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"Hey, Max, Charlie’s here,” Chris says, digging his elbow into my arm and pulling me from the fantasy world of Krynn, back to the unfortunate reality of Lawndale High.
I mark my place in my book and start to tell Chris that I hate it when he does that, but stop myself, knowing that it’s pointless and he’ll do the same tomorrow regardless. At least he doesn’t mean anything by it. Most people probably don’t, really. I’m just easy to push around. Scrawny, thick glasses, and a haircut by my mother; I’m a textbook geek, and unfortunately not one of the ones destined to make millions. Hell, I’ll be lucky if I pass math.
Turning to the school’s entrance, I watch an all too familiar scene unfold. Charles is following a girl out of the building, chatting her up with a sleazy look on his face. Honestly, if he just stopped trying so hard and let girls get to know him, he’d probably have a girlfriend by now. It’s not like he’s hideous. If he started dressing like a normal high schooler and lost the perm he’d be pretty cute. Of course, I’m a bit biased. We’ve been friends for six years, and I’ve been crushing on him for four of them.
Clearly having had enough, the girl spins around and slaps him hard across the face. The momentum of the turn puts some extra power behind the hit, causing a loud crack to echo across the parking lot. If it was anyone else, that would have caused a scene, but Charles “Upchuck” Ruttheimer getting slapped only merits a few laughs at his expense as students continue on their way.
Charles just grins and shrugs it off with a lecherous growl and his trademark “Feisty!”, then heads over to the flagpole where Chris, Harish, and I are waiting. We really are walking stereotypes; Chris is the fat kid who isn’t fit enough for football or funny enough to be tolerated, Harish is the weird foreign kid who can’t fit in, I’m the archetypal pushover geek, and Charles is the guy too smart for his own good who dresses like he’s going to a job interview. I suppose I also qualify as the token gay, but that’s thankfully not common knowledge.
“Greetings, gentlemen!” our fiery haired friend enthusiastically greets us, a wide grin on his face. If the red mark on his cheek is hurting him, he doesn’t show it. I guess that with how often he gets slapped, he’s either learned to ignore it or lost some of the feeling in his face. “Shall we be on our way?” he asks rhetorically, not waiting for an answer before leading us across the parking lot.
Charles is the de facto leader of our group. Not only is he more charismatic than the rest of us, he also has both a car and a huge—usually empty—house. It’s Friday, so we’re all headed over to his place to hang out like we always do. It’s not like any of us are going to have anything else to do on a Friday night.
As we make our way across the parking lot to Charles’ car, Harish’s thick accent breaks the companionable silence, “I wanted to wait until we were all gathered to announce this, but I was unfortunately not able to prepare for today’s game. I am very sorry; I know it is my responsibility as the game master, but my aunt came to visit and my mother kept me very busy.”
Chris groans loudly. “Dude, you can’t leave us hanging like that! We were at the foot of a pyramid with a glowing altar on top where our friend was about to be sacrificed!” Chris’ booming voice is drawing attention and other people are giving us weird looks now. If it was possible, I’d think we just became bigger social outcasts. Luckily, one of the few benefits of being at the bottom of the social order is not being able to fall any further.
“Now, now,” Charles says, turning around and raising his hands in a placating manner as we reach his car, “We’re enterprising young men; I’m sure we can find another way to entertain ourselves.”
“Yes,” Harish agrees. “While my aunt’s visit did keep me from preparing, one of my cousins brought me this.” He unzips his backpack and reverently produces a stack of burnt CDs in paper sleeves from inside.
Chris grabs the top disc and reads the label aloud, “Serial Experiments Lain ?”
Charles’ eyebrows shoot up as he picks up the second disc in the stack. “I didn’t even think this was out yet,” he says, surprised and clearly impressed.
“It is not,” Harish says in a rare display of pride. “This is a fansub of the Japanese.”
“Well done!” Charles exclaims, carefully placing the disc back on the stack. He slides his key in the driver’s side door, opening it and unlocking the rest of the doors. “Let’s not waste any time then; I’ve heard good things about this series.”
Harish carefully puts the CDs back in his bag and we clamor into Charles’ car. Harish and Chris sit in the back; Chris has more room back there, and Harish insists on sitting in the back because I’ve known Charles longer. I think he may just prefer sitting further from the old car’s less than stable engine, but I’m not going to complain.
As Charles pulls his ancient oversized sedan out of the student lot, Chris lives up to his stereotype by asking, “We’re still getting pizza, right?”
Lain seems like a good, if confusing, series. Charles seemed to get more out of it than the rest of us. He made a few comments that went completely over my head, but I just nodded along like usual. I’m sure that one of these days he’s going to figure out that I don’t understand half of what he says and find someone smarter to hang out with. Even if he wasn’t obsessed with women, I still doubt I’d have a chance.
After a couple of hours of watching, Chris started getting restless, so now we’re playing Goldeneye on Charles’ big screen TV. The quarter of the screen I’m playing on is larger than my TV at home, but that doesn’t mean I’m doing well. As usual, I’m consistently in last, while Harish and Chris fight for second, and Charles hasn’t lost a match. I suppose I should just be happy there’s not another person desperate enough to hang out with us; if there were, I probably wouldn’t even be playing.
After we finish the match, Harish looks out the window and says something in Indian that I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t repeat in English. Following his gaze, I notice that it’s gotten dark. Saying Harish’s parents are strict is a bit of an understatement, and they don’t like him staying out too late. He apologizes profusely as he grabs his bag and hurries out the door. Taking Harish’s exit as a cue, Chris lets out a deep yawn and stands up, then starts gathering his things as well. This, of course, includes the rest of the pizza.
Harish and Chris both live relatively close, within walking distance. Their families aren’t as well off as Charles’ dad, but they aren’t hurting. I, on the other hand, live across town in an apartment complex with a single mother who works nights and sleeps all day. Charles has to take time out of his night just to drive me home.
A gentle hand shaking my shoulder, nothing like the jabbing elbow from this afternoon, brings me back to the moment. “You there, Max?” Charles asks, with a light chuckle.
I raise my head and look around, noticing Chris has left. Feeling like an idiot, I respond, “Um, yeah. I guess you want to take me home now.”
He shrugs and starts to cross the room. “Only if you want to. Frankly, I wouldn’t mind having some company for a while longer. It’s not like my dad is going to provide any.” The act, all the fake bravado, has drained out of his voice. He relaxes around us, but he only completely drops the act every once in a while, and only around me. I’d treasure it if it didn’t mean he was in a bad place.
“It’s not like my mom’s going to miss me,” I say, mirroring his sentiment.
“Cool,” he replies, coming to a stop in front of his father’s liquor cabinet. “You want a drink?”
Things are worse than I thought. I’m not worried about his father finding out. I was the first time, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. It's just that Charles doesn't drink unless he's really depressed. It's probably not a good idea to enable it, but frankly, I could use a drink myself. It’s nice to forget how lame I am and actually be able to talk without tripping over myself for a while. After what I'm sure is a weirdly long pause, I answer, “Sure,” and follow him over to where he's standing in front of the cabinet.
Reaching inside, Charles pulls out a bottle of expensive looking scotch, a bottle of water, and a couple of tumblers. He fills the glasses almost to the top, the splash of water he adds nearly enough to make them spill over. After handing me one of the drinks, he grabs the scotch and walks over to one of the room’s large armchairs. He sets the bottle down on the coffee table, before sinking into the chair and taking an alarmingly long pull of his drink.
I hurry behind him, nervously sitting on the edge of the couch, catty-corner to his chair. I sip at my drink, the taste not really registering as I watch him just stare into the distance, his glass held in front of him. Eventually, the silence gets to me and I start to say, “So—”
“I hate it, you know,” he says, still staring into the middle distance.
“Um, what?” I manage.
Charles lets out a long sigh, taking a sizable sip of his scotch before setting it down on the coffee table in front of the couch. Settling back into the chair, he says, “The act. It started as a way to mock them—my dad and grandfather. I decided to play ‘Charles Ruttheimer III', sharp dressing smooth ladies man. I would act just like them. Well, what that would look like if someone other than a rich asshole did it. Hell, if the rest of the school knew what I was worth, I’d probably have bimbos throwing themselves at me too.”
I let out a short snorting laugh, my inhibitions dulled by the drink I’ve been nervously sipping since I sat down. “The fashion club would be all over you. They jump on anyone with money.”
Charles makes a disgusted face. “Ugh, their heads are emptier than my father’s heart.” He chuckles bitterly. “Actually, it’s probably about the same. They only think of themselves and he only loves himself. No, the only girls I have any real interest in wouldn’t act differently because of my money; that’s half the reason I’m interested in them.”
I take a larger drink from my glass than I have thus far. It’s not that the issue hasn’t ever come up, but rarely with this amount of specificity. It’s a special kind of torture to be told you fit one of the criteria of the person you’re attracted to, but are barred from consideration because you were born the wrong sex. Whether because I’m curious, I’m some kind of masochist, or I’m playing my own role of the straight best friend, I ask, “So what’s the other half?”
Charles reaches forward and retrieves his glass, taking a long, contemplative drink. When he’s done, he lowers the glass and says, “Brains, I suppose. Someone who I could match wits with. I’m not saying I don’t find physical beauty appealing, but give me Daria Morgendorffer over Brittany Taylor any day.”
I take a long pull of my scotch, emptying the glass without meaning to. It burns, and I’m definitely starting to feel the effects. It’s not the first time he’s mentioned Morgendorffer; she draws him in for some reason. I can’t see it. She’s abrasive to the point of cruelty, never passes up an opportunity to show off, and is objectively unattractive. Maybe I’m just jealous; I’d certainly trade places with her, given the chance. The alcohol betrays me, and without realizing it until I hear myself speak, I ask, “Do you ever wish you were someone else?”
As Charles slowly comes out of his own thoughts, I almost think I’m lucky enough that he didn’t hear me. The bitter chuckle, followed by him draining his own glass and setting it down on the table with enough force to shake the bottle, quickly disabuses me of that notion. “Since I was old enough to realize other kids had mothers, while I had a series of quickly replaced nannies,” he spits. “I’d love to have a normal life.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “What the hell is normal?” I love Charles, but he can have a pretty narrow view of the world.
Charles waves his arm in a broad arc. “You, Chris, Harish! Normal!” he half-shouts, clearly drunk. Leaning forward, he twists the top off the bottle of scotch and pours himself another half glass. He motions for me to put mine on the table, and against my better instincts I do. After he refills my glass, he leans back and takes a sip.
I grab my now full glass and allow myself to sink back into the couch, rather than continuing to perch on the edge like some kind of skittish cat. The scotch is definitely having an effect. I take another drink, before countering, “You’re kidding, right? Putting aside the fact that we’re all huge nerds and you three live in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in a white flight suburb; Harish is a second generation immigrant with an accent so thick you could cut it, Chris is borderline obese, and I’m–” I barely manage to catch myself before I say something I’ll regret.
Unfortunately, Charles is naturally curious as well as in a mood to argue. Leaning forward, spilling some scotch in the process, he asks, “You’re what? Sure you’re a little nerdy, but you’ve got a parent that cares about you and no real problems.”
It’s almost an out of body experience, as I hear myself angrily respond. “No problems? Christ, you’re self-involved. I’ve been in self-esteem classes for the last two and a half years, and unlike your girlfriend Daria and her friend Jane who made a joke out of them, I actually need the help,” I lash out, my normal restraint dissolved by the alcohol. “I hate myself. I hate how stupid I am. I hate how poor I am. I hate how I look and think and feel! It’s all wrong and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m going to spend the rest of my life stuck in this damn suburb; if I’m lucky, I might end up assistant-manager at Payday before I turn forty.”
Charles doesn’t have an answer for that. He just sits there agape for awhile, before setting his drink down.
I’m pretty sure there are tears in my eyes, and I take a long drink so I can pretend they’re from the burn of the liquor and not what just happened. Setting the now empty tumbler down on the table next to Charles’, I say, “Sorry, I just– I don’t know.” My voice is raspy from shouting a moment ago. “Can we just forget about this?”
Charles looks down and shakes his head. “No. You’re my best friend and I’m so busy complaining to you about stupid problems I made for myself that I can’t even notice when you’re in trouble.” He chuckles bitterly. “I guess I’m more like my dad than I thought.”
“You’re not like your dad.” I say it reflexively, but the sentiment is genuine.
He waves me off as he stands up. “I’m going to go get you a pillow and a blanket. We’ll talk more in the morning; we’ve both had too much to drink.”
“Sure,” I say in a small voice, not really seeing a way out of it.
He starts toward the door, then stops and turns. “You’re not worthless. You’re not going to be stuck here either. I’ll pay for you to go to school out of my trust if I have to.” Without waiting for a response, he turns back and leaves the room.
I watch him go, then busy myself with cleaning up the drinks. For a moment, I thought I might have actually gotten over him, that I could just think of him as the self-involved jerk he pretends to be and move on. Then he goes and says something like that. How am I supposed to hate him when he steps in and tries to save me as soon as he realizes there’s a problem? It’s just not fair.