Chapter - Auggie
Auggie
RESEARCHING COLLEGE APPS FEELS LIKE RESEARCHING LITERARY journals—I start out pumped and proud of my submission, ready to find the perfect home, and then, two hours and a screen headache later, half of them don’t take simultaneous submissions, three-quarters of them have ungodly reading fees, and all of them want “a fresh new take on the world,” which I don’t have, plus I’ve realized I actually hate my story.
Except this time the submission isn’t a story. The submission is me.
Worse is that this is the best-case scenario of situations I can find myself in right now, considering the fact that I never want to show my face in public again after I got blackout drunk and threw up in the pool at Marcus Sanchez’s party.
Basically, I remember Leo’s cousin Mighty in the kitchen—her big eyes, and her long legs, and the way she moved like she owned the air around her and the ground under her and everything she touched.
I remember doing two shots with her and then following her back to Janko by the pool with two beers in my hand.
I remember chugging the beer while Janko chugged his own.
Then I remember rolling over in bed the next morning and throwing up in a trash can that had already been strategically placed beside the nightstand.
I spent all of Saturday and most of Sunday getting lectured by my parents about being more careful with alcohol and peer pressure and recovering from the hangover and freaking out that I might have liver failure, and not once did I think about asking Janko what had happened during those ten forgotten hours between my beer chugging and bedside vomiting.
The first place I heard “Pool Puker” was in second period Biology, and I didn’t think anything of it. I heard it again in Precalc, then in the hallway, and it wasn’t until fourth period Journalism that the news was finally broken to me.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
The rest of the newspaper staff, which includes only six other people, surrounded me as if I was being arrested for murder. Mr. Harrison, our teacher, continued to stare at his laptop, noise-canceling headphones in place.
“You. You’re Pool Puker,” said Selena, the editor in chief, her voice low despite Mr. Harrison’s obvious lack of concern. “You don’t remember?”
“Remember what?”
“You got so hammered at Marcus Sanchez’s party that you threw up in his swimming pool,” said Peter, our resident comic, crossword, and personality quiz creator. “Not that I was there, but that’s what people are saying.”
My throat sunk into my stomach and my stomach sunk into my feet and every other organ followed. “No, I didn’t.”
“He must’ve blacked out,” Cici, the arts correspondent, said. “Auggie, you must’ve blacked out.”
“I expected Janko to have told you,” Selena said. “He basically carried you back to the cab.”
I leaped out of my chair. “Be right back.”
Fourth period. I speed walked toward the basement, head down, hearing only one instance of “Pool Puker” on my way to the weight room. I opened the door as quietly as I could and walked into the testosterone zoo.
“Pool Puker!” a guy called, waving.
Within seconds, Janko had jumped up and backhanded the guy in the stomach.
While I was glad Janko had finally gotten the chance to enact good-natured physical violence in my defense, that was not why I was there.
“School newspaper,” I said to the teacher who stood against the wall.
“Okay,” he said, shrugging.
“I need Janko Carter.”
“Carter,” the teacher called to Janko, nodding at me. “School newspaper needs to talk to you.”
Janko followed me into the hall, and I waited for the door to close all the way. “I threw up in the pool?” I whisper-screamed.
“Yeah…” Janko rubbed the back of his neck.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
“Honestly,” he said. “Because I forgot.”
I threw my hands in the air. “You forgot to tell me that I’m Pool Puker?”
“Yes.” He held a finger up. “But also, for the record, you and I annihilated half the soccer team at beer pong.”
“We did?” I asked, the anger dissipating for a moment, replaced with pride.
“Yeah, man! You were so loose, so smooth.”
He raised his hand for a high five and I shook my head. “That’s not the point. What am I supposed to do? It seems like everyone knows.”
“It’s not that big of a deal, Augs. Everyone throws up in a pool at some point.”
“Really?” I asked.
Janko gave me a big, cheesy, very fake smile that disappeared quickly. “No. But everyone does get shit-faced and do something stupid. Just lay low. Don’t make a big deal out of it. Someone else will do something stupider soon. Promise.”
“You sure?”
Janko grabbed my shoulder and gave it a shake. “One hundred percent, man.” We high-fived. “Also, did the school newspaper actually need me for something?”
“No,” I said. “Just an excuse to grab you.”
“Damn,” Janko said. “One of these days.”
When I got back up to the journalism room, the staff stood, arms crossed, waiting for me.
“So?” asked Selena.
“I’m Pool Puker,” I said.
They all nodded solemnly.
I sat in my seat and laid my head on the desk. “Janko said I need to lay low.”
“Aren’t you covering the football game Friday night?” asked Heather, the student life correspondent.
I groaned and covered my head with my arms. “I totally forgot. Can someone please cover for me? I’ll switch articles with you. Just let me do something where no one has to look at me and recall my vomit.”
Heather shrugged. “I can take it if you want.”
“Thank God.” I sat up and shook my hands dramatically at the sky. “Thank you, God. Thank you, Heather. What’s your article?”
She looked at the ground and shuffled her feet. “The epidemic of alcohol bingeing among underage students.”
We were all silent.
“Can I just do a movie review or something?” I asked.
“But what about the binge drinking article?” Heather asked.
“We put it off for a few,” I said.
Heather threw her arms out. “But it’s timely news!”
I stood up. “It’s timely news because I’m Pool Puker!”
“Hey,” Selena said, stepping between us. “Chill out, guys.”
“We can’t be a biased news source,” Heather whined.
“We are a school newspaper that no one reads,” I said.
Selena turned to me. “I was trying to help, and you insult the paper?”
“I’m sorry. I’m just flustered.” I grit my teeth and prepare for the lie. “Obviously, tons of people read the paper.”
The only reason I joined Journalism class was because I thought it might look good on college applications, especially since I’m applying for creative writing programs. Even though it’s technically a class, I don’t have to add that part, and writing for the school paper can sound like an extracurricular.
But I was expecting to say I was an editor, not a sports correspondent.
It sounds professional and all, but I have this fear that someone’s going to assume it means I know a lot about sports when I actually only got that role because everyone else on the staff knew Janko was my best friend.
And because they somehow know even less about sports than I do.
So my common application résumé calls me a “school newspaper writer,” which is safer and duller.
And honestly, this entire day has led me to a realization: I have one fake extracurricular activity on my college apps.
I have a 3.0 GPA. I have two happily married parents.
I have one friend who’s literally been with me since birth.
I come home from school and write stories that sometimes I even forget how to differentiate because they’re all so similar.
I don’t know the difference between my biceps and my triceps. My name is Augustine Peterson.
I am the safest, dullest, most boring person alive.
A knock on my bedroom door. “Hey, Pool Puker,” Kate says, poking her head in.
“What. Do. You. Want?” I ask, lying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling.
“Mom said to come grab you for dinner.”
I sit up. “What are we having?”
“She said you need a cheer up because everyone was calling you Pool Puker at school, so it’s your favorite.”
My favorite food is chicken tenders and crinkle fries.
I am the safest, dullest, most boring person alive.