The Downside of Being Charlie by Jenny Torres Sanchez Read Free Book Online Page B

that Tanya has taken the top space, leaving only the dreaded bottom empty. I drop to the floor and start
unloading my books, trying to figure out how to best avoid Tanya Bate for the rest of the year. But then I think of Charlotte, and suddenly, Tanya Bate (who, incidentally, smells like peanut butter) is a distant memory.

    That night, Dad, Ahmed, and I go to Fresca’s for my birthday dinner. It has a salad bar, soups, sandwiches, and a fruit smoothie and frozen yogurt station. When we sit at the table, Dad takes out an envelope and pushes it my way. Money slips out when I open it.
    â€œSorry, Sport,” he says, embarrassed, “but I didn’t really know what you wanted and I figured you could always use cash.” My jaw drops as I pick up the one-hundred-dollar bill.
    â€œHell, yeah!” Ahmed yells, “Oh, sorry, Mr. Grisner,” he says, looking over at Dad.
    â€œI hope that’s okay,” Dad says, looking back at me. “I know your eighteenth is a big deal and all . . .” He looks around Fresca’s and seems to be having second thoughts. “Maybe we should’ve gone somewhere else.”
    I don’t know if it’s because my plans of getting Charlotte VanderKleaton are somehow not as impossible as I had thought or because part of me feels like I owe that all to Dad, but I suddenly feel like cutting him a break, at least for now.
    I look around the place and say, “This is great, Dad, really. And thanks.” I hold up the hundred-dollar bill. “I can definitely use this,” I say, hoping I’m convincing.
    A small wave of relief comes over Dad’s face. Ahmed
cracks some jokes on how he needs a new pair of wing tips, and I bust his chops on how many he already has all the while trying to convince myself that this no-big-deal kind of celebration is exactly what I wanted—and trying to forget that as much as Mom’s presence on my birthday always made me hate my birthday, this was the first time she’d missed it.

CHAPTER FOUR
    O ver the weekend, Ahmed and I hang out at the local mini mall. Lots of people from school hang out there, especially on Friday and Saturday nights since it has a movie theater. I keep hoping I’ll see Charlotte since I’ve deserted the run-bys past her house. I’m pretty sure now that we have a class together, she’ll catch on to my stalker-like tendencies (plus I never feel like running anymore).
    But I don’t see her all weekend long, and by Sunday night I’m going through Charlotte withdrawal. I’m dying for Monday to come.
    I look at the pile of dirty laundry in the corner of my room and gather up my clothes to throw into the washer. Then I wonder, maybe I could do something more. I mean, is it possible I might have more to offer than just clean clothes? Ahmed’s talk on male grooming rings in my ears. “Listen, Charlie, ain’t no shame in putting a little effort into your appearance. Just because you’re a guy doesn’t mean you gotta walk around with crud on your teeth and nappy hair. Girls appreciate attention to details. Look at the old cats. They always looked sharp.”
    I go check myself out in the bathroom mirror. I still
have a big moon pie of a face. Okay, so maybe it’s slightly slimmer. I had lost thirty pounds, after all, and I don’t jiggle like I used to. I also wasn’t obese anymore, (though, technically, I had, in fact, fallen in that category). I was pretty surprised since I didn’t think I looked obese. But a five-foot-ten male at 235 pounds qualifies as just that. At least now I could pass for one of those slightly big jocks—with what suddenly looks like the beginning of a huge zit on my lower jaw.
    I smile. Maybe I could whiten my teeth. Or maybe get a haircut. Dad was always telling me to get a haircut, but that’s because he’s so clean cut. I take out the gel and slather my hair, trying to get that cool, messy