Carter's Unfocused, One-Track Mind

by Brent Crawford

  “Yeah, I’m great. I just have a test I need to prepare for, you know? So…”

  That’s not a lie. I should be studying for a geometry exam, but we both know that’s not what I’m going to do.

  I don’t run out of the theater or anything. I manage to say good-bye to a few people on my way out, but everyone can see that I’m acting weird.

  The fall weather is starting to kick in, and it’s a little crisp outside. I unlock my bike and take a few deep, foggy breaths before kicking my bike. OUCH!!! What the hell is the matter with me? Why am I so angry? Maybe I’m jealous. Surely I’m not mad at Abby for getting an opportunity, but I’m pissed off. I guess I’m annoyed with myself for wasting so much time. That’s the one thing I do that pisses me off more than anything. (Instead of just riding home, I’ve started adjusting my front brake for no reason, and I’m picking at some loose rubber on my handgrips.) I should have focused all of my energy on Abby and told her how much she means to me, and I really should’ve made out with her more!

  Everyone always says, “Carter, you have no concept of time!” and they’re right. I honestly don’t understand it. How can the clock move so slowly when things suck? (Geometry class is like a vortex!) And how can time just fly by when things are fun? An afternoon at the pool or hanging out with my boys or building a set with the drama kids causes everything to jump to warp speed. Maybe that’s why adults take jobs that they hate or get married to people they can’t stand…just so life doesn’t rip right past them.

  The sound of laughter pulls me out of my daydream. I assume someone is making fun of me for staring at a brick wall for God knows how long, but it’s Jeremy, talking to Bandana Boy and leaning on a Mitsubishi Eclipse. He seems nervous, which is rare for Jeremy, but the other guy keeps insecurely adjusting his hair-to-bandana ratio, so things are looking good. They are obviously making the stupid talk everyone makes before they kiss for the first time. You’d think all of this would be easier with two dudes, but it seems like having balls still doesn’t guarantee a game. Wooing is hard.

  I’d like to channel my inner football coach and yell, “Green lights all around, LADIES!!! Less thinking; more doing!” But drama/choir guys might not respond to football pep talks.

  I’m not even sure how long I’ve been standing there when Abby’s voice rolls in from behind me. “Hey. What’s funny?”

  “Was I laughing?” I point at the Eclipse and say, “Jeremy and this time-traveler are trying to find the courage to hook up.”

  Abby sees them across the parking lot and laughs. “Aww!”

  “So, New York is a go, huh?”

  She says, “I’m sorry.”

  “Please don’t apologize to me. You should be stoked, not worried about me. I’m a prick! I’m jealous of you for being awesome.”

  She gives me another hug and whispers, “I know. I’m not ready to leave you either.”

  Hey now! Boobs press into my chest like two firm (yet supple) green lights.

  We slowly pull apart, and I touch her cheek with the back of my fingers (pimp!). She leans in just as I do…but her mom’s voice cock-blocks me from behind. “There you are, darling!”

  Dang it.

  They hug. I point to her mom and mouth the words Does she know?

  Abby shakes her head, and for the first time I feel some compassion for the old hag. She’s not ready for Abby to be a teenager yet, let alone move to New York City.

  Her mom ruins it by asking, “Did someone run over these flowers? What floral designer in their right mind would pair lilies with baby’s breath?”

  “Mother!” Abby says. “Carter got them for me, and they’re beautiful.”

  “Well, I can see that they were pretty. That was very thoughtful of you,” she says, as if she’s talking to a kindergartener.

  I pick up my bike and say, “Okay, well, you guys need to talk, so, good night.”

  I ride past Jeremy and Bandana Boy and yell, “Somebody grow a pair!”

  I’m trying to be funny, but I’m kind of serious. You never know how much time you have with someone.

  4. OKLAHOMA ROAD

  I only thought I was having a tough year before Scary Terry got out of jail and recruiters came from New York to steal my girlfriend. I decided to play football again, and I was kind of trying harder in school. What a pain in the ass…literally. At practice yesterday, Andre bruised my left glute with his helmet. And I’ve been spending a lot of my free time in either the math or writing lab. Sitting on a plastic chair for hours on end hurts your butt almost as much as a helmet.

  I swear I’m always wearing these stinky pads and running into someone. Even though I bitched about football all last year, I still signed up to play again. I actually missed hanging out with these idiots. I barely saw them all summer because I was shooting that movie. But after a few weeks of football practice, I was over it. The part that sucks the most is just seeing the other kids hanging out after school. They just go do whatever the hell they want to, while I get yelled at. The only redeeming thing I’ve found is the ability to release your frustrations! When you’ve found out that the girl you love is moving, or that there is some psycho trying to kill you, you can smash into people as hard as you want! Eventually the part of your brain that worries about stuff just shuts off.

  Coach is lecturing us right now while we warm up and stretch. I seem to have missed the point of his rant. I think he’s talking about staying focused, but I’m not sure. Coach is very passionate but a bit of rambler. Even the guys on Ritalin say he’s tough to follow sometimes.

  One fun thing is that the best guys from our class have all moved up to JV, which means I actually get to play in the sophomore games (sometimes)! I’m a linebacker on defense and tight end on offense. I thanked Coach for finally noticing my “tight end,” but he didn’t get the joke. Theoretically, I could now catch a pass, and if all hell were to break loose, I could score a touchdown. I’ve also hit a bunch of extra points and one field goal as the sophomore kicker.

  We start rolling around on the ground to loosen up our backs and necks. At least I think that’s why we do it. My whole body is yelling at me because it’s so sore from this morning’s workout.

  As if Mondays didn’t suck enough, our coach has figured out a way to make them worse: we have mandatory weight training sessions before school. They make us do CrossFit because it’s quick and intense, and at 6:15 a.m., we’re usually too tired to register how much pain we’re in. We’re never allowed to do anything like bench press or push-ups. They’ve learned that if we lie down, we just fall asleep. It sucks to get up early and feel like you’re having a heart attack before dawn, but it’s fun to hang with your boys and complain about it. I’d never do CrossFit voluntarily, but I usually have a pretty good day after those morning workouts. I’m very focused until lunchtime…and then it’s nap time! And then it’s detention time because teachers hate it when my nap time conflicts with their class time.

  Next we stretch our legs, which also hurts like hell. I didn’t work out much this summer because of the movie. But I’m in awesome shape now, because whenever you screw up in practice, your punishment always involves more exercise. Let’s say, hypothetically, you’re tardy or you forget what you’re doing for a second or you make a smart-ass comment to a coach…you get to run sprints or do burpees or somersaults until you can’t see straight.

  I may have picked up some bad habits working on the movie. The director was always telling me to “Stop thinking!” but football coaches are always asking, “What the hell were you thinking?!”

  And coaches hate it when you bust out an acting term, like, “I was in the moment!” But remarks like that are the real secret to getting buff. I’m such a screwup that you can see my abs!

  The team gathers around to jump up and down and yell for a while. My actor training comes in handy for this. I can scream really loud now, and it doesn’t hurt my throat because I use my diaphragm muscle.

  I must have spaced off for a second o
r two (thousand) because Coach has just smashed his whistle into my helmet and is yelling into my face mask. I’m not sure what I missed. He is bellowing, “You dad-burn-guckin foose, ejit!” (Without using his diaphragm.)

  Nobody knows exactly what a “guckin foose” is, but he only says it when he’s really pissed, and it’s usually followed by this stupid hitting/punishment drill called Oklahoma Road.

  My boys start lining up for it before he’s even finished screaming at me. Oklahoma Road is basically a two-hundred-yard sprint where you have to blast your way through a group of guys every ten yards. It’s exhausting. You just smash and smash until you get to the end of the road…or you die. The drill has no purpose other than to make us tougher. There is no practical application of this drill in a game situation. Guys never take you on in neat groups, and once you’ve dealt with a blocker or tackler, the play is usually over. But coaches seem to love this exercise.

  Since it appears that I am the reason we have to do it (still have no idea why), Coach yells, “Carly, you’re up first, you cooter box!”

  I can only guess what a cooter box is, but I know I’m “Carly,” because awesome hair is appreciated on the football field about as much as contemplation. Today was not the first day I’ve been snapped out of a daydream by a red-faced coach holding half of a whistle in his hand. I find this kind of anger silly, but I know better than to laugh (now).

  Coach asks, “You want to line up, or do you just want to coach this one, dipstick?”

  I also know that “coaching one” is not really an option, so I jog to the top of the road and get down into my three-point stance. Before blowing the whistle, Coach makes me wait until it feels like my fingers are going to break, but he knows what he’s doing. I’m so pissed off by the time I collide with the first set of guys that I don’t even feel the pain. After the twentieth WHAAACK the hurt actually feels good.

  Before I know it, we’re all limping back to the locker room and laughing about something. I’m either brain damaged or I had fun. I think I caught three passes while I was on the scrub team offense, and I got to kick field goals with the varsity kicker.

  It’s almost impossible to turn the shower knobs because I jammed all of my digits during Oklahoma Road. And I loudly sigh, “Thank you!” when I finally get the buttons of my jeans fastened.

  I flip the wet hair out of my eyes to see what my boys are laughing at.

  Now that the season is in full swing, injuries aren’t that much fun, but my boys never get tired of crowing on my hair.

  “Does anyone have a blow-dryer Carter can use?” EJ asks.

  “And some product!” Bag yells. “His flop-do won’t cooperate without it!”

  Doc adds, “I need ten cc’s of gel and a can of mousse over here, STAT!”

  My instinct is to tell them that I actually use a very expensive pomade, but I’m not that brain damaged. I still foolishly try to defend myself from their attacks. “I don’t even own a blow-dryer.”

  This is true, but I’ve been using the crap out of my sister’s lately. They don’t care, though. I’m going to get made fun of for a while, and we all know it.

  “How do you style your pubes, then?” J-Low asks.

  “When are American Idol tryouts, Carter?” TrimSpa asks.

  Andre sneers. “You look gay.”

  I just shake my head. “Good one, Mongo! Gold star for helmet!”

  Everybody laughs at my joke, which diverts attention away from my hairdo just long enough to get them off track. Somebody tries to start it back up by saying I look like Ellen DeGeneres, but somebody else says that Bag’s mom really looks like her, and that gets us discussing moms, and we debate who’s got the hottest mother (mine would be pleased to know that she’s in fourth place, but I’ll be damned if I’d ever tell her). The subject of mothers somehow shifts into theories that college girls are easier than high school chicks, and then we dive straight into the age-old debate: boobs or butts? The gallery is divided, as usual, with powerful arguments on both sides of the issue. The only thing we can agree on is that it’s definitely easier to be a butt man than a boob guy. Every one of us has been busted in a boob-gawk, but you have to accidentally make a noise to get busted checking out a booty.

  Bag explains, “You just have to make sure the girl’s parents or boyfriend are not watching you watch their girl’s ass.”

  Nutt believes (because his brother Bart told him) that the whole idea of men opening doors for ladies is closer to a dog sniffing another dog’s butt than it is to chivalry. He asks, “You think chicks can’t open a friggin’ door? You let ’em go ahead of you in the elevator, why? So you can check the bumper for dents!”

  “Then they thank you for it!” Doc adds.

  “You are welcome, lady!” EJ cheers.

  The locker room falls silent again. I stopped paying attention for a second, so I’m not sure what shut them up. Somebody must be doing something stupid. I look beyond my reflection in the wall mirror to see a gaggle of eyeballs staring back at me. Dang it. They’ve caught me playing with my bangs again.

  Bag breaks the silence. “Do you need some help, Carter? Should we call your stylist?”

  I just shake my head, but hair falls into my eyes and I instinctively flip it away with a head toss. I must be doing the hair-flip thing too much, because twenty guys all do it right back, to mock me. As a sophomore, I understand that teasing isn’t personal. When I was a freshman, I thought I could control this crap, but I’ve learned that a mob has to pick on something, somebody…anything. It’s not real; it’s sport. Everybody enjoys making fun of other people. Some do it behind the victim’s back, but my boys like to keep things out in the open, and enjoy the entire show. I know the worst thing I can do is actually get upset (they love tears) or attempt any witty comebacks.

  Bag says, “You know Scary Terry might not be so anxious to fight you if you didn’t look like a girl.”

  “Nobody has seen Terry in weeks, dude,” I reply. “And I doubt a friggin’ haircut would help that situation.”

  “You’d look a hell of a lot tougher if you shaved your head again,” Nutt says.

  The whole team says, “Yeah!” like it’s the greatest idea in the world.

  I do look pretty badass with a buzz. But just as I’m starting to picture the David Beckham version of Will Carter (in this vision, I’ve got a tattoo on my neck and I’m wearing a white suit), Andre says, “You’ll have to shave your head for the state championships in a few months anyway.”

  Hold up, now! That almost sounded like encouragement. Andre has never given anyone moral support, especially not me.

  “That’s not until February,” I say. “And only if I make it to the state championships.”

  “You’re totally going to!” Bag cheers.

  I squint my eyes at him in response. EJ senses that I’m on to them, and quickly adds, “Look, my dad has those old clippers in the basement and we could finally break out the boxing gloves and practice for your fight with Scary Terry!”

  “Why am I always alone in this imaginary fight? He went to jail for hitting you, you know!”

  “Quit saying that. You know we’ve got your back, and we will help you with your boxing skills…after we give you a haircut.”

  I start to tell him to shut up, but EJ cuts me off. “AND!!! You guys gotta check out the new ride!”

  “You got the car?!” I ask.

  He nods and says, “Yep, the old man brought it home last night.”

  New is probably the wrong way of describing a 1969 Dodge Dart, but it is new to us.

  “You gotta see the backseat!” EJ adds. “It’s like a motel on wheels!”

  Everyone sees the possibilities at the same time, and I say, “Awesome!”

  He knows he’s got me. He continues, “By the time we finish cutting your hair and kicking your ass, my dad’ll be home, and we can take the old girl out for a spin!”

  “Come on, Carter!” everyone pleads.

  It’s tough to resis
t people when they seem like they’re looking out for you, and especially when things sound like fun…but I’m a sophomore now! I’m not falling for this old bait-and-switch routine. They do not have my best interests at heart; all they see is a cliff that it would be fun to push someone off, and I seem to be standing on the edge. My ears are way too big to rock a shaved head properly, and everybody knows it!

  I grab my backpack and say, “No way! I’ve watched your dad cut dingleberries off of your dog’s butt-hole with those clippers.”

  They’re still trying to sell me on the cleaning power of bleach and the benefits of a free haircut as we walk out of the locker room. Everyone sees Abby sitting on the bleachers reading a book, and they all know that she’s waiting for me. It’s a dream come true for me to be the guy that a beautiful girl is looking for! Everyone is jealous. Not only is Abby hot…she knows how to read!

  My heart is pounding, but I fight the urge to run up to her yelling, “HIYA, ABBY!!!” I simply walk over and lightly kick her foot before asking, “S’up, nerd?”

  She smiles and says, “Just finished drill team. Wanted to see what the cool boys were up to.”

  EJ explains, “We’re going to my house to check out my new ride and shave Carter’s balls.”

  “Really?” she asks.

  “No. That is not what we are doing. They want me to cut the hair on my skull, though.”

  “But Carter is worried he’ll get kicked out of the boy band he’s starting,” Nutt adds.

  Everyone laughs, and I extend the appropriate finger. Abby gets serious when she asks me, “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  My boys peel off for the parking lot. EJ has to come back and collect Andre, because he’s staring at Abby like a lost puppy (pit bull).

  She asks, “So, EJ got a new car?”

  I know she has something bad to tell me, and the fact that she’s not getting right to it is troubling.

  “No,” I explain. “The car is really old. It was his great-aunt’s, but she died. It’s got a really powerful engine and a huge backseat.” I raise my eyebrows suggestively.