Biggie (10 page)

I just sit there and ask the same question over and over in my head. Why didn't I go to that party? I'm an idiot. She must like me or why would she tell people she agreed to hang out with me.
Pull yourself together, Biggie. You can do this. You can fix things. She likes you. This isn't a setback. This is good news.

“All right, man, let's get you a
B
.”

Chapter 18

My Big Butt

On Thursday night, I open my front door and find Kyle standing there without a math textbook and his hands deep inside his pockets.

“How do you like me now?” He pulls out a quiz with a
B
+ written in red ink in the upper right-hand corner. “Can you believe it? I got them all right, except for this one, which I forgot to fill in.” He points to the question with his forefinger and then shows it to me again. “Here's the crazy thing—I knew the answer. I just got so pumped that I knew all the answers that I skipped right over it.”

I have no idea what to say. I'm happy for him, I guess. In reality, if I had gotten a
B
because I missed a question, I would have been seriously depressed. The ice cream in my house would not be safe.

“You, me, party, tonight,” he says. “Now that I'm back on the team, Killer's throwing me a party and I told him I'm only coming if Biggie can come too.'”

“It's Thursday night,” I say.

“So we won't be out late,” he replies. “We sit around a bonfire and then Michelle”—he peers over my shoulder to make sure the living room behind me is empty—“is going to bring some beer. C'mon, let's celebrate.” He lifts the quiz a third time.

“Will Annabelle be there?”

“I can have Michelle convince her to come.”

I lose my breath. I am minutes away from talking to her. In just four days, I've accomplished three of the five steps, and tonight I might conquer step four: becoming friends with Michelle, Becky, and Annabelle. All that's left is to get Annabelle to go out with me again. Hell, I might ask her out tonight. We could drive around and drink Honey Weiss. I have never executed a plan so well, so quickly before.

“Okay I'll go, but we need to stop at the convenience store first.”

I can feel the heat from the fire before we even get out of the truck. It's sixty-eight degrees out, warm for October in Iowa, so a fire isn't really needed, but it adds ambiance. Jet, holding a Mountain Dew, stands next to Killer as he tosses chopped wood onto the roaring flames.

Jet's the smallest kid in our class at five-foot-six, 155 pounds. Although he's tiny, he's fast and strong. Just last week, he was our weekly paper's Athlete of the Week after he caught ten passes for 220 yards and four touchdowns in Finch's fifth football win of the season. He has long brown hair and the worst five-o'clock shadow in school. Only a handful of hairs grow out of his face and none of them are close together.

“Biggie, what's up?” Jet asks.

“Nothing.” From my backseat, I grab a twelve-pack of Bud Light for the guys and a twelve-pack of Honey Weiss for Annabelle and me. Another perk of working alone at a convenience store is the easy access to alcohol. On my first day at the convenience store, Joe, my half-ass trainer, only taught me one thing—how to steal beer.

“There aren't any cameras in the store room so just make sure the tray's right and don't get pulled over and you're good,” Joe said.

You don't need to read Annabelle's emails to know she loves Honey Weiss. Whenever I've overheard Michelle bring up a party, Annabelle always answers, “There better be Honey Weiss.”

Each of my hands holds a twelve-pack of beer, which makes me Jet's best friend for the night.

“You brought beer!” he cheers.

“I did,” I say. “I grabbed it out of the storeroom and put the money in the cash register. It all adds up at the end of the night.”

“So you can get us beer whenever?”

“If my boss isn't there,” I say.

“Interesting,” Killer says. “Well, let me welcome you to the gang.” He snaps his fingers and gives me a thumbs-up, which makes me very uncomfortable. Am I supposed to give him a thumbs-up? Or a nod? I go with the nod and some type of crooked grin.

“So, Biggie, what have you been up to?” Killer asks.

“He's training with Laser,” Kyle informs him. “He's going out for ball next summer.”

Ball, in some towns, means football or basketball, but in Finch, it's baseball. Baseball's our game. Everyone knows it, especially the football and basketball coaches.

“You sure it's good for your health to play ball?” Killer asks but doesn't wait for answer. “We don't need someone having a heart attack in the fifth inning.”

The guys laugh so loud no one hears me say, “I'm losing weight,” so I have to say it louder. “I'm losing weight!”

“Really?” Killer asks. His head is still bouncing from laughing at his own joke.

“Yeah, I'm less than three hundred pounds now, and I can now walk two miles without passing out.”

“Damn, I didn't even know you weighed three hundred pounds,” Kyle says.

“I was three sixteen or maybe three twenty, but I'm training with Laser and Maddux now,” I brag.

I have no idea if I'm less than three hundred pounds. I have to be close, with the workouts and Mom's healthy menu. And the two-mile claim, it's true, but that doesn't mean I don't want to pass out and die during the final stretch.

I'm amazed at how much I'm talking. I really thought I would be standing behind everyone else—a fly on the wall. But I'm doing okay, and it felt good to scream
I'm losing weight
.

“How the hell does someone lose twenty pounds and no one can tell?” Jet jokes. “I'm just playing with you, Biggie. Good for you.”

The guys all follow Killer to the fire, which sits inside of a circle of a few nylon folding chairs.

I take a drink of beer. The guys seem to down their beers while I nurse mine. I don't seem to like beer like they do. The aftertaste doesn't go away as I walk closer to the fire. Maybe if you chug it, there isn't as much of an aftertaste. I wrap my lips around the top of the bottle and just drink. I can feel the beer zigzagging down my throat before falling into my stomach. I drink until the bottle's empty. Nope, there's still aftertaste. Suddenly I crave water, but the only things on this gravel driveway are beer and fire. I wonder if the Honey Weiss would taste better, but I also wonder if it's a girl's beer. I don't want to get made fun of, so I stick with the harsh Bud Light.

“Hey, Biggie, I don't mean to be rude, but you can't sit on those chairs. There's a weight limit and you are way over it,” Killer says. “No offense.”

“They'll hold him,” Jet says.

“They're my mom's and she'll be pissed if one breaks,” Killer says. “I got a blanket in my car you can sit on.”

Killer walks to his Ford Mustang, opens the trunk, and pulls out a blanket. I don't even want to know how many girls he's had sex with on that thing. There's no way I'm sitting on it.

“I'll just stand. It's okay,” I say.

“Just let him sit in the chair,” Kyle commands.

“He'll break it,” Killer whines again.

“I'll sit on the blanket,” I say. “It's all right.”

Killer sets the blanket on the ground, and like a two-year-old, I sit on it. I feel like an idiot.

“Hey, Biggie, pull your truck up,” Kyle says. “You can sit on your tailgate.”

Chapter 19

All GIrLs,
None from IOwa

My back aches as I sit on my tailgate. It's better than sitting on a blanket on the ground, but those chairs look really comfortable. The guys are leaning back, stretching their shoulders and legs, and I'm sitting on a cold, hard tailgate, alone—the outsider.

I feel silly. I thought coming to this party would change my life. Everyone would be talking to me, staring at me, ripping on me. I'd feel like an idiot, at least until Annabelle accepts my apology and gets into my truck. I really thought I would have to sacrifice my autonomy, my life in the shadows. I was wrong. I'm still invisible. The cool kids are sitting around the fire, and I'm hiding on a tailgate. It's like math class, only with mosquitoes.

My pocket vibrates. I have a message from Maddy, my photographer friend in Colorado. We had a chat date for eight and my phone tells me it's 8:05. “Crap,” I whisper under my breath. I text back,
Sorry, can't talk. With friends. Chat in 2 hours?

She types out a colon and left parenthesis for a digital sad face.

Sorry. Can't wait to talk
, I text back.

Cool
, she texts back.

Before I even snap my phone shut, I'm sure Maddy has probably contacted another guy, another lonely soul looking for a Thursday chat date. By the time I get home, Maddy and this new guy she's probably typing
Sure, I would love to chat
to right now will be best friends, and I will just be a guy who stood her up. A shy, fat kid who thought he could have it all—online and real-life friends.

I want to go home. No one is talking to me here. Annabelle's friends sit in a circle of comfortable chairs talking about the basketball coach, who doesn't teach at Finch, so I have no idea who he is. I could laugh when they laugh, but they wouldn't notice. I consider saying “Good one” when Killer tells a story about Jet throwing the ball in the wrong direction and hitting the coach's twelve-year-old daughter, but I keep silent. That's me, the silent one. Whoever said real life is better than fantasy never gave a fantasy life a real shot.

Before I can slip my phone back into my pocket, it vibrates again. This time it's Brianna from Michigan. We didn't have anything planned, but she loves to chat on bad days.
What's up, Henry?
she texts.

Nada, just with friends
, I text back.

“Who are you talking to?” Kyle peeks over at me.

“No one.” I quickly put the phone back into my pocket.

The phone vibrates again. Apparently Brianna has more to say, including
I didn't know you had any friends in town.
I like to come across as a loner and love to tell people that no one in this crappy town is as cool as them. Girls like that. I put my hands on the outside of my pants as the phone continues to vibrate, massaging my palm through the denim.

Even sitting a few feet away, Kyle hears the buzzing sounds.

“You can get that,” he says. “We don't care.”

I just sit there on the tailgate. I don't say a word while I press down on my pockets, believing the pressure will deactivate the phone. As it keeps dancing in my pocket, I flash a small please-leave-me-alone smile. Seconds pass without a tickle from my pants and I know all is okay.

The guys walk over and suddenly there's a semicircle around me.

“Who was that?” Kyle asks again.

“My mom,” I say.

“No one texts with their mom,” Killer says.

“My mom loves to text,” I say. “She's really computer savvy.”

The phone vibrates again. If bees filled the truck bed, the buzzing noise wouldn't be as loud. I could just ignore it, but all three of them are staring at my pocket, which looks like it's trapped a hummingbird. Plus I'm curious who is calling. Three calls in ten minutes is sort of a record for me.

I decide I'll stick with the mom lie, which seems to be working or at least buying me time. I figure it will take less than a second to pull the phone out, see who called, and jam it back into my pocket. If I do it fast enough, the guys won't see anything. I look out at the harvested cornfield and wait for the guys to follow my eyes. When I see all three give in and look to their right, I pull the phone out. Before I can read the name, Kyle, with his massive, fishing-net hands, steals the phone.

“Kyle, what the hell?” I ask.

“It's Maddy,” Kyle says. “Is she your girlfriend?”

“No, she isn't. Just give me back my phone.”

Killer and Jet lean over to get a better look at the phone. “Ask her who she is,” Jet says. “See if she's Biggie's girl.”

“She called Biggie; he wouldn't ask if they are boyfriend and girlfriend,” Kyle says.

“I got it,” Killer says. “Tell her Biggie's in the bathroom and he left his phone. We're his friends and we're curious who she is.”

“Okay,” Kyle says and starts to type. “Is this okay, Biggie?”

What can I say? I could tell them to give me the phone back or someone's going to get hurt, but these are three highly trained athletes. I could cry and beg for the phone back, but then my nickname will change from Biggie to Crybaby. With no options, I just sit on the cold tailgate and pray that Maddy's phone explodes at this very moment, keeping her from reading their questions.

“She said she's his Indiana girlfriend,” Kyle reads.

Surprisingly, they don't chuckle, even though hearing “Indiana girlfriend” out loud sounds ridiculous, absurd, and loserish. I figured it was Maddy from Colorado texting back to set up a time later to chat. I actually have three online girlfriends named Maddy. Not to brag, but three isn't even my record. I'm friends with six Jennifers.

“Ask for a pic,” Killer says.

“Guys, don't,” I say.

“‘Can we have a picture of you?'” Kyle ignores me and just types away.

“Awesome,” Jet says.

“She says, ‘Is a G-rated one okay?'” Kyle reads. “Do you sext with these girls?”

I just sit there and say nothing. Sweat fills the palms of my hands and my breaths get caught in my throat. I wipe the sweat off my hands on my jeans and feel my keys. I should just forget the phone, jump off the tailgate, get into the truck, and speed home. I should have just stayed in my room and kept my chat date with Maddy from Colorado.

“‘That's fine,'” Kyle says out loud while typing. “‘But a sexy one would be awesome.'”

Time slows down and no one says a word. I feel like a cancer patient in a doctor's office waiting for test results with his family, only these guys aren't my family. They are three strangers holding my phone hostage. I miss my computer chair so much.

The phone vibrates as a blanket of warm vomit slowly covers my tongue.

“Holy shit, Biggie,” Kyle says.

For whatever reason, Killer and Jet start laughing and dancing. It looks like Jet might throw up before me, he's laughing so hard.

“This girl is so hot,” Kyle says.

In the picture, Maddy has on a pink bikini top and her brown hair is soaking wet. She doesn't smile, but, instead, bites her lower lip in a please-drive-over-here-and-grab-me look.

“I'm sorry for laughing,” Jet says, trying to get his breath back. “I just can't believe how fast she sent us a picture back.”

“Of course she sent a pic,” Kyle says. “She's smokin'. Here's another text. Wait, this one's from Felicia. ‘Husband's an asshole, wanna talk?'” Damn, Biggie, these texts just keep coming.”

“Get a pic,” Jet hops up and down like a five-year-old high on sugar.

“‘Hey, Felicia, sorry about your guy problems, but this isn't Biggie, it's a friend. He's in the bathroom. How did you meet?'” Kyle talks and types.

For a kid who keeps getting suspended because of bad grades and who recently skipped a question on a test, Kyle sure can think fast when it comes to girls.

My eyes start to water and turn red. I turn away and grit my teeth, hoping that holds the tears in. I'm able to hold in the puke, but my stomach feels like it's full of watery bile and at any moment the vomit, like a tsunami, will rocket up my throat and mix with the gravel below my feet. As I sit there, rocking back and forth, trying not to throw up, the guys continue to play with my phone and my online girlfriends.

“Here it comes,” Kyle says. “Wait. She wants to know who Biggie is? Crap, anyone know Biggie's first name?”

Now I know they've forgotten about me. I'm a foot from Kyle but he doesn't ask me what my name is. Plus, we're locker neighbors and I'm his tutor. How could he not know?

“Dude, it's Henry,” Jet says. “Henry Abbott. Man, now I know you're not from here if you don't know who Aaron Abbott's kid is.”

“‘Henry. His nickname is Biggie,'” Kyle's still talking as he types.

“Hope you didn't lie about being a fat ass,” Killer says, “because the truth's out now.”

I want to smirk and say ha-ha, but my face is paralyzed from holding in tears and puke.

The phone vibrates again. “She says, ‘We're chat buddies. What are you guys up to?'”

“Get a pic.” Jet hops higher and faster. His face turns red and his mouth hangs open. He's so excited, you would assume any second now Ed McMahon is going to hand him an oversized million-dollar check.

“‘Can we have a pic?'” Kyle types.

The phone vibrates again. “‘Trade only.'”

“She wants a pic,” Jet says.

“Of Biggie?” Killer asks.

“I don't know,” Kyle says. “Of Biggie. Wait, should I type ‘Henry or Biggie'? I better type ‘Henry,' no confusion.” He clears the screen. “‘Of Henry.' Where's the question mark on this thing?”

“You don't need a question mark. Just send it,” Killer commands.

The phone vibrates. “‘Of you,' and a smiley face,” Kyle says. “This married chick is hitting on me.”

“I'm telling Michelle,” Jet warns.

“Oh, Michelle would want me to get this pic. Trust me,” Kyle says. “Biggie, come take my picture,” he says.

Here's my chance. He has to hand me the phone to take the picture. Once I get it, I'll take off—get in my truck and just drive. But as he hands me the phone, I don't want to go. Maybe it's because if I leave, I have no chance of being friends with Kyle and zero chance of being a boyfriend to Annabelle. What's weirder than running away from friends? Plus I've never seen a picture of Felicia. I'm curious about what she looks like. So instead of bolting, I hold up the phone and take a picture of the dumb smile on Kyle's face.

“Wait, I should take my shirt off,” he says. “That way maybe she'll send a naked one.” He rips off his shirt, showing off his hairless chest and ripped abs. Man, I would have to work out for twenty years to have ribs poke out like that.

“Hey, quit staring, weirdo, and take the pic,” Killer orders.

They all stand around me and wait for Felicia's picture. The phone vibrates and the picture appears. Needless to say, Felicia isn't as hot as Maddy. She's overweight and has a crooked, lips-sealed-shut smile and a sloppy haircut. Felicia's smart and has gone through some tough times, so I feel bad for her when the guys quickly delete the photo.

I want to tell the guys that she's a nice person and they are being jerks, but I keep quiet. Most nights when we talk online or text, I feel like Felicia's marriage counselor, and some nights, I really feel like I turn her bad days into good ones. I should stand up for her but instead I listen as the guys shoot insults.

“There are, like, two hundred girls in your contacts.” Kyle tosses me my phone.

“Any of these girls from around here?” Jet asks. “From Iowa?”

I shake my head.