Fat School Confidential (18 page)

   
But it wasn’t as if I hated being around my family. I loved them. I was especially in love with the little guy. The way Bobby would get up in the morning—before the sun had even come up—and start drawing. He’d place his hand over mine, leaning his arm and his whole body against me while I drew something for him—usually a monster or fantastical beast of some kind. And he inevitably wanted to duplicate what I drew. Embellish it. Then he’d create something anew. And the words he was forming in his little mouth. For the life of him, he had a hard time pronouncing the word, “Godzilla.” He would instead say, “God-Yoda.” Variations would be, “Mecha-God-Yoda,” “Space-God-Yoda,” and so on. It was the cutest thing. He wasn’t in preschool yet, but he was certainly getting an education.

   
On that note, since I had relocated many if not most of the little guy’s Kaiju toys to A.O.S., Bobby ended up calling my office, “Office Ghidora” —named after the three headed dragon famous for his (their?) fights with Godzilla.

   
With Ellie, I didn’t hate being around her, but I didn’t exactly cherish our time together. We were, after all, fighting. It wasn’t always like that. I missed when we could be on the same page. I missed singing along to Elvis Costello songs and long drives and window shopping and shared dreams and on and on and on. But it all seemed to have gone slowly downhill since before Bobby was born.

   
Big surprise there. Wasn’t that the time a certain teacher and I had it hot and heavy?

   
At this point, Ellie and I were coasting in our relationship. And the coasting was picking up speed.

   
On top of that, I was growing restless. It was an old, familiar feeling. The feeling I had when I needed to be alone to write. The feeling I had when I was insecure or unhappy about money, or work, or my lot in life. The restlessness came and went, and along with it, the ebb and flow of career shifts, familial discord, and my own artistic “temperament.” Maybe this restlessness was masking an underlying depression. It was possible. Depression was an old friend. But whatever the root cause, that familiar, uneasy feeling was there just the same.

   
As Halloween approached, so did the winds. Leaves formed piles on sidewalks and yards—primed and ready for toddlers like Bobby to pounce on. And with his bought and paid for Superman suit on, he was ready to zoom through those piles.

   
Ellie gave up on making Bobby’s getup and instead snapped up the “deluxe” Superman costume from a Halloween shop in Visalia. He looked—like the hero he was emulating—super. On Halloween day, Ellie paraded the little guy with the other kids around town in Reedley, trick-or-treating the nearby businesses. A photographer with the local newspaper saw them and wanted to take a picture of Superboy for the paper’s bi-monthly magazine. Ellie obliged, figuring who could resist a handsome young lad as Bobby.

   
While Bobby was getting an early start to his trick-or-treating, I was at A.O.S. It was a relaxed schedule, because of the holiday. I told Ellie I’d stay just an hour or two after school, in order to grade homework and tie up “loose ends.” In this case, the loose ends referred to meeting with Wendy to go over some writing she wanted to show me. Ellie knew about my advisor load, but she didn’t know about Wendy—that she made up the bulk of that load. I figured what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Besides, Wendy was on the up and up when she said she wanted to meet with me over her work. But it begged a question: “Was I?”

   
Just for my L.T.W.C.s, I stocked up on fat-free goodies such as Gummy Bears and pretzels. I kept them in a bowl hidden in a desk drawer. I didn’t ask Bill or Tom or the B.C.s or anyone else above me if I could give out candy. I didn’t bother. They wouldn’t have approved anyway. Last year, I was out the door right after the last class period. This time, I hung around. I figured, I’d be home before nightfall, and it would be nice to see some of my students done up for Halloween.

   
When word got out that I had a secret stash of treats, the students started coming. One by one. In pairs. In trios and quartets.

    “
Whatcha got there, Mr. Rourke?” A smirking Julee stood at my doorway. A real oddball, that Julee. Her pimply face painted Kabuki-white, and wearing a mishmash of colorful quilted fabrics, Julee had a good fifty pounds to lose. A

perpetual Gumby herself, she never seemed in sync with her peers or with anyone else she came into contact. She’d laugh at the serious moments and become serious when levity was called for. One thing’s for sure: She dug me and/or my classes.

   
I glanced past Julee, catching head B.C. Cindy strolling by. I gestured Julee to come closer, as I slid open the drawer. I grabbed a handful for her.

    “
Thank you, Mr. Rourke!” Julee yelled, jumping up and down as if she’d just won on The Price Is Right. Subtlety was not her strong suit. I glared at her to calm down—she complied.

    “
Thank you,” she whispered, and slipped away. Within moments, I heard what sounded like a herd of large mammals running down the hall towards my office. Apparently, Julee blew my cover.

    “
Trick or treat!” The blur of costume-clad students all shouted in unison. Their costumes—if one could call them that—were just their regular casual wear accessorized with glittery fabric and jewelry. Even the boys glammed and glittered up. But I was too nervous to take notice. I darted past them, sticking my head out my doorway to see if staff was around. B.C. Vicki opened her office door to see what the ruckus was about. Not noticing us, she closed the door behind her.

    “
I’m leaving after this, so don’t go telling your friends,” I said, while shoveling candy into their hands and backpacks. All smiles, the students scurried away to meet with their fitness and behavior coaches.

   
Some example I was setting.

   
What was odd, though, was Wendy. She was MIA. Where was she? She planned on meeting with me. That was her intention, at least. I was a little miffed, and, at the same time, concerned. Even so, I wasn’t about to let that dampen my plans with my family. After unloading the rest of the treats, I left.

   
It was just before sunset when I got home. Ellie and Bobby were ready and waiting for me to go trick-or-treating. It was a good thing we lived on the more tony, east side of town. We didn’t have to drive anywhere to get to the “good” houses. Bobby made off like a bandit, collecting enough candy to supply a small militia. With his natural charm and good looks, Superman was a character he was destined to play.

   
By the time we got back home, the little guy was too pooped to enjoy the evening’s spoils. With him tucked away and snoozing in his bed, Ellie and I wound down in the living room. Watching a nature program on PBS, we sat against each other on the couch. We were both tired from trick-or-treating through the neighborhood. It was nice to be with Ellie, just sitting there. Feeling her warmth. Not fighting.

    “
Thank you,” I said, snuggling closer to Ellie.

    “
For what?”

    “
For letting me have my way with the costume.”

   
Ellie smiled with her big perfect teeth. “What? Like I don’t let you have your way?”

    “
Not without a fight,” I replied, ready for a punch in my arm.

    “
We can alternate: Every other year, we can buy his costume. Next year, it’s my choice. ‘Kay?”

    “‘
Kay.”

   
With Halloween drifting into memory, we went to bed. Despite feeling good about the evening, I was on edge. My mind backtracked to A.O.S.

   
To Wendy.

   
I dreamt of her. She was dressed for Halloween—in a skin-tight, shiny black cat-suit, kitty ears and tail, no less. Running through a fog-enshrouded, moonlit vineyard, she looked scared. She looked good too. Trim and toned, she zoomed through the mist. Faster and faster. I wasn’t around—not in the dream, anyway. She was alone, but there were sounds—voices.  Taking slow, steady breaths, Wendy didn’t break a sweat. But her cat-suit began to unravel. Her kitty ears flew off, and then, her tail. As for the suit itself, it started tearing off at the legs and arms, revealing bare skin. But as the rest of her outfit ripped away, the fog enveloped her, and then—blackness.

   
I woke up, sitting up in bed. I glanced around to regain my bearings. I was panicked. Did I utter Wendy’s name while I slept?

   
Back in the eighties, I dated a young woman—an actress, who, needless to say, was quite full of herself. At the time, I secretly wished to be with a really sweet girl I knew who was pretty and smart and about to pursue a psychology degree at Cal State Northridge. I not only dreamt of this sweet girl, but, according to more than one source, I called her on the phone and had a full-on conversation—while I slept!

   
No wonder I was panicked. I looked over at Ellie, touching her arm. She wasn’t even stirring. Breathing a sigh of relief, I sank back in bed.

   
The next day, I showed up on campus an hour early to weigh myself and grab breakfast. I partook a little too much of Bobby’s leftover treats, not to mention candy that we purchased that went unused. I felt like a fat slob again. I knew I was eating over Wendy, but I figured if I saw the damage done, I would get back on track.

   
The gang was just starting their morning activity and wouldn’t be near the weigh-in room. The fog was thick, and trudging up to the girls’ dorm was an adventure in and of itself. I heard distant sounds of shuffling feet and conversation, but I couldn’t make out more than shadowy shapes and mumbling.

   
Weighing myself, I found that I had reached a plateau. For a month, I didn’t lose or gain a single pound.  Would I have been lighter had I not eaten the pound or two of chocolates the night before?  Who knew.

   
I was logging my food in my Think and Ink, and with the walking, I felt I was working a pretty damned-good program. But it was nothing compared to that of the students. They met with fitness coach Pete for individualized workouts, and most of them participated in sports. They rarely slipped with their eating habits, and when they did, yogurt or too much fruit was to blame.

   
Wendy never slipped. She never yielded or slowed down for anything. On the morning walks, I noticed that she kept a faster pace than the rest of her schoolmates. Every time everyone else was playing flag football out on the soccer field or swimming in the pool, she seemed to be walking or jogging on the treadmill in the fitness room—alone.

   
On this particular morning, she was about to further separate herself from the rest of the pack in yet another area. I should have seen it coming. But I didn’t.

   
Wendy showed up in my office fifteen minutes before the start of my first class.

    “
Mr. Rourke, you’ve got to switch my classes!” she blurted, out of breath.

    “
Which one?” I asked, knowing she was already maxed out with me for English and film appreciation classes, and the two independent study sessions to boot. All that was left was Lang for math and Starks for history.

   
Wendy mumbled “History.”

    “
I don’t think I can. I mean, I don’t think I can cover history as an independent study. And nobody else teaches it.”

   
About to get emotional, she added, “He creeps me out.”

   
I thought back to the closed-door session she and Starks had a couple weeks previous.

    “
You’ve got to be more specific, Wendy.” Placing books in my cart, I was becoming impatient. She brought up Starks before. And she did ditch me on Halloween.

    “
Has he done or said anything since you had that meeting you told me about?”

    “
No… But…”

   
I didn’t know what Wendy was hinting at, but she seemed troubled. Her head bowed, she shuffled her feet.

    “
But what?”

   
Wendy wouldn’t reply.

    “
I could talk to Mr. Mills,” I said. Straightening herself, she blurted, “No!”

   
Whatever mixed message Wendy was sending me put me in an awkward position. If Starks was indeed harassing her, then I had the ethical and legal duty to report him. He’d be fired at the very least. Wendy would be singled out by staff, and—if word leaked out—by students. But I had a feeling it wasn’t Starks at all that was motivating her move.

    “
I looked for you yesterday. I thought you were going to show me some writing?”

   
Wendy smiled. Taking her cue, I added, “I had some Halloween treats for ya. Maybe I should have saved some.”

    “
I was in the dorms. I didn’t feel like celebrating Halloween.”

   
At least it wasn’t personal.

    “
Got it.” I grabbed my cart, rolling it out into the hall. “You still don’t want me to talk to Mr. Mills?”