Chapter 10: Chapter Ten
Monday, November 1st
“What happened to you last night?” Tim asks. I ignore him because I’m too busy staring at Gabby. She’s across the cafeteria, sitting with her volleyball teammates. I’m with Tim, as usual, and his NHS buds.
“Did Carson tell you guys what he dressed up as for Halloween?” Tim asks the table. I give him a strange look, but before anyone can answer, he chimes in, “The Invisible Man. He drags me to a party. One minute he’s there and the next minute he’s gone. Vanishing act.”
“Kind of like his sister,” Kevin Baker says. Kevin’s one of my few old buds from junior high who I still see on occasion who knew Caitlin. He also had the biggest crush on her. I shoot Kevin a burning glare that would make Cyclops from the X-Men envious.
“Tim, I got busy,” I say. I take a bite of my burger rather than a bite out of Kevin’s face. Tim looks apologetic for saying something. He never asked where I went, so I didn’t need to lie. Tim’s many things. One is honest to a fault. Like his study habits, that doesn’t rub off on me either.
“Busy like a bee,” Kevin cracks.
“I best be going,” I say.
“You be talking like you be a playa, sucka!” Kevin points toward Gabby and her friends. There are maybe twenty African American girls at school. Many of them, like Gabby, moved to Fenton from Flint, and most do play or star in sports. “You should roll with them nappy—”
“Knock it off,” I snap, and everybody looks surprised. At school, I’m a get along, go along guy. I just want to write stories, crack jokes and stay off people’s shitlists.
“What’s your deal?” Kevin snaps back. “I’m just kidding around, Carson.”
“Never mind,” I say as I walk away from the table. Last night, the last thing before the last kiss, Gabby told me that if we started something, we’d need to keep it secret. I didn’t ask why, but with racist friends like Kevin, I can’t say that’s not a bad idea.
As I navigate the noise of the hallway, the clatter sounds like life’s ugly twin sister—irony—laughing at me. I finally maybe find a girlfriend, but I can’t tell anyone. I finally get a chance to share my writing, only to learn that it’s not that good. I finally get these chances to succeed, but all I do is fear failure. The ringing of the class bell as I walk into Mr. Jake’s room whiplashes me into the present and the problem at hand—finding a way to spend time with Gabby without anyone finding out. The answer’s as obvious as the sour look on Kirk’s face as he sits at his imperial editor’s desk.
“Can I trade assignments?” I ask Kirk at the start of class. I hate asking for favors.
“Depends,” he says. Kirk loves his little power trips.
“I’m tired of covering boys’ sports,” I lie as the last part of my sentence gets overwhelmed by his loud sighing. “I want to cover girls’ sports, like volleyball.”
“Let me think about it,” Kirk responds.
“I’m going to cover their game Thursday,” I say firmly. He doesn’t know how much I resent him, but not because he’s the editor. I never wanted that job—too much drama, too little writing. No, it’s because of his comments on my story. I think Kirk Usher is Greek for ‘asshole critic’.
“Let me think about it,” he says, adding another sigh for emphasis.
“I’ll write you a story right away,” I say. “I bet the team is practicing after school.”
I start to walk away, when Kirk says, “Hey, what did you think of Josh’s story in creative writing club?” Josh’s story was the only one that Kirk didn’t criticize.
“It was okay,” I admit.
“You should see his column for the next paper. It’s fabulous,” Kirk says.
“I anticipate greatly reading each impeccable sentence.” I double-dip each syllable in sarcasm.
“You don’t have to,” Kirk says, then hands me a sheet of paper. I scan it over. The column is a conversation between Josh and his imaginary evil twin sister. I try not to laugh, but it’s funny, so that’s hard not to do. I try not to cry because it is so good. That’s harder yet. I try not to hate Josh, but that’s too easy. Instead of handing the paper back to Kirk, I let it fall.
“Sorry. You’d think I could hold a light piece of paper with my heavy hands,” I say.
His words about my story don’t register, yet somehow it feels like another small victory in this unexpected winning streak.
* * * *
“Gabrielle, one second,” I say as she walks toward the girls’ locker room. After school, I’d run as fast as I could—which isn’t very fast, or graceful—to try to catch her before she started practice. On the way over, I thought I’d practice what I would say to her, but for all my creative skills, I couldn’t think of anything to say, so instead I ask, “Can I talk with you?”
“Carson, I can’t,” she says, then disappears into the locker room. Can’t what? Can’t talk to me now? Can’t talk to me ever? Can’t see me? Why does ‘can’t’ seem to be the most popular word in the dictionary when people are talking to me about something that matters?
I stand by the locker room for a few minutes, then decide I can’t take no for an answer. Pulling out a notebook from my backpack, I walk into the gym and spy the volleyball coach, Ms. Gleason, sitting in her office. A couple of lies later, she agrees to let me watch practice.
As I watch Gabrielle—The Great Gabby—dominate the game, I realize she is to the other girls on the court what Josh is to creative writing. If I hate Josh for being so talented, do these other girls feel the same about Gabby? That’s why Caitlin had so few real female friends. She saw them as rivals and resented any success. The almost perfect person is the home of the rage.
As I watch the ball go back and forth across the net, I wonder what happened. Gabby served, I returned, but now she won’t—or is it can’t—serve again. Only when practice is over does Gabby look at me. She waits until everyone leaves the court, waves then blows me a kiss. Like one of her serves, the airborne kiss is powerful, perfect and makes an impact. Poets write how love is like oxygen, but I don’t need to be a chemistry king like Tim to know that’s wrong. Love is helium, and I’m floating like a balloon into a bright blue sky.