“Geez, Chuck,” Greta grumps. “I didn’t get to say hi to your mom.”
“Pizza’s getting cold,” I say, motioning to the box in the center of my floor, praying no one notices the elliptical shape of the slices Charlotte and I shoved back together.
James flops down in front of the food. He’s about to shove a piece of pizza in his mouth when he stops. “What’s this?”
Is it carpet fuzz? It thought I got it all out.
James examines the pizza and grins. “Hell yeah, man,” he says, pulling apart the crust, “stuffed crust.”
I laugh, a stiff, strangled sound. I cover by stuffing a huge bite of pizza in my mouth.
We finish our project crap quickly. Ms. Finch wants us to demonstrate how our mathematical concept can be used in literature. We’re showing how words can be combined in infinite combinations to make poems. Like the poetry magnets my dad gave Mom for Valentine’s Day a few years ago. With the 50-word magnets in the box you could make 2,118,760 possible 5-word poems. Which isn’t an infinite number of poems, but it is, in layman’s terms, a butt load.
Since words are constantly being created, it can be assumed language is infinite. If you raise the power in the exponential equation to infinity, it equals a possible number of poems stretching from here to eternity. Not quantum physics, but not the worst topic ever either.
As soon as Greta puts her computer in her bag, I stand and step over the landmine of junk on my floor. “Well, guess that’s it. I’ll see you guys bright and early Monday.” I’m reaching for the doorknob, but no one has moved.
James stuffs a handful of chips in his mouth. Greta grabs another soda, cracking it open and asking, “What’s with the rushing?”
“Uh, no rush. I thought we were done.”
James gets up on his knees and wraps both hands around the bag of chips in a prayer position. “Please don’t make me go home. It’s like an estrogen explosion over there.” He scoots toward me on his knees, shaking his hands in supplication. “Don’t send me to the front lines, general.”
Greta laughs and tosses a cookie at him. It bounces off the tight curls on the back of his head. “God, you’re an idiot,” she giggles. “Seriously, Chuck. I’m not leaving either. By now the shrinks will be on bottle number who-knows-what. They’d analyze me into a catatonic state.”
“Yeah, of course. Mi casa es su casa.” Inside my head, I hear yelling. Don’t anyone leave this room.
I fiddle around on the computer while Greta and James keep playing my-family’s-crazier-than-yours. Before long, I can hear the familiar bass of Charlotte’s music playing across the hall in Becca’s room. James and Greta notice it too.
“Is Becca listening to music?” James asks, stopping mid-my-mom-is-so-crazy. Before Charlotte, Becca never made noise.
“No, idiot.” Greta smacks him in the shoulder. “It’s Becca’s new friend’s music.”
He touches one finger to his forehead. “Oh, yeah. Cyclops.” Laughing, he asks me, “So what’s she like?”
I shrug and lean closer to the computer screen.
“Come on, man, is she hot? Or, is she weird, like Becca? No offense.”
I shrug again. “I don’t know. She’s Becca’s friend.”
“So she’s weird,” he says to Greta, who tries to swallow her giggles. My stomach coils at their laughter. I make fists with my hands and dig my knuckles into my thighs to distract myself from the suffocating need to round on them and defend Charlotte.
“You like her, Chuck?”
I wiggle the mouse, making the little arrow on the screen move in the shape of infinity.
“You do. Our little Chuck has a crush.” Greta hops up and spins my chair around so I’m facing them. “That’s awesome. You should totally ask this new girl out. We could double.”
“Uh, no.” I spin back around to the computer. I’m sure my asking out the sister of the least popular teacher at Brighton would go over well. I’m sure Greta’d love to double with us—in a parallel universe where unicorns prance and everyone speaks in Dr. Seuss-ical rhymes.
James puts down his pizza and stands, too. “C-man, you gotta man up. She has to be better than Ingrid. Ingrid’s got the personality of an amoeba. Even if this one’s weird, she’s a girl, right? Ask her out.” He kicks my chair so its spins around to face them again. “Shit, ask her out if she’s a dude. We’ll love you no matter what.” They’re standing together, arms around each other looking down on me like underage adoptive parents again.
This shit is getting old.
“Yeah, right.” I try to spin myself back to the computer, but James’s meaty paw stops my momentum. My ears are on code red, ready to burst into flames. “Look,” I say. “Stop trying to set me up.” I push his hand away. “I can’t ask Charlotte out.”
“Why not?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Because she’s Becca’s friend?” Greta asks.
Yes, that’s one of the many reasons, and the easiest to explain, so I hang on to it like a lifeline. “Yes. Exactly. Becca’s never had a real friend before. I can’t screw that up for her.”
Greta nods as James scowls. “He’s right,” she says, looking up at him.
“Damn.” James flops back down to the floor and grabs another slice of pizza.
Greta pats me on the shoulder before crossing to my door. I jump from my chair, sending it spinning in circles, and meet her there. “Where are you going?” My voice sounds like a guitar string pulled too tight, sharp and whining.
“To the bathroom?” Greta purses her lips in a funny snarl.
“Why?”
Her eyes widen in her round face. “Uh, three sodas is why.” I’m leaning my back against the door, blocking her. She squirms from one foot to the other. “May I be excused, your lordship?”
I swallow a shallow breath and open the door for her. I follow and watch her walk the hallway of doom. As if on cue, Becca’s door opens as the bathroom door closes.
“We’ve got to stop running into each other here.” Charlotte laughs like a songbird as she bursts out into the hallway. I feel the heat ignite in my chest.
James is on his feet, tripping over the pizza box and spilling his soda down the leg of his pants to get a look at Becca’s friend. “Hey,” he says, jutting out his chin at Charlotte in a nod.
Charlotte parries with her nod. “Hey.” She smiles, a bright and genuine smile, and sticks out her hand. “I’m Charlotte, Becca’s friend,” she adds, thumbing toward Becca’s open door.
James shakes her hand, eyeing her in a way that makes me want to kick him in his balls. Instead, I clear my throat. “Yes, this is all nice,” I say as I step between James and Charlotte. Looking at Charlotte, I ask, “Whatcha doing out here?”
Charlotte leans in conspiratorially and whispers, “I have to pee.” She speaks slowly, dipping her chin with each word, so when she’s finished, she peering at me from under her thin, black brows.
My hand shakes with the familiar need to tilt her chin back up so her full lips would be inches from mine.
Someone clears her throat.
For the love of Pythagorus. I’ve got no luck.
“Greta, this is Charlotte,” James says from behind me.
Greta studies Charlotte like a scientist through her microscope. “You look familiar. Have we met?”
“Not formally. I look like my sister,” says Charlotte.
Greta’s eyes go wide.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but—” Charlotte nods toward the bathroom.
“Sorry,” Greta says, moving out of the way.
I look at Greta, whose face is scarlet, and cringe.
3.9
When most people think of explosions, they go for the Hollywood special effects version, with lots of noise and fire and people’s limbs flying everywhere. In actuality, the silent ones are more devastating. An exploding supernova can create enough radiation to outshine every star in a galaxy, but no sound. Greta’s fury unfolds like that.
<
br /> Once the bathroom door closes, Greta remains still for a few seconds. Her chest rises and falls in measured breaths. With each inhale, the color from her face fades.
“Gret?”
She turns like she’s in slow motion. “Your sister’s new friend isn’t Cyclops. She’s a Finch.”
“Yes.”
“I notice she has a tattoo.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me you knew her?”
“Yes.”
“Will she help us?” James asks.
“Sabotage her sister?” I ask, still looking at Greta. “Yes.”
Greta’s next question isn’t a question at all. “You like her.”
“No?”
“Liar.”
I take a deep breath and hold it in.
“She likes you.”
“You think?”
“I wouldn’t say it otherwise,” Greta says, folding her arms over her chest.
She seems to be fighting a silent war in that head of hers. I’m surprised when she laughs. It’s a hollow sound, but still a laugh. “You’re a real piece of work, Chuck.” She retrieves her bag. “We’re done here, right? So, I’ll see you guys on Monday.”
She brushes James’s cheek with a kiss before turning to leave. At the top of the stairs she turns around and tosses out, “Don’t forget to hit send, Chuck,” before disappearing down the steps. I hear the front door open and my muscles tense up in anticipation of a shuddering slam, but it closes with a silent whoosh, like an exhale.
Leave it to Greta to be looking out for me even when she’s pissed at me. I’ll send the application. I just want to read over my short answers one last time.
James takes off after her, but returns within minutes. “She left me here,” he says, slouching back into my room.
“I’ll take you home,” I say. I can’t look at him any longer. Instead, I study his big feet standing in a pizza box.
“No. I’m not going back to Estro-pallooza.” He takes a big breath and sits on my bed. “You should’ve told us. You could’ve told me.”
“I know, but this girl, she messes with my brain functioning.”
James cracks a smile. “Yeah, it’s called testosterone, you horn-dog.”
I roll my eyes and sit across from him in my desk chair. Actually, I’m well past testosterone. I’m into adrenaline, dopamine, and seratonin territory now. This is way worse than simple lust. “Now what?” I ask, and the question nearly swallows me.
“Get your coat,” he says.
“Why?”
“We’re going out,” James says, grabbing his sweatshirt.
“Where?” I ask.
James stops in the middle of tugging his sweatshirt over his head. “Good question,” he says, muffled from inside the fabric. Pulling his head out he asks, “Where do teenagers go, and why don’t we know this?”
“Mall?” I suggest.
“Uncool after the age of twelve.”
“Because you’re the king of cool?”
“No, C-Man. That’s your gig.” James finishes messing with his sweatshirt and grabs his backpack. Looking at it, his face brightens. “I’ve got it,” he says. He knocks on Becca’s door.
“Hell’re you doing?” I try to pull him away from the door, but it’s like a rowboat trying to move an ocean liner.
“I’ve got a fantastic idea. It’s going to make you happy, which will make Greta happy. And if Greta’s happy, then she’ll make me happy.”
“Ew.”
“Get your mind out of the gut—” Becca pops her head out her door. “Ladies.”
Charlotte is lying on her back looking up at the ceiling conducting the music with two charcoal pencils. She rolls onto her stomach and pushes herself up to join Becca.
“Anyone interested in a little star gazing?”
The girls look at each other. Becca smiles. Charlotte opens the door wider. “We’re in.”
“Meet us out back. I know a spot on the greenway.” James gives the girls one of his toothy smiles that can be seen from space before ducking down the back steps to the kitchen.
Charlotte leans against the doorjamb. “You mind if we join?”
“Yeah. I mean, no. It’ll be great.”
“C-man,” James hollers from downstairs. “A little help?”
“James!” Dad shouts from the master bedroom. “A little quiet?”
“Sorry!” James shouts back before we hear him mock-whispering, “You won’t hear a peep out of me again.”
I grin at the girls like an idiot, feeling my ears burn, and then bolt down the stairs. When I reach James, he’s rooting in the pantry. “You’re seriously still hungry?”
“Nope, but I am thirsty,” he says, pulling down a bottle of bourbon that’s been there, untouched, for maybe two years. Dad can’t metabolize alcohol well; he ends up completely smashed after three sips, so Mom hid the bottle.
“Uh, no,” I say, trying to grab the bottle.
“Uh, yes,” James retorts. “I’ll be your wingman.”
“Bad idea.”
“No, it’s a brilliant idea.” He puts the bottle in his backpack.
“Midnight snack?”
I turn around as James drops his backpack and kicks it toward the back of the pantry. “Dad. Hey! Uh, we were—”
“Just going to bring these out to the greenway for some star gazing, if that’d be okay?” James is holding out a can of Pringles and a bag of cookies. “Star gazing makes me hungry.”
“Hold on,” Dad says, his face pulled in a stern grimace, but he’s wearing an old Muppet Babies T-shirt so it’s hard to take him too seriously. “Are those my cookies?”
I peek at the bag. “We can’t take those, J,” I say, grabbing the bag. “These are the gluten-free ones. They taste like cardboard hockey pucks.”
“Hey,” Dad says, grabbing his precious cookies. “It’s all I’ve got.”
James grins. “Sorry, Mr. H.”
Dad wanders back to the bedroom with his cookies.
“Too damn close, man. This is not good.”
“You’re right,” James says, and I let out a sigh. “This is great. Let’s hit the greenway.” He walks out the side door assuming that I’ll follow.
I follow.
---
“This is a very bad idea,” I whisper to James as we crash through the underbrush to get to the greenway with the girls a few feet behind us. James lets go of a branch too soon so it smacks me in the face. The trail winds throughout the whole neighborhood, but this section follows a creek and opens up in a glen with picnic tables less than a mile from my house.
I watch him unscrew the cap and take a swig. He swallows and makes a face like he’s licked a dirty diaper.
Coughing, James shoves the bottle at me. “Drink.”
I hold the bottle up and swirl the brown liquid. In the moonlight, it looks like molten amber.
“It’ll do you good,” James says quietly. “Guaranteed to grow you balls big enough to ask out a certain girl.”
I sniff at the open lip of the bottle and feel the inside of my nose heat up from the fumes. “This stuff is toxic,” I say, holding the bottle out.
Charlotte comes up behind me. “I believe that’s the point.” She takes the bottle and tips it up to her lips. She takes a sip, and I can tell she’s trying to be cool, but as she swallows her eyes water and the muscles at the corners of her mouth pull into a frown. “Oh, God. That really is awful,” she says, her voice sharp like razors.
I take a swig, and it’s like ingesting fire. I spew the liquid out in my best impression of a sprinkler.
James jumps back laughing.
“You okay, Charlie?” Becca asks.
“Don’t drink this, Bec. It’s poison.”
“You’re not the boss of me.”
“True,” I say and take another drink. I force myself to hold the flames inside.
By the time we make it to the glen, we’ve all had a few big gulps of the stuff. My whole b
ody is warm and my fingertips feel electric. Also, my teeth feel fuzzy.
James excuses himself to go water a tree, and I flump in the grass near the creek. The dew soaks through my clothes, cool against my hot skin. I set the bottle down in the grass beside me. I can hear the low whispering of the creek, the slight breeze in the tops of the trees, and a chorus of crickets.
Becca tosses pebbles in the creek. They go plink, plink, ker-plonk.
Charlotte stretches out beside me. There’s maybe a single blade of grass separating our fingertips.
When I open my eyes to watch the branches sway above me, a feeling of complete contentment washes over me. Followed by a feeling of nausea. I close my eyes again.
“See, I thought you had to keep your eyes open for star gazing.”
“I can see them just fine,” I say, my voice a timpani in my head.
Charlotte’s laugh crashes around me. “You look a little…unwell. You okay?”
I shake my head. It makes a soft, scratchy sound in the grass. Inside my head, it sounds like a landslide.
“You’re kind of a cheap date, huh?”
“Wha—” I stupidly open my eyes and turn my head to look at her. The movement sends a ripple of panic down my spine. It wraps around my stomach and squeezes. I hold my breath.
“Close your eyes,” she says, sitting up and moving so she can place my head in her lap.
I try to sit up, but my head feels both hollow and heavy. How is that possible?
Her cool fingers find my temples. “Don’t yak.”
“Okay,” I say, laying my head back again. “No yakking. I promise.”
“Good because these are Jo’s shoes and she’d be pissed if you ruined another pair.”
I peek up at her. Her cheeks are pink and the moonlight is tangled in her black hair like a halo. “You’re so…” Beautiful, funny, talented, smart, sexy…my tongue sits like a weight in my mouth.
“Uh-huh. You are so drunk.”
I manage a thumbs-up sign. Charlotte’s fingers now curl through my hair, brushing it away from my forehead.
“You’re a good guy, Charlie.”
“Are you using me?”
Charlotte’s cheeks pale a little, but her lips twist into a smile. “A little.”
“It’s okay if you are. I let Carmen cheat off me in organic chemistry last year. But she wasn’t as pretty as you. Greta says we should double date.”
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