But after a minute, I realize something’s not right. Dad’s voice sounds different. It’s light. It’s happy. It’s so unlike any other time he’s ever talked to Mom. My heart pounds furiously because suddenly I know it’s not Mom on the other end of the line.
The information connects instantly, and my brain starts telling me to get the hell out of here before he hears me. But my body stays stuck in place. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Dad is laughing and making promises to see her soon.
I step back from the door, but bump into the small table in the corner. It makes the slightest noise that suddenly halts the murmuring. I try to think quickly.
“Charlie?” he calls from the other side of the door. Shit. I grab the handle of the front door and open it noisily.
“Charlie?” Dad swings open his office door just as I slam the front door shut and pretend to have just gotten home.
“Hey, Dad. Sorry, I didn’t mean to slam it.”
“You . . . you just getting in?” he asks.
“Yeah, sorry, I know I’m a little late, but it just worked out better for Tom to drop everyone else off first.” The fake name comes to me easily.
“Oh, right . . .” He rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t hear a car,” he says.
“Really?” I swallow hard, and just as quickly as it comes to me, the lie floats out of my mouth. “I’m surprised. Tom’s car is an old clunker.” I bounce the focus back on to him and try to keep my voice as light as possible. “You must have been pretty focused on what you were doing. Work keeping you up late?”
And there it is. He directs his gaze to the floor, shrugs his shoulders, and stuffs his hands into his pockets. His face looks slightly flushed as he shifts his weight uncomfortably.
“Yeah, just finishing up.”
“Oh, okay. Well, I better get to bed. I’m pretty tired,” I tell him.
“Yeah, yeah, me too,” he says, “just one last e-mail to send.” I head to my room, refusing to look back at him.
“Sport?” he calls as I reach the top of the stairs. I stop and turn around halfway. “Are you all right?”
I clear my throat. “Yeah,” I say, louder than I mean to.
“Okay then, good night,” he calls out just as I make it to my room.
I close the door and lie down without bothering to change my clothes. Dad is cheating on Mom. It seems incredibly unreal. It’s . . . I can’t even imagine Dad talking to another woman, putting us completely out of his mind like that. I can’t imagine him anywhere but here. Was he happy away from us? Did he wish he could take off and never come back? Or is this what he meant by “just the two of us?”—like if Mom never came back?
And then it hits me. Mom must have found out. This is why she’s gone. This is why he sent me to fat camp. Not because he cares about me, not because he knows how hard things are for a fatty, but because he was trying to get rid of me and do whatever the hell he wanted with some other woman. All this time, he let me think it was me. He let me think my weight was the big stress between him and Mom, but it wasn’t me. It was them and how freakin’ selfish they are. And this is why Dad kept asking if I was okay. This is why he gave me a hundred fucking dollars for my birthday because of his guilt.
And now I’m in all of this alone. The only person who I thought got it, who I thought I might be able to count on, has left me too.
PART TWO EXPOSURE
CHAPTER SEVEN
Here’s what I know:Dad isn’t who I thought he was.
Mom is who she’s always been.
I am not who I want to be (still).
This is who we are.
Here’s what I don’t know:
If this is who we’ll always be.
“Hey, Sport,” Dad says to me the next morning. I’m about to bolt and wait outside for Ahmed when he hits me with, “What do you know about these video cameras that attach to your computer? I have to get one for my conference calls.”
I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that he actually has the nerve to say it so casually. I look over at him, and just like I figured, he’s not looking back at me. He’s too busy texting on his BlackBerry, and it’s probably to her, even as he stands in the same room as me.
“Nothing. I don’t know anything about them,” I say as his phone buzzes with an incoming message. He looks down at it and smiles.
“Eh, all right. I guess I’ll just ask the guy at the store.” His teeth seem whiter than usual. It pisses me off and quickens the realization that Dad is a lying phony.
His hair is neatly combed back; his shirt, tie, and slacks are crisp and perfectly pressed. He irons everything himself because he doesn’t think the drycleaners do a good enough job. The way he’s so immaculately groomed is extremely irritating, and I have to fight the urge not to tell him to go to hell. But I don’t want him to know that I know because what will happen when he doesn’t have to hide it anymore? He takes a sip of his coffee and looks up at the ceiling before looking over at me.
“You okay, Sport?” His brow furrows.
“Yeah, fine, just tired,” I mumble.
“Me, too.” He sighs. It’s déjà vu and I wonder if this is all Dad and I will ever say to each other. He seems like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. We pretend not to notice the awkward silence that fills the air, the weirdness that has come back tenfold from the summer, until finally, Dad looks at his watch.
“Hey, listen, Sport. I gotta fly outta town to Chicago for a couple of days. I’m heading straight to the airport now. It’s last minute, but,” he pauses, “anyway, you think you’ll be okay on your own for a few days?”
My stomach drops. He goes on to overexplain why he has to go, giving too many details about some emergency finance meeting.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” I cut him off because I’ll lose it if he tells me another damn lie.
This is too much for me to deal with. It’s not just his lying and sneaking around that makes the whole situation unbearable. It’s something else, something that goes much deeper. It’s like a seriously screwed-up sense of understanding. Because I get it. I know why he’s doing this. And I hate that I get it.
But he’s dead wrong if he thinks I’m going to be his little accomplice. Freaking portable video cameras and a sudden out-of-town meeting . . . on a Friday? He obviously thinks I’m an idiot who can’t figure shit out.
“You sure you’ll be all right?” he asks. A shadow passes over his face, and I think that maybe if I say no, he might stay. But it doesn’t matter. He’s already decided to go.
I nod.
“I’ll call and check up,” he says as he heads to the door, his carry-on and briefcase propped up next to it. His stupid shoes click on the tiled kitchen floor as he walks to the back door. He’s almost outside when the words come out of me.
“Hey, Dad?”
“Yeah, Sport?” his head pops back into the kitchen.
“Sorry you have to figure it out on your own,” I say. His smile disappears. He looks back at me, and his eyes flicker with a sudden understanding.
“Oh. You mean the video camera? Yeah, don’t worry about it, Sport.” He looks at me funny, and stops for a minute like he’s going to say something.
“All right, well, talk to you soon,” he says and shuts the door behind him.
I drink the rest of my orange juice in silence, thinking about how I’m sitting in this kitchen alone. I think about how my mom is God knows where. How my dad is heading to God knows where. And I’m stuck here—all by myself.
School sucks all day. I can’t think of anything except Dad and the mystery woman he was talking to. The teachers drone on, and more than once I have to ask someone what we’re doing. By the time photography comes around I’m tired of thinking and put my head on the table waiting for class to start.
Right now I want to stop time; stop the harsh squeak of someone’s sneakers as they hurry in, the scrape of chairs being pulled out and pushed back in, the layers of voices and conversations that f
ill the room. When I was younger, I used to watch some reruns of a TV show about a girl who could stop time just by touching the tips of her index fingers together. I keep my head pressed on the cold table, close my eyes, and slowly bring my fingers together.
The bell rings.
Mr. Killinger’s voice fills the room, slowly snuffing out the swell of conversation until only he is speaking.
“All right, people. You have exactly four weeks to finish your collections,” he says, “then, that first week in December, we will have judging here at school. The panel of judges will include my mentor, Dr. Hoyt, your principal, and other Rennington College and Kennedy High faculty. They will choose the winning collection that, in turn, will be displayed the following week at Rennington’s annual fine arts show.” He smiles. “It’s a big deal guys. Pretty cool stuff.”
I think of how I haven’t worked on this yet, and probably should. Why the hell haven’t I when taking pictures is the only thing I’m good at? But thinking of all that starts crowding my head. And I wish I could will myself to think of nothing, but when you try to think of nothing, you end up thinking of everything, especially of how shitty your Dad is.
“So, that translates to . . . you better be working on it! Seriously, I want some good stuff. Remember, you want enough time to compose your artist’s statement explaining your photographs. You should include what the photos represent and how they fit together as a collection. Some of you are probably already at that stage, or at least have an idea of what to write.” I mean he was married. Is married. Even if Mom is never around. . . .
People around me open their books, start working on artist’s statements, and talk to each other about their collections. Some have even brought in their pictures and begin showing them to others. I open my notebook and stare at a blank page. Despite his sending me to fat camp, I had always thought of Dad as the good guy and Mom as the bad guy. But maybe I had it wrong all this time. Maybe Dad was bad and Mom was good, but then, why would she abandon us like she always does? My head hurts. I can’t think about this anymore but I can’t stop. Then suddenly Mr. Killinger comes up behind me.
“Having trouble?” he asks. I shrug my shoulders. “Need help?” I don’t answer him.
“Have you started thinking about your collection yet?” he continues.
No, I haven’t thought about it because my dad is having an affair, and my mom can’t stand to be around me. It won’t be long before Charlotte sees how screwed up I am, and she’ll eventually disappear too. And there’s no escaping any of this....
I shrug again and focus on the blank page in front of me because I can’t look him in the eye. He stays silent for a minute, but he’s still standing next to me.
“Hey . . . why don’t you hang out for a while after class, okay?” I don’t say anything, but he waits. I nod and he finally walks away. I put my head down and close my eyes for the rest of the class.
The bell rings. Everyone packs up their stuff and starts heading out.
“Wanna talk about it?” Mr. Killinger comes over to my table once the last person has left the room. He pulls out a chair and sits next to me. I’m glad he’s not facing me. He’s being nice, but I wish he’d leave me alone. Things are so much easier when you’re big and fat and everyone pretends you don’t exist. I keep my head bowed.
“Charlie . . . I can tell something’s wrong. I know you don’t want the lame lecture teachers usually give, but . . .” He chooses his words. “You can talk to me. Sometimes, it helps to just get it out.”
I wish I could open my mouth and let everything come out. But it feels glued shut.
“Is it something here at school?” he asks. I shake my head no.
“Home?” The word is depressing. I don’t say anything.
“Okay . . . is it your parents?” I nod.
“It’s all right, Charlie, you can talk about it.” I wish I could. I really do. But I’m not going to.
“Are they on your case about something?” Silence fills the air and it makes me hot and uncomfortable. I wish I could tell him something, anything, just to get this over with, if only to fill the silence. I clear my throat.
“It’s . . .” My voice sounds hoarse. I clear my throat and try again. “It’s . . . I just don’t get them,” I tell him finally, amazed at how much effort it takes to just say that. I don’t know how else to sum it all up. My mouth refuses to elaborate. But my brain keeps spinning the truth. Mom is crazy and gone all the time, and Dad is sleeping with some other woman in Chicago. Mom is crazy and gone all the time, and Dad is sleeping with some other woman in Chicago. . . .
“Oh,” he says, “it must be pretty bad.” I just shrug in response.
“Is there a lot of yelling?” he asks. No, just silence. No one is ever home. But I just nod again.
“Anything more than yelling . . . ?” I look over at him for the first time since we started talking. He looks genuinely concerned.
I still don’t know how to answer. Yes, it’s so much more than yelling, but . . .
“Anything . . . any . . . physical altercations?” he asks.
I shake my head, no. We’re very good at hurting each other without any altercations, without being in the same room, without being in the same house.
“Well . . . ,” his voice trails off. “Listen, Charlie, I understand what it’s like living in a house where there’s a lot of . . . tension,” he says. “It’s hard. A lot harder than people think.”
“Yeah,” I croak, wishing so bad I could tell him the rest; wishing the words in my head would actually come out of my mouth. But they don’t, and we sit there again in silence. He doesn’t tell me it will get better. He doesn’t tell me not to worry. He tells me it sucks and sometimes kids get a raw deal. It’s not fair but it’s true, and if I need to talk to someone, he’ll listen.
“Here.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out his wallet. He slips a business card out and hands it to me.
“Give me a call whenever. I’m serious,” he says. “Anytime.”
The card has an image of a vintage looking camera in the corner, and in the middle there’s a phone number and an e-mail address along with:Luka Killinger
Freelance Photographer
“Luka?” It’s weird when you learn a teacher’s first name, especially when it’s a name like Luka.
“Oh, it gets much worse. Luka Sue, actually,” he says. I turn to see how gullible he thinks I am.
“No way,” I tell him. Who the hell names a boy Sue? Luka Sue?
He still has his wallet in his hand, so he digs out his driver’s license and drops it on the table. Luka Soo Killinger.
“Oh, but it’s Soo.” I say even though I’ve never heard the name Soo. I kind of laugh and shake my head.
“Doesn’t matter how you spell it. It’s still Sue,” he says. He takes back his license and tucks it into his wallet.
“Actually, both are names of songs. My mom was obsessed with Johnny Cash. One of his songs was about a boy named Sue, S-U-E, but, well, anyway, guess you could say she had a sense of humor and was a bit of a free spirit. I’m just glad it’s not my first name, you know?”
I nod and look down at my hands. Silence.
“Charlie,” he says, “parents . . . they’re never perfect and lots of times are very different from who we think they are or who we want them to be.”
I nod and stare at the card in my hand. He’s getting too close to the truth. The silence hangs in the air. I feel like I’m going to suffocate.
“Harrison,” I say finally.
He looks at me funny.
“My middle name,” I tell him. “Charles Harrison Grisner.”
“I would have killed for a name like that,” he says. I try to laugh and it helps.
I sit there for another minute. I can tell he’s just giving me time, but I’m ready to go.
“Well, I guess I better go to lunch,” I say because I don’t know how to end this weird TV-sitcom moment. I get up to leave.
“Okay. But listen . . . ,” he says, “anytime, all right?” I look over at him, and I can tell he means it. He’s not just playing the part of the concerned teacher.
“Yeah, okay . . . thanks.” I put the card in my back pocket and make a mental note to put it somewhere safe once I get home. I grab my backpack.
“See you later . . . Sue,” I say as I leave.
“Later, Harrison,” he calls out.
Sixth period drama rolls around and I watch the door, hoping she will be in class. If Charlotte’s not in class today, I’m just going to put my head down and hope the world ends. The door opens, and she comes in and slides into her seat next to me.
“Hey,” she says with a sweet smile. Just having her this close makes everything else go away. “I looked for you at lunch. . . .”
Really? She was looking for me?
“Oh, sorry, teacher kept me after class.”
“Bummer,” she says, and then looks at me with a coy shyness I’m sure she doesn’t actually feel. “So . . . ,” she continues, dragging out the word, “last night was fun.”
I smile, suddenly remembering last night. I laugh nervously as a thousand butterflies flap like mad in my stomach.
When the night comes flooding back, I need a glass of water. I haven’t even had a chance to relive the kiss since it happened—how her lips felt and the warmth of her mouth. The butterflies multiply to a trillion.
“Yeah. Very, uh, wow,” I say. I’m a bumbling idiot. “I mean, very cool,” I manage, finally.
“We should do it again sometime,” she says, “like, maybe tonight?”
I swallow hard, laugh for no reason, and nod. Her eyes flicker, satisfied with my reaction. The bell rings. The last of the presentations start, and she sits back and flashes a smile every time I look her way. When the bell rings ending class, she asks me to come over to her house to watch a movie tonight. Her house, just the two of us—no Mark, no Danny, no annoying other girls. Just us. Charlotte and Charlie. And even though I start warning myself that this is too good to be true, I agree and thank God for creating Charlotte VanderKleaton. I’m thankful she’s here because if I didn’t have her to look forward to, I wouldn’t have anything else. If I’ve found my way to Charlotte’s heart, I want to bury myself there forever, even if she doesn’t remember or notice I’m there. I don’t mind, just as long as she lets me stay.
The Downside of Being Charlie Page 8