Struck by Lightning: The Carson Phillips Journal

  She looked up at me, silently contemplating the offer.

  “Deal,” she said. “Now pass me the salt.”

  Has anyone else ever made a deal with their mother to take prescription drugs in exchange for cash? This was my first time. Although, rest assured, if Nurse Ratched thinks I’m actually going to be taking the happy pills, she’s sadly mistaken.

  I excused myself from dinner shortly after that. Call me crazy, but I lost my appetite after discovering the woman who prepared the meal in front of me used to drug my food

  Good God! Why does my life have to be a Robert Ludlum novel?!

  All right, let’s see where I’m at with all of this literary magazine shit: Permission from the principal? Check! Funding for the project? Check! Peer participation? Jesus Christ, how the hell am I going to manage that?

  10/11

  The ASSembly was today. That’s not a typo, I say “ASSembly” because it brings out the ASS in everyone who attends. Even the janitors act like baboons, and half of them have crippling arthritis.

  It was held, like it always is, in the auditorium. It’s really hard for me to generate school spirit in a room I know is used for Alcoholics Anonymous every Monday night and Senior Pilates on the weekends.

  The student council sits onstage during the assemblies, like royalty overlooking their serfdom. I’m not hard to spot up there. Just look for the guy who’s staring up at the ceiling with eyes the size of tennis balls and not moving whatsoever; that’s me.

  Coach Colin Walker was the first person to speak to the hopping pubescent crowd.

  “When I look around this room I am reminded of when I was a captain of the Clover High football team,” Colin said. “It was the first time Clover High had been the number one undefeated team in the county!”

  The room went apeshit. I was too busy staring at a ceiling panel with a peculiar stain on it. Was that an air-conditioning leak or rat piss?

  “And now, as your coach, I’m proud to say I’ve kept that title for Clover!” Colin said, and got a standing ovation.

  One student was in tears and shouted, “I love you, Coach Colin!”

  Big frigging deal! There are only three high schools in the county and one of them is for young fugitives.

  “Tomorrow night at our homecoming game, let’s show Lincoln High what Clover is all about!” Colin said, and raised a fist high in the air. I was unaware he was in the Black Panthers. “Let’s pull a John Wilkes Booth on Lincoln High!”

  The eruption that followed was insanely loud. I’m surprised it didn’t knock down all the rat-piss-stained ceiling panels. Coach Colin leaped off the stage, ran through the crowd giving high fives, and left the auditorium.

  I don’t mean to offend anyone by saying this, but while I was watching Coach Colin speak in front of the school, I couldn’t help but be reminded of those old videos on the History Channel of Hitler encouraging the Nazis.

  They’re both politically placed brainwashers, they’re both encouraging the destruction of a neighbor, and I hate both of their guts.

  Speaking of things I hate, Remy was next at the podium. They had three phone books placed aside for her to stand on so she could reach the microphone.

  “Hey, guys!” Remy squeaked into the mic. She actually got a generous round of applause. Maybe my announcement wouldn’t be so bad after all. “So I have some good news and bad news. There was a little mis-communication with this year’s Clover High yearbook.”

  I sat up in my seat. You know I live for this shit.

  “It’s going to be titled The Glover High School Yearbook, thanks to the bad handwriting of a freshman girl whose name I won’t say but rhymes with Dally Dester-field, so you have her to thank,” Remy said. She made evil eyes at Sally Chesterfield, who shivered in the front row.

  The last time I saw Sally she weighed an easy two hundred pounds, but the petrified girl I was looking at now couldn’t have been more than ninety. It must have been a rough week.

  “But the good news is, I was able to knock off ten dollars from the price!” Remy happily announced. “So they’ll be sixty dollars each, not seventy. All preorders are still final.”

  She was done, and it was my turn. I had one shot at inspiring the people of my school to submit to my literary magazine. One chance to further cement my future…

  “Hello, future farmers and inmates!” I said into the mic. “I’m Carson Phillips from the Clover High Chronicle, and I’m here with some very exciting news! This year for the first time ever, Clover High will release its first literary magazine!”

  I clapped after the announcement. I was alone.

  “Now, I know most of you can’t read, let alone write,” I continued. “But for all the secret writers out there, please submit any original work into the box outside the journalism classroom and it will be published. Poems, essays, short stories…hit lists, anything!”

  I felt like George W. Bush campaigning at a San Francisco town hall. It was awkward—really awkward.

  “Thank you,” I added to the ever-still crowd. “God bless.”

  Okay…so a couple of things I learned today after speaking at the assembly: Number one, know your audience. Number two, if you open with a joke, make sure not to offend everyone in the room with that joke. Number three, DON’T SPEAK AT AN ASSEMBLY. WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING?!?!?

  I was completely desolate until after school, when I went to collect the submission box from outside. It was heavy and full! Maybe I had inspired people at the assembly after all.

  I brought it into the journalism classroom. Malerie was there helping me build our float for homecoming—which is gonna be great. I can’t wait to see it finished!

  “I’m so excited for homecoming!” Malerie said. “Our float is going to be flawless.”

  “Yeah, the crowd is gonna love it!” I said, and opened the submission box.

  The room instantly filled with a grotesque odor. A family of flies flew out of the box and circled the room. The submission box had been used as a hazardous-waste basket.

  Candy wrappers, tissues, used gum, half-eaten hamburgers, and the remains of what looked like a back-alley abortion filled the box, but there wasn’t a literary submission in sight.

  “Oh, no!” Malerie said. “Shiterary magazine.” She pointed to the side of the box where some asshole had gotten creative with a Sharpie.

  “Typical,” I said, and sat down next to her. “I can’t even run a school newspaper. I don’t know why I thought I could start a literary magazine.”

  I felt a rush of defeat surge through my body. The big bright neon Northwestern sign in my brain went dark. I felt like it was over, there was nothing else I could do; I just had to sit and wait and hope for an acceptance letter the traditional way. It was the worst feeling ever—I felt like everyone else.

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Malerie said. “If you can get Nicholas Forbes and Scott Thomas to join the Chronicle, you can do anything.”

  “I’m blackmailing them,” I admitted. “I caught them playing Lewis and Clark in the boys’ bathroom. Don’t ask.”

  I know I had promised them I wouldn’t say anything, but it was Malerie. I knew their secret would be safe with a girl who still believes in Santa.

  “Oh,” Malerie said. It took her a moment to realize what I meant by Lewis and Clark. “There seems to be a lot of that going around. I caught Coach Walker and Claire Mathews bonking each other in the boys’ locker room.”

  I sat straight up like a startled meerkat.

  “I just go in there to think sometimes,” Malerie said, and blushed.

  “What?! I thought she was dating Justin Walker,” I said.

  “That must be awkward,” Malerie said.

  I immediately had a mental image of dinner at the Walkers’ house. Claire was sitting in between Colin and Justin. Both put a hand on her thigh and slowly made their way up her leg and finally met in the middle. (This image has been in my head all day like a bad Ke$ha song!)

 
To make matters worse, Malerie showed me the actual footage of what she had seen. When I said Malerie films everything, I meant it.

  What could have ultimately been the hottest sex video ever, a perfect cheerleader meeting the football coach in his office after school, ended up being one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen: Claire lying under Colin, checking her manicure behind his back while he thrust like a dog with arthritis.

  It was enough to make you cry blood, and validated all my views on sex in high school.

  “Too bad they aren’t writers,” Malerie said. “If they were in the literary magazine, everyone would want to be in the literary magazine. It would sell out for sure.”

  I looked at her closely. Was she implying what I thought she was implying?

  “Just makes you think, though,” Malerie went on. “Everybody has something to hide, even Claire Mathews.”

  She was!

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” I said. Had I not been so bummed about the whole assembly situation, I might have thought further into it, but the urge to gouge out my eyes after seeing that video filled up all my headspace.

  Malerie and I finished painting all the pieces for our float. I think it’s going to turn out really nice when we put it all together. Hopefully, by the grace of God, someone will see it tomorrow night and be inspired to join the Writers’ Club. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll be inspired to submit to the literary magazine as well.

  10/13

  It’s three o’clock in the morning and I can’t sleep. I’ve never been so furious in my entire life. I can barely move, I’m just lying in my bed thinking…and reliving…and plotting.

  After the events at homecoming tonight I’m not sure I’m even human anymore. I’m just a creature made entirely from rage and humiliation. I was so mortified I thought my telekinesis was going come out and kill them all. I would smile at the thought, but I’ve forgotten how to smile.

  Unfortunately for me and fortunately for all of those bastards, my telekinesis stayed inside. Sissy Spacek’s gymnasium of death in Carrie and Jean Grey’s carousel of cremation in X-Men 3 would have looked like a basket of puppies compared to what I might have done.

  Everything seemed so normal. School was fine. The trenches weren’t too smelly. I actually understood a lesson in Algebra 2. I was in a good mood! I should have known then that the day was going to end in disaster.

  I met Malerie on the football field after school to put our float together. Bit by bit we assembled our masterpiece. We made a giant notebook that actually opened and closed that said The Writers’ Club, and on the inside said It’s the Write Club for You!

  We even had costumes to add a theatrical element. I was dressed as a giant number two pencil, and Malerie was a giant notepad.

  “I’m having second thoughts about this outfit,” Malerie said. “These horizontal lines aren’t very flattering.”

  “You look fine, Malerie,” I said. I didn’t spend two hours creating an authentic notepad for her to get cold feet now (two pieces of cardboard and a Slinky, if you’re looking for Halloween ideas).

  We took a step back and admired our float once the final touch had been added. Sure, we didn’t have the budget for a rolling Roman Colosseum like the cheerleaders had, or the means to rent a Corvette like the yearbook douches did, but we were proud of ourselves nonetheless.

  I had tried selling ad space to local businesses but didn’t have any takers.

  Claire Mathews strode up to our float wearing stilettos and a pink gown. She was nominated for homecoming queen and was expected to win—after all, she was in charge of counting the votes.

  “You look like shit,” I said. An insult coming from a life-sized school supply didn’t faze her much.

  “Why couldn’t I have worn something like that?” Malerie asked me.

  “I don’t know what you’re wearing, but I have some bad news,” Claire said. “The truck pulling the cheerleaders’ float, its engine just broke down, so we’re taking yours.”

  She smiled, nodded, and tried walking away.

  “Excuse me?!” I said, feeling actual steam emitting from my ears.

  “I’m sorry,” Claire said, looking back at me, “but homecoming is nothing without the cheerleading float.”

  “Go take the athletes’ truck away,” I demanded. “They pride themselves on running around like mules anyway!”

  “I’m sorry, my decision is final,” Claire said with a smile so fake my left eye started to twitch. She strutted off like she was on a runway.

  My insides started boiling. I felt like I was being cooked from the inside out and my anger was the chef. She couldn’t do this to me—this was my last shot at making the literary magazine. I started pacing, trying to come up with my next move.

  “Too bad,” Malerie said. “At least we had fun making it.”

  “No,” I said, and stopped dead in my tracks. “They’re gonna see this float if it kills me.”

  I stormed off toward the other floats. I found a rope the cheerleaders had tossed aside. Suddenly, a lightbulb appeared over my head like a bad motel vacancy sign. I had an idea!

  I bet you thought I went on a strangling rampage after that. That was my first idea too, but no, I pursued the second idea instead. I went back and tied the rope to the front of our float.

  It could work.…It just might work, I thought to myself. From that moment on, my body was running on pure adrenaline. I felt like the Hulk. (The Mark Ruffalo Hulk, not those other guys.)

  Night fell…the game started…fireworks burst in the sky (which I’m assuming meant we were winning or had entered some kind of war)…the band warmed up the crowd with cheesy melodies from the seventies…and homecoming began.

  There are moments in life when you think, Oh my God, is this really happening? Am I actually doing this? Is this how I’m going to be remembered for the rest of my life? This was one of those moments, and unfortunately for me, it was very real, I actually did it, and it’ll probably be how I’m remembered for the rest of my life.

  Picture me, dressed as a fucking pencil, pulling the Writers’ Club float across the football field by myself. Imagine Malerie, dressed as a giant notepad, operating the giant notebook on top of our float and waving to the crowd. Visualize the crowd roaring uncontrollably at the cheerleaders passing by but then going dead silent once they noticed us.

  It was so quiet all you could hear were my grunts and swearing while I was pulling the float.

  “Yeah! Writers’ Club! Woo-hoo!” Malerie enthusiastically shouted and continued waving.

  A quiet rumble of snickering started, which grew into an eruption of giggling, which then evolved into an explosion of laughter. Everyone—the parents, the students, the faculty, etc.—was pointing and laughing hysterically at me.

  “SCREW YOU!” I screamed at them, and finished pulling the float off the field. I was sweating profusely, my face was as red as Mars, my hands were bleeding from the rope, and my body had become so stiff I could barely walk.

  I ripped off my pencil costume, got in my car, and bolted out of the student parking lot. I didn’t even use my blinker.

  I must have driven a hundred miles an hour all the way home. That sounds really fast, but the speedometer is broken, so I was really only doing like sixty or seventy.

  I got home, went into my bedroom, and collapsed on my bed. The snide remarks from my peers, the discouraging comments from everyone else, and my own thoughts of doubt were on constant replay in my mind.

  “I’m sorry, but homecoming is nothing without the cheerleading float!”

  “No one reads the Chronicle anyway.”

  “The art classes use it to papier-mâché things.”

  I thought of the student council.…I thought of the Chronicle.…I thought of Ms. Sharpton and Mom.…I thought of Grandma and Malerie.…

  “You’re young and naïve. All those dreams…still seem reachable.”

  “The i is an imaginary number.”

  There was no way
I could make the literary magazine work now. I had done everything I possibly could. Except one thing…There was one thing I hadn’t tried yet.…

  “If you can get Nicholas Forbes and Scott Thomas to join the Chronicle, you can do anything.”

  “Nixon is so crooked he has to screw his boots on in the morning!”

  “Everyone has something to hide!”

  Before I could even think the idea through, I grabbed my cell phone and called Malerie.

  “Malerie, it’s Carson,” I said. “Operation Clovergate is in effect.”

  It was decided before I even picked up the phone. I’m done being patient. I’m done being nice. I’m done letting them walk all over me.

  Come Monday morning, I will get my literary submissions, even if I have to blackmail the entire school.

  10/15

  CLOVERGATE, DAY ONE.

  I dismissed myself early from chemistry so Malerie and I could get started. I walked across the campus and found her in her art class. They were sculpting and Malerie was making a Bugs Bunny bust of sorts.

  “Malerie, let’s go!” I said to her from the doorway. “Clovergate time!”

  “But I’m sculpting,” Malerie said, looking around for her art teacher. The man used to teach wood shop; he wears an eye patch and is missing four fingers. Malerie ditching class was the least of his worries.

  “Malerie, this is no time for sculpting!” I said. She looked like a confused puppy at a crossroads. She gathered her things with her elbows since her hands were covered in clay.

  “Hey, it’s that pencil guy from homecoming!” some jackass in the class said. I acquainted him with my middle finger and we left.

  In the journalism room, Malerie and I made a large CLOVERGATE board. We put up the school pictures of who my first victims would be: Claire Mathews, Coach Walker, Remy Baker, Nicholas Forbes, Scott Thomas. My sights were set very high.

  “Capture the queen, and the colony will follow,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Malerie said. “Unless the ants revolt and execute the queen first like they did in my ant farm.”