The Downside of Being Charlie by Jenny Torres Sanchez

chickie digs you!” Ahmed says when I call to ask him if I should really go. “You have to go, man!” So I leave it at that and decide I’m definitely going.
    Usually, for Halloween, our house is pretty pimped out. Mom always goes crazy with decorations, though Dad is always the one stuck taking them down. If not, ours would be one of those houses with the ghosts still dangling from our trees in the middle of December. Okay, so that was our house a few years ago, but Dad finally gave in. Mostly because I think he got pissed every time he saw them. Although, I imagine it must have pissed him off even more that he took everything down only to come home from work the next day to Mom’s over-the-top Christmas decorations.
    Anyway, tonight our house is silent and without the usual blare of Mom’s Halloween sound track of wolves howling, witches cackling, and doors squeaking. There are no dangling ghosts, no cardboard headstones, and when the bell rings, I realize too late that neither Dad nor I bought any candy. This is an explanation that doesn’t go over too well with the Easter bunny and vampire holding their bags out to me, yelling trick or treat! The bunny gives me the finger, and they trample across the dried leaves on our front lawn. I’m surprised Dad hasn’t raked them yet. He’s usually so anal about that stuff. I close the door and ignore the doorbell the rest of the evening and get ready.
    Dad comes home, and a minute later, walks into my room as I spray on some cologne.
    â€œWhoa. Sport, you look great. You and Ahmed hanging out with some ‘chickies’ this evening?”

    â€œPlease never say that again,” I say, a little weirded out as he sits down on my bed like he means to hang out here for a while. The last time he came in my room was when he broke the news about sending me to fat camp. I’m hoping he doesn’t have any similar news to hit me with tonight.
    â€œYou have a date or something?” he asks not being able to keep the genuine surprise out of his voice. I quickly consider my options: tell Dad the truth or just make something up. I resist the impulse to tell him the truth because even though I know Dad would appreciate a father-son moment, I don’t think I can explain what tonight is when I don’t even know myself, so I think of something quick.
    â€œNah, just hanging out with some friends.”
    â€œOther than Ahmed?” Dad asks with surprise. Can I really blame him? The only person I’d hung out with for the past seven years was Ahmed.
    â€œYeah,” I say casually, “a bunch of guys from my photography class are going. We’re just gonna take some pictures at Ol’ Gilly’s. Then maybe submit them to the yearbook or something.” The lies come out so easily. I didn’t set out to lie to Dad, but I do, because the truth is too hard to figure out or explain. How can I begin to explain to Dad what Charlotte and I are or aren’t, or why the other guy she likes is going, too? And there’s no need to verbalize how little game I actually have. Knowing Dad, he’ll probably just think I’m in need of another “intervention.” And exactly what kind of camp do you send your son to if he has little to no game?
    â€œWow, that’s great!” he says. I can tell he’s happy
with the illusion of me actually having friends other than Ahmed.
    The doorbell rings again.
    â€œGuess I forgot to buy candy. I have a feeling our house is going to get egged tonight.” He sighs.
    â€œProbably.” I smooth my hair, take one last look in the mirror, and say, “Gotta go. I’m gonna be late.”
    â€œNeed a ride?”
    â€œNo, I’ll walk. It’s good exercise.” He looks at me even more proudly, and I give him a stupid thumbs-up because I don’t know what else to do, and I know I’m not worthy of how he’s looking at me right now.
    He nods.