Struck by Lightning: The Carson Phillips Journal, Page 2

  “Where the hell have you been?” I said the last time I saw him, not able to hold it in.

  “I moved up north to the Bay Area,” he said calmly, like he was telling me what he’d had for lunch.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “To find myself,” he said.

  I tried my best not to laugh at him but a smile broke through. “Still searching?”

  He never responded.

  I’ve spent a lot of time being pissed at my parents over the years. I’ve never understood how someone like me could come from people like them. I guess ambition is a recessive gene.

  But I suppose I should always keep in mind that, through it all, I’ve still had it much better than others… until those people’s autobiographies outsell mine in the future. Then I’ll be back to feeling sorry for myself. (Unpopular opinion: Your story is only sad until you start making money off of it. Then I no longer feel sorry for you.)

  Let me put a lid on the violin playing in the background and reiterate my original point: Life has been shitty, but I’m getting out of here. I’m moving onward and upward and I’ve never been so excited.

  Well, I think my life story is enough of an entry for one night. I was originally skeptical about this whole journaling thing, but now I see how therapeutic it can be. I seriously feel less stressed than when I started. I feel really calm and centered and— Oh shit, it’s midnight and I still have Algebra 2 homework! Gotta go!

  10/3

  What a DAY and it’s not even over yet. It started this morning when I woke up at the crack of ass, like I do every day.

  Can I please just say that it has been scientifically proven that teenagers learn and test better when they go to school later in the day? Which I suppose would be taken into consideration if school wasn’t really just a government-funded day care meant to keep kids occupied. (I don’t know about you, but I’m most prone to committing crimes between the hours of 6 a.m. and 3 p.m.! Thumbs up!)

  I eventually stirred to life after the fourth or fifth time hitting the snooze button. I stumbled into my bathroom and discovered I wouldn’t be going to school alone; there was a huge zit on the side of my face. Acne: God’s way of reminding you that, besides all your other flaws, you aren’t perfect. Thanks for the heads-up, God, almost forgot.

  I got dressed, went into the living room, and, no surprise, found my mom passed out on the couch. Only my mother makes every morning look like the morning after a Guns N’ Roses party when I know for a fact she was just watching Beaches on repeat last night.

  I yanked open the drapes and let the light in. Every day I hope this will inspire her to get off the couch. Every day I also worry the sunlight will finally cause her to burst into flames.

  “Mom, wake up!” I said, hitting her with a pillow. “You passed out again.”

  She jerked around under the blanket like a seal caught in a fishing net.

  “Wh-wh-what?” she said, finally becoming conscious.

  “Congratulations, you survived the night,” I said. I like to greet her in the morning with supportive comments so she knows I care.

  “If you were a decent person you’d just let me sleep!” she grunted.

  “If I were a decent person I’d put you to sleep,” I said.

  “Oh my God, my head…” She sighed.

  “You know, the morning isn’t supposed to hurt.” I brought her a glass of water and some Advil. She needed it.

  I looked around the coffee table—or should I say, the wine and prescription bottle graveyard it had become.

  “Are you sure you’re supposed to be drinking with all those prescriptions Dr. Dealer is giving you?” I asked her.

  “It’s Dr. Wheeler, and why don’t you just leave that to the professionals?” she said, and took the Advil. “Those warning stickers are for amateurs.”

  Over the last few years Mom has formed this sick relationship with her doctor. It’s sick because half the time I’m convinced she thinks they’re actually in a relationship. She literally makes up illnesses so she can visit him and is convinced if she doesn’t call him once a week he worries about her.

  If I had a patient taking more pills than Judy Garland and Marilyn Monroe put together, I’d be worried too. But I’m not sure she means worry in the same sense.

  “Go to school, get out of here,” she said, burying her face in her pillow. “And if I’m asleep when you get back from school don’t you dare put my hand in a bowl of water again!”

  I gathered up all of my school stuff and headed out the door. “’Bye!” I shouted back at her. “Love you too!”

  When my grandpa died he left me his 1973 Corvair convertible, which sounds really great on paper. In reality, he left me a lemon, and since the car is the most stress-inducing piece of machinery of all time and he died of a heart attack, I think it’s safe to say he left me his cause of death.

  It doesn’t start unless the key is in the ignition, the left passenger window is open, and the radio is turned to a Spanish classics station. Don’t ask how long it took me to figure out this combination. If it still doesn’t start when those three things are in place, the slamming of the glove compartment and a good kick on the rear license plate usually does the trick.

  I have a neighbor across the street who I’m convinced chooses this moment every day to retrieve his morning paper so he can watch the struggle. That jackass drives a Mercedes.

  One good thing about Clover is that people are rarely late. Every location is about a five-minute drive from another, and it only takes about an hour to walk from one end of town to the other. Unfortunately, this also means everyone gets to the student parking lot at the same time.

  Woof. The student parking lot. With all due respect to our veterans, I have yet to hear a war story that sends shivers down my spine more than flashbacks of the student parking lot. It’s a place where adolescents, most of whom haven’t even lived a full decade of wiping their own asses, are given keys to huge pieces of machinery than can potentially kill many in a matter of seconds.

  Absolutely no traffic laws apply in the student parking lot. It’s every man for himself.

  Signaling? Don’t worry, I’m psychic and know where you’re going. Speed limit? No need, the pedestrians should have heard you coming. Red zones? Don’t worry, girl on the volleyball team, that means it’s reserved just for you! Parking spots? Take yours and mine! Take several! Take as many as your Toyota Corolla needs!

  And if this daily war zone wasn’t enough, survivors then make their way inside to an even more hazardous environment: high school, society’s bright idea to put all the naïve, pubescent, aggressive youth into one environment to torment and emotionally scar each other for life. Way to go, society! Best idea ever.

  When I stop to think about it, there aren’t many differences between a public high school and a state penitentiary. It’s paid for by taxpayers. No one wants to be there. It’s overpopulated. You make alliances in the yard. Shanking is frowned upon.

  At least in prison, you get out sooner for good behavior. Maybe if I could graduate earlier I would filter what I say more; I’m sure my peers don’t like being called “cattle” as I walk past them in the hallways. But if the hoof fits, get the hell out of my way—you walk slower than a turtle on crutches!

  Luckily for me, I made it out of the trenches alive today (I say “trenches” because if the smell in the hallways after lunch on burrito day isn’t gas warfare, I don’t know what is) and into homeroom safely. Tragically, homeroom is Algebra 2.

  My algebra teacher, who coughs every twenty seconds for no reason and who I suspect plays with Barbies on the weekends, wrote an equation on the board:

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said, not able to stop myself. “What’s the i?”

  “The i is an imaginary number,” he said, and coughed.

  “There are imaginary numbers now?” I said in disbelief. “Are there unicorns in the next lesson?”

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m a great student. If I’m having t
rouble with a subject I stay after school and get the proper tutoring I need for it. Given that, I do believe I have the right to say, What the hell is Algebra 2?

  I understand we have to compete with China and Japan, but we also have to compete with Iran, and you don’t see us in classes learning to drill oil or make nuclear weapons. (Although I would take that class in a heartbeat!)

  What grinds me the most is that we’re sending kids out into the world who don’t know how to balance a checkbook, don’t know how to apply for a loan, don’t even know how to properly fill out a job application, but because they know the quadratic formula we consider them prepared for the world?

  With that said, I’ll admit even I can see how looking at the equation x – 3 = 19 and knowing x = 22 can be useful. I’ll even say knowing x = 7 and y = 8 in a problem like 9x – 6y = 15 can be helpful. But seriously, do we all need to know how to simplify (x – 3)(x – 3i)??

  And the joke is, no one can continue their education unless they do. A student living in California cannot get into a four-year college unless they pass Algebra 2 in high school. A future psychologist can’t become a psychologist, a future lawyer can’t become a lawyer, and I can’t become a journalist unless each of us has a basic understanding of engineering.

  Of course, engineers and scientists use this shit all the time, and I applaud them! But they don’t take years of theater arts appreciation courses, because a scientist or an engineer doesn’t need to know that The Phantom of the Opera was the longest-running Broadway musical of all time. Get my point?

  The board of education should sit down with universities and high schools alike and create options for students. Let us take business classes that substitute all the same credits as algebra. I guarantee a semester learning how to start a small business would benefit people much more than knowing:

  But perhaps my proposal makes too much sense for the board of education. (I know they’re aware of it; all my letters have to be going to someone.) Then again, if they were actually interested in making the education system work, they’d probably have adjusted school hours when it was scientifically proven students do better later in the day! Sorry, that one still gets to me.

  I feel sorry for the class of 2020. By that time, every student will most likely have to pass differential calculus just to graduate from high school. Good luck, kids!

  Crap, Barbie-man has spotted me. I think he knows I’m not doing my homework; he coughed in my direction. I’ll write more later. Until then, I’ll keep mental tabs of other world solutions as they come to me.

  10/3 continued

  There I was in the trenches, minding my own business, walking from English to chemistry, when out of the corner of my eye I saw something pink emerge from the counseling center.

  “Hey, you!” a prissy voice shouted. “Smart guy!”

  It was probably a little cocky for me to instantly turn around, but let’s be honest: Who else would they have been talking to? It was my counselor, Ms. Sharpton.

  “Come see me in my office!” she said with a large, overly white smile.

  “I’ve got English,” I said.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll write you a pass!”

  I rolled my eyes and sighed; I was a tiger cub caught by a hawk.

  How do I describe Ms. Sharpton? Imagine if Sarah Palin, Paris Hilton, and Princess Peach had a love child of sorts. Now add even more pink and a splash of bleach. Get where I’m going with this? The former 1989 Miss Clover decided to become a high school counselor only after she flunked beauty school.

  There was a rumor she bought property in Nevada and tried becoming a Real Housewife of Las Vegas, but the show never got picked up.

  I usually try avoiding her office as much as I can. That much pink is unhealthy.

  She sat me down on a couch in a little area next to her desk that she called her “sitting room.” She was in every framed picture displayed, alone or with a small rat-sized dog. And since some of the photos were taken three decades ago, either she has a thirty-year-old dog at home or she trades it in every so often for a new one.

  “Welcome to Career Day here at the counseling center!” Ms. Sharpton said happily.

  Oh, screw this. I seriously would have rather been having a colonoscopy.

  “I’m sure you saw our flyer,” she went on. “We’re calling all you kiddos in today to talk about your future career options. You know, like what you want to do—”

  “I know the exact career that I want,” I interrupted.

  “Okay!” She clapped. “What is it, munchkin? An astronaut?”

  “I want to be the editor of the New Yorker and the youngest freelance journalist to be published in the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, the Chicago Tribune, and the Boston Globe.”

  “Well, you’ve had some time to think about this, huh?” Ms. Sharpton said. I don’t think she knew what all those publications were. “Okay, what about college? I can help you decide what college to go to!” She reached for some pamphlets by her side.

  “No, I’ve got to get into Northwestern,” I said.

  “All right,” she said. “Where is that exactly?”

  She wasn’t kidding.

  “Illinois,” I said.

  “Never heard of it,” she said. “But why do you need to leave so badly? You know Clover has a community college right here in your own backyard—”

  “Look,” I said, feeling a migraine coming between my eyes (I’m allergic to stupidity). “I’ve put seventeen good years into this town. People spend less time in prison for murder sentences—”

  “Is that true?” Ms. Sharpton asked, but I went on.

  “I’ve been the editor of the school newspaper and president of the Writers’ Club since sophomore year just to better my chances of getting into that school—”

  “Wow, that’s so smart.”

  “So I’ve already applied and meet all the requirements; I just haven’t heard back from them yet. I’d appreciate it if you could find out why,” I finished, not sure if she was qualified for the task.

  “Okay, and that is something I would do? I would call them?” Ms. Sharpton said. She seemed nervous, like the phone might bite her if she tried to use it.

  “Yes,” I said. “I will do anything to get into that school. Anything.”

  “Okay, I am on it!” She gave me a thumbs-up. “But since you’re here, would you mind filling out one of these application forms for Clover Community College? With every application, I get a point toward a Clover College juice cup and I only need three more.”

  And that’s when I got up and left. I was afraid my migraine would turn into a cerebral hemorrhage if I didn’t.

  I wish I could say the day got better—I also wish I could say I have amazing abs—but neither is true.

  My final class of the day was journalism. It’s the only class I feel that’s preparing me for life—my life at least. I love journalism. I just hate the people in journalism class.

  The journalism class is in charge of putting together the weekly school paper, the Clover High Chronicle. When I was a freshman, the students in the journalism class were considered gods. The seven seniors it consisted of and I were the people of the know and the now.

  Students used to beg us to write or not write about their school activities. I had a cheerleader slip me a fifty once to leave out the fact that she forgot to wear underwear during a home football game.

  Unfortunately, like a medieval plague, graduation swept through Clover High and I found myself the only one left in the class the following year. Even the journalism teacher, who used to take the most devoted naps during class, just stopped showing up one day. The school couldn’t afford substitutes, so I was forced to take charge wholly. (Come to think of it, I’m not sure if this is even legal, but whatever.)

  I tried recruiting new members but no one wanted to join. I even went to the special ed class but they just pointed and laughed at me. Teenagers don’t want to write unless it’s 140 characters or less the
se days.

  The school ended up sticking people in the class who didn’t have enough credits to graduate (which I’m half thankful for, half convinced they did out of spite). So the former Clover High hotshots have been replaced with the cast of Freedom Writers.

  The Clover High Chronicle is made up of myself, assistant editor Malerie Baggs, movie reviewer Dwayne Michaels, weather reporter Vicki Jordan, and El Salvadoran foreign exchange student Emilio López.

  We’ll get to them in a second.

  “Last week’s edition of the Clover High Chronicle was yet another disappointment,” I said at the start of class. “We did have new material for every section, but once again, it was all written by me. This has to stop.”

  I eyed them all with intense disapproval. Vicki yawned.

  “This is the Clover High Chronicle, not the Carson Phillips Chronicle,” I reminded them. “Hopefully, this week will be different.” And with a clap I directed the room’s attention to Dwayne. “Dwayne, do you have your review of Manslaughter III ready?”

  Dwayne may be the most useless human being I’ve ever encountered. He usually wears beanies, even when it isn’t cold, and probably just pisses liquid weed at this point.

  “Yes!” he said.

  “Yes?” I said, trying to hide my surprise.

  “Oh wait … no.”

  “No?”

  “I went but I passed out,” he said. “You didn’t tell me it was in 3-D.”

  “It wasn’t,” I said.

  “Whoooa,” he said quietly to himself.

  I could barely stomach the situation. One day I swear an ulcer is gonna rip out of me like Alien and I’m going to name him Peer Incompetence.

  “Vicki, do you have your weather report ready?” I asked.

  She looked at me, clueless—correction, she took an iPod earbud out of her ear and then looked at me, clueless.