I collapsed and Rob crawled on top of me. We frenched and I could taste my spunk on his tongue.
When it was my turn, Rob was patient. I may not be a natural-born talent, but I wasn’t completely awful. I know I scraped him a couple of times because he tensed up and gasped, “Teeth, teeth.” Still, Rob wasn’t rushed to the emergency room where a whole surgical team had to sew him back together. He’s not even wearing a Band-Aid. I tried getting all of him in my mouth like he did with me, but it didn’t work. My eyes watered, my nose got all runny, and I felt like a bulimic chick cramming her fist in her mouth to retch. There were other ways we were different, too. Like, every five minutes I had to stop and pick a pube off my tongue. And my jaw got totally sore. I don’t think Rob’s did. Still, he got off. I even swallowed. It tasted like baking soda and salt.
Afterward, we spooned and talked. I kept apologizing for being too skinny, not covering my teeth with my lips, gagging, bending him in the wrong direction once—Okay, pup, not like that—and Rob told me to relax. Then he did most of the talking, my head against his chest.
“You know the real reason I went to boarding school?” Rob asked. I nodded, running my finger along his treasure trail and hoping that he’d get hard again. I already was. Rob rolled me to my side, pulling my back into his chest and wrapping his arms around me. “They wanted to keep Mom’s ALS a secret from me. At least, at first they did.”
“When did they find out she had it?”
“I’m not sure when they knew…when I was a freshman or sophomore, I think. I remember that she seemed to be getting clumsy. She had trouble holding things and would trip over the carpet all the time. Then during Christmas break my sophomore year, something happened.”
“What?”
“I didn’t know until this year, when my dad told me why we were moving from Manhattan. One night, there was some big holiday benefit that they were supposed to go to. Dad was running late, and when he got home, he raced up to their room to put on his tux. Mom was sitting at her dressing table. He told her he was sorry that he was late, he’d been having trouble on one of his big accounts, but that they both needed to hurry. That’s when he looked over at her and Mom was crying. Dad said she told him she’d spent the entire afternoon struggling to fix the seam of her stockings, clasp her necklace, and put on the earrings he’d given her for their anniversary. Simple tasks. Ones she’d done thousands of times, but couldn’t manage anymore.
“They didn’t end up going to the benefit. Dad says they spent the night talking about what would happen. About me. Mom said she didn’t want me to see her getting worse. Part of me thinks she was right, but another part of me hated her for it.”
“How come?” I asked softly, drawing his arms more tightly around my chest.
“Seeing her the way she is now is hard sometimes. I feel that maybe it would be easier for me to deal with it if I’d seen all of it happening—the cane, the slurred speech, the wheelchair. Dad says he doesn’t think it would have made things easier for me and it wouldn’t have made them easier for Mom. It would have broken her heart.
“The only reason we moved is because this is where she wants to die,” Rob said into my shoulder blade. He might’ve been trying not to cry, but it was too hard to tell. “She wants to die where she grew up.”
“Yeah, but there could be worse places to die,” I said.
“Okay,” Rob said, “name a worse place to die.”
“At a convention for necrophiliacs.” When things get serious or uncomfortable, I make jokes. It’s my way of dealing with things. There was this one time when one of my great-uncles died and we’d all gone back to my great-aunt’s house after the funeral, and Mom’s sister pulled out this box of old-time family photographs—feathered hair, my great-uncle putting a black comb to his nose and pretending like he was Adolf Hitler, and old tintype ones. I made some smart-ass remark about our family tree not sprouting branches until sometime in the 20th century. It got a laugh.
“Gross.”
“Or being found electrocuted in your bedroom after an accident with a plug-in vibrator.”
Rob chuckled.
We were hungry, so we got dressed and went downstairs. I made grilled cheese sandwiches with real butter, Velveeta, and Wonder Bread in an electric skillet—anything less would be uncivilized—and asked Rob if he wanted to watch a movie or something. He said sure, so I put in Flash Gordon. Sure, it’s totally cheesy, but you can’t go wrong with Max von Sydow as Ming the Merciless and an awesome soundtrack by Queen. It freaked out Rob that I could mouth all the actors’ lines before they spoke them.
Mom came home just as the war rocket Ajax was impaling Ming. I wanted to know where she’d been, but she wouldn’t say. She just told me I needed to clean up the mess I’d made in the kitchen. I asked if Rob could spend the night. Actually, I begged. She glanced at the watch on Rob’s wrist and then stared at me like she was insulted I thought she was too dumb to figure out what was going on. I folded my hands like I was praying, mouthed the word “please,” and gave her my best desperate I-swear-I’ll-never-ask-you-for-anything-ever-again-just-let-me-spend-the-night-with-this-cute-boy look. She relented, saying it was okay if, one, Rob’s parents said it was; and two, we cleaned up the kitchen; three, we slept in the family room (Not your bedroom, Charlie, understood?); and four, I basically promised to be her indentured servant for the rest of my natural life. Rob said his parents would let him, but he’d call to make sure.
While Rob called his dad, Mom made me help her get the quilts, afghans, pillows, and blankets for me and Rob to camp out downstairs.
“The watch looks good on him,” Mom said, but her voice was really saying don’t-think-I-don’t-know-what-you’ve-got-planned-buster-and-don’t-even-think-about-trying-it. “Let’s make sure it stays on him tonight, okay?”
“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Mom rolled her eyes and helped me carry the bedding back to the family room just as Ming picked up his ring at the end of the movie. Mom shook her head, said her good nights, and then went upstairs.
After I thought Rob was asleep, he surprised me by reaching over and wrapping an arm around my chest.
“Remember on the sidewalk at the White Hen?” he asked.
I nodded, but wasn’t sure what he was talking about.
“When you said you loved me. I didn’t say anything. I’m saying it now, pup. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
We kissed and went to sleep.
Monday, September 17
School was pretty bad today. I figured it would be. You can’t fag out at homecoming and expect nothing to happen.
It’s got me thinking that I probably need to rework my college essay.
I’m the prince of public scorn. Sure, it may sound like a cushy title, but it carries with it a certain noblesse oblige, “nobility obligates,” which in ancient civ we learned means that, every so often, those of us who’ve got it all—charm, wit, dashing good looks, country estates—should throw a bone to the inbred, dirt-under-the-fingernails crowd of little people.
There was this morning’s de-pantsing in the Pit, which drew a larger crowd than the changing of the guard (please, no flash photography). That was followed by an audience with the ranking dignitaries—the math class jagoffs gleeking spit on the back of my neck and the Rot-See Nazis demonstrating the latest ass-whipping techniques. Then I had the investitures, where I presented pieces of my underwear—post-grundy—to the honor’s list.
Of course, I had my public engagements, too, such as the installation of a new toilet in the boy’s locker room. A bunch of the jocks decided I just had to be there for its christening by swirly. The day ended with a report from one of the government whips (imagine, they actually prefer to be called “deans”—how quaint) delivering messages of state. Look, Charles, we’re not saying it’s your fault, but if you toned it down you’d be less of a target.
Rob didn’t catch any crap, though. Since his family’s rich, he can get away
with anything. At least at South. Even though Rob’s not a totally blatant, lettered-in-three-sports varsity pussy-hound, he didn’t catch shit. Hell, if he got caught sucking me off, everyone’d say I’d tricked him into doing it, saying how I tried screwing a rattlesnake, got bitten, and Rob, being a hero, was just sucking the venom out.
Tuesday, September 18
I think First’s been driving by the house the last couple of nights. If he catches either of us looking at him from a window, he speeds off. I know he’s been the one calling the house and hanging up if I answer. It’s like he’s in sixth grade. If Mom answers, she tells him she needs her space and his calls aren’t helping any.
Mom’s still going out and not saying what she’s doing.
Thursday, September 20
Around three this morning, I woke up to hear Mom coming in the front door. She wasn’t alone. First was with her. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but I could tell he was pissed. I got out of bed and kneeled next to one of the heating vents to try to hear them better.
Mom was telling First to keep his voice down. He was going to wake me.
“Well at least tell me where you’ve been,” First said. He didn’t sound demanding, just concerned. It was surprising. “I just want to know that you and Chip are all right.”
“Look, Charles, I’m just walking in the door. It’s late, and I’m tired from work…”
“Work?” First asked. “What are you doing?” I wanted to know the same thing.
“Do we have to do this now? Can’t this wait until morning?”
“Work?” First asked again, all dog with a bone. “Who’s watching Chip when you’re at work?”
“Charles, he can look after himself. He’s almost eighteen. How much trouble can he get into?”
There was a pause, and then they both laughed. Ha ha ha. The two of them oughta go into stand-up together.
“Can I come in?” First asked. “Just for a few minutes.”
“I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”
“Laura, how are we supposed to work things out if we aren’t talking? I want us to work through this together.”
“Charles, it hasn’t even been a week. I need time.”
“The last time you said that we almost got divorced.”
The last time? Divorced? It didn’t make sense. I couldn’t remember them ever being separated or even talking about throwing in the towel before now.
“The last time was different,” Mom said. Her voice started to crack. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m sorry, Laura. It’s just that this…what’s going on between us…for me, it’s like another loss.”
Mom started sobbing, and I heard the floorboards creak, like First had stepped inside to hold her. I pushed my ear closer to the heating vent to hear something—anything—but got nothing. I wanted to go downstairs and see if she was okay, but something told me I wouldn’t get a straight answer from either of them.
After awhile, I heard First’s shoes and him saying, “I should go.”
Mom didn’t speak, but I imagined her nodding.
Finally she said, “We’ll talk in the morning,” and closed the front door. From my window, I watched First pull out of the driveway. I went back to bed, but couldn’t sleep. I was dying to know what they weren’t talking about, but I sure-as-shit know there’s no way Mom’ll tell me. Besides, it’s not like there was an easy way to even bring it up. Hey, Mom, while I was eavesdropping on you last night, it sounded like you were separated before? Wanna tell me about that?
Ugh.
Friday, September 21
After our game today, Rob came over and we hung out in my room listening to music and stuff.
Rob took the Nestea plunge onto my bed. One of his socks had practically fallen off his foot and as soon as I saw his ankle, I wanted to lick it. I started getting a stiffy. By the time the second track was playing, our socks and shirts were at the end of my bed.
I’m supposed to take the Metra into Chicago with Rob tomorrow when he goes downtown for his piano lesson. We’re going to hang out in the city afterward. It should be fun.
Saturday, September 22
Rob and I got thrown out of the Art Institute today. According to the security guard, you’re not supposed to play tag around priceless pieces of art. They really ought to have a sign or something. Anyhow, I did manage to get postcards with pictures of some of the paintings Rob liked—The Rock, Warhol’s Mao, some splattered thing by a guy named Pollock, and a couple of others.
Tomorrow’s our three-week anniversary. Weird, huh? And to think, at first, I practically hated him; now I’m in love.
God, that seems stupid to write. I mean, really. I don’t know anything about love.
I realized that this week. In creative writing, we’ve been reading from Elie Wiesel’s Night, this book about surviving the Holocaust. We’re reading it ’cuz Mrs. Bailey wants us to write an essay on The Most Important Thing We’ve Learned. For some reason, she got it in her dumb New Age-y head that our short little suburban lives are, get this, rife with the same meaning and insights of someone who survived a concentration camp and that we just absolutely must commit our wisdom to paper, because forgetting is the gravest of sins. What’s worse, she’s got the class believing her.
To piss Bailey off, I almost wrote that the most important thing I’ve learned is how to masturbate. It’s given me hours of entertainment and lets me have sex—imaginary, of course—with just about everyone I could ever want: Rob, most of the guys on the soccer team, the entire swim team (they’d asked me to help them shave their legs so they were faster in the water, and well, soon we’re all naked and shaving cream and spooge is flying everywhere), Neil and Aaron Binkmeyer (together and separately), just about every guy under the age of twenty-five who’s appeared shirtless in People, the two barbecuing blond guys in First’s old Hustler, and even Steve Marshall (gross, I know, but it worked when I pretended I had him tied up).
I didn’t write my “How I Learned the Art of Self-Love” essay and worked on some stupid thing about reading being the most important thing I’d learned. The teacher’s pet, some junior girl who writes all these crappy things about unicorns prancing around on rainbows and babies turning their heads to smile at their mothers like sunflowers meeting the sun, wrote how the most important thing she’d learned was How to Love. Not the hot-and-sweaty-jump-someone’s-bones porno love, but the big syrupy Gandhi kind. Bailey wet her panties over it. She thinks it should be included in the school’s literary magazine.
Here’s what I know about love: It’s not something anybody should bother writing about, especially songwriters, poets, and teenaged gay boys in the Midwest. Love is a many-splendored thing, love will keep us together, your love keeps lifting me higher. None of it means anything. All I know is it’s not something you can explain.
Tuesday, September 25
Rob’s decided that he’s teaching me to drive. We started last night. I don’t think he knows what he got himself into. He joked I couldn’t be that bad. He was wrong.
Driving Test Failure Numero Uno: The first time isn’t supposed to count, right? It wasn’t like it was my fault. That examiner woman kept scratching all this stuff about me on her clipboard. Can I help it if the Oldsmobile veered to the right and jumped a curb when I leaned over to see what she was writing? C’mon, she was writing about me. I had a right to know what she was saying.
Driving Test Failure Number Two: Okay, anybody could screw up and forget which pedal was for the gas and which was for the brake. And the woman with the baby stroller—no harm, no foul. I bet even she didn’t know she could run that fast.
The Hat Trick: I can explain. This examiner was hot—big chest, thick arms, unbelievable eyes. He was wearing pants that were so tight they might as well’ve been carbon paper—I could’ve traced his dick through ’em. Keeping my eyes on the road would’ve totally been a problem—that is, if we’d ever made it out of the parking lot.
When I told him that I’d sooo totally kiss him if I passed, he flunked me right then and there. How’s that for a self-esteem booster?
Attempt Number Four: Again, not my fault. That dog practically jumped in front of us. Sure, the Illinois Rules of the Road says I should’ve run the mutt over, but try telling Timmy that after he’s seen you scrape bits of Lassie from the fender. Yeah, yeah. So what if a doctor said some bureaucrat had to wear a neck brace ’cuz of the whiplash. Memo to all Department of Motor Vehicles employees: screaming doesn’t help. I don’t care if you’re in pain, it’s still more than a little unnerving.
Driving Test Failure Number Five: So I parallel park as well as an epileptic having a seizure plays Operation. Still, I did less than a hundred bucks worth of damage so they should’ve let it slide.
Failure Number Six—Last But Not Least: I don’t care what anyone says. I sooo did not cut off that ambulance. And I most definitely did not run it off the road.
Tonight, I didn’t hit anything. With Rob sitting shotgun, I was more relaxed behind the wheel than I am with First. But even Rob says I drive like a blind Asian midget. I’m oblivious to everything around me. I’ll sing along with the radio, forget to use turn signals, or I won’t put the car in park if I’m stopping somewhere. I didn’t check the mirrors as often as I should’ve, and when I did, it was only to make sure I’d look hot for Rob. Still, Rob’s been good about the whole thing, even though when we had dinner at his house, he joked about how bad I am.
Mrs. Hunt’s not doing well. She looks like she’s in a lot of pain, too. After dinner, I volunteered to do the dishes as Rob helped his mom to the living room. While I was drying the plates, I heard Mr. Hunt on the phone with some doctor, saying he needed more drugs for Mrs. Hunt. The bottle they had ordered got knocked into the toilet while he was trying to bathe his wife. It seemed weird, ’cuz there were tons of prescription bottles of something called diazepam—the same thing he was asking about on the phone—from different pharmacies in New York, from around Crystal Lake, and even a few bottles from Canada. It didn’t make sense, and I guess that’s why I didn’t say anything. I mean seriously, if Mr. Hunt was gonna go all Republican-hypocrite-let’s-round-up-all-the-black-crackheads-in-America-and-shoot-’em-in-the-street-before-they-rape-our-women-and-steal-the-Vicodin-I-swallow-like-a-fat-man-gorging-on-an-Easter-ham, it’s not like Mr. Hunt’d be having bottles of whatever he was jonesing for just lying around. And if they really were for Mrs. Hunt, wouldn’t Rob’s dad make sure that she was taking ’em in the first place and not stockpiling them like they were nukes and he was some crazed Russian from a Bond flick? Who knows why old people do what they do? If you ask me everyone my parents’ age is crazy, an asshole, or both.
The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second Page 13