Big Fat Disaster (30 page)

I try to tug Drew to our usual seat on the bus, but she insists on sitting in Ryan’s old place. She scoots over to the window and uses her finger to write Ryan’s name in the condensation on the glass. She draws a heart around it, then pulls her knees up to her chest and buries her face.

I stare at my feet and dread what my day will bring. Without the yellow pills to put my mind to sleep, it’s whirring with images of the semi bearing down, Ryan’s unseeing eyes, and Mom kissing me on the forehead and telling me that she’s proud of me.

The electrified thoughts that make me pig out—or seek a face-to-face with an oncoming semi—are urging me to try again to die. I clutch my skull. Why won’t the inside of my head be quiet?

Deep down, I know the thoughts are right: I don’t deserve to live. I used to hate myself for not being beautiful like my sisters, but it’s multiplied times a thousand now that I’m a lying sack of shit, too. Just like my father.

José doesn’t do his “
Puta
”
-
kissy-face routine at me when he gets on the bus, and of course, Ryan’s dead, so he can’t call him “
Pendejo
”—“asshole” in Spanish—anymore.

Michael does his usual “I’m God’s gift to the World” act as he bumps his way down the aisle, but his fans are very quiet today.

Mr. McDaniel meets me at the front doors of the school. He crooks a finger at me to follow him into his office. A lady I don’t know is waiting for us.

“Have a seat, Colby,” Mr. McDaniel says as he falls into his chair. “This is Mrs. Healey, one of our counselors. She’s here to help make your transition back to school as smooth as possible.”

I cradle my casted arm and lower myself into the chair.

Mrs. Healey places a hand on my shoulder. “I am sorry you’ve been through so much, Colby. Mr. McDaniel filled me in on what your family was dealing with before you moved to Piney Creek. I can’t even imagine the sense of loss you must be feeling in light of Ryan’s death. He was one of my favorite people in the world. A real sweetheart. You could say that I was his Number One fan.”

I nearly ask,
“Are you serious?”
—But instead I mumble, “I didn’t really know him that well. We…hadn’t been around each other long enough to become close.”

I look at my hands and sniffle, because here’s the deal: People expect others to be a certain way, so they act the way they’re expected to act—even if it’s all bullshit. I learned
that
from my dad, and I have to agree with him: It’s not easy. But if he kept it up for so long, I know I can, too.

Mrs. Healey’s eyes fill with tears and she rubs my upper back, ending with a
pat-pat-pat
. “What can I do to help you deal with the loss, Colby?”

“Absolutely,” Mr. McDaniel interjects. “PCHS is here for you.”

This is what I
want
to say:
“You know what, Clueless People? Ryan videotaped me while I was dressing, laughed at me, and called me a Fat Ass. Because he did that, somebody—maybe not him, who knows?—posted the video on Facebook, and now everyone in this fucking school has seen my big fat ass bouncing all over the page. So, to tell you the truth, ‘Ryan’s Number One Fan’ and Mr. ‘PCHS Is Here for You’? I’m undecided as to whether he’s that big a loss.”

This is what I
do
say: “Just…maybe…get some of the girls who were giving me a hard time about my dad to leave me alone? So I can get over…what happened?”

“I’m on it,” Mr. McDaniel says. “I’d already spoken to Kayley and Kara about their behavior before, but I give you my word that in light of what occurred to Ryan, they have a new understanding about the need for compassion. Ryan’s death has shaken the student body to its core, Colby. I think you’ll see a kinder, gentler side of people now. That’s the sense I get. What about you, Mrs. Healey, based on the counseling you’ve done since this tragedy?”

She nods. “Oh, most definitely.” She turns toward me, puts her hand on mine, and says softly, “Your classmates are so
in awe
of what you did. I can’t begin to tell you how many of them say that they would not have been brave enough to throw themselves in front of a speeding truck to try to save another person’s life. There’s no question that Ryan’s death is unspeakably sad; however, perhaps because of what happened, your classmates will think about others more than themselves.”

Mr. McDaniel speaks up. “Your heroism on that day is like a stone thrown into a still pond. It will have a ripple effect that no one can overestimate. Perhaps knowing that others consider you a hero will provide some small comfort to you. What you did that day will live on forever, Colby. There’s no going back.”

Mrs. Healey looks into my eyes until her face crumples, and she turns away to grab a tissue.

“Go on to class now,” Mr. McDaniel says in a thick voice. He looks like he’s about to start bawling, too. He scrawls out a pass and hands it to me. “We’re here for you, so please don’t hesitate to let us know if you need help.”

I rise and move toward the door. My eyes are brimming with tears as it sinks in completely: If these people find out the truth, they will hate me just like my mom hates Big Fat Disaster Colby. I am fucked, and there’s no going back.

I have to try again.

I have to die.

I hand Mrs. Clay the pass and move to my seat.

“Colby, come back here, please.”

I awkwardly slide my backpack off my good arm, loop the strap over my chair, and approach her desk.

Mrs. Clay doesn’t just eat rose petals; she reeks of them, too. Her perfume is so strong that my eyes burn a little, and I blink a few times. Her smile reveals frosty pink lipstick all over her yellowed teeth. Arms wide, she shuffles around her desk and envelops me in a suffocating hug, rocking me back and forth. At last she pushes away, but holds me by the upper arms. She cuts her eyes to the side. “Michael, come here.”

From his seat front and center of her desk, he demands, “What’d I do now?”

Her voice fairly sizzles. “It’s what you’re going to do, Mr. Taylor: Given her injury, Colby is in need of a personal assistant. You, sir, shall be that person.”

She notices that he hasn’t budged and orders, “Get yourself up here now, Michael Taylor, or I will tell your father about the
marriage-y-juana
that you bought behind the field house after school yesterday.”

He bolts out of his chair. “How do you?…Who told you?”

When she nods at me to return to my seat, the light reflects off her glitter-shadowed eyelids. She arches a penciled-on eyebrow in Michael’s direction. “It was a lucky guess, Mr. Taylor. That’s where your father bought his
marriage-y-juana
when he was my student.” She moves so close to Michael that he backs up a step, and she plunges forward after him. For a moment, they appear to be dancing.

“I told you, Mr. Taylor: You are my personal project. I am determined to confirm my hypothesis: that you are
not
beyond saving. You shall prove the same to me by showing compassion to a person in need.” She points a long pink fingernail in my direction. “Colby needs someone to carry her books, her lunch tray, and, perhaps, tie her shoes from time to time. You shall be Johnny-on-the-Spot.”

Michael throws himself back into his desk so hard that it skids across the floor. He sneers, “What if I just pay someone to do it? Is that good enough to keep you quiet?” He punctuates the sentence with a snort and mutters, “Crazy old bag.”

Mrs. Clay plucks a rose petal and holds it up to the light, studying it. She sighs. “Well, in that case, I suppose I’ll have no choice but to tell your father about the headlights on the police cruisers that you shot out with your minions, Fredrick and José.”

Michael jerks around in his seat and shoots an accusing glance at his teammates, whose eyes are as big around as CDs.

“Just do it, dude!” Fredrick whispers loudly.

José hisses, “Yeah, man up!”

Michael slides my backpack over his shoulder and asks, “Where to now?” He shoots lasers in Mrs. Clay’s direction. She returns his bold stare and gives him a yellowed, lipstick-stained smile. He sighs heavily, rolls his eyes, and mutters, “Ugh. Fuck my life.”

“I’ve got Coach Allison next: math class. But you really don’t have to do this. I can manage just fine; I—” I reach for my backpack.

He jerks away. “Oh, no; no way! My dad finds out it was me who shot out those headlights, and I’m dead. I don’t know how that old bitch found out about it, but I’m not taking a chance on her telling.”

“What about Fredrick and José? What’ll happen to
them
if he finds out?”

Michael shrugs. “Who cares?”

“You’re not helping my case for redemption, Mr. Taylor,” a crackly voice says from behind us.

Michael’s eyes widen. “Let’s go!”

He’s halfway down the hall by the time I exit the room.