Skinny (2 page)

“Ummm . . . thanks.” I smile at him, feeling a little guilty that I never really noticed him much before and that I can’t remember his last name. The compliment makes me uncomfortable. “I’m not too sure about this whole award assembly thing. Giving them out in March seems a bit premature. I still have plenty of time to screw something up, right?”

“You won’t have to do anything. Just smile and wave when your name is called.”

I nod as though winning awards is pretty normal for me.

“Make fun of yourself. It makes them feel more comfortable,”
Skinny says.

“No problem. I have plenty of practice doing that from my beauty-pageant days.” I give a cheesy beauty queen wave, and he laughs. It feels good to make someone else smile.

“You’re a pretty good writer yourself,” I say. He looks pleased, and I search my memory to say something kind to keep the smile on his face. “Your essay on global warming last week was one of the best in the class. Making nonfiction interesting is always a challenge.”

“Thanks,” Kevin says, “but yours was
the
best in the class. Hands down. Brilliant idea to turn the scientific method into a musical. Who couldn’t sing along with ‘Hypothesis Dreams’? I don’t know how you come up with this stuff.”

“Thanks,” I say, feeling a proud flush on my cheeks.

The red truck full of boys slows at the curb. A guy leans out the passenger window and yells at me, “Hey, tons of fun!”

They drive past slowly, the rest of the boys inside laughing hysterically. I try to pretend I don’t hear it. It’s
not
okay to drive around the high school parking lot and yell out at people, “You read like a third grader” or “Your dad’s a drunk,” but for some reason all the groups unite to comment about my weight.

“The world doesn’t care if you’re kind and good. It only cares
that you’re fat. Nothing else matters.”

“My ride is waiting,” I say to Kevin. We both ignore the boys like it didn’t even happen.

“See you tomorrow,” he says, but the smile is gone.

I negotiate the traffic in the driveway and pull open the passenger door of Rat’s car.

“You’re late,” Rat says. I squeeze into the front seat, ignoring the seat belt. We both know it doesn’t fit.

“Sorry.”

Carefully, he pulls out into the traffic but immediately has to stop for a group of four senior cheerleaders. They all wear their tiny green miniskirts and tight Hornet tank tops that don’t quite reach the waists of their skirts. Shoulders back, hair streaming behind, they walk with the confidence of beauty. I watch the line of their naked flat stomachs strut across the street to catcalls and whistles. For the millionth time today I wonder what it might feel like to walk like that for just a day . . . an hour . . . a minute.

“Ugly Number One’s looking good.” Rat watches their giggling parade with a focus that makes me remember he’s a sixteen-year-old boy. He’s talking about my oldest stepsister, Lindsey, who strides along in the middle of the line of prancing cheerleaders.

Rat’s real name is Theodore Simon Wilson but only stubborn English teachers call him that now. Most everyone else calls him the nickname bestowed upon him by mean little third-graders who saw the likeness between his long-nosed face and the drawings of the rat in
Charlotte’s Web
. It stuck long after he grew into his face and tall, lanky body. I once asked him if he’d rather me call him Theodore or Teddy or Ted, but he just blinked at me from behind his glasses and asked, “Why?”

“Your stepmother know about the new belly button piercing?” Rat asks me. Evidently, we both saw the new bling dangling from Lindsey’s stomach.

Lindsey glances toward the car, and her eyes meet mine for a brief second. There is a shock of recognition. I give her a five-fingered wave. I know it will piss her off. She looks away and keeps walking.

“You embarrass her,”
Skinny whispers. Like I didn’t know that.

“They don’t know you’re alive,” I mutter. I say it to Rat, but I know it’s true for me, too.

“Somebody’s in a good mood.” Rat is brilliant in a “build your own optical resonator laser in your backyard, start a small grass fire, and get community service” kind of way. He’s not brilliant in the “get a date with a cheerleader” kind of way. We both know it. I didn’t have to say it. I turn to stare out the passenger-side window.

“Where’s Cerissa?” I ask. One of the Fabulous Five, senior cheerleader Cerissa Stevens, is missing.

“She was expelled last week for urinating in the soft drink she served her ex-boyfriend at the basketball game,” Rat says.

“Gimme a
P
!” I say, shaking fake pom-poms in the air.

At the end of the driveway, Gigi Retodo and two other drama geeks wave a big cardboard sign announcing the upcoming musical. Gigi’s changed into a pioneer-era costume, which looks really bizarre with her blue/pink/purple hair. Standing on tiptoes, she belts out the title song while the two boys run around frantically trying to get kids to take their flyers. Jackson stands at the corner watching Gigi. Just seeing the look on his face, I feel a sharp jab of jealousy kick into my stomach. My throat aches with the desire to have him look at me like that. I would do anything. I blink to clear the longing out of my eyes before Rat sees. Rat glances over at me. I’m not quick enough.

“Did you say something about someone not knowing you’re alive?” Rat’s voice is dry. I ignore him. Rat knows how I feel about Jackson. He was, after all, Jackson’s delivery boy for that note so long ago that read, “Do you like me? Circle yes or no.”

A tall boy that I vaguely recognize from American history class punches Jackson once in the arm, distracting him from Gigi, and they scuffle across the median, laughing and yelling. I’m not close enough to see the crinkles around Jackson’s dark blue-green eyes, but I know they’re there. He used to laugh with me like that. About 150 pounds ago.

“They’re doing
Oklahoma
for the spring musical,” I say to Rat.

“I saw. Why don’t you try out?”

Rat pushes his glasses up over the slight bump on his nose. He got it when he broke his nose playing kickball at recess in the second grade. I know because I was the one who kicked the ball. That tiny mark under his left eye is from my lightsaber at his fifth birthday party. I also know he has a jagged scar on his left calf from when we were eight and jumped off the pier into Lake Conroe. We were holding hands and he said, “Jump,” and I said, “Wait.” That was also the year Jackson Barnett moved in down the street and, for a short time, two best friends became Three Musketeers.

“Maybe next year,” I say. “They do a musical every spring. Besides
Oklahoma
’s never really been one of my favorites.”

“Right.”

We both know I won’t be trying out this spring or next spring or any spring after that. It doesn’t matter that I have the best voice in the school. It just matters that there aren’t many parts for a 300-pound girl who just wants to be invisible.

Rat turns left out of the school parking lot. He’s been my personal driver since he got his license six months ago. It means Lindsey doesn’t have to know me anymore, which works for Lindsey. It also means I now have to go wherever Rat goes after school and that includes community service. We pass the Walmart on the right and then McKenzie’s BarBQ on the left. It doesn’t take long to get anywhere in this town.

An hour north of Houston, Huntsville sits on the edge of the East Texas Piney Woods and has some odd extremes when it comes to attractions. Visitors can go to the Texas Prison Museum and see “Old Sparky,” the electric chair that killed 361 condemned criminals over forty years of service, or head south of town to view the world’s tallest statue of an American hero — Sam Houston. Rat’s dad is a ranger for Sam Houston Park. His mom, an elementary school teacher, was my mom’s best friend from the moment we moved in next door to them. I still see the grief in Mrs. Wilson’s eyes when she looks at me.

I glance over at Rat. “Your hands are blue,” I say. I’m not really surprised.

“One hand. The left,” he says, “and it’s indigo.”

“Why?” I ask.

“I was synthesizing one of eighteen azo dyes according to a parallel combinatorial synthesis scheme.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, really sorry I asked.

“After the exothermic reaction subsided, I collected the precipitated indigo by suction filtration.”

I know from experience this can go on forever. “And you spilled it on your hand,” I interrupt quickly.

“There were several more steps before that occurred.” Rat sighs in frustration at the idea of a good chemistry experiment story cut short, but he finally admits, “But, yes, that was the eventual outcome.”

We pass Tinsley’s Fried Chicken with the big sign outside that reads, Try Our Big, Juicy Breasts.

“They really should change that sign,” I say.

“Why?” Rat asks. He slows at the corner, his indigo hand spinning the wheel into the right turn, and changes the subject.

“Ugly Number Two has homework tonight,” Rat says. “A poem written from the perspective of one of the characters in
Huckleberry Finn
.”

“It will cost her,” I mumble. Briella, my other stepsister, is a sophomore like me and Rat, and she’s in his sixth-period English class.

“I’m thinking maybe
Dreamgirls
download?” Rat says. I nod. “Original cast or movie?”

“I already have the original cast. Movie.”

“She needs it by Wednesday.”

“She’ll get it tomorrow if she can pay.”

Briella gets a hefty allowance from her real father every week in child support. Most of it goes toward clothes and shoes, but a growing percentage comes my way these days. I work for iTunes downloads and guarantee at least a B. I also agree to never take the credit for her passable creative writing. It seems to work for both of us.

“Can’t you just drop me off at home before you go to the center?” I ask.

“We’re already late. Besides, a little community service never hurt anybody.”

I always ask. He always says no. I sigh, but the truth is I don’t really mind. The age-five-and-under kids at the Sam Houston Boys and Girls Club are probably the only people in the world who might actually miss me if I didn’t show up. Anyway, I like to think so.

We enter the building and part ways. Rat goes toward the office. He’s doing something with their computer database. I don’t ask many questions. I head toward the door in the back where the youngest kids hang out. Skinny takes a break. Weird thing about hanging out with five-year-olds: You don’t need anyone to tell you what they’re thinking. They just say it right out loud. Like the first time I came with Rat to the center. A little dark-eyed boy came and stood in front of me while I waited in the hallway.

“You’re really, really fat,” he said.

“I know,” I said.

He sat down in the chair next to me, sliding back into the seat until his feet dangled above the floor. Kicking his feet slowly back and forth, we sat in silence for a few minutes.

“My name is Mario. What’s yours?”

“Ever.”

“Like happily ever after?”

“Yes.”

Leaning into my shoulder, he looked up at my face intently.

“Do you know any stories?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Sliding out of the chair, he took my hand and tugged me back to the playroom. And that was that. I’ve been coming here and telling stories ever since.

Today there’s a big commotion when I enter the playroom. I’m noticed, and not in a bad way. Instantly, tiny hands pull at me, touch me, reach for me. I don’t flinch or jerk away.

“You’re
finally
here.” Valerie Ramirez, the tiny five-year-old drama queen, rolls her eyes. “Do you know how long we’ve been
waiting
?”

“A long time,” Mario says solemnly. He’s always so serious.

“How’s kindergarten?” I hope the change of subject will help me get out of the doghouse.

“School’s a lot of work,” Mario says.

I laugh. “You’ve got a long way to go. What’s your favorite part?”

“I liked the letter
C
.”

“More than the letter
A
?” I ask, smiling.

“
A
was boring. We had to eat apples.”

“And what did you eat for the letter
C
?”

“Chocolate candy.” He grins. I grin back.

“We sing a lot in kindergarten. I like that.”

“I liked that part of kindergarten, too,” I say.

Valerie clutches her best friend Keisha’s hand and swings it, making all the brightly clipped pigtails on Keisha’s head fly about wildly.

“Ever, it’s
story
time!” Valerie proclaims. Keisha nods furiously and giggles.

“
Cinderella
.
Cinderella
,” they chant like the mice in the Disney movie version.

I settle into a special setup of three wooden chairs, which they have already lined up to hold me. And I begin.

“Once upon a time there was a girl named Cinderella,” I say.

“No!” they scream in anguish. “Sing it!”

I know the lyrics by heart. Just like I know almost all the lyrics to any musical by heart. It’s a well-guarded secret that only a select group of poor five-year-olds have somehow coaxed out of me. I sang
Cats
last week and bits of
Wicked
the week before, but they always come back to their favorite,
Cinderella
. But I don’t sing. Not yet. If there’s anything I’ve learned about telling stories to kids, it’s to keep them in suspense.

Mario says he’ll be the prince, but only if he can be the Phantom next time. The two girls agree, and the three of them dance across the block-strewn carpet with gusto.

“Tell me the part about the prince again.” Keisha pulls away from the rest of the group and pushes her way into my lap, snuggling in like my body is some kind of floppy blanket. She’s still breathing hard from the dancing, her tiny pink T-shirt moving rhythmically up and down over her chest. Mario stops to make a flourishing bow in front of Valerie. Keisha leans back against my chest to pop a thumb into her mouth as I speak.

“And they danced and danced until the clock struck midnight,” I say, as Mario and Valerie waltz wildly among the scattered blocks.