The Downside of Being Charlie (15 page)

But then I think of the way she smiles at me, the way she chooses me, sometimes over Mark. Why would she do that if she didn't really like me? I feel miserable and by the time first period is over, I've talked myself into a pretty serious depression. The bell rings, and I head over to my locker. Tanya's already there. It's now or never, but I don't want to do it. I really don't. And yet . . .

“Hey,” I mumble to Tanya when I get to our locker. I take out a couple of books, not caring which ones they are. I shove them in my backpack and take out the plastic bag.

“Want some?” I say, holding the bag out to her. She looks at it, and then at me, then back at the brownie.

“A brownie?” She narrows her eyes. It's the first time I haven't seen them supersized. “Why?”

She knows something's up.

“I'm just asking,” I say and stand there feeling awkward as she eyes the bag suspiciously. I can almost see the cogs turning in that big cuckoo-clock head of hers. Of course she can figure it out. Of course, Tanya, someone who's been shoved down, pushed around, and humiliated on a daily basis since the third grade would question any random act of kindness and see it for what it really is.

“Well?” she says. I try not to make eye contact, but her eyes are hypnotic in the most disturbing way. And then I realize what a shitface I am. This is stupid. Why the hell did I agree to it? For Charlotte? Was this what she really wanted? Someone who could pull off some crappy prank? Sure, Tanya is pretty much a certified freak, and it's not like this could possibly damage her already infamous reputation, but she doesn't deserve this. And I don't want to do it because I'm not even sure why I'd be doing it. I don't think it would suddenly make Charlotte choose me over Mark anyway. I shove the brownie in my pocket and shake my head.

“Forget it,” I tell her. She gives me a dirty look.

“It's stale,” I try explaining to her. “I shouldn't have offered it to you. I . . . just, forget it.”

“You're a jerk,” she says and stands there like she's waiting for me to refute it, but she's right. I am a jerk. And now Tanya knows just how much of a jerk I am, a
stupid, clumsy jerk at that. Even though I don't care what the spaz thinks, it still bothers me.

“I know,” I say to her and shrug my shoulders. “Sorry, okay?”

The bell rings, but Tanya stands her ground and keeps staring at me. It makes me feel sheepish and uncomfortable and since I'm in no mood for a showdown, I turn to leave and ditch the brownie in the trash as I walk away. I can feel Tanya's big owl eyes blaze into my back.

After photography, Charlotte is outside Mr. Killinger's class waiting for me. My heart soars at the idea that she's there for me, but then she grabs my arm and leads me away from the classroom door abruptly.

“What did you do with that brownie?” she whispers frantically. It takes me a minute to switch gears.

“I threw it out,” I tell her.

“In front of Tanya?”

I nod. Charlotte sighs loudly. “Great, well, the little nark must have fished it out somehow, and she turned you guys in. Guess who just got suspended?”

“Holy crap,” I whisper. “Mark?”

“Yeah, because they checked his locker and, well, they found stuff. Anyway, I think you're next,” she says, her eyes looking at everyone who passes by. “He told them you gave the brownie to Tanya.”

Oh crap....

“But . . . she didn't even know. She didn't eat it,” I tell her.

“But she saw you throw it out!” She looks around nervously. “Listen, don't mention my name at all, okay?”
she pleads. “I'll get in trouble for just knowing about it, and my mom will have my ass! Please, don't mention my name, okay?”

She looks pretty scared. Actually, she looks terrified, just like how I feel.

“I know Mark didn't say anything about me, so . . .”

“Yeah, of course I won't,” I tell her, setting her somewhat at ease but still scared shitless for myself.

“What am I gonna do?” I ask her, hoping she'll have some sort of miracle answer.

She shakes her head. “This was such a stupid idea. Now we're all gonna go down because of Tanya Bate!”

“No, not because of Tanya, because of Mark and his shitty ideas,” I tell her. I'm pissed because I'm finally fed up with the fact that she doesn't see what a dumbass he is. “And I'm the one who's gonna go down.”

She nods and looks down at the floor. “I'm really sorry, Charlie.” I shrug my shoulders.

“Forget it,” I say.

“I'll see you later, okay?” she says, “Hopefully?”

“Yeah, hopefully,” I mumble. She turns away and gets swallowed up by the crowd. I take a couple of deep breaths and decide to act as normal as possible.
Just go with the flow
, I tell myself,
do what you always do
.

I
t happens during my next class. The dean, Mr. Gouche (aka Mr. Douche), whom I've thankfully never had reason to speak to the whole three years I've been at Kennedy High, stands in the doorway and barks my name to the teacher. My body feels like I've just been jolted with a million bolts of electricity.

“Come with me,” he says as he leads me to his office. When we get there, he motions for me to sit down.

“So, Grisner,” he begins, managing to squeeze his enormous frame behind his tiny desk. The way he looks reminds me of a cartoon. “I heard some stuff. I'm gonna be straight with you as long as you're straight with me. I checked your file, talked to some of your teachers, and you seem like a good kid, so I know you'll be honest with me, right?”

I swallow hard and nod. He continues with his interrogation.

“You know a Tanya Bate?”

“I share a locker with her,” I tell him. My voice comes out shaky. I clear my throat. He makes a note on a yellow legal pad.

“What about Mark Delancey?”

“I've hung out with him a couple of times. He's
friends with my, uh . . .” What exactly was Charlotte? My girlfriend? Friend? Girl I know? Shit. I'm not even supposed to mention her name. “With some other people I know.”

He nods. “But you guys aren't friends?”

“No, not at all.”

“Okay.” He makes another note. “Well, here's the thing, Grisner, someone came to us and told us they heard Mark had cannabis in his possession.” He studies my face. I swallow hard.

“Cannabis, sir?”

“You know, weed, pot, marijuana . . . ,” he barks, like some drill sergeant. The way he's talking and the fact that I'm nervous as hell makes me want to crack up because that's the typical reaction when you're up shit's creek, right? To laugh? At least for me it is. So I bite the inside of my lip, hard.

“Right.” I nod.

“However, when we questioned him,” he says and then pauses for effect, “he mentioned your name in the conversation.”

“Me?” I ask, with what I hope is an appropriate amount of shock. I bite my lip harder. While I know this isn't funny, I can't help but want to laugh. And I'm terrified that if I do, I'll never stop and will just be on the floor, roaring with crazy laughter from now until eternity.

He nods and waits.

“Sir, I would never . . . ,” I begin. “I don't . . .” But I'm supposed to act like I don't know what I'm being accused of and I don't want to mention the pot brownie unless he brings it up. I take a deep breath and look
down because I can still feel a Joker smile wanting to spring across my face.

“Well then, why would Mark single you out?” he asks.

I can't tell Mr. Gouche that this is probably a monumental occasion when in fact Mark did actually tell him the truth or that Mark hates me because for some crazy reason the girl he likes sort of likes me back or that Mark in general is an asshole and likes to make everyone's life miserable.

“I don't know.... I mean, he's kind of a jerk, and he doesn't like me so . . .”

He waits for me to say more. I don't. We sit in silence for a long time, and it takes every bit of my strength not to laugh as Mr. Gouche uses his superhuman dean-ray vision to look into my soul and figure out if I'm telling the truth or not. In order not to laugh, I start thinking about Tanya. There was something in the way she looked at me that stuck with me. What was it? It was kind of like . . .
you too ?
Was that what it was? It makes me feel shitty. I look up at Mr. Gouche. If he knows about the brownie, he can bust me. I deserve it anyways.

Mr. Gouche takes a deep breath and sucks his teeth.

“All right, tell you what I'm gonna do,” he says finally. “I'm gonna take your word for it this time,” he says, “and only because you've never wasted my time before, and well, we already checked your locker because we can do things like that. But I've got my eye on you, Grisner. And I don't want to see you here again.”

He scribbles a late pass.

“Now get out of here,” he says and throws the get-out-of-jail-free card my way. I grab it and get the hell
out of there.

I tell Charlotte everything in bits and pieces during drama. She thanks me for not mentioning her name and is glad I'm not suspended, but wonders how I managed to get out of it.

“I don't think Tanya mentioned the brownie,” I tell her. “Honestly, I don't even think this whole thing went down because of her. Mr. Gouche said someone tipped him off about Mark's locker, and then I guess he called me in because Mark started blabbing about the brownie or something and he mentioned my name.”

“Weird,” she says.

“I know,” I tell her because without a doubt the tipster was Tanya. I mean, it was the perfect revenge. She'd put the pieces together and figured it out. Afterall, it doesn't exactly take a genius to know that being offered a “homemade” brownie isn't a good thing when you're the school pariah. But I don't tell Charlotte this because she's still Mark's “friend” or whatever. And Mark is the one who mentioned my name, not Tanya. So what all this means is I pretty much owe Tanya a big one. And I don't want to give Charlotte any information that she can go back and relay to Mark, which also means I guess I don't completely trust Charlotte. Which basically . . . sucks.

That afternoon, I'm still thinking about the whole thing with Mr. Gouche and Tanya when I open our back door that leads to the kitchen and I suddenly see them—little
white cartons of Chinese food stacked in the middle of the table. And there's only one explanation of how those little cartons of fast food that haven't been in our house for the past two months got here. It's Mom.

Wherever she goes, whatever she does, the way she comes back is always the same. Mom slips back into our lives after days, weeks, or months of being gone, like she just stepped in from taking a breath of fresh air. She always brings some kind of culinary peace offering—baked goods, ice cream, pizza, or cartons of Chinese food. I hear her footsteps as she comes into the kitchen.

“Hey, honey. Wow, you look great!” she says, all no-big-deal-like as she comes into the kitchen. Her hair is chopped short, and all I can do is stare. For as long as I can remember, Mom has had long, brown hair. Now it's maybe two inches from her scalp and so dark it makes her face look pale and small.

“Mom?” She comes over and gives me a hug. I pull back faster than I mean to because even though I'm relieved she's okay and not dead, I still get weirded out when Mom comes back. I don't know what to feel or how to act because I'm relieved and pissed all at the same time. And this time is especially weird because of what's going on with Dad. So I just stare at her speechless.

“What?” she asks and then her hand flies to her head. “Oh, yeah, needed a change. What do you think?” she asks. I say nothing because I can't believe she's really here in this house after two months of being gone, after the phone call just a few days ago, and after what Dad has done.

“I know, it takes awhile to get used to,” she says
when I keep staring at her hair. “Anyway, are you hungry? Or . . . well, I guess maybe we should wait for Dad.” She crosses her arms across her chest and bites her lip when she mentions him.

Wait for Dad? Like we're a big happy family? Like she didn't leave for two months because he's cheating on her? What the hell is going on? Did they make up and Dad didn't tell me? Was that business trip he got back from yesterday really a trip to visit Mom and plead with her to come back?

As if on cue, the front door opens and then closes.

“I'm home early for once, Sport!” Dad yells as the tapping of his shoes on the hardwood floor comes closer to the kitchen.