Big Fat Disaster (19 page)

I wrinkle my nose. “Do you ever feel like you’re missing out?”

Anna gives me a head-tilt. “If you don’t know what you’ve never had, how can you miss it?”

I’m way late to my first class, biology, because it takes me a while to figure out that it’s in a portable building. I enter through a door in the back of the room and grimace at the first three faces I see: Fredrick, José, and Michael. Kara, the rat-faced girl who made fun of my shirt, and Tina notice me, too. Tina leans across the aisle to talk to another girl. There’s no sign of a teacher. I breathe a shallow sigh of relief. The pain from my tight jeans radiates all the way up to my ribs.

I
hope
Tina’s not telling that girl about my clothes. I kick myself for not realizing that I might be going to school with the person who used to own these! Rage bubbles fill my chest. I hate my life! I hate my dad for not giving us any money! I hate my mom for hating my body! I…hate.

Somebody near the front of the room has shoulder-length copper hair. I’m relieved that it’s Anna, and there’s an empty seat at her table. She smiles when she sees me. “Hey, are you okay?”

I’m scowling so hard that my face hurts, and I try to relax it. “Oh, yeah. Just, you know, first day, being new.” I show her my schedule and we compare classes.

“Oh, cool! We have Fun Math together!”

I’m skeptical. “
Fun
Math? Every math class I’ve ever taken was the exact opposite of fun. I suck at math.”

“Oh, they don’t mean ‘Fun,’ like, ‘Oh, boy!’—They mean ‘Fun’ as in, short for ‘Fundamentals of Math.’ I suck at math, too. Some people call that class ‘Math for Dummies.’”

Kara hisses, “Hey,
Hallister
!” and explodes in giggles. I glance back and see Tina step over to Kara’s table. Anna springs out of her chair and stomps back to the two of them. I don’t know what she’s saying, but her body language isn’t friendly. She’s returning to our table when Kara calls out, “Bitch!”

Without looking back, Anna shoots her the bird and slides into her chair.

“Is that ladylike behavior?” A woman who looks to be at least eighty stands directly in front of our table. Her wrinkly face is coated in powder. She’s wearing a bright pink floral print blouse, turquoise scarf, and what I’m pretty sure is a curly blonde wig, since it’s sitting crookedly atop her head. She blinks behind her thick glasses and frowns at Anna.

Anna jabs a thumb over her shoulder. “But, Miss, she—!”

The teacher ignores her and moves to stand in front of her desk. Her voice is crackly, and she speaks slowly. “I’m Mrs. Mary Clay. Please check your schedules. If it says ‘biology,’ then you’re in the right place. Anybody in the wrong place?” She blinks a few times, waiting, before consulting her attendance roster.

“I recognize a lot of these names. I taught your parents, and in some cases, I taught your grandparents. You know what that tells me?”

Nobody answers, and she continues. “Tells me that you can’t get away with much, because I already know which of you do the right thing and which are rotten to the core. So don’t try anything. I may be old, but I’m sharp as a tack.”

She moves slowly to her desk, creaks into the chair, and announces, “Michael Taylor, come up here right now.”

Michael doesn’t budge from his seat in the back row. “What’d I do?”

Mrs. Clay narrows her eyes behind her thick lenses and locks a gaze on him that must act like a tractor beam, because he saunters up and stands before her desk. She reaches over to a vase of roses, plucks a petal, and pops it in her mouth. She chews slowly, seeming to take pleasure in the class’s reaction, which ranges from stunned silence to “Ew!”

Michael shifts his weight from one foot to the other and says impatiently, “What? What do you want?”

Mrs. Clay swallows loudly and crooks her finger, pulling Michael closer with that invisible tractor beam of hers. I swear, everybody in that room leans forward, trying to hear what she says.

“Let me tell you something, Mr. Taylor. I taught your daddy, and he was a spoiled piece of fruit: a toxic, entitled young man. Well…at that time…a real whiz-bang of a turd. For
some
reason…”—she plucks another petal and studies it—“I get the impression that you’re following in his footsteps. Am I…incorrect in that assumption, Mr. Taylor?” She sticks out her tongue and places the petal on it, pulls her tongue in, and chews slowly while watching him.

Michael takes a step back and flails his arms. “You are batshit crazy, old lady, and everybody knows it. My dad told me you were nuts when
he
had you a million years ago.” He starts back to his seat.

“Stop right there, Michael,” Mrs. Clay’s voice crackles like burning wood. “You’ve just confirmed my suspicions.”

Michael freezes and mouths, “Fuck.” He slowly turns and faces her. “So? What are
you
going to do about it?”

Mrs. Clay works her way out of her chair, shuffles to the desk directly in front of her own, and taps a frosty pink fingernail on it. “This is your assigned seat, Mr. Taylor. You shall be my research project this year: nature versus nurture. I hypothesize that, given intense intervention, you might not in fact be confirmed to be of the species
Taylorous assholious
. Despite all indications thus far to the contrary, of course.”

Michael’s voice is high. “Did you just call me an asshole?”

Her eyes widen behind her glasses. “Such language, Mr. Taylor! I may be a batshit crazy old lady with nothing to lose, but I
certainly
would never call a student an
asshole
. Even if he
is
one.” She shuffles back to her seat, plucks another petal off the nearly bald flower, and pops it in her mouth. She’s just starting on the second rose when the morning announcements begin.

I’m following Anna down the portable building steps when there’s a tug on my arm. Tina hisses, “I need to talk to you!” and pulls me off the sidewalk.

I wince because my pants haven’t loosened in the least. I glance down, expecting to see a ring of blood around my waist. It must be rubbed raw by now.

Tina reads the pain as fear. “Don’t worry, I just need to tell you something. When Kara was—”

Anna stomps back to us. “What’s up?”

“This is private,” Tina snaps.

Anna squares off with her. “What, you think that just ’cause you got skinny, you’re too good to hang out with the
Nobodies
?”

“What’s wrong with you, Anna? We used to be friends!”

“Yeah,
used to
, until you changed and started hanging out with
Abercrombie and Bitch
!”

Tina holds up a hand. “Look. I just need to talk to—what’s your name?”

“Colby.” I turn to Anna. “It’s okay. I’ll find Fun Math on my own.” I glance at my schedule. “Room 105, right?”

She frowns. “Yeah. Go in the double doors, and it’s two doors down, on the right. And don’t be late! My big brother told me that Coach Allison is a real dick about tardies.” She gives Tina a warning look and saunters off.

Tina starts over. “Look: When Kara was making fun of your shirt, I didn’t tell her that it used to be mine. I just wanted you to know that. And, to be honest, I’m sorry I sold you that shirt, because I only wore it once.”

I glance down and shrug. “Looks brand-new.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t get it: I only wore it
once
because Kayley and Kara made fun of
me
, too. They’ve only started being nice to me since I lost eighty pounds.” She pauses while some kids pass us, then whispers, “My mom bought the shirt at a flea market because it was cheap. She didn’t know that it was a knockoff; that
Hollister
was spelled wrong. She was just, I guess, happy that I could have a name-brand shirt, since my dad’s disabled and we can’t afford to shop at, you know, the
real
Hollister store. I’ve never told anyone that, so please don’t repeat it. Anyway, I’m sorry they’re giving you shit about the shirt.”

“It’s okay; it’s not like you planned for this to happen.”

The tardy bell rings. Tina sputters, “I—I just wanted you to know that nobody’s going to find out that you bought your clothes from me. I’ve got Fun Math next, too.” She smiles. “Guess we’ll find out together if he’s a dick about tardies.”

We enter the classroom just as the teacher, Coach Allison, glances up from a clipboard and says, “Second call: Denton, Colby.” He’s of average height with a belly that drapes far over his belt, and his face is shiny with oil. He’s wearing a white collared shirt, black pleated pants, and a black-and-white ball cap with PCHS on it.

“I’m here.” I cram myself into the first empty desk near the door. The pain around my waist has evolved into a burning sensation.

Coach Allison’s voice heavy with an East Texas accent, he blasts, “Number one, Miss Denton, you and your friend are
late
, and it better not happen again. Number two, open your eyes and you’ll notice that no one else is seated, except for…” He consults his clipboard and jabs a fat finger at the three students in desks: “Anderson, Ian; Bates, Kyle; and Cummings, Kayley. Please join your classmates along the wall. I assign seats alphabetically.”

The only sound is my desk squeaking as I wriggle out of it. He waits as I gather my things to join everyone else lined up along the back wall. I feel everyone’s eyes on me. My foot catches on a chair leg and I stumble. A few people laugh.

I’m almost to the wall when he calls, “Denton, Colby.” I turn, and he points to a desk that’s practically in the same place I was when I first entered…next to rat-faced Kara’s tall friend, Kayley. She smirks at me as I sit down.

He continues, “Ellis, Ryan.”

I had no idea Ryan was in this class! He emerges from behind the American flag in the corner, scowl firmly in place. He throws his binder onto his desk and slides into his seat without acknowledging that he knows me.

The seat assignments continue: “Houston, Anna…Miller, Trent…Odor—I mean, Odum, Tina…” The class explodes in laughter.

Somebody cracks, “What’s that
smell
?”

Coach Allison barks, “Zip it!…Rodriguez, José…”

José strides up the side aisle, crosses the front of the room, and moves down our row. He swings his bulging backpack and thumps it squarely against Ryan’s face. Ryan makes a sound like “Ooomph!” and clutches his head.

José feigns concern. “Aw, you all right, buddy? My bad.” Then he leans down and hisses, “
Pendejo!
” His friends snicker. The coach says nothing; just continues seating students.

I reach for Ryan, who’s bent over his desktop. “Are you okay?” He doesn’t answer, and I shake him. He jerks away but keeps his head down. I ask him again but he ignores me.

Coach Allison adjusts his ball cap. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m the head football coach. I am not a math teacher per se; I am merely the person required to monitor this class. You may thank your state legislator for the budget cuts to education, because that is the only, and I repeat,
only
reason that I am in charge of a remedial math class.”

He slaps his clipboard against his thigh as he paces the front of the room. “This is Fundamentals of Math. I realize that it says ‘Fun Math’ on your schedule, but that is a misnomer. You wouldn’t
be
in this class if you deserved to have fun in math. Your lack of achievement on last year’s standardized test has saddled you with me. Some of you will earn your way out by midyear and go on to Algebra I. The rest of you will remain stagnant and drown in a cesspool of your own making. There’s nothing I can do about that. The district provides a workbook that you will complete independently. Do yourself a favor: If I’m working on the playbook or I’m on the computer reviewing video of a game, don’t bother me.”

Ryan mutters, “There’s a lot that doesn’t bother
you
.”

Coach Allison snaps, “Problem, Ellis?…Ryan? You got something to say to me?”

I hiss, “No! You don’t have a problem!”

“What’s that, Miss Denton?” Coach Allison slams his clipboard down on my desk, and I jump. It feels like my stomach miraculously shoots past my waistband and slams onto the floor. I shake my head slowly.