The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second by Drew Ferguson Page B

car, he’d grab my shirt, pull me in, and we’d kiss. Then he’d complain I did it wrong and said I had to keep doing it until I got it right.
    We were in the middle of a long kiss—Rob’s hand cupping the back of my neck—when he stopped and jerked away. He grabbed the steering wheel, white-knuckling it, and sighed really hard. Rob looked at me, opened his mouth, stopped, and then blurted out something so fast it sounded like he was speaking Korean.
    â€œWhat?” I asked.
    â€œâ€”go out with me. Be boyfriends?”
    I ummm-ummm-ummm -ed and couldn’t stop myself. My throat started making these weird choking and gurgling sounds. I must’ve seemed like a complete moron. All I managed was a tiny, “Okay.”
    â€œAwesome, pup,” Rob said.
    I smiled. I could get used to him calling me pup.
    He pulled my face into his. We kissed, only this time it was different. It was slow, like there was this charge between us. An electrical current arcing from his lips to mine. I didn’t want it to stop, but Rob pulled away. He needed to get going or his dad would kill him. I promised to call on Monday, gave him one last peck on the cheek, and got out of his BMW. He flashed the car headlights at me. I waved good-bye and he pulled away.
    Inside, the Ps had left a note—they’d gone out and would be home later. Fine by me. If they’d seen how giddy and bouncy I was, they probably would’ve gotten all D.A.R.E.-this-is-your-son-on-drugs suspicious, sat my ass down, shined a flashlight into my eyes, and checked my arms for track marks. With the house to myself, I raced upstairs and stripped. My boner snagged on my Jockeys as I tugged ’em off. I hopped on the bed face down, humped the mattress, and frenched the pillow, pretending Rob was under me.
    I have a boyfriend. Not that I can really tell anyone without getting a prison-style beat down, but still, I have a boyfriend.
    Â 
    Today sucked though. First made me help him replace a bunch of his “Elect Stewart” campaign signs. Seems someone has been changing the L in “Elect” to a J, which had First ready to chew 16-penny nails and made me kinda wish I’d thought of it.
    Since First had me out most of the night, I just now got a chance to call Rob. Mr. Hunt answered, saying Rob was in bed already. I insisted he tell Rob I called. I didn’t want Rob thinking I’d freaked out about being his boyfriend. I must’ve sounded panicked, because Mr. Hunt only stopped laughing to say, “Relax, I’ll tell Rob you called. Now go to bed, Charlie.”
    It’s 11:30 p.m. and I still have homework.
    I have a boyfriend. How cool is that?
    Tuesday, September 4
    I finally did it. I bit the bullet and told Dana I was sorry for ruining her party. Actually, she browbeat me into doing it. Doesn’t matter either way. It’s done.
    Before first period, I looked for Rob, forgetting he had his piano audition today. I stupidly walked into the Pit where Kyle Weir—just ’cuz he’s an asswipe—tripped me. My books skidded out of my hands and a bunch of seniors grabbed ’em and passed them around the Pit. As I got on to all fours, Josh McCullough stepped on top of one of my hands to keep me from getting up, calling me a fag. My face burned and my eyes watered. I shoved McCullough off me, got up, and rushed to creative writing, not even trying to get my books. That would’ve made me look like a bigger dork.
    The room was empty. Mrs. Bailey was probably in the teacher’s lounge spiking her coffee. Not that I blame her. I’d drink, too, if I had to spend my mornings listening to vitamin D-deprived-pseudo-Goth girls reading poetry about how the color of their souls was black. I found a desk I hadn’t sat in yet. With my luck, today Bailey would announce that the mark of a true genius was finding one’s place on a well-crafted seating chart.
    â€œI don’t