Fat Boy vs. the Cheerleaders (3 page)

That bathroom is disgusting, sir.

Sure. Yeah. Serves its purpose. I'm good.

Where were we?

Right. Last day of school. That was nine days ago. Feels like a million years ago though. I stole money from Dad so I could drink all the Code Red in the world.

Actually, I tried not to go to school at all. After breakfast, instead of heading outside and down to the corner where Justin usually picks me up, I sat back down on the couch and shut my eyes.

By the time Grandpa noticed I hadn't left the house (and was asleep on the couch), I was too late to make gym (too late for Mr. McCartney to call me names one last time).

“What the hell?” Grandpa shouted when he saw me.

“Sick,” I said, opening my eyes.

“No, you're not,” Grandpa said. “Get in the van!”

Grandpa drove me to school in his dumb orange van, which I didn't appreciate.

Nobody seemed to notice or care that I'd skipped a class. I'm sure it would've been a big deal if it hadn't been the last day of school. I bought my first Dew and shuffled to second hour.

The morning was only notable for a couple reasons.

One, someone had stuffed a note in my locker saying,
I'm sorry, Gabe! I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry!

That's the note Dad handed you this morning, sir. Guess he found it when he was digging around my room last night. It's from Baba Obi and I don't have a clue why you guys think it has something to do with this pop machine robbery because it doesn't.

No, I don't know any Baba Obi.

The handwriting is a girl's. I'm sure Camille was sorry for something. It's nothing.

Baba Obi is no one.

Two, Ms. Feagan, my English teacher, asked me to stay after class following third hour. “Gabe, are you feeling all right?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I don't feel good.”

“Do you need help? Can I help?”

“I just don't want to be funny anymore,” I said.

She laughed for a second. “Okay,” she said. “That's fair. You don't have to entertain me or anybody, but I've missed you this week.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“No,” Ms. Feagan said. “Don't be sorry. You do what you need to do, okay?”

I nodded and left, but that meant a lot to me. Ms. Feagan is meritorious. (That's a vocabulary word from her class.)

Yeah, the morning was quiet. The afternoon wasn't.

Band changed everything.

Usually, the final day of band is a jam session. When I was a freshman, Mr. Shaver let us play our favorite songs of the year but also sort of improvise our parts, which was really hilarious. It was really, really great. Man, I love band. I love it, Mr. R. It's so fun. And Shaver is an awesome teacher and no one acts like a jerk or calls anyone names (well, except Austin Bates). We just play music. Some of it is boring, but lots of it is loud and bouncy sounding. It's so good. Last year, during the final day jam session, people got up and danced and whooped and crap. It was probably the best time I've ever had.

I'm serious, sir. I love band.

But this year, the last band class wasn't the jam session I was expecting at all, and clearly, I needed some joy in my life, right?

We all got to the band room and Mr. Shaver told us not to take our instruments out. He asked us to sit in our sections. His tone scared me. Dark.

Tess Cook, who is an airhead and maybe half deaf/crazy, didn't pay attention to instructions. She pulled out her clarinet and began to put it together and Mr. Shaver, who is about the sweetest dude in the world, flipped out. “Damn it, Tess. I said no instruments.” The room fell totally silent. We all stared at Shaver. I had a hard time swallowing because his shouting freaked me out. He's not a yeller. He's a sweet old dude. (I mean, I thought he was until last week.)

Shaver got up on the riser, where he usually conducts. He said, “Big announcement. Big announcement. Sit down, Tess.”

Tess was only up because she was putting her clarinet away. “What?” she asked. Her face turned red.

“Sit, kid. Jesus Christ,” Shaver said. “Jesus!”

Tess sat with half her clarinet in her hand.

My hands were shaking by that point. I felt faint. (I'd already had five Code Reds, which likely added to my shaking.)

Then Shaver took this deep breath, shook his head, and delivered the blow. “I'm very sorry to say there will be no marching camp this summer.”

There was an audible gasp. More like a hiss or a balloon losing air.

Someone—I'm not sure who—shouted, “Why?”

“Unforeseen circumstances,” Shaver said. “Changes. Things come up. Get used to it. Things get in the way in life. You all enjoy your time off.”

“Wait!” Camille shouted. “Seriously…why?”

But Shaver had already stepped down from the riser. While we watched, mouths hanging open, he walked across the room to his office, walked in, and slammed the door.

You might think the band would all riot or call out in anguish or something. Shouldn't we have pounded on Shaver's office, demanded an explanation, planned our resistance? No way. We all just sat there, barely breathing, waiting for Shaver to come back and further direct us about what we were supposed to do.

No leadership in the house.

The seniors were on their way out. It was their last day. They couldn't give a flying squirt about marching. The juniors who will be seniors are a class almost totally devoid of any intelligence or talent. It's like the smarts in this town skipped a generation. They can't play music. They can barely read. They're dirty and dumb.

Yes, I'm happy to say that some of them are my friends now.

But you have to have leaders if you're going to fight the power, man. Are sophomores who are used to being buried near the bottom of the shit heap going to be quick to stand up? Justin was the most likely dude to do it, but he didn't because he was already secretly dating Janessa.

That's right—Janessa Rogers!

People started whispering. The volume increased. They all talked and talked about what might've happened.
Maybe
Shaver's sick. Maybe he's tired or he has to travel someplace. Maybe he doesn't like us anymore. Maybe the marching band is losing its funding for next year.

Whoa. Stop the presses.

I hadn't partaken (partook?) in the conversations at all because of my state of mind, but—

Maybe
the
marching
band
is
losing
its
funding
for
next
year.

Okay, when I was a freshman, Jacinta Smith was the president of the student council, and she also took community college classes at night from my dad (accounting). And I actually read one of her papers where she talked about how various student activities were funded and the band, sir, the band's summer programming was entirely funded by proceeds generated from the pop machine in the cafeteria! I thought about Deevers telling me and Justin about property values and resort money and how there wasn't enough money.

I mean, balls!

Suddenly, I knew in my pounding heart of hearts what was going on. A high holy effenheimer danced on the tip of my tongue. I sucked it in and let it expand in my chest. My heart pounded, man.

Maybe
the
marching
band
is
losing
its
funding
for
next
year?

I tried to breathe. I tried to swallow. I watched and waited. Pretty soon, conversations turned to summer plans and college and all kinds of crap that didn't matter. Only I knew we were being victimized (totally bamboozled).

My blood boiled, not just for me but for all us geeks.

Look at me, Mr. Rodriguez. Here. I'm going to stand up. Do you think I like marching? I love the music—but marching? This is me marching. I look stupid, right? In fact, I hate the hell out of the marching part of band. The stupid tight pants and fur ball hats and the big white belt that crushes me across my midsection. I can't breathe in the bullshit uniform in the first place. Then march me around in circles while I blow my guts out on this brass instrument that requires all kinds of wind? I look like a dying blimp wearing a costume and blowing a big metal robot wang.

What I'm saying is while I love concert band and pep band with my whole heart, I don't like marching one bit. But I'd had enough of getting the shaft. I'm not a joke. I'm not going to be a victim!

Waiting for the bell to ring, I thought about Seth Sellers calling me a turd. I thought about the stinging price of Code Red and all the ways it crippled me (physically and emotionally). I thought about Deevers. I thought about the health class experiment and how I wasn't the only one screwed over. I thought about McCartney and name-calling.

I thought,
None
of
this
is
by
accident.
I thought,
Somebody
is
trying
to
use
us
up.
I thought,
If
Kailey
or
Janessa
were
in
the
band, we'd have all the money we need to be the best band we can be. Property values and resort money don't matter! They take my stuff because I make it easy! I just laugh and roll over!

I exhaled hard. I stood up. Everyone stared at me.

“I have totally and completely had enough of this bullshit,” I said. “This means war!”

Austin Bates, a junior percussionist, laughed. “Ha-ha!”

I gave him the finger.

And then the bell rang.

Mr. Rodriguez, have you ever felt the need to get a whole new set of friends? I'm not saying Justin and Camille are bad people. They're fine, okay? But Justin was the first person to call me Chunk instead of my given name, Gabe. (He said I looked like this fat kid in an 80s movie.) Camille treated me like an idiot all the time. And Justin “forgot” to give me a ride home that last day of school because clearly he had better things to do than deliver his best friend. That means something when you've decided to go to war.

I walked home. I cut through the school's playing fields and launched my last ever Code Red onto the track. It fizzled for a couple seconds and then died.

As I trudged through town, a little song established itself in my head, something like this:
What's a boy like me gonna do to fight? Who to beat to win victory? My eagle wings will take flight. I'll rain death and misery—

Yeah, that's a bad song, sir. I sang it over and over.

I also thought about RC III, this dude who moved to Minnekota last fall. That guy's a fighter and also he doesn't treat me like an idiot. He was this superstar all-star Mr. Football and Basketball down in the Twin Cities the year before. But his dad—he's a lawyer who used to play for the Vikings—is working on that giant murder trial over in Green Lake, so RC III had to move here.

Right. Of course you've heard of him.

What a shock to his system, right? City schools and big shopping malls and all the movies you'd ever want to see and sophistication and people of many colors and nationalities and then you're here in the frozen lakes and bean fields with a bunch of blonde kids staring at you like you're from Planet Zorb? Didn't seem to bother him at all.

Yeah, RC III kicked everybody's ass in the whole conference on the football field and the basketball court. It was a real joy to play my 'bone in the pep band this year because we actually won some games with RC III kicking ass like he did. What was really cool is that he didn't try to blend into the jock culture at all. Didn't try to become part of the school like that.

The dude was in my gym class this spring. For whatever reason, I was the only one he ever talked to. We'd pair up for badminton every day (if I wasn't orbiting or being kicked out of class).

I'd say, “Don't smash me in the shuttlecock.”

He'd say, “I'm gonna smash your shuttlecock all over this gym, man.”

Then he'd take it pretty easy on me and we'd whack the bird back and forth.

A couple times, though, he'd make it hard and I did okay. After class one time, he said, “You're pretty light on your feet for a big dude. You should get in shape and go out for football in the fall.”

I said, “I'd rather stick a pencil in my eyeball than play sports with a bunch of skanky-assed cavemen.”

A normal jock like Seth Sellers would kick my ass for saying that, sir. RC III just sort of giggled and hooted. Even though we never hung out after school or anything, we became buddies. He was always really happy to see me in the halls. I got him a summer job at Dante's Donuts too.

Yeah, I'm a good guy to know around here!

As I neared my house, I thought about what RC III said, that I'm light on my feet. I used to be a swimmer (like Justin). I used to actually like gym.

I thought,
Maybe
you
can't ever get skinny, but you don't have to be a tub of turd either.
This thought repeated itself.
You've never been exactly skinny, but you weren't a tub of turd. Come on. Come on. No more tub of turd.
This thought gained some traction.

Before I walked into the front door of our dirty house, I sat down on the front step and breathed. Rita Day, our neighbor lady who used to do yoga with my mom, popped out of her garage. She gave me a big smile and a wave and then bounced around the side of the house with a garden bag. She's like sixty but jogs and is skinny and energetic to the point of being annoying. Grandpa's that way too. Energetic. Annoying.

I thought,
That's what I want.

I thought,
Bouncy-ass six-pack muscle-head Grandpa.

I pushed myself up off the step and went in.

“You want what now?” Grandpa asked when I found him in the kitchen.

“I want counseling,” I said. “To not be like this, okay?” I pointed at my big self.

Grandpa fried eggs in a giant skillet. (Breakfast for dinner is a big deal at my house.) “All you wanted last night was lasagna. You didn't want any salad,” he said.

“I do now,” I said.

“Too late,” he said, pointing at the eggs.

“I want to get in shape. I want to get strong,” I said.

“No, you don't,” Grandpa said.

“Yes. Show me how to get strong,” I said.

“It's not going to be easy,” Grandpa said. “I don't believe you have it in you.”

I looked down at the floor. “I don't want to be a turd anymore,” I whispered.

Grandpa paused. I looked back up at him. He squinted, sizing me up. Steam and smoke poured off the eggs in front of him. The air crackled. “Did you steal money from me?” he asked. “I'm missing twenty bucks.”

I paused. I swallowed. “Maybe,” I said. I shut my eyes hard. “Yes.”

“Uh-huh,” he nodded. “Good to know.”

I nodded back at him.

“Okay. We'll work you out tomorrow,” he said. “Exercise. Start by eating only half the breakfast potatoes you normally do tonight. You overeat those carbohydrates, they turn to sugar, and you turn into a damn hippo with no energy. You got to stay in balance.” He turned back to the stove and began flipping an egg.

“Well, why do you make that junk if it turns me into a fat ass?”

“Tuesday's veggie chili didn't go over too good, did it? Your dad told me never to make it again. He wants to suck crap as much as you do.”

“Oh,” I said. “Right.”

Just then, Dad pulled into the garage.

“Don't tell Dad I'm doing this,” I said.

“Why not? He could use some motivation,” Grandpa said.

“Don't.”

“Fine, fine.” Grandpa nodded at me.

Sir, Justin Cornell called me Chunk. RC III said I should get in shape. He said I'm light on my feet.

After dinner, I texted Camille and Justin. I wrote,
Need to speak immediately. We are definitely bamboozled. Go to Bitterroot for discussion?

Justin replied,
I have some things I have to do tonight. Busy.

Camille replied,
Playing poker with Grandma. Join us so we can discuss?

I wrote her back,
Sounds really great, but no thanks. Talk tomorrow.

Camille always plays poker with her grandma. That wasn't a surprise. A month earlier, I would've been totally surprised by Justin being busy, but he'd begged off seeing me on weekends several times recently. I was suspicious but couldn't possibly have guessed what was really going on.

And so I went to bed at 8 p.m. This was how I went to war that first night. I moaned and dreamed about eating donuts because I was very, very, very hungry because I didn't eat much for dinner like Grandpa had said.

Early the next morning, I got donuts, just not in my mouth.