said. “I don’t think you get to do that.”

“Let’s just turn in our papers and go,” Scott said to Nick.

“Sounds great,” Nicholas said.

They both resentfully handed me their submissions.

“Thank you, ladies,” I said. I had no idea saying that would upset them so much. Nicholas practically threw a desk at me.

“That’s not funny!” he yelled.

“He’s not worth it, Nick,” Scott said. “Come on, let’s go get wasted off pumpkintinis at Claire’s house and watch
Hocus Pocus
.”

“You have no idea what you’ve put me through in the last week,” Nicholas said, this time pointing at me. He was so worked up about it. Suddenly all that guilt I had sort of felt a few days ago swept over me.

They headed to the door, but before they left I shouted, “I’m sorry!” They looked back at me as if they had imagined it.

“What?” Nicholas said. I don’t blame them for being surprised; I’ve only said those words like three times in my life.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, making sure they heard me. “Ever since that night in the bathroom I’ve been thinking about things, and I really owe you guys an apology after all of this.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Scott said. “Blackmail me once, shame on you. Blackmail me twice, shame on me. Let’s get out of here before there’s a third time—”

“Look, I find it hard enough being at this school, and I wear my disgust on my sleeve,” I said. “I never hold back anything, and it’s still challenging. I can’t imagine what it’s like to keep something so secret on top of all that. If I added anything to the weight already on your shoulders, I’m really genuinely sorry, but you guys really helped me out by being part of the magazine.”

They waited for a “but,” but there was none.

“Thanks?” Nicholas said, still uncertain.

“That’s nice, I guess,” Scott said.

“And, just to let you know, I’m never going to tell anyone,” I went on. “Scout’s honor. I know how small-minded this town is toward me, and I’m not even a homosexual; I’m just brilliant.” I chuckled, because I was slightly kidding, but I was the only one laughing. Their faces fell and they looked at each other sadly.

“It’s not just this town—it’s this world,” Scott said. “I mean, besides San Francisco and West Hollywood, it’s kind of a touchy subject everywhere.”

“And
I
can’t move to those places,” Nicholas said. “My family would disown me if they found out. My mom was on the ‘Yes on 8’ board. It was her idea to put the happy cartoon family on those yellow signs.”

“So you’re basically suffocating yourself for people who are incapable of loving
you
to begin with?” I asked. “That seems like a waste.”

Scott grunted and folded his arms.

“Yeah, we’ve heard all the catchphrases before,” he said. “You know, it’s really easy for celebrities and politicians to say that it gets better, but it’s a bit more difficult for us in the real world, where kids are getting killed every day.”

I had absolutely no right or grounds to say what
I said next, which is partially why I was so inspired to say it.

“Scott, that is the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard,” I said. “No one is saying it’s going to be easy. It may be the hardest thing you ever have to do, and some may have to wait and plan much longer than others. But if your life is being ruined because you’re living in an environment that doesn’t accept you, and you don’t at least
try
to move to one that does, then you can only blame yourself.”

They went quiet. I love doing that to people. I didn’t mean to be so preachy, but if you’re gonna come into
my
classroom, you’re gonna hear what
I
have to say.

“I may have no idea what I’m talking about,” I said, a bit ticked off now. “But we’re all a part of a minority waiting for a majority to pull their heads out of their asses.”

I looked at the time—it was almost six o’clock. The afternoon had flown by. I swear, whenever I’m working on the magazine, I enter a time and space wormhole of sorts.

“Now, as much as I would love to stay on this soapbox all day, I have a senile grandmother I’d like to get
to before visiting hours are over,” I said. “Enjoy your pumpkintinis.”

And that’s when I pretty much kicked out the caped crusaders; first time I’ve ever had to do that to people in the journalism classroom. They made me feel guilty, sad, and annoyed in a five-minute span and I hate it when people make me feel anything I don’t want to. I was ready to go.

All the nurses at Grandma’s home were dressed up in Halloween costumes, which did nothing to ease her comfort level.

“Who are you?” Grandma asked me when I first walked in.

“Your grandson,” I said, wondering if she was going to kick me out again.

“Why are all these people dressed up in ridiculous costumes?” she asked me.

“It’s Halloween, Grandma,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. “I’ve never liked Halloween very much. I don’t like it when people hide behind masks.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. There it was: high school in a nutshell.

11/1

I practically tackled Mom today when she came inside with the mail. I know I’m being super paranoid, but if by the slightest chance I
was
accepted already I don’t want to miss the letter.

Thankfully, I know I haven’t missed it, because Mom’s been really insistent about getting the mail lately; she must know how anxious I am. Usually she waits until the postman can’t fit anything else in the box and rings our doorbell. Maybe she’s coming around?

I searched through the mail as if the Hope Diamond was hiding under an envelope. There were only bills and tacky vacation ads. I really don’t think I’ve been accepted yet, which makes my stomach turn just thinking about it.

Every day I don’t get an acceptance letter means I have to make the magazine count that much more. This literary magazine has to be the best thing since spell-check or I’m screwed.

Thankfully, it’s coming together. Emilio (or Henry … whoever he is) slipped his submission under
the journalism door sometime today during school. I have no idea what any of it means; I just wish he would have at least copied and pasted it into a Word document rather than just printing out the web page from the online translator.

Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers. At least this will add some ethnic spice to the magazine—some completely fake ethnic spice packaged and sold by Caucasian-owned businesses, but at least it’ll be there.

I expected Claire to be the last person to submit something. I figured she would snoop around to see who had actually turned something in to me before going through with it herself. And, no surprise, my prediction was spot-on.

Ms. Self-Righteous strolled into the journalism classroom around a quarter after four today.

“Howdy,” I said.

“Here’s my entry for your magazine,” she said.

“Great!” I said. “Is it about contraception?”

Okay, it was a cheap joke, but I couldn’t resist. This really stuck a fork in Claire—she practically threw a tantrum.

“You know what?” Claire said. “It must really be
nice to have plans to journey out into the world, but some of us don’t have that capability. Some of us are stuck here and have to make the most of it. So excuse me for wanting to have a little fun my senior year. It could be the last chance I get.”

It was dramatic and to the point. I could tell she had practiced this defense before, but I doubt it was meant for me. I think this was what she had been telling herself.

She tried to storm out of the classroom, and I should have just let her go, but I’ve been so stressed out lately I guess I was looking for something to argue about.

“And why are you incapable?” I asked her before she got to the door. “Why are you stuck here?”

She looked back at me but didn’t have an answer. I hate bringing up the past, especially memories I’m a little embarrassed to remember, but one really meaningful one involving Claire came to mind, as if it had been in my back pocket.

“Second grade, Mrs. McCoy’s class, we all went around the room and said what we wanted to be when we grew up,” I said. “I said I wanted to be a
Nobel Peace Prize winner and you said you wanted to be a—”

“Ballerina,” Claire said. I was shocked she still remembered.

“What stopped you?” I asked her.

Claire had to think about it. “They all laughed at me,” she said.

“But
I
didn’t laugh at you,” I said. I remember wanting to laugh, but I held it in. I guess even then I thought laughing at someone’s dream was one of the cruelest things one person could do to another.

Claire went silent again. I could tell she was thinking about what I’d said, and hated it. Claire’s biggest fear: someone like me in her head.

“In what grade do we stop believing in ourselves?” I asked. “In what grade do we just stop believing, period? I mean,
someone
has to be a Nobel Peace Prize winner.
Someone
has to be a ballerina. Why not us?”

She stormed out of the room. This time I didn’t stop her.

“And I can’t be the only one who gets that.…” I said heavily to myself.

Young people and dreams are like baby turtles on the beach. The eggs hatch and they have to scramble to the water before the birds get them. We all have our sights set on water, but only a lucky few make it there unscathed. Life has a way of swooping in and picking off the forces and beliefs that motivate us.

I’m so glad this turtle managed to dodge the birds.