Carter Finally Gets It

by Brent Crawford

  “Sorry, Coach,” I instinctively reply. “I’ve just got to keep practicing, work on my control, and I’m sure I’ll do better.”

  He gets in close to my face and whispers very seriously, “I wasn’t talkin’ about your kickin’. I’m talkin’ to you, right now, about your lack of focus. I’m tryin’ to wake you up from this daydream you live in. ’Cause you’re gonna waste your life in it if you’re not careful. Pull your head out of your ass and realize that you’re lettin’ your team down, and you’re lettin’ yourself down.” He stares at me for a second to make sure I’ve understood what he said, then turns and blows into his whistle for us to huddle up for the second half.

  I don’t cry and I don’t say anything to him. I’m not sure if you’re supposed to talk after someone tells you you’re retarded, letting everyone down, and wasting your life, so I just try to look more serious.

  Andre scored another touchdown after halftime, so I got to kick another extra point, and thank God, I made it. We won the game, and I scored two points. That’s two more points than I’ve ever scored before, but I still feel like crap.

  11. Behavioral Disorder

  I did as Lynn instructed and asked Abby on Wednesday to go with me to the movies on Friday night. The plan is to meet up at the big theater by her house. Lynn says it’s better to meet at the movies, so you’re not riding in a car with the units making small talk. Pickups and drop-offs are apparently very awkward. So I’ll just ride my bike. No wheelies, of course . . . Dang it! I don’t have a bike anymore, and there’s been no progress on its recovery, but Scary Terry hasn’t come to kill me either, so I’m still on top.

  Apparently Lynn stomped up to Terry in the hall yesterday, got in his face, and demanded that he return my bike. He called her a bitch and said he didn’t know what she was talking about. She then called him “a clueless loser with bad breath and no sense of style.” It’s nice to have someone sticking up for you, but when your guardian angel is my sister, it might get you killed.

  The more I hear about Terry Moss the less I like him. He seems to have some real head problems and has to go to a special class called B.D. That stands for Behavioral Disorders. It’s where all the worst kids in the school go to hang out and talk about how to battle their urges to kick the crap out of each other or to burn the school down all the time. If a kid can’t cut it in B.D. class, he has to go to a special school for bad kids. I think it’s called “jail” in certain circles. On the curriculum lists of what courses I could take at Merrian High, I never saw Behavioral Disorders as a class I could just sign up for. Just like I couldn’t enroll in honors calculus because I wanted to, there are steps to getting into the all-exclusive B.D. program. Only so many slots and a whole slew of bad kids, but Terry seems to have made the grade.

  They have the Learning Center, where they put the slow kids and the guys with learning disabilities, but not the kids with ADD. I was recommended for the L.C. in junior high, and I was devastated. But they also recommended me for a class called Seek that’s just for the smartest nerds. My mom told those school psychologists to get their junk together. She wouldn’t be putting her son in a special class for retards in the morning and then one for nerds in the afternoon. My brain is fragile enough as it is.

  Anyway, if the school makes up these nice names for the nerds and the tards, why can’t they figure out a nicer way to describe the Behavioral Disorders class? I bet they tried to call it Choices or like, Problem Solving back in the day, and some normal kid strolled in thinking he’d be all right, and the B.D. kids killed him. So they had to go back to B.D. They put Behavioral Disorders right on the door so there should be no mistake. “If you open this door, you’ll find only kids with . . . behavioral disorders!”

  The room is right by my locker at the end of the building, and the door is always shut. I bet it’s locked too. If you let them out they’ll just steal bikes, kick mailboxes, and push kids down. Apparently Lynn went through a bad-boy phase last year and tried to date Scary Terry. He’s somehow popular despite being a nut bag, so she thought it was okay to go out with him. She was wrong, because the degenerate got into a fight with five guys in a Safeway parking lot while they were trying to get frozen yogurt. These dudes in a Jeep had apparently cut him off for a parking space, and he went crazy. He had a baseball bat in the backseat and started hitting their car. My sister is a busybody to the core, so she tried to break up the brawl, and of course she got popped in the face with the bat. Terry didn’t hit her. He was unconscious by that time, because the five guys got the bat away from him (shocker). I’m sure it seemed like a good plan in his crazy-ass head, but unfortunately, both he and Lynn ended up in the hospital.

  When the ’rents and I picked her up from the hospital, she was hopped up on some funny-ass painkillers. If she could have stayed like that for the rest of her life, it would have been A-OK with me. And I know brain damage isn’t supposed to be hilarious, but she was like a drunk comedian; even the nurses were laughing. She kept yapping about “hot homeboys” and their “hot, hot dogs” and “strawberry milk shakes!” She was killing me, but my mom was crying because her daughter was babbling like a slutty tard in a hospital gown. For all we knew she was going to be like that permanently, but once those pills wore off, she was a raging bitch again.

  Apparently Scary Terry’s parents were worried about their troubled son when he was in seventh grade and getting into too many fights, so they signed him up for karate classes to instill discipline in him, or some such crap. Another way to look at it is that you’ve taken a kid with anger issues and trained him to kill more efficiently. The only reason he’s not a black belt is because he’s always getting into fights with the owner of the karate school. I heard he wins sometimes, too.

  12. Silent but Violent

  I dust off my sister’s old bike for my date with Abby. It had tassels hanging from the handlebars until a couple of minutes ago, because although I’m secure enough to ride a hot-pink Schwinn girl bike (at night, as long as nobody sees), I’ll never be confident enough to ride anything with tassels.

  I have enough lawn-mowing/college money to buy my ticket and Abby’s too, if she’s an old-fashioned type of girl. Which I hope she isn’t, because then I’ll have enough cash for the concession stand. EJ and I usually do the “double feature.” We pay for the first movie and then sneak into a second one. We always buy snacks as payment for the stolen screening, because who would stop somebody walking into a theater with a big tub of popcorn, Milk Duds, and a huge cherry Coke? It’s like we’ve just arrived! We’ve seen three movies in a row before, but it was tough on our ADD.

  I ride the old pink Schwinn like a rented mule. If someone spots me, they may think, Is that Carter on a girl bike? But before they have a chance to confirm their hypothesis . . . I’m gone! If I were racing Lance Armstrong tonight, he would be losing. I blaze through red lights and stop signs. I’m about to blast past the Taco Bell when I slam on the brakes. I check my watch and realize that because of my breakneck pace, I’m going to be really early. And what if Abby isn’t into popcorn and Milk Duds? I’m going to get hungry, and my stomach will be growling when it’s time to kiss good night. I can definitely spare ninety-nine cents for a burrito. I bust through the drive-thru, and of course it’s a cute girl a little older than me who hands me the Burrito Supreme. She gives me kind of a laughy smile. Maybe she thinks I’m cute because I’m doing the drive-thru on a bicycle, or maybe she’s thinking I’ve escaped from a lunatic asylum and stolen this pink girl bike as my getaway vehicle. I break out before the Taco Belle can pass any more judgments. I wolf down the burrito in fourteen seconds, almost breaking EJ’s record, and ride off, fast. I lock up the pink cruiser in back of the theater and walk around front, to see Abby standing under the marquee looking super hot in a simple black dress.

  “What’s up, Momma?” I ask, trying to sound like a rapper in a video. But I think it sounded really stupid as it came out, and I wish I could take it back.

  “Just
waitin’ on you, Daddy,” she replies with a level of cool I never knew a girl could possess.

  “Wow, you look really great,” I say. “Are you going somewhere after this?”

  She turns red. “Oh, Carter, you jerk! I’m totally overdressed! I knew I would be. . . .”

  “No, I think you look awesome. I actually had a suit and tie in my fanny pack and was going to change into it, but then I remembered that fanny packs are gay and had to throw it out. I’m sorry,” I say.

  She laughs. Lynn’s voice echoes in my ear: Not too many jokes, Carter! Comedians don’t score with the ladies. Get to the questions!

  I start with, “What movie do you want to see?” I really want to see The Rock’s new movie, because he’s awesome. He’s funny, but that’s not why the ladies love him. But Lynn said, “Absolutely no action movies, idiot!” So I guess I’m going to have to see a Drew Barrymore cheesy chick flick or something. And please, God, don’t let her be into horror movies! I can’t handle them. I had to sleep in my parents’ room after the last one, and I’m just getting too old for that.

  She replies, “Anything but that cheesy Drew Barrymore mov—”

  I cut her off with my lips. I probably just broke a rule about kissing before the date starts, or interrupting with my face, but I don’t care, she is awesome. “Sorry,” I say as we softly break the kiss.

  She’s totally flustered when she asks me, “Um, what, what movie do you want to see?”

  Huh? I can’t lie to her, because Lynn says, “When boys lie to girls, we always know!” So I say, “I heard The Rock’s new movie is good.”

  “Yeah? Who said it was good?” she asks.

  Dang it! I lied and she totally knew it. “Okay, I heard it was good from the announcer on TV. He says, ‘It’s nonstop action,’ and that ‘The Rock really shines!’”

  She laughs and says, “Well, they do have this movie called Red Betsy. It won the Sundance Film festival. I read this article about it, and it sounds amazing.”

  I try not to make a face as I say, “Cool.” Ugh, if somebody wrote a whole article about it, it’s going to be all talky and complicated and totally SUCK!

  She walks up to the window before me and buys her own ticket. Awesome, now I have enough cash for snacks! But that Burrito Supreme is sitting like a brick in my gut.

  I think chewing is not only good manners, but your stomach prefers it.

  She tells me that she doesn’t like candy, which I think is funny because I’ve seen her eat her weight in M&M’s back in home ec. I don’t laugh out loud or anything, because her recent dislike of candy has led to her looking really good in bikinis, red spandex, and black dresses. So no snacks for us!

  I’m starting to get into this movie about a dude who builds his own airplane, and his crazy mom, when I feel a little rumble just above my belt line. The tremor goes south and is trying to brew itself into a monster fart that will ruin my chances with Abby. No way, pal! If I were here with EJ, I would love nothing better than to rip a stinky-ass Taco Bell fart just as the movie is getting good. But tonight is a different deal. I squeeze my butt cheeks together like a maximum-security prison trying to hold in a crazy prisoner who wants to escape and murder an innocent fourteen-year-old girl on her first date. This sucker is not getting out! I like this girl, and I like this movie. SQUEEZE! The fart passes and goes back to whatever part of your body farts go when they fail to complete their dastardly mission. But I know it’ll be back.

  The movie is awesome. Nothing is blowing up or anything, but the main guy’s really funny and is getting into all kinds of adventures with the ladies in his town, and his dog is funny too. I’m feeling really proud that I’m on a date with a cute girl and enjoying an art film, when I have to fight off another sneak attack from the prisoner in my bowels. I beat back two more escape attempts after that, but my stomach is hurting. I’m starting to think that the Taco Belle was smiling at me because she knows better than anyone how terrible it is to mix freeze-dried beans, sour cream, low-grade meat, processed cheese, yellowy lettuce, and brown tomatoes with a nervous stomach.

  I can’t survive another attack. I’ve got to let this fury out. I jump up and squeeze past Abby like my shoelaces are tied together.

  She whispers, “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I just gotta go potty . . .” I whisper, shut my eyes as tight as my butt, and pray she didn’t just hear that. Silence is golden, dude. I bolt down the stairs and just get around the corner when I give birth to a monster! It’s quiet, thank God. But as all Taco Bell farts are, it’s awful! “Silent but violent,” Bag would call it. It takes like thirty seconds to exit my body, and a great weight has lifted—WHEW!— I’m still watching the movie from the hallway and I’m terrified that this smell is going to fill the theater and kill everyone, but I don’t think it’s possible for a fart to travel fifty feet. I hang out in the hall for about a minute and a half, so it looks like I’m peeing and not taking a grumper. I bust a couple of jumping spin moves to separate myself from the stank. (My boys and I came up with The Farting Ninja Spin last year, and it works.) I go back to my seat a stink-free happy fella.

  I’m watching the dude have an argument with his mom, who’s just died, and I’m thinking that this is something I’d probably say to my mom if she ever died and came back from the dead to nag me. It’s really sad. I feel the tingle in my forehead, the pinch in the nose, and finally the watering of the eyes. OH NO, CARTER! Fart all you want, but please, please, please don’t cry on your first date!

  Think about football, think about how nice Abby’s boobs look tonight. That works, but then I imagine how funny it would be for a guy to start crying on his first date, and that gets me laughing. There’s nothing I can do. I’m totally cracking up. A lady in front of us turns around to see who the insensitive prick is who is laughing at the death of this dude’s mom. Abby shoots me a look because everybody’s all sniffling and her date is over here giggling.

  I finally get it under control, and Abby must be grateful, because she softly grabs my hand. Dang it! I should have washed my hands when I was pretending to pee. The dude’s making a final plea to the love of his life and apologizing to her for wrecking everything . . . Uh-oh, another fart! I’ve only got a couple more minutes. I have to fight it off! I squeeze my butt cheeks and Abby’s fingers with all my might. Abby jerks her hand away, and I realize I was crushing the poor girl’s digits as I was trying to save her life. I then accidentally place my hand on her inner thigh. Actual hand to almost private part contact! That did it. The mainframe lost focus and . . . PRISON BREAK! Coach is right; my lack of focus is hurting everyone! It was silent but it’s a doozie. I pull my hand away from her thigh and try to move the air around us away from Abby. Is it possible to catch a fart and throw it away from innocent bystanders? I’m subtly blowing the air to my left, hoping this fart will jump on the jet stream I’m creating in the theater. Oh, it’s strong and refried stinky. I think Abby’s being spared, but I steal a glance over at her just as her face crinkles. Then it contorts into bug-eyed shock.

  “Ohh, nasty!” she whispers. She’s been hit with the fury of post–Taco Bell syndrome. She sits up straight, grabs her stomach, then doubles over and pukes everywhere. The stream splashes off the nosy lady in front of us. Her neck and hair are covered, and she bolts. Vomit is everywhere. The only smell worse then my Taco Bell bomb is the stink of Abby’s regurgitated Weight Watchers entrée. Oh gross, I hate puke! But I feel responsible for its presence, so I hold her hair back as she burps and gasps for air . . . because that’s the kind of guy I am. She lets go of a few more servings of chicken à la king before she finally stops. Jeez, no wonder she didn’t want snacks; this girl was full! I lift my feet off the ground just a couple of inches so as not to get any of her “points” on my Shox.

  The movie’s over, and I have no idea if the chick took the dude back or whether they live happily ever after or not. If I’d missed the last couple minutes of The Rock’s new movie, I would know that he had saved
the day. But with these damn art movies, she may have told him to drop dead and that she was really a man after all that. I’ll never know because we have to get out of here! It stinks really bad, and I don’t want Abby to have to hold my hair when I start puking.

  She’s not talking; she’s so pissed at me for farting on our first date she’ll never talk to me again. And she’s totally going to tell everyone, and I’m going to have to transfer to a religious school where they can’t judge me. Dang it, I’m never going to have sex! I’m definitely not getting another good-night kiss. Actually, I don’t think I’d be interested even if she were offering.

  We’re walking out toward the parking lot when she starts sobbing. “Carter, you have to say something! I’m so embarrassed, I want to die!”

  “What, why? Just because you puked back there? Nooo,” I reply.

  She laughs. “Oh, Carter, don’t make jokes.”

  “I’m not joking, you shouldn’t be embarrassed. I’m the one who detonated the T-bomb and made you ralph,” I confess.

  “No, that wasn’t you. It was that big guy next to me! You didn’t smell the first one because you were in the bathroom. I had to cover my face with my shirt. But that second one. It was just so strong and vile!” she cries.

  I was honest. I told her it was me . . . once. But I see no reason to beat the point to death. She’s in much too fragile a state right now to listen to who did what and when, so I just let it slide . . . literally!

  I give her a kiss on the cheek (I don’t want to get too close to her puke shooter) as her mom pulls up, and I say, “I’ll see you on Monday,” because I want the memory of this date to die down before we talk again.

  “Okay,” she says as she shuts the door.

  I give her a wave as they drive away, and then drop another earth shaker. Man, I need to see a doctor!