Fat Angie (11 page)

During gym, the girls worked out in the state-of-the-art fitness room. Fat Angie breathlessly climbed on the elliptical. KC curled barbells with various weight lifting machines between her and Angie. Stacy Ann and her gym posse engaged in under-their-breath snide remarks as Fat Angie huffed and puffed her way through the workout. Her
HORNETS’ NEST
T-shirt was drenched in sweat, pits to chest. Coach Laden took note of the girl’s unusual effort on the elliptical. Laden blew her whistle and said, “Showers! Let’s go.”

Fat Angie had set a time limit and a climb tension and would not yet leave the elliptical. Follow-through had marked the golden path for her sister’s unbelievable success on and off the court. Follow-through was the key to her sister’s basketball shots and, as she had shared with Angie many times, was equally important to success in life.

“You just have to visualize,”
her sister had said, spinning the ball between her palms.
“Visualize, follow through, and let go.”

And like that, Angie had closed her eyes and shot the ball in perfect form.
Swoosh!

“Don’t ever be scared to let go,”
her sister had said, tossing Angie the ball.

Fat Angie had forgotten how much her sister wanted her to try out for the team. How much she’d wanted her to feel the high of charging down the court. Fat Angie had allowed her couldn’t-be-bothered mother to fill in the hope with doubt — with ridicule. But if she were serious about attaining one of the two coveted spots on Coach Laden’s championship varsity team, she would have to visualize and, most important, follow through.

“Angie,” said Coach Laden. “Showers.”

“Al . . . most . . . fin . . . ished,” the panting girl said.

The machine finally beeped.

Fat Angie held on to the rails for shaking-arm dear life. This follow-through would be harder than she had estimated.

“You feeling all right?” said Coach Laden.

“Yeah,” said Fat Angie. “I’m . . . just working . . . out.”

“It’s good to work out hard,” said Coach Laden. “But don’t push it.”

Fat Angie wiped her face with the stained neckline of her
HORNET’S NEST
T-shirt as she shuffled toward the locker room.

“Angie,” said Coach Laden, tugging at a basketball charm on her thin gold necklace. “Good hustle.”

“Thanks,” said Fat Angie.

Fat Angie dragged herself around the corner of the fitness room, where KC was waiting.

“Hey,” said KC.

“Hey,” said Fat Angie, her response jam-packed with awkward.

“Waved to you in there,” said KC.

“Yeah. I saw you. Wave.”

KC nodded as they walked toward the locker room. “Huh. Thought you might wave back. ’Cause that’s kinda what friends do.”

“I did,” said Fat Angie. “Didn’t I?”

“Nope,” said KC.

“I meant to. I’m just really focused.”

“Share?” asked KC.

“You’ll think it’s lame,” said Fat Angie.

“Benefit of the doubt can go a long way. Hit me.”

Fat Angie mapped out a series of sentences in her head. The details were precise and well written but got stuck in Fat Angie’s brain traffic.

“Is this about the other day?” KC asked. “If my proclamation of interest in you other than a friend freaked you later, you just gotta say. I just . . . I don’t know.”

“No,” said Fat Angie. “I’m not freaked. Really.”

“OK. So, we’re a ten?”

Fat Angie did not follow the question. This was marked by her dumbfounded expression.

“Sorry. Midwest translation. All good?”

“Sure. Yeah. Definite ten.”

“Sweetness. So . . . I’ll catch you?” said KC,

“Yeah, definitely caught — catched. Catch.”

“Swell,” KC said, disappearing into the locker room.

Fat Angie stood there, becoming increasingly cold in her damp clothes. She had wanted to make some other declaration. Butterflies for a girl named Romance and a hunger for basketball. The scramble of it all was like being taken to an all-you-can-eat buffet the day after gastric bypass surgery.

Fat Angie looked down the court. Beyond the hoop and backboard. There, on the wall, hung six banners. Five all-region and one state win. Her sister’s win.

Her sister would know exactly what to do — the best course of action. She was capable of navigating the complicated. She was beautiful and strong. She did not have a sum total of six scars on her wrists. She had not tried to take her life. Her sister lived life and fought for everyone else’s.

That made Fat Angie mad right then. Mad that she — that she could not . . .

Fat Angie began counting in her head.
Calm down.
She simply needed to calm down.

“Counting will make you calm,”
her therapist had said, early in their sessions.
“It’s like eating.”

Fat Angie had thought it was in no way like eating.
“The caloric intake is grossly different,”
she’d said.

“Just count,”
he had said.

The therapist had made a note:
Ability to process is stunted. Discuss the possible need for special services with mother.

Fat Angie swung the locker-room door open. A small pocket of girls laughed. Fat Angie had failed to notice that she had continued counting aloud from the door to her locker, over a distance of approximately seven feet and four inches.

Stacy Ann straddled the bench near Fat Angie. “You training for the whale Olympics?”

Fat Angie stopped counting.

“Yeah, Stacy Ann, that’s what I’m doing,” Fat Angie said, slipping a hoodie over her
HORNET’S NEST
T-shirt.

“No wonder you always stink,” said Stacy Ann. “You never take that
buzzzz
shirt off. Even your brother thinks you’re a pig and he’s a tool times eleven.”

A shaky breath escaped Fat Angie’s lips. Stacy Ann cackled.

Ignore, ignore, ignore the mean crank-ho with the
DADDY’S GIRL
heart charm on her necklace,
Fat Angie thought. She kicked off her sneakers and was midway into putting on her jeans when Stacy Ann hooked her from behind. She pulled on Fat Angie’s pudgy arms and dragged her off the bench.

“Get off of me! Get off!” said Fat Angie, her jeans rolling to her knees.

Many of the girls cheered Stacy Ann on as she dragged Fat Angie into the showers.

“You’re not stinking up fifth period,” said Stacy Ann.

The shower beat down on the two girls. Fat Angie inhaled water and coughed, “Stop!”

Stacy Ann yanked the hoodie over Fat Angie’s head. Fat Angie’s socks, sopped in water, slid along the shower floor. Stacy Ann had Fat Angie’s T-shirt nearly off when KC grabbed her and threw her against the shower wall.

“Why are you such a sadistic bitch?” KC said. “What has she ever done to you?”

Stacy Ann wiggled loose and slammed KC to the floor. Water splashed. The girls rolled around and not gracefully. There were no stunt doubles. There was no good humor in this fight. It was, as many would say,
on.

Fat Angie watched as fists were thrown. Blocks were made. The girls who had gone quiet launched back into “FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!” mode.

Neither Stacy Ann nor KC seemed to really be winning, though.

Coach Laden peeled through a series of shoulders. “What’s going on here?”

The coach separated Stacy Ann and KC, but the two made a final attempt at continuing their brawl.

The gym girls stood around, unsure how to play their hands as spectators. Coach Laden saw Fat Angie still wedged in the corner of the shower, half-dressed, drenched, and trembling.

“Who started this?” said Coach Laden.

Stacy Ann shot a dart of a look to Fat Angie.
Narc and die.

“Who started this?”
repeated Coach Laden in a not-so-lovely tone.

“Fat Angie,” said one girl.

“She was talking trash to Stacy Ann,” said another.

“That’s bullshit,” said KC, turning off the spigot of water beating down on Angie.

“You OK there?” said Coach Laden, her eyes on KC’s exposed arm.

KC looked to Fat Angie. KC was bleeding.

“Yeah,” KC said, hiding her arm. “Three karat all the way.”

“Everyone get dressed,” said Coach Laden.

KC shook her head and got up in Coach Laden’s grill. “That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna do?”

“Get dressed,” said Coach Laden.

Stacy Ann smirked at KC.

KC continued. “One, I already am. Two, Stacy Ann is a megabitch —”

“Screw you, KC,” said Stacy Ann.

“Enough,” Coach Laden said.

“You, of all people, should be fair,” KC said, charging off.

“Stacy Ann,” said Coach Laden.

“Yeah, Coach?” Stacy Ann asked.

“You ever pull anything like this again, I don’t care how many people say you didn’t do it. I don’t care if your
mom
is head of the PTA and calls me twelve times a day. I’ll have you suspended for the year. Clear?”

Stacy Ann gritted her teeth. “She’s not so special.”

“Am. I. Clear?” Coach Laden repeated.

Stacy Ann nodded.

Fat Angie watched the exchange. She knew that even the likes of one Coach Laden could not stop the hate machine that was Stacy Ann Sloan.

“And you’ve got detention for two weeks,” said Coach Laden.

“What?” said Stacy Ann.

“Wanna make it three?”

Stacy Ann glared at Fat Angie. “Two is great, Coach.”

“Now get changed.”

Coach Laden kneeled beside Fat Angie, who drew her knees in and raised one shoulder while turning her head down. Water drip-dropped from the ends of her hair to her nose. Coach Laden reached for her but Fat Angie pulled back. Only there was nowhere to go.

“It’s not going to happen again,” said Coach Laden.

Fat Angie shook her head . . . a lot. She breathed short, shallow breaths.

“It’s not going to,” said Coach Laden.

The tears welled. Fat Angie shot her eyes left to right to prevent any crying. This was not the time for revealing tears. Coach Laden would find her too weak. Too special. Special in the way that would not fit her goal of making the varsity team. Nevertheless, Fat Angie was frozen in place.

“Looks like the new bad girl has a good heart,” said Coach Laden.

Fat Angie, her mind too occupied with inhibiting emotion, did not track the trajectory of Coach Laden’s comment.

“KC stuck up for you,” said Coach Laden. “That’s pretty impressive when you’re new.”

“Because I’m a freak?” Fat Angie said.

“You’re not a freak, Angie,” said Coach Laden, repositioning her squat. Her black Adidas with yellow soles squeaked.

“If you call my mom, she’s gonna be really mad,” Fat Angie said.

“Then we don’t call. You haven’t done anything wrong. Have you?”

Fat Angie shook her head.

“Then we’ll toss your clothes in the dryer,” said Coach Laden. “Suit you up in some athletic gear.”

“Like it’d fit,” said Fat Angie.

“Hey,” said Coach Laden. “You can fit.”

Coach Laden helped Fat Angie up.

As the two walked out, three things came to Fat Angie’s mind. Would her clothes shrink? Should she wish for telekinetic powers now that the girls had officially taunted and laughed at her in the locker room? Though they had not thrown tampons. Was that critical to Carrie’s rage at the end of the film?
Stop,
she told herself.

Stop,
she told herself again.
Stop, stop, stop.

Stop it, fat ass!

That wasn’t her voice. Wang’s school persona had injected itself into the commentary.

Fat Angie inhaled.

Fat Angie exhaled.

Fat Angie returned to
Carrie
once more, and then the word
STOP
flashed in her head, the way it appeared at the bottom of standardized tests.

With the notion of her clothes potentially shrinking in the dryer,
Carrie
discarded, and Wang’s voice muted, Fat Angie was led to her final thought. The longest thought. The one that held her steady without the need for counting numbers in her head or aloud.

Why had KC hidden her arm?

After school, Fat Angie sought out KC Romance. Concerned that she would miss her bus, Fat Angie set the timer on her Casio calculator watch, allotting enough time to do a Fat Angie–style sprint to the bus.

KC was not at her locker.

She was not in the bus line.

She was not by the vending machines, in the cafeteria, in the gymnasium, or at the giant Hornet statue in front of William Anders High School. Then, at some distance, Fat Angie spotted the long-legged KC stepping down a sidewalk. Fat Angie eyed her watch. She accounted for the time to catch up with KC, to resolve any miscommunication, and to still make her bus. Through this flurry of mathematical calculations, Fat Angie concluded that she could not do it all. And simply catching up to KC without any discussion would surely not improve the strained situation. But avoiding her altogether and hoping to patch it over with a text message could also leave her on the losing end. Fat Angie remembered KC had referred to herself as “old-school” and preferred handwritten notes. There was no time for such a labor-intensive effort.

Fat Angie went into a Fat Angie overload.

Too much, too much, too much!

Why were there so many alternatives? So many different outcomes to be considered?

Fat Angie’s watch beeped. She’d wasted too much time deliberating. It was, as the cliché went, now or never. Do or die. A girl against the grain — the metaphor seemed clear.

Fat Angie sprinted Fat Angie–style toward KC. Her backpack slapped against her back. The feeling was quite uncomfortable. In fact, it hurt like all hell. She tripped and fell arms-first onto the concrete with the grace of girls in horror films. The casualty: her right elbow.

It bled.

Fat Angie hated blood.

She once had told her therapist,
“It isn’t at all like on TV. When you bleed, it really is something.”

The therapist had made a note:
Obsession with notions of self-mutilation.

The injury on Fat Angie’s elbow was minor. She wiped it on her jeans. It stung.

Fat Angie still had KC in her sights as the beauty turned a corner. She ran once again. Backpack back-slapping her. “KC,” called Fat Angie.