Carter Finally Gets It Read Online Free Page B

already, and I’ve seen about a million Bally commercials on TV. Those chicks are hot and strong, and they do NOT work out in the Merrian High gym. All we get is an occasional softball chick.
    We’re only supposed to do two body parts each day and start out “light” so we don’t hurt ourselves or get burned out, but I want to get jacked! Going light will never get me huge. So I’m doing all of the exercises . . . today! And if you want to get GINORMOUS, you’ve got to go heavy! That big, mean-looking kid from Hawkus middle school who stared me down at the Pizza Barn is using the big weights like the older guys, but the rest of us freshman are just using the bar or like, the littlest bitty weights. We look sooo weak.
    “We’re not gonna get anywhere just lifting the bar, dude,” I explain to EJ, who seems to have his doubts. “If you want to be a wuss, then let’s do the small weights. People will always pick on us, girls will never talk to us, but we’ll always have each other, dog,” I say.
    EJ has no argument for that, so we start loading up the bar. I think a safe place to start is with the second heaviest weights. And we’re kicking it off with bench press. “How much ya’ bench?” We’re about to find out. I lift the bar with one hundred and fifteen pounds on it. JEEEZZZ! It’s heavier than I thought it’d be. My arms are starting to shake like a Tickle Me Elmo doll. I’d better put this bar back where I found it.
    Then EJ barks out all the encouragement I need: “Let’s go, you pussy!”
    With that I try to lower the weight slowly to my chest. The lower part I did really well, but the slowly part is going to take some work. The bar crashes into my chest like my arms aren’t even there. It knocks the wind out of me. All of it!
    “Uuhhh!” I wheeze in pain.
    My spotter seems to think something is funny back there. EJ laughs and tries to lift the weight off me, to no avail.
    “Lift it off me, punk!” I whine, still trying to push.
    “I can’t, dude!” he says through the laughter.
    “You’ve got to help me!” I scream, and kick my legs.
    Even I think that’s funny, and now I’m laughing. EJ stops lifting so he can do an impression of me. “You gotta help meee!” he wheezes through the shakes and tears rolling down his face.
    I’m starting to panic. He tries to squat down and lift the weight with his legs. But with just gym shorts on he’s basically sticking his nuts in my face and jumping up and down laughing.
    “Dude, get your nuts out of my face!” I cry out.
    This gets the attention of a few other kids, who are now looking our way. This is not what I had in mind by “getting pumped.” I’m just trying to breathe at this point, and I stop pushing. Which is a big mistake, because the bar rolls toward my neck. I’m turning blue, and so is EJ, from laughing so hard.
    Then, out of nowhere, Nick Brock throws EJ out of the way and lifts the bar off my neck with one hand. He slams the weight back onto the rack and points his muscular finger at my red face. “Quit jackin’ around, you twerps!” he yells, and goes back to his thousand-pound workout.
    Dang it! I’m even redder from embarrassment than from lack of oxygen. EJ was the one who was “jackin’ around.” I was just trying to survive.
    “Let’s do this, EJ,” I say as I load the bar with tiny weights.
    I’ll show Nick Brock I’m serious. I’ll do every pully and press thing. I’ll lift every weight (the little ones) in this place! I want to make sure Nick Brock sees I’m not “jackin’ around”! And I won’t be a twerp for long.
    The next morning
    Oh God. I can’t move. Dang it! I’m paralyzed. I’ve paralyzed myself. “MOM!!! Mommy??? Mom, I can’t move!” I yell to nobody.
    I’m going to have to do this alone. I’m so alone. I am sooo sore! I think my muscles are going to rip off of my bones if I move even an inch. I try to sit up, but my stomach is just a worthless ball of pain. I roll out of