Rusty Summer (11 page)

“Gimme that!”

“You are an angry little rock star, aren't you?” I whisk it around as he snatches at it.

“Gimme that damn thing!”

“I'm surprised yo' mama didn't think you should be a child model!”

Beau just grabs it, smiling in spite of himself as I cackle.

 

Leo wants to bring The Bomb, and after researching how to make it across the border without too much dog-hassle I figured it would be okay. She needs documentation, according to the website. We have all the papers for her shots and stuff. Rest assured, my mom took care of that, and thus we have what amounts to Bommy's doggie passport.

Of course, when word got out that we were taking off, our friends wanted to throw a “See You Soon—Hope You Find Your Dad” party. So they did. We have a
lot
of parties!

Personally, I think this is the best time for parties in a person's life, you know? When you first move out and there is no one to yell about the mess and you haven't gotten sick of it yet.

And it was packed! There were like a hundred people or so, all stuffed into Nora's and her boyfriend's house. The Rat Lab was there, Beau's pre-nursing class friends, the guys from the gas station, our cool neighbors, and random strangers that turned out to be Nora's neighbors. It was slamming!

Plus, I entirely owned Kurtis, who completely earned it. It wasn't even the most vicious of smack downs, but he had so deserved it by the time I finally served him that it was epic.

You see . . .

We had all been partying for a while and it was getting late but not starting to wind down yet, and some of us were in the living room, lazing around. The music = Thievery Corporation and the like. Arlo's telling random jokes. So is Mandeprah. Everyone is laughing.

Of course everyone has beer. And they're passing a pipe. I sit and smell the skunk stink of bud, and wonder when I'll try it. I said not till college, which technically is now. But I'm not up for it yet. I shake my head when offered and it passes on. It seems to make everyone so tired. Whatever.

Okay, so anyway, we're all just lying around, exhausted from belly laughs and whatnot, when Mandeprah suggests I should join this volleyball team he wants to start called the Flying Squirrels.

That made me start laughing again but then I noticed this girl I hadn't met, who screeched really loud like, “as if!” I stopped laughing to look at her, like, “do I know you?”

I notice she's sitting by Kurtis, who's sitting a little ways from Beau and scowling at him. When everything quiets down I gaze at this girl.

“Sorry, I didn't get your name,” I say politely.
Super
politely.

That made Kurtis snort like what I said was ridiculous. As did she.

But the others get quieter. They look at me with raised eyebrows. The air gets a little cool.

“Yuh—Suzy,” she slurs. Like I was dense for not knowing.

“What's so funny, Suzy? Rusty can't be on our team?” asks Ian.

Which made this Suzy person bray like a mad donkey. Kurtis smiles. Takes a deep breath.

He's sooooo happy. He's been waiting for this moment for millennia.

“Well, Rusty, you
are
pretty fat!!” he bellows joyfully, and looks around like, “Am I right?”

Everyone in the living room heard him, and they stop talking, abruptly.

Now, see, what he said wasn't that unbelievable. I've been hearing worse for years, for the love of Mike. It's just that it caught me so off guard. I mean, here's me, flopped over on the couch, serene, in the comfort and security of my friends' living room, at a party for
me,
for crying out loud! What—I have to keep my game face on here too, for Pete's sake?

There is no safe haven for the fat of the land . . . not this land, anyway.

I sit up.

“Dude!” I say. The silence sharpens. “Seriously? I'm ‘pretty fat'?” I eyeball him now, like I do the skaters when I am about to wipe them on the track. “Huh . . . how 'bout that? I am
pretty fat!
”

“Well,” this Suzy says, “he's right.” She shrugs. Then Kurtis shrugs belligerently. Then I shrug.

It's a shrug fest and everyone's invited. I make my voice and face credulous and concerned.

“Well, yes, sweetie, he is . . . but
that
was your best shot? 'Cuz, seriously, that was just sad. Yeah, not good . . . my bad; I thought Beau's friends had to measure up to a certain standard, you know, mentally, but I forgot how kindhearted he is! He'll hang out with people just 'cuz he feels sorry for them.”

“Auhhaaggghhaa-Fat-ass!”—this fake-coughed from Suzy. She's way drunk. Kurtis guffaws.

I look at her. Jeez . . . almost not worth the smack down, she's so wasted.

Well, maybe just a little smack down—

“Dude! I don't even know you, but I really feel you can do better! Oh, my, yes! Use your words!” I grin evilly and continue. “See, I could of just as easily fake-coughed ‘Skaaaaaannk'! But I didn't! Because if it's too obvious—it's too easy! You have to try!! Watch—here's a fat joke I made up: ‘Hey, I hear they made a new horror movie about really scary fat kids! Yeah, it's called ‘Children of the Corn
Syrup!!
' Bwwwwahahahaha! Now that's funny!” Iroar. Some of my friends snort. And then look at each other guiltily and try to stop. But I won't let them.

Suzy's face is pissy and suspicious. So is Kurtis's, but for different reasons.

“Think about it, kiddos,” I urge. “You could have taken so many different angles! You were just being
lazy!
Like you could have opened with the classic ‘When Rusty backs up, her butt goes beep-beep-beep.' Because: comedy—it's just that easy! You could have been patriotic: ‘Gentlemen, drop her on the enemy and we
will
end these endless wars!'

“Or, since you are pretending you're going to be nurses, ‘Rusty, you so fat, when the doc found out you have flesh-eating bacteria disease, he only gave you ninety-seven years to live!' ” (Smothered laughs. Some hoots.) “You could have been all congratulatory: ‘Rusty, nice graduation photos—those aerial shots can finally get most of you in frame!' You could have got religion: ‘Rusty is going to be baptized this Sunday—at Sea World! Everyone's invited!'”

At this point, my friends are becoming various stages of choky red trying to stow it. I nod at them dementedly to make it worse. But by now they are making weird sounds and won't look at me, or each other. But it's okay. I plan to break them down.

“You could have gotten geographical: ‘Rust, you so fat, your belt size is “Equator”!!' Ha! You could have been technological: ‘Rusty so fat she doesn't even need the Internet—she's already worldwide!' Seriously! When I tried to study my family tree—the trunk snapped! Dudes, how fat do you have to be for that to happen?! Answer: Ninja Butterball! When I go jogging NASA sends out a probe—'cuz they think I'm a new moon! Actually, that one IS funny—because I never GO jogging!!”

Beau is eyeballing me primly, refusing to laugh. But I do. His stuffy expression is killing me.

I'm in control here and I feel fine. I'm finally the one laughing for a change!

Kurtis looks pissed. Like he has to judge worse turds than usual. People are cheering and bopping him on the head, saying, “Owned!” He tries to evade the slaps.

Oddly, he's not keen on being the butt of the jokes either.

The Suzy girl = just monkey crunk. She's looking around, monkey-screeching with delight, but hazy, like she forgot why.

Tsk, tsk, dear, dear . . . just pitiful.

These are not the worthy targets for your A material that you seek.

I wrap it up.

“But it's okay; I'm not complaining—some people have been really nice. Like once when I was sunbathing, Greenpeace came to push me out to sea! Yeah! That's my time! Thanks a lot! I'm here till Thursday! Try the fish! I'm so fat when I fell in love I BROKE it! Woo! Thanks again and goodnight!” I fake wave like I've been doing stand-up. I drop an imaginary microphone.

I'm power mad with my own rage-fueled hilariousness.

My audience howls and applauds. I take a deep curtsey. Look over at my targets.

Whatever . . . Kurtis scowls at me. Suzy doesn't—she has passed out.

She looks even dopier when she's asleep. Hee.

I seriously hope someone posts a picture. Or maybe an album.

Especially after about twenty minutes, when she starts to drool publicly.

 

The night before we take off, we have dinner with Mom and Paul. Mom makes lasagna and salad for us and tuna salad for Leonie. When I pass it to her, her hand is like ice. I kind of jump when it touches mine, she's so cold.

“Damn, girl, you're freezing! Wait—have you been petting vampires?” (Remember her mega thing for
Twilight
? Yeah, well, it's expanded and now includes all things undead. And improbably, I was able to dial down my
Twilight
screeds, after Beau started calling them ‘
Twi
rades' and ‘dia
Twi
bes', so yeah.)

“Hardy har. Oh, but that reminds me! I had a really cute ‘Snow Goth' photo shoot this week. I was pure white, even white hair. And white glitter eyelashes. Everyone said it rocked, plus I get a portfolio pic!”

“Awesome! Did you look properly, gothically pissed?”

“You just wait! You won't be bagging on me when I'm hanging out with movie stars, will you?”

“When you're a model in hella happy Hollywood? Sadly, I fear I might. Sorry, stick-kitty.”

My mom frowns like, “don't call her that,” but Leo laughs joyfully.

“I know! I can
finally
feel my ribs.” She'd have to be numb or handless not to. They stick out like a starving horse's. Leo rubs her hands along her shriveled, greyhound gut with shaky delight.

“Jeez, Lee,” I say with a little annoyance, “escape North Korea much?”

“No . . . you know I've never been there.” She looks at me, perplexed.

“Omg, dude.” I face-palm. “It's a joke. I was making scathing political commentary—at your expense! I'm implying you are very, very thin . . . like a North Korean. Honestly, Leonie, it's called ‘the rest of the world.' Check it out sometime. Except
you
're the one starving yourself, not some asshole regime!”

“Whatever.” She doesn't even change gears as she blows me off. My concerns are so silly. Don't I know that skinny is very good? Can't be too thin or too rich, remember?

But my concerns are not silly. She's pale and unstable and so,
so
cold.

But hey—only eight and a half pounds to go!

In spite of this, dinner was excellent. We had an awesome evening and hung out for a couple of hours afterward, since we would be leaving in the morning.

At one point I wandered into the living room where Paul was and sat down. He's engrossed, playing video games with some guys from around the world. Talking on headsets.

“Whatcha doing?”

“Playing Destiny.”

“Are you winning?”

“Um . . . not really.”

“That sounds fun.”

He talks into the headset and tells them he'll be back later and “peace,” then takes off the headset. He smiles at me. I smile back and punch him affectionately on the arm.

“So, good job on the math test, dude.”

“Yeah, right? I'm in shock.”

“Nah! You're smart.”

“Nah . . . not like you. Or Beau. You
get
things. I don't.”

“Don't underestimate yourself, homes.” Which he does constantly—he won't even talk to girls; he thinks he sounds stupid—like they're all rocket surgeons.

“It's true. Especially math . . . I mean, it's like it's not even in English.” Which I laugh at—but silently and with a straight face.

“Still, you did good work!”

“Whatever, but thanks, Rye. It's more like Beau did good. He's a good teacher.”

“Actually, bro, Beau did well.”

“Yeah, he did.” Paul nods.

We sit in silence for a little while. We watch the screen, full of binary code combatants.

Then Paul adds: “Oh yeah, I was gonna tell you the other day, you would have been proud of me. Some dudes at the dojo were busting on gay stuff and I told them to grow up . . . but I don't know if I would have even noticed if you weren't friends with Beau.”

Surprised, I grin at him, but he is looking at the screen. He's starting to fade back into the video game, which has been raging without him. He can't see my expression as I regard him with love.

Such an awesome brother! He has no idea what a cool thing he just said.

Thinking proud and happy thoughts about my baby bro, I hand him back his headset.