The Downside of Being Charlie (19 page)

“Charlie? What are you doing?” she asks, staring at the cigarette in my hand.

“Nothing,” I say. Wow, what a brilliant response.

The driver's side opens, and Mark looks at me over the roof. “I told Char-Char it was you! She didn't believe me, but I knew it was.” He grins and taps the top of his car.

“Hi.” I cough. I didn't exhale as smoothly as I intended.

“Charlie! Do you know how bad these things are for you? What are you doing?” She comes over and pulls the cigarette out of my hand and throws it on the ground. “You smoke?”

“No,” I say as she stomps it out with her foot. Brilliant response #2.

She looks at me funny. Not like she's a prude, just . . . surprised and like she expects some kind of explanation, but I have none to offer. And although I think I'm in love with Charlotte, I wish she would just leave. Right now, she's only a reminder of all that's wrong with me. I don't want her to figure it out right here, right now—especially not in front of Mark. I stare at the ground, refusing to meet her gaze.

“Charlie?” she says. I don't answer. I can't answer. It's like my body and mind go into some kind of protective mode when confronted like this—like an animal playing dead. I can't speak. “Charlie?” she says again.

“Come on Char-Char! He's just being a baby 'cause you caught him.”

“I am not!” I yell, shooting a dirty look at the prick. He laughs, satisfied that I took the bait. I look at the ground again. I can feel the weight of Charlotte's stare.

“Why do you hide everything from me?” she asks
quietly.

But I don't say anything. I just shrug and keep looking at the sidewalk.

She sighs. “Do you want a ride? We were just heading back from getting something to eat.”

I shake my head. “No. Just go with Mark.”

“Char, let's go! I'm gonna get a ticket or something.”

“You sure?” she asks again, ignoring Mark's obnoxious yells.

I nod, but she doesn't leave.

“Charlie, what's wrong with you?” she asks. “If something's wrong, why won't you tell me?”

“Nothing's wrong, just go,” I say, even though I know as soon as she does, I'll be crushed. She waits, but I have nothing else to say, so she sighs and turns to go.

“God, I just, I don't get you,” she says as she looks over her shoulder at me, maybe to see if I respond. I don't and a minute later, I hear the slam of two car doors, and then the rumbling as Mark revs the gas and his car screeches away, and with it any hopes I ever had of getting Charlotte. I take out another cigarette and smoke it.

I keep taking hits from it, even as it makes me dizzy and want to puke. I'd rather feel sick than heartbroken. But it doesn't work, I just feel like an ass. My head hurts. I light up again and walk blindly to wherever.

About fifteen minutes later, I feel really sick. I break out in a cold sweat and start shaking. I feel like an idiot for smoking this many cigarettes. All the nicotine in my mouth has mixed with saliva and dripped down to my stomach making me feel like crap. I stop at a gas station
and buy a bag of Doritos, a couple of cans of soda, a Snickers bar, and a bag of gummy bears. The old woman behind the counter is missing a tooth and smells like cigarettes and body odor. I try not to gag as she rings up the items. Then the terrible thought of me on the streets panhandling for Ho Hos flashes through my mind. I grab the bag and my change and get out of there.

I shove gummy bears in my mouth as I keep walking, trying to get away from the lights and businesses on the main road. When I'm done with them, I open the bag of Doritos and crunch away on those, hoping the taste of them kills the ashtray taste in my mouth. After another fifteen minutes, I've finished those too. I pop open one of the sodas and guzzle it down. I feel disgusting, and all I can think of are the horrible tastes in my mouth and the bloating in my stomach. I look around. I've never really been down this way and start getting creeped out as I go. The lights of the main road are barely visible now, and everything looks older and crappier as I continue walking.

I contemplate whether I should go back home. This is stupid. Where was I going anyway? Charlotte was right. Something was wrong with me. Very, very wrong if I was running around doing shit like this. But I don't care. So what if I was using this as an excuse to crumble and check out. If anyone deserves to check out, it's me.

I stop and find some bushes where I can upchuck all the crap I just ate. I double over and press on my stomach, making it all come up, which is easy since I already feel nauseous. I wish I had water to rinse out my mouth. I open another soda and swish with that instead, then
feel slightly better. I take a deep breath and try to stop thinking about my parents and Charlotte.

It's really dark now. Only one in every couple of streetlights actually works, casting small sporadic orbs of orange below. I hear voices ahead—a couple of guys joking around. I stop, and wonder if I should go to the other side of the street. But then realize how stupid and paranoid I'm being. It's just some deadbeats hanging out on the street. I keep my head down and keep going.

“So I says to her, ‘if you know so much, then you write the fucking paper, lady,' and I whipped the book so fast back at her, it hit her freaking tit.” A roar of laughter and couple of high fives follow. “It was so funny man! Her jaw dropped and she was like . . . hey, hey, you!” I know the guy is talking to me now, but try to convince myself he's still telling the story as I keep walking, pretending I didn't hear a thing.

“Hey, you! Little man,” he calls.

“That ain't no little man,” someone else says, followed by laughing. I resist the urge to run, but speed up.

“I said, hey, you!” I hear footsteps coming up fast behind me. “You better slow down and check in, man!” I swallow hard and stop. The guy steps up in front of me, way too close for comfort.

“Eh, leave him alone, man. He's a chump.” I hear a voice coming from the pack behind me.

“Nah, nah, let him tell us who he is. So?” He looks at me, but I can hardly see his face because he's standing right outside of the streetlight. I feel like I'm being interrogated. The guy is short, and maybe I could take him alone, but he's not alone. I've never even been in a
fight before. Something tells me he has.

“Charlie,” I tell him. My voice sounds hoarse and shaky.

“You ain't from around here. Whatcha doing around these parts, Charlie? You brought us anything?” He gives a slight nod to the other guys and suddenly I hear more footsteps coming up behind me, and I know I'm in trouble. One of them takes my backpack right off my back and starts digging through it.

“No, I mean . . . sure, take it. I'm just, I'm just going for a walk,” I explain.

“A walk? You fucking kiddin' me? Hey, guys, this kid is just going for a walk.” He laughs, turns back to me, and steps closer into the light. He's either my age or younger, but he looks older somehow. “Where you think you're at, huh? Fucking Sunnyville?” The other guys laugh too.

I shake my head, suddenly very aware of what a stupid idea this was coming here.

“Listen, Charlie,” he says, “I don't usually do favors, but I'm gonna do you one. You don't want to hang around here. And if you wanna walk, you probably should walk right back that way, to your little suburban neighborhood, and not come around here no more'cause the truth is, we're really not as nice as we seem.”

“Okay,” I say, “you're probably right. I mean . . .” The rest of the guys circle around me. My heart is pounding in my ears, and my whole body feels weak and twitchy.

“Listen, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you guys.” Everything in my body is telling me to run, but I force myself not to take off because if I do, these guys
will definitely hunt me down. The pack moves in closer.

“Yeah, I know, but still, everything's got a price, you know?” he says.

The guy who took off my backpack says, “Payday,” as he fishes out my iPod and the envelope with money.

“Anything else on you?” the first guy says. I'm still fighting the urge not to run, and my heart is pounding so hard it's getting hard to think. It's difficult to breath and the nausea from the cigarettes returns.

“I ain't got all night, man, and if you don't hand over your cash, my boys are gonna check your pockets for you, and I know you don't want that, right?” I nod and then quickly shake my head no. I dig into my pocket and take out the change the toothless woman gave me.

“Good, well . . . I wouldn't stay around here too long.” He starts walking back to the car where they were all hanging out and his friends follow. “Thanks, for stopping by,” he calls back and waves my money in the air.

I cross the street and start walking back the way I came from. I hurry past their stares. As soon as I'm past their driveway, I take off. I run like a little wuss. I run like I'm running for my life, which I'm pretty sure I am. I run without stopping, without seeing, without caring how stupid I must look to these guys, even as I hear them laughing and hollering behind me. I run even as my face freezes with the dumb tears that I can't control. I run even as my lungs want to explode inside my chest. I run and run and run, like a squealing pig, all the way home.

D
ad's flight ends up being delayed, and he doesn't get home until after I get back, which is right before the sun comes up the following morning. So, in fact, my attempt at running away does go unnoticed. When he gets home, he comes into my room and sits on my bed. He just sits there on the edge with his elbows on his knees and his hands over his eyes. I pretend I'm sleeping. He whispers my name a couple of times, pats my leg, but I don't respond. I'm not about to make this easy for him.

I stay in bed most of the day, at least until Ahmed finally calls the house and asks if I want to go see a movie.

“What the hell, man, I've been calling and texting you all day,” he says when I finally answer.

“I lost my phone.”

“That blows.”

“Yeah, long story,” I say.

“So, what the hell happened?”

“Tell you later.”

“You sure?” he insists.

“Yeah, positive,” I tell him, refusing to go into everything right this second.

“Fine, your call,” he concedes. “Anyway, you know that new flick about those old New York gangsters from the twenties? It's out now. You in?”

I don't really feel up to it, but I don't want to be confined here with Mom and Dad. I'm pretty sure if I don't leave, they are going to suck the life right out of me.

“Sure, I guess.”

“Cool! One's playing in thirty minutes, so we gotta jet, like now, though. Pick you up in five minutes.”

I get ready, pulling on some dirty jeans and one of my old T-shirts that is stretched out and too big on me. I look homeless, but I don't care. I'm just pulling on my sneakers when Dad comes in.

“Sport, we need to talk.”

I continue tying my Converse. Talk? He can talk to my ass.

“Sport, please,” he says.
Sport, what a joke
.

I go to grab my wallet and house key but then remember I got fucking mugged last night while Dad was with his girlfriend and Mom was crying in her room. I walk around, pretending like I'm searching for something. I grab a hoodie and walk out of my bedroom.

“Charlie, come back here, please hear me out.”

I make a bolt for it downstairs.

“Charlie, don't walk out that door.” I pull my hoodie on. Was he serious? Did he just seriously tell me to not walk out the door? The anger that has been simmering inside me bubbles up. I whip around as he comes down the stairs.

“You are the last person who should tell me not to walk out. You're the one who walked out, Dad. You and
Mom, so just leave me the hell alone, all right? Don't tell
me
not to walk out! Why don't
you
stay here and take care of her bullshit for once!” I yell before slamming the door so hard I think I may have broken it.

Even as I run down the walkway, headed toward Ahmed's, I can't believe I just said what I said. I'd never talked to Dad like that in my life. Even though it felt good to actually speak up for once, it also means I'll have more shit to deal with when I get back. At the corner I see the Roller Skate coming, then Ahmed pulls up to me on the curb.

“What's up, I thought I was picking you up?” Ahmed says as I get in.

“Yeah, I know. I had to get out of there.”

“Gotcha.” Ahmed speeds away. He starts to talk about the premise of the movie.

“Hey, how was your date?” I cut in, trying to sound normal.

“Cat, I didn't even tell you! Girl is a poser. She didn't know any Sammy flicks, which is fine, you know, I don't discriminate. But she kept acting like she knew who he was. So I made up some fake movie and said he was in it, and she was all like, ‘oh yeah, I loved that one!' I mean, be real, you know? I think she wants to hang out more, but it's not in the cards.”

“Sorry, man, that sucks.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “It happens. What about you? Did you hang with Charlotte?”

When he mentions her name, I think of last night and how I ran into her on the street. How I undoubtedly screwed up the already slim chance I might have
had with her—and to make things worse—I looked like an asshole. The same feeling I had from smoking too many cigarettes last night comes back. But she was always hanging out with Mark anyway. If she actually liked me, what the hell was she doing with him all the time? None of it made any sense, and I needed to talk about all this like I needed a hole in the head, but I ask Ahmed anyway.