Free The Downside of Being Charlie by Jenny Torres Sanchez Page A

tattoo of a heart and skull on his forearm, which makes me wonder if he’s ever killed anyone. I suddenly get to thinking
about Joe’s life, and I wonder what lead him to be a high school custodian.
    â€œYou the boy who can’t open your locker?” he calls. I nod and lead him down the hall. He starts complaining of the smell, “Jesus, what the hell is that?” he mutters.
    Again, I’m too embarrassed to admit that the smell is coming from my locker.
    â€œHoly shit,” he says as we walk closer to the smell. I look over at him a little surprised.
    He laughs, gives me a funny look, and says, “You guys go around cursing your asses off and then act surprised when I say it. Watch out.” He pushes me out of the way as he whips out the cutters to bust the lock. He clamps down hard only once, and I notice the name “Gina” written across the heart tattoo. I wonder who Gina is.
    â€œGonna have to buy a new lock,” he says. I nod and shrug my shoulders, trying not to breath in the fumes, which is impossible. By now, I feel nauseous.
    â€œThere you go.” He takes off the lock. I mutter a thanks and open the locker door. The smell explodes out, pushing Joe and me several steps back.
    â€œHoly damn, that smells like toxic shit,” he sputters. “Who the hell would do that to you, kid?” he asks.
    I can’t begin to go into the whole thing about sharing a locker with Tanya, so I just shrug and say, “Some friends playing a joke.”
    He shakes his head. “Some friends.”
    He pulls out a dirty handkerchief from his back pocket and covers his nose and mouth with it before stepping forward to take a look. He shakes his head, “Damn stink bombs. Never seen anyone go to the trouble of setting off
so many at one time.” He shakes his head again.
    I look down at the floor, not wanting to make eye contact with this old man who’s been around the high school scene long enough to know that nobody who’s somebody gets this arsenal of stink bombs put in his locker, no matter who he’s sharing it with. If he only knew that there had, in fact, already been shit in my locker this year. He grabs the garbage can in the hall and slides it down to my locker.
    â€œWell, go on. Grab your stuff and get the hell out of here. I’ll take care of this,” he says.
    â€œI can help,” I tell him.
    He looks at me for a minute, giving me a sympathetic look before dismissing me with a wave of his hand.
    â€œGo on, kid, it won’t take me long,” he says.
    I grab my corroded backpack, shove a couple of books I need into it, and mumble another quick thanks as I leave.
    â€œSo long,” he says. I don’t reply because something about the way he says it makes me feel sad, and he probably thinks I’m already the biggest wuss on the planet.
    When I get to the front of the school, I keep walking. My backpack is ripe with stink, and each step makes me feel sicker. By the time I get home, I’m full-blown nauseous but start the whole process of trying to de-stink my stuff.
    I empty out my backpack and wipe down my books, but even after being doused in Lysol, there’s still the hint of sulfur on everything. Great, I’ll smell like a lingering fart for the next week. I throw my backpack in
the washing machine and grab my essay.
    When I’m done, Dad calls to check on me and tell me he’s definitely going to be late again tonight. When he asks how school was, part of me wants to tell him about the whole locker thing, but I don’t because I’m embarrassed about it. I don’t want him to know that I’ve gone through all the trouble of losing weight, and that I’m still pretty much a loser.
    After I assure Dad that school couldn’t be better and hang up, I get a text from Ahmed:
    Pimp. Mom’s thing is almost over.
B home in 1 hr. Wanna hang?
    I text back:
    Cool. C u then.
    When I get to