The Carbon Copy

by Christopher R. Martin

Chapter 12 – Past and present become one


The drive back home is uneventful. No one in the car speaks a single word. Grandma Senicourt attempts to start a conversation, at least, but Mom hastily shoots her down by glaring at her through the rearview mirror, hardening her grip on the steering wheel and clenching her teeth behind her mouth. I'm stuck here on the passenger seat, still utterly clueless. Still trying to figure out the reason for their one-sided bad blood.

At the house, she storms out the car and down the front lawn, her body tense as a board. Grandma Senicourt catches up to her, and I race after them to try and stop an impending commotion from arising. Mom kicks the front door out of her way, her footsteps so loud and hard that they crack the floor.

"Nicole, sweetie," Grandma Senicourt beseeches. She coughs several times as she reaches out to her daughter. She has been coughing since the kumite, and her coughs have persisted for half of the ride home. "Please slow down. I can only keep up for so long."

"That's not my problem now, is it?" Mom faces Grandma cruelly.

For once, Grandma isn't going to have any of that and stands firm. "What is your problem, then? I have been making an effort since I got here, Nicole. I am doing everything in my power, like I promised you."

"Well, you're not trying hard enough," Mom folds her arms and averts her eyes from my grandmother.

"What will it take for me to win you over? Do you want me to jump a burning hoop? Will that make you happy?" Grandma raises her voice, and the similarities between mother and daughter are very uncanny, to say the least. She could be even scarier than Mom on a bad day.

"You just don't get it, do you?" Mom palms her face to try and keep her temper in check, which is like trying to pat an enraged grizzly bear to pacify it. "Since you don't get it, I don't understand why you even showed up. You told me that you knew where you went wrong, and you want to make it right."

"And I do!"

"So what was your idea of making things right? By making an idiot out of yourself? By making me look like an idiot in front of all those people? Is that it?"

This is a double-sided argument. It's an unhinged, heated verbal exchange while also being a tug-of-war to see who between the two can scream the loudest without ripping their lungs off.

"I was being supportive, like I should have been from the start."

"Oh, you were being supportive," retorts Mom sarcastically. "Ah, okay. Thank you so much for your support, then. I don't know what I would do if you didn't have my back." What is wrong with my mother?

"Nicole…"

Neither of them seem to know that I am within earshot of them.

"Save it." Mom shows her paw to Grandma and stops her from taking another step. "You've done enough. I'm done talking to you for the day. Don't come near me. That's an order. And for that matter, stay away from my kids. Stay away from my son. He doesn't need to be fed your nonsense." She takes her leave and stomps her way up the stairs.

Behind me, Dad could not have picked a worse time to come back from work. He watches Mom along with me, carrying three boxes of Fervidus pizza, and sighs.

"What happened, now?" he asks stonily, suspecting that a fight had recently transpired.

Sighing to herself, Grandma Senicourt shakes her head and rubs her forehead. "Something terrible. This is a job for you, Richard, not me."

"Right," nods Dad. He strides up the stairs, suspecting that Mom may need him for someone to confide in. For a shoulder to cry on.

With the two of us left downstairs, Grandma Senicourt sits on the couch and slants her head down. She interlocks her fingers and sets her chin down on them. I sit by her side and lean forward to get a good look at her. I see and hear her sniffling, but not one teardrop slips out of her eyelids. Her breath grazes my cheek.

She doesn't need to open her eyes to sense my presence.

"You should be up there too, Gumball. Your mom needs you," she breathes, affording to affect a grin.

"Dad can handle her," I tell her confidently. If they haven't gone out somewhere today, Darwin and Anais may also be up there with the two of them. "On the other hand, I'm right here. And you have some talking to do."

"What do you want to hear?" she chuckles, opening her eyes.

"Let's try taking it from the top." I bring my legs up on the couch, tuck them in and listen attentively to what Grandma Senicourt has to say.

Recounting her story takes a lot of her willpower. She doesn't start until after twenty seconds have fleeted by. I don't know why, until I hear her story.

The three of them used to lead a happy, uncomplicated life—her, Mom and Grandpa. But Mom grew up over the years, as did Grandma Senicourt's expectations of her. She had carefully, intricately, planned out her life for her, getting her involved in a lot of activities besides karate to equip her with the skill and fortitude she would need to face the cruel, outside world. So that she may attain the greatness her mother wanted, demanded, of her. It meant constant straight A's in her education, being the best at every activity she took part in, and straight-up being a winner. No questions asked. Anything less was a disgrace.

But these achievements obviously came with a price. They were at an extreme expense. An expense that, had Grandma Senicourt learned of sooner, she would have prevented. Among these heavy costs was an alienation from her peers. Mom's fracture friendship with Yuki can be traced back to my grandmother's drive for perfection. That very same drive that my mother would in effect take for herself.

It took the intervention of a certain fat pink rabbit for her to open her eyes. To tell her the right way to live her life. Grandma Senicourt was so furious at Mom for entertaining the idea that not being number one was perfectly okay that she grounded her for one week. She was forbidden from seeing Dad and was expressly told to avoid him whenever she was at school.

The straw that broke the camel's back came after one final argument between them. A month after Mom turned eighteen. Out came the braces, the acne and her…valuables. And with them her sense of independence, which was what their argument was about. Everything that Mom had ever wanted to say to Grandma and Grandpa, she unloaded on them without a tinge of mercy. Their overbearingness, their condescension, their sheer control, she took them out into the forefront for the whole world to see and tore her parents apart for them. She may have gotten what she wanted in pouring her heart out in the harshest, most unabashed way she can, but this is not a happy moment for their family. Not for Mom, and especially not for Grandma.

Looking back now, Grandma Senicourt was the one who was really in the wrong. She can't recall if Mom ever smiled when she was with them at home. She probably did, but the memory is buried deep, unrecognizably lost in the shuffle of pain. The words that my mother spilled out to them were one hundred percent correct. Grandma Senicourt's intentions were that of love for her daughter, but somewhere down that road, her intentions overrode her affection.

In what she convinced herself to believe was an act of love, Grandma Senicourt did not attend the wedding of her daughter and her future son-in-law. Then again, who's to say that Mom thought the same thing back then? She might not have. In spite of the rift between them, maybe she was yearning for a mother-daughter reunion, if even a temporary one. Maybe she yearned for her mother and father to sit there, on that pair of reserved chairs. Maybe she pined for her parents to see her become a wife, and eventually a mother, herself. Maybe there was a trace of happiness that could be plucked out in the midst of this hurt. Whether there was or wasn't, it's too late to know. It's too late…

…only if you accept that it's too late. Because until you do, it's never too late. That was Grandma Senicourt's mindset when she called Mom repeatedly these past few days, and when she emerged at our doorstep. Decades, that rift has stayed there. And like any other, that rift can be closed.

"Grandma, I…" The words get caught in my throat. The need to cry throbs in my brain, but I repress it forcefully.

"Don't be sorry for me, Gumball. Only I should be apologizing," broods Grandma, burying her face in her palms. "What was I thinking, coming here? Why did I ever think that I can easily close that gap? Why did I ever think my own daughter will ever forgive me? I'm sorry for wasting your time, Gumball. I'm sorry for wasting everyone's time. If things don't get better within the next few days, I'll go ahead and pack my bags and leave."

I fold my arms in silent reflection.

People will experience that one moment, that one event that will leave them forever a changed person. For better or worse, their lives will never be the same from then on. I have seen one such moment, one such event, too many that it's a miracle that I am still lucid in the face of such insanity. The discovery of my girlfriend's true appearance, the bond that I formed with my dear pet-goldfish-turned-brother, and I guess something about the end of my so-called 'amazing world', as some cyclops kid—I think maybe 'Rob' was his name? Maybe?—explained it to me. I'm not sure, that one's kind of foggy.

But I digress. Those are moments that I will never forget, that have had a profound resonance in me, one way or another. And I can add our talk just now to that list.

Mom… Mother… I have been dying to know why she was reluctant in training me. Why she was hesitant in passing on her skill, her strength… I never knew. Now I do. And now that I know, the clarity that this truth brings is not at all what I anticipated. Not at all what I was ready for.

I want to be angry at my mother for her hesitation, to begin with, and for her doubt in me. For fearing that I will turn out to be worse than I am for making the choices that I did. For protecting me. Yet I want to sympathize with her for that exact same reason. I want to thank her for merely doing what she was meant to do. For giving me what her mother could not give her, did not give her.

That part of me also wants to apologize to her. Apologize for being so headstrong and not looking through her eyes. Through the eyes of someone who was more or less in the same position that I'm in now. I feel obliged to beg for her forgiveness for disrespecting her wishes. For disregarding her authority. For the headaches that I might have been causing her simply by wearing that gi. For the possibility that I made her believe she was not fit to be a mother.

There must be a way that I can do them both. Thank her and say sorry to her. There has to be.

And indeed, there is. Through the most perfect way I know how. It will be for the best. Her efforts will not be in vain. I can show her, I will show her, that she raised me well. That I am grateful for her. That I was in the wrong for my disregard.

But can I really? Do I have it in me? Yes. Yes, I can. Yes, I do. I am my mother's son. I am a Watterson.

Grandma Senicourt stands from the sofa and proceeds to the kitchen for a glass of water. She's inches from the first tile, when I tackle her for a tight hug. I remain this way for a second or ten, never letting her go.

"Gumball, wha—"

"That was a brave thing you did, Grandma," I mutter to her, leaning my head against her. "Don't say that it was a waste of time. Mom may not be thrilled that you're here, but the rest of us are. I am. I'm happy that we got to meet."

Holding absolutely still, Grandma looks to the ceiling and digests my words just now. I hear a chuckle from her mouth, and she turns around and rubs my head.

She crouches down, caresses my cheeks and leans her head on mine. "So am I, dear boy," she whispers, her handling of my face deft and gentle. She reciprocates my embrace by wrapping me in her arms. Her cheeks are on top of my head. They're warm to the touch. That, and I can hear her sniffling. It was inevitable. Sooner or later, she just had to listen to that urge. That urge we have to heed.

I want to cry, too, but I've suppressed that urge in me hard enough that it can no longer surface.

"Hey, Gumball?" asks Grandma Senicourt.

"Yes?"

"Don't be too hard on your mother. You know she loves you. I can tell you right now that she has done a better job with you than I have with her. If she becomes angry at me again, you don't have to speak on my behalf. Understand?"

"I do."


A good friend is supposed to be there for you to catch you as you fall. To hear you with open ears as you pour your heart and soul out. To accept you wholly, the good, the bad and all else. To fight your battles for you or alongside you. But a good friend also respects your boundaries and never oversteps them. They know that opening yourself is not always the best solution. They will respect your decision to fight your battles by yourself, without anyone's aid.

During recess, I lie down on the bench and watch the clouds travel in the sky while my classmates play and mingle to their hearts' content. If I have to draw an image that perfectly encapsulates my mind, it would look identical to these clouds. The thoughts in there errantly move about from corner to corner, with no rhyme or reason. I break from the mundane habit and give my right paw some brief scrutiny, inspecting the palm and heel, flexing my fingers. Opening and closing them back and forth.

The talk between me and Grandma Senicourt this weekend has been all there is in my mind lately, trumping every other useless thought that I conjure. I have to put on a smile whenever I look Mom in the eye so that she doesn't suspect a thing. That would be like trying to hide a surprise in plain sight. Yet I do it anyway. It's one of a few steps I take to let her know that everything is alright.

And to tell you the truth, everything is alright…barely. Me, Mom and Grandma Senicourt, we are one long and tall sheet of glass. On the surface, it's crystal clear. Not one thing is hidden from us. There is harmony between the three of us, perfect and serene. But at any time, without warning, it can fall to the ground. It can shatter. It will be too irreparable to try and fix. It's a balancing act. Each of us share the burden evenly, yet I make myself believe that it's squarely on me and me alone.

It could very well be. Mom and Grandma Senicourt have both had their time. Now it's my turn. What I do, what I say, what I think, how I conduct myself to people, how I treat people, they determine make or break. I can't afford to let anyone see me as anything less than strong. I've always seen the world around me through a certain lens, where things are usually fickle. And more often than not, they are fickle.

This, however, is not fickle by any means. It's as vital as life and death, maybe even more.

Over to my left, the sounds of a basketball bouncing snap me from my pensive stupor. Hearing my name being uttered triggers the rest of my senses back into wakefulness.

"Gumball, look out!" one of my classmates shouts. Clayton. The bouncing of the basketball loudens until a shadow is cast over me, leaping about on and off my face.

I jump from the bench I was lying on and somersault out of the ball's direction. I catch it in my paws and fling it to one of the hoops. I somehow manage to land a basket, but I throw the ball so hard that the backboard comes flying off and landing on the Robinsons' car as it drives by the school. Mr. Robinson gets out, flails his arms and legs wildly like he always does when he gets mad, and curses no one in particular for his terrible luck.

My classmates all stare at me, wondering the same thing: what has come over me? But that's not for them to know, is it?

Later in the day, when I'm going to my next period, music, Penny catches up to me on the way to the classroom. She lends a helping hand, or tries to as she's done since the start of the week. She begins by looking into my eyes, but I lower my head and concentrate solely on where I'm going.

"Gumball," my shapeshifter girlfriend puts a hand on me, her worry for me plain as day. "Gumball, this can't go on. I want to help you, but you need to let me help you and you need to help yourself, too."

I tilt my head up, but I still do not face her. "I don't think all the help in the world is going to be enough," I exhale as we make our way along the stairs.

"You don't know that. Why don't you start by telling someone? Tell me." She moves in front of me, stopping the two of us in the midst of the constantly moving crowd. "Tell me what's bothering you."

I lead her to the wall, away from the flow of students and their always-open ears. I can only avoid her eyes for so long. Gulping, I face her, breathe and set my bag down on the floor. I lean on the wall, slide down it and hold my knees protectively.

"Have you ever had those days where you think that whatever you say or do could change the world forever?" I conceal my face in my arms.

Though my eyes are closed, I sense Penny's arm around my shoulders. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Why didn't I just stick to cooking for extracurricular stuff? I could have just been volunteering at the cafeteria or bake a bunch of donuts for the police or something. But no, I chose karate. I just had to choose karate."

"But I thought you love it."

"I do."

"So what's the problem?"

How can I put it into words without giving away too much? This is my problem, not hers. It shouldn't be hers. She's not a Watterson.

No. I trust her. We have faith in each other. We know better than to keep a secret from the other. Boundaries have their uses, but we still need to wise up to ourselves, admit when we need help and seek out that help ourselves. We still have to be above our pride.

Slowly and gently is the key.

"I have so much in my plate right now," I confess to her, removing my face from my arms. "I love being a karateka, Penny. You don't know how much I love it—"

"I might have a hunch." Penny winks at me and smiles.

"But what good is enjoying something when you only make some people around you feel awful?"

Penny takes my paw and gets me to face her. "It's your happiness, Gumball, not theirs. Only you get to make that decision, no one else. If those people can't be happy for you, then too bad for them. It's their loss."

The strap of my bag in my paw, I stand up and rub the corner of my eye. The crowd has thinned out from a continuous wave of students to merely three or so. "It's not that simple, Penny. These people aren't just random strangers off the street."

"Then who are they," Penny follows suit and stands. She affirms her position, her resolve, by folding her arms.

Now comes the tricky part. Now comes one such moment where what I choose to say is so important. Choose right, and there may yet just be hope. Choose wrong, and that's it.

"You'll be shocked to know who it is." Who they are is the correct phrase to use. "It's—"

The words slide back down my throat. Not because I hesitate, but because a new person makes their entry and inserts themselves into the equation.

"Watterson!" I don't have to look over my shoulder to know who it is. This person's voice may be mangled badly, but I can still identify who it belongs to.

Her footsteps are like tremors, each of them strong enough to receive their own measurements on the Richter scale. Penny quakes slightly where she stands. She may be able to transform into marvelous and powerful creatures, but the fear that this person instills remains strong.

I, however, am not in the mood. Not today…

"Hey! I'm talking to you! Didn't you hear me?" shouts Jamie, so close to me that my ears are ringing.

"Yeah, I heard you. So?" I refuse to look at her. I don't need this nonsense.

"What do you mean 'so'? Why you no good, little—"

I roll my eyes, shake my head and go on my way. "C'mon, Penny. We're gonna be late." Penny walks along with me without question.

Jamie, however, is not done with me, stamping her feet on the floor and catching up to us. She grabs my shoulder and stops me. "Don't you dare walk away from me, Watterson!" she screams. Penny gasps as this cow, mule, bull, whatever thing imposes her will on me. "In case you've forgotten, you and I have some unfinished business to take care of.

Nevertheless, I do not falter from her touching me. "Can it wait? I have somewhere to be," I politely tell her, unfazed by her roughness. I remove her hand from my shoulder, and Penny and I continue walking. My girlfriend is visibly scared, wondering if I'm making the right decision by avoiding Jamie outright.

But this girl is persistent. The third time she catches up to us, she holds me up by my shirt and pins me to the wall. This time I look at her and see what has become of her. Her teeth are misaligned, and the swelling in her eyes has not yet gone away. It's only gotten worse, spreading and darkening into a sickly, unnatural shade. I did that to her. I was right in trying not to make eye contact.

"Do you remember this?" Jamie points at her eye, baring her crooked and chipped teeth in the best glower she can form with them.

"Of course I remember," I say, my words dead of any emotion.

"I don't think you do. So in that case, I'll make you remember!"

She rallies up her fist, but Penny comes charging in and tackles her to the ground, yelling "Get away from him!" strangely without transforming. She looks down in horror at what she had done. Jamie looks back up at her and exploits that horror by grabbing Penny by the neck and pinning her to the wall.

"You wanna be the knight in shining armor this time around?" she hisses underneath her breath. "Fine, have it your way."

Breaking out of my solemn haze, I watch with an ember of anger as Jamie shifts her grip from Penny's neck to her arms. That ember is quickly stoked into a wildfire, and that wildfire into an inferno. She picked a very bad time to tick me off.

She did not just do that.

She did not just lay her grubby little paws on my girlfriend.

Jamie learns this the hard way when I snatch one of her arms and everything goes downhill from there. She releases Penny and throws a punch at me, but I block it with my other arm. She pushes against me, but it's useless. I pull and twist her arm and toss her to the ground, where I then punch her repeatedly. In the face and in her stomach.

The gasp she lets out prefaces the pain that she feels. Prone and unable to defend herself, she eats the full force of my punches, which create a hole on the floor.

I don't care if she's a girl; quite frankly, she could be a boy for all we know. Regardless of what she is, visiting harm on Penny is one of the most unforgivable acts anyone can do in my book.

I don't stop until she is a disfigured, crooked-toothed, red-faced heap on the school floor. Her blood finds its way on my paws, seeping into my nails, staining my fur.

Scurrying up the stairs, a bunch of students hurry to the scene to see what is happening. What has happened… They see me standing over Jamie, barely-conscious and bloody, coughing up sprays of that sticky red liquid. Her body twitching with each harried cough. In a few seconds, some of the faculty join in. The nurse rushes past everybody, actually caring about her job for once. At the back, I find Rocky and Miss Simian watching with indescribable shock. It will only be a matter of time before Principal Brown and the Coach join the rabble.

And I don't care. Why should I?

As I gaze everyone down, from out of the group, Banana Joe emerges and attempts to quell me, knowing that my sights are now set on him.

"Now, Gumball, listen," starts the pathetic excuse for a fruit. "It doesn't have to be like this. We're cool, right? You and me?" His nervous laughter and failing composure are getting on my nerves. The crowd parts to either side, giving me room to stalk this poor boy, too afraid to exchange looks. Too afraid to try and extinguish this inferno. An inferno can't be put out, can it? "That whole Karate Weiner thing, you know it was all in good fun. No hard feelings? Gumball? Buddy?" He falls on his butt and backs himself along the floor. Realizing that he has nowhere to go, he starts begging, eyes moist with tears. "Please don't hurt me…"

His pleas fall on deaf ears. I clench one of his arms, my eyes latching on to his and never letting go. I force him off of the ground closer to me, and he's quivering harder than he ever has.

A moment of silence passes, and I then turn and pull Joe's arm and strike him with my palm. He flies out of his peel and splats onto the wall, groaning in pain. Like the feline I am, I lick the back of my arm to get his mushy remains off.

"Alright, that's enough!" demands Miss Simian, intervening. "You've stepped in it now, Watterson. You're coming with me to the principal's office this instant." She proceeds to touch me, only for me to grab hold of her wrist. I face her.

"Don't. Touch. Me," I growl.

Twisting and contorting her wrist is all it takes to change her. She cringes as her brain registers the hurt and her knees are forced to bend. She isn't the steel-willed, irritable teacher of my class. Right now she's the pitiful, deplorable, miserable ape who made my mother's life worse than it needed to be. The pitiful, deplorable, miserable ape who derived pleasure from the misfortune of others.

For what she's done in the past, I'm going to repay her a hundred times over.

I do not release my paw from her person and only tighten it and turn it further. She goes from mere cringing to full-blown yelling. Her screams pierce everyone's ears like a needle pierces skin.

The horror in the faces of every student watching is embedded in my mind. Good. I want them to see a Gumball Watterson like they've never seen him before. Not Zach or any other name that may be eluding me. I am me. I am power. I am strength.

Much to my confusion, Penny is next to intervene, getting behind me and pulling me away from Simian. As she tries to break me off and diffuse the scene, her own pleading yells sound in these halls.

"Gumball, stop it! You're going to break her arm!" demands my darling. I don't get it. She should be happy. She should be grateful for this new and improved me. "Come on, let go!"

I can't. I don't. I don't want to. I will not. She does not process this the way that I do. She shapeshifts between many monstrous and powerful beasts, from a bull to a bear to finally her dragon form.

She finally gets me off of her, and the two of us fall to the ground. We pick ourselves up, myself dusting any dust that may have gotten on my legs.

Penny backs away, baffled by what she's seeing. The crowd shares her horror and fear. Though the raging flame has finally died, the damage has already been done. Quietly, in their heads, they ask one question: what did he just do? What did I just do?