Charlie Joe Jackson's Guide to Not Growing Up (3 page)

“A book! It's one of my favorites, but I can't seem to find it right now. Give me one sec.”

By the time he said “Give me one sec,” though, I was already halfway to the front door.

“Uh, yeah, Ted? Um, I just remembered that I have this thing that I need to go to.”

Ted reappeared in the hallway. “Thing?”

I shuffled my feet. “Yeah. A graduation-type thing.”

“Of course.” Ted opened the door. “That will give me time to dig it up. I can give it to you later, since it's entirely possible I'll see you later on today.”

I scratched my head. “You will?”

He smiled mysteriously. “Quite possibly, yes.”

“Oh, okay, great.” He stuck out his hand, and after a second I realized he wanted me to shake it, so I did. “Well, good to meet you, Ted. And, uh, thanks for the juice.”

“Anytime, young man. And thank your mom for these wonderful muffins!”

As I walked back home, I felt a little bad. I didn't have the heart to tell Ted the truth—that the only other time I'd ever been given books as a present, it qualified as one of the worst days of my life.

No, scratch that.

The
worst.

 

FLASHBACK!!

“HEY! IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!” screamed young Charlie Joe Jackson, for approximately the 427th time in three hours.

Charlie Joe knew that everybody was tired of him yelling that, but he didn't care. It was the best day of the whole year, and he wanted everyone to know it. He was finally, finally, FINALLY six years old. It seemed like he had been five and three-quarters forever!

Birthdays were great because you got to do whatever you wanted.

You were allowed to watch a ton of TV.

You were allowed to have ice cream for breakfast.

You were allowed to tell your older sister to BUZZ OFF!

But mainly, Charlie Joe loved his birthday for the same reason most people love birthdays.

PRESENTS.

“What am I gonna get?” Charlie Joe asked his parents, all day long. “And when am I gonna get it?”

“Soon,” they kept saying. “At the party.”

Finally, it was time. Mom and Dad were home from work, his sister, Megan, was done with soccer practice, and all of his classmates from school were gathered in the kitchen.

“I'M READY!” Charlie Joe announced.

“That's good, because I couldn't tell,” said Charlie Joe's dad. He always made sarcastic comments like that.

Megan turned out the lights, and Mom lit the candles on the chocolate coconut cake that was Charlie Joe's favorite.

“Happy birthday to you…” everyone sang. But Charlie Joe couldn't wait for the end of the song. He blew out the candles on the word
dear
and had already finished his first piece by the word
Joe
.

“Easy there, champ,” said Charlie Joe's dad.

“But it's really good cake,” Charlie Joe answered, although his mouth was full, so it sounded more like “Bufireelguhkafe.”

After two quick slices, Charlie Joe made sure his mom wasn't looking, then wiped his mouth on his shirt. He placed himself at the head of the table, because that was where the present receiver always sat.

“I'm ready,” he announced. Then he opened all the gifts from the other kids. There were some nice things, like a video game and a sweatshirt, but all he really wanted to do was open the presents from his family. They always got him the best and biggest things.

“Can I open my presents now?” he asked his parents.

His dad clapped his hands together. “Okay! But first, you have to close your eyes.” Charlie Joe shut them tight, dreaming of all sorts of possibilities: A trampoline? A bicycle? A giant teddy bear made out of chocolate and marshmallows? A—

“Okay, let 'er rip!” announced his dad.

Charlie Joe opened his eyes and saw a giant gift sitting on the table. It was as tall as tall can be. That was a good sign! Big presents were the best kind of presents!

“Now, Charlie Joe—” began his mom, but she was too late. He was already tearing into the present the same way a starving dog tears into a steak.

Down went the bow. Off came the ribbons. RIP! went the wrapping paper, which went flying all over the kitchen.

At last, the present was revealed. Charlie Joe stared at it, looking completely shocked. And not in a good way.

There, before him, stood a pile of books a mile high.

Tears immediately sprung to his six-year-old eyes. “Wait … what?”

“It's the collected works of Mark Twain,” said his mom.

“We thought it was a good time for you to discover the wonder of reading,” said his dad.

His sister immediately started laughing. “Hahahahahahahahaha!” she said.

“This is my PRESENT?” Charlie Joe said, his voice rising higher with each word. “BOOKS? BOOKS ARE MY PRESENT?”

Charlie Joe's mother realized that things were quickly going wrong. “Well, yes, Charlie Joe, but we also got you a few other things.” She produced another gift from behind her back. Charlie Joe ripped it open. It was a baseball glove.

“I hate baseball,” he said, even though that wasn't true. He threw the glove on the floor, which made it official. Charlie Joe's birthday was ruined.

“Maybe we should go,” said one of the other moms.

“No way,” said Timmy McGibney, the boy from next door, who was watching Charlie Joe's meltdown with immense enjoyment.

Charlie Joe's father tried to calm down his son. “Charlie Joe, sooner or later you're going to have to start reading,” he said. “Mark Twain is one of our most wonderful writers. He's a national treasure. And he's hilarious, too!”

“I HATE MARK TWAIN!” Charlie Joe hollered. “AND I HATE READING! AND I HATE EVERYTHING!”

Then he knocked the books off the table onto the floor. The noise scared his puppy, Moose, who ran to the far end of the house.

“Sorry, Moose,” Charlie Joe said, through his sniffles.

His parents had seen enough. “Charlie Joe!” snapped his dad. “I don't care if it is your birthday—you need to take a break for a few minutes.”

“I WILL!”

Charlie Joe ran upstairs, slammed the door, and cried into his pillow. A little while later, his mother knocked on the door.

“Are you ready to come back to the party?” she asked. “It's still your birthday, last I checked. And all your friends are going to leave soon, so you need to say goodbye to them and thank them for coming.”

Charlie Joe rubbed his eyes and didn't say anything. But he got up out of bed and went downstairs. The first thing he did was find another piece of cake.

“Bye-everyone-thank-you-for-coming,” he said, with absolutely no graciousness whatsoever.

“Charlie Joe, I'm sorry you're so disappointed,” said his dad. “But you need to apologize to your friends, for behaving so badly.”

“I'm sorry,” Charlie Joe said, with absolutely no remorse whatsoever.

“That's okay,” said an adorable little girl named Eliza, who was batting her eyelashes lovingly at Charlie Joe.

Charlie Joe looked around and noticed something—the Mark Twain collection was nowhere in sight.

“What happened to all the books?” he asked.

“We gave them to this little boy right here,” said Charlie Joe's mom, pointing at a shy boy with glasses. Charlie Joe didn't even know the boy's name and had barely ever spoken to him before.

Charlie Joe looked at the boy. “Who are you again?”

The little boy adjusted his glasses. “Jake,” he said. “Jake Katz.”

“He loves to read!” said some annoying woman, who was probably Jake's mother.

“I don't,” Charlie Joe replied, as if everyone didn't know that already.

Charlie Joe ate his cake and stared at Jake, with one thing going through his mind: I WILL NEVER BE FRIENDS WITH THIS KID.

 

4

12:12 pm

Jake Katz is one of my best friends,
but that doesn't mean I have to be best friends with his mom.

She's a little crazy, and not in the good, Pete Milano kind of way. She's crazy in the my-child-is-better-than-your-child-and-I'm-going-to-make-sure-everyone-knows-it kind of way.

“Welcome to our home!” Mrs. Katz sang out, as my parents and I walked into their house for the pre-graduation barbecue. “Charlie Joe, please feel free to join the other children.”

What's the cut-off age for when adults stop calling you “children,” anyway?

My dad tried not to sigh, as he prepared himself for a conversation with Mrs. Katz. Meanwhile, I veered off toward the kitchen, so I could make a quick pit stop. The good news was that the Katz's fridge always had a ton of delicious treats inside. The bad news was that to access them, you had to read everything that was plastered on the door:

Jake's report card—straight A's.

Jake's various certificates and awards for being a genius.

Jake's sister Sara's Merit Scholarship letter.

Jake's dog Elmer's Certificate of Good Behavior from the Wag-a-rama Obedience School.

Do I need to go on, or do you get my point?

Nevertheless, it was a small price to pay for the Fudgsicle I helped myself to, before heading out to join my friends.

“Charlie Joe!” hollered Jake, from the Ping-Pong table. He was playing with Nareem. They were both obsessed with Ping-Pong. It's the perfect sport for people who don't play sports.

“Hey!” I hollered back, but I didn't walk over. I didn't want to interrupt the game, and besides, there was someone else I was looking for.

I found her sitting at a picnic table with a bunch of other girls. Nearby, the pool just sat there, sad and lonely, wondering why no one was swimming in it.

“Hey, Katie,” I said. “I brought you a Fudgsicle.”

She looked up and smiled. “You're so sweet!”

“We're in the middle of an important conversation,” said Eliza Collins, who was sitting next to Katie. Eliza wasn't all that happy that Katie and I were going out. She'd always kind of liked me, even though she showed it mostly by being mean to me whenever she could.

“Okay.” I started to walk away, but then I heard a voice behind me.

“Wait!”

I turned around and saw Hannah Spivero. Hannah used to be the girl of my dreams for about seven years, but then she started going out with Jake Katz, which turned my dreams into nightmares, until I met Zoe Alvarez, who was my almost-girlfriend until she moved away, which is when I realized I'd always really liked Katie Friedman, who unfortunately had just broken up with my good friend Nareem Ramdal at the time, which made things pretty awkward for a while.

I know it sounds really complicated, but it's not. It's just middle school.

“Hey, Hannah.”

She pulled my arm. “Come talk to me for a second.”

We veered over by the soda table, where I grabbed a root beer. “What's up?”

“It's time,” she said, as if I was supposed to know exactly what she was talking about. I didn't.

“What's time?”

She leaned in, her lips only about four inches from my ear. There was a time not that long ago where her being that close to me would have made me sweat, stammer, and possibly pass out. But that was then. Things were completely different now.