Teenage Waistland (13 page)

A couple of years ago, when I was waiting in the front hall for Dad to pick me up, the guys were watching
Ali G
reruns and O was bringing down this sick platter of dessert. He went back to the kitchen and handed me a wrapped paper plate to go.

“For you, my friend,” he said. “Not as
bueno
as my
panqueques
, but you no here in the morning.
Yo comprendo
, my friend. I understand,” he said.

“Understand
qué
?”

“The big man,” he went on in his funny Spanglish, neck jiggling. “Our
secreto
. You no like it to fart in front of the other
niños
.” My dad beeped and I nodded and rushed the hell out of there. Oswaldo, my fat compadre. He was right, though.
Is
right. I don’t puff. Even when they all do. MT and Craig are insanely proud of their output, and we all laugh about it. I deny holding mine back, but I do. Because I wouldn’t be like them. I wouldn’t be Refrigerator-Man with my brand. Just a fat kid farting toxic fat-kid farts. Same reason I don’t munch out mad in front of the guys. I’d never even eat a chip in front of a girl.

The guys took bets on whether MT or me would lose our V-cards. It’s our summer assignment. Zoo says his money is on MT. As Craighead rightly said, if an ugly bastard like him could get with a girl, anyone could. He may have acne, but it’s not the same as fat. Not many of my boys took me, the fat horse, to place first. MT went on a Fire and Ice Alaska-Hawaii teen tour. That’s why they all said odds were in his favor—the only ass I’ll be scoping this summer, they said, will be hairy butt cracks at the lumberyard. Still, I don’t think it’s just the lack-of-opportunity thing.

Anyway, MT wrote on my Facebook wall yesterday:
How’s the wood
,
dude? 26 girls and 18 guys here and the babes are ripe. Get your blubbery butt on a plane. Operation Seminal Summer already has a target
. His message sent me diving into a gallon of Edy’s cherry vanilla. “The only cherry you’ll get,” Zoo would say, and he’s probably right. I’m lying in bed even though it’s already after noon. Even though it’s barely the
second week of summer break, I have homework—this annoying piece of paper with all these boxes I have to fill in for the next six days.

“Preoperative homework” is what Betsy Glass calls it. I have to fill in squares. Write down what I eat for each meal and snack. The way the sheet is set up is stupid. Their expectation is that you’ll have three meals, with two snacks in between. Six boxes. Like it’s only six times you’re eating. If whoever designed this had a clue, they’d put it in a database format where you could add spaces for breakfast, snack, snack, snack, lunch, snack, snack, dinner, and a string of snacks up until around midnight. It’s not like the trial is for people who have gland problems—they’re regular fat kids like me. All girls too, except for that one dweeby guy who wears shirts buttoned up to his neck. After the first group session at Chow Fun House (a sloppy greasefest Char suggested we
not
record in any of our food boxes), this girl Marcie said he reminds her of a big olive. Like his head is the pimiento peering out of his soft round body. If Char hadn’t convinced me to join them, these seven fat girls—Ms. Lip Ring and Geek Olive didn’t come—might have been talking about the friggin’ moobies poking out of my jersey.

But Char’s this mad funny blond chick, even if she’s as big as a John Deere. She whispered that she and her friend ate a whole box of Cap’n Crunch on the train into the city. On the way to group! The surgery idea was hers, she said. She made her friend, East, sign up for it with her. I don’t think she had to work it much—the chick clings to her like a barnacle and doesn’t say a thing. That Char can talk, though! First, she tells me she’s the type who will try
anything
. “I’m not just talking food either,” she says, and flicks
my arm. She said there was once this guy she partied with a lot, but now she’s basically straight-edge. But in case I was thinking otherwise, she could most definitely Captain Morgan me under any table. Next, she’s rambling about this bratty five-year-old girl she babysat for until the perv father, who finally gave up hitting on her, came up with some phony story about missing weed, so now she has like nothing to do all summer. This went down in the time it took the busload of girls to take a leak and her barnacle friend to make a call and scurry back to her side. But I can’t for the life of me see any normal guy hitting on Char, not even with those mammoth boobs flying in every direction whenever she laughs. Which is like most of the time.

So at group, Betsy said I’m what you’d call a grazer—I’m always at the trough, even between regular feeding times. We’ll all have to share more about our eating choices and behaviors next session with these sheets. So each time I eat anything I’m supposed to rate my degree of hunger on a scale of one to ten, then fill out
New Behavior Practiced
and
Reaction & Feelings
—the last two columns on the page. For
every bite
. This is not the kind of information I want people to know about me, not that I care what a herd of fat girls and one Geek Olive think. All of this stupid crap is killing my appetite anyway. And using these sheets is pathetic. Scary that doctors can still be in the dark ages when it comes to computer technology.

I go to MT’s wall on Facebook before shutting my laptop and rolling over. I like my profile photo. In uniform, all padded up, I look more big than fat. Tough lineman. Not like some pussy keeping track of a leaf of lettuce.

My WOOD is good! Solid top-grade hardwood, Pencildick
.
Just b/c girls are ripe over there doesn’t mean you’ll be picking any fruit. And dude, I’m mapping my options out here too. Gonna be filling in a lot of boxes
, I write, knowing the guys would never think I’m talking about damn homework sheets.

Maybe a miracle will happen and a giant vacuum will come under these covers and suck off my boobs and fat butt. Maybe I’ll fall back to sleep, into the dream I was having of fooling around with this girl Roxy. Yeah. That would be a dream assignment.

Char notices my shirt immediately. “Whoa! Is this a non-Shroudity?”

“Whaaat?”

“ ‘Whaaat?’ You insult me. You bought clothes without me.” Char steps back to take me in.

“You’re being ridiculous. It’s nothing, from the Gap.”

“Yeah? When’d’ya get it, then?”

“I don’t know. A while ago?” I tell her. I bought it online yesterday and had it overnighted, but what does it matter when I bought the stupid shirt?

“It’s not black. And you have flesh showing. Are you transforming before we’re transforming?” Char shoves me. “Sistah, sistah, who are you?” She’s cracking herself up.

I shrug. “It’s just a shirt.”

“
I
think someone is trying to be noticed by someone,” she says all singsongy.

“You’re wrong, Char. I’d tell you.” I say this a little louder than I should.

“Okay. Relax. Thought I was just picking up on a vibe.”

We jam our way onto the uptown 4 train and grab the steel bar in the middle. At Fifty-ninth, it’s clear that we’re blocking people from getting out or pushing further into the train. Unlike Char, I’m supremely aware of who’s watching us. She’s two parts oblivious and eight parts doesn’t give a crap, and is busy digging into her leather backpack for her iPod anyway.

Char’s wearing a gauzy white peasant blouse, her black lace bra clearly showing through.
Again
. And she’s tied the thin red string at the top of the blouse in a way that draws your eye to her ample cleavage. Now I’m sorry I bought this top. Why this boatneck? So Bobby can think of me as a tanker?

“This is ugly.” I pull at my shirt.

“I like it. Stop adjusting!” She’s swinging her wavy blond hair over her shoulder and stuffing her earbuds in. “Chill,” she orders.

“Hey.” I nudge Char. She unplugs one ear.

“Those boys are talking about that TV show,
The Biggest Loser
,” I whisper. “That show is bigger than
Idol
.”

She shrugs, sticking her earphones back in. A second later, she pulls them out again.

“They should so do a reality show about our Bandster group!” she exclaims. As if it’s an actual possibility.

“Yeah, what are we going to call it—
Bigger Fatter Losers?
”

Char’s scrolling through songs.

“
Teenage Waistland! W-A-I-S-T
-land!” she shrieks. I elbow her as people turn to look at us.

“Miss Clever, the clinical trial is supposed to be private.
We’re not allowed to disseminate information about it.” I guess Char is right. I’m always raining on her wacky parades.

“No matter!” Char says, undeterred. “We’ll call our Bandster group Teenage Waistland!”

I mutter something about finding custom T-shirts to fit us all, but she’s high on her idea and not listening. I just know she’s going to announce this at group tonight, and everyone is going to be all over her even more.

At Eighty-sixth Street, we push our way out of the subway. Char’s leading with her breasts. They seem to cut a path through the crowd like a machete in high grass. If I didn’t love her, I swear I’d hate her. We have two blocks left to walk and we need to do it in a hurry. It’s five of five, and group starts promptly at five p.m. “Walk faster,” I say.

“Did you just see that guy? The Puerto Rican one. Cute. And him.” She’s throwing her head toward this muscle-bound European-looking guy.

“Char! He’s probably like twenty and Turkish or something. You’re crazy.”

“No. Crazy, my friend, would be what we’re doing after group tonight.”

I turn to look back at Char. “We’re going down to Fifty-third Street to buy a dildo,” she announces. I stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk.

“We are not—”

“Yes, we so are. Marcie needs to get her slutty stepsister a graduation gift, and a dildo sounds like just what she needs.” Char pulls on my arm and we’re moving again.

“This was your idea, right?” I say. “No one normal thinks of this stuff. Remind me not to let you take me shopping for Julius’s wedding gift.”

Now Char comes to a halt. “Julius is getting married? When? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought I did. You probably forgot.” I yank on Char’s arm, but she stands firm. “Char? What’s the big deal?”

“Hey,” Bobby says from behind us. His voice is unmistakable. I’m in a panic now.

Char turns, and miraculously shifts to being all grins again. “Hey, Bobby—up for a little adventure after group tonight?” She
giggles
and gives him this playful shove. I’m ready to vomit blood on my dumb navy and white striped sailor shirt.

“What?” Bobby says.

“Hi,” I blurt stupidly.
I’m an idiot
.

Bobby doesn’t even notice. Char is chatting his ear off as I follow them into the building and onto the elevator. Betsy says, “Just in time,” as I trail them into the room. Everyone is already there, and we take the three open seats left in the circle. Char grabs the middle one of course.

“Okay, everyone. Before we go through our meal sheets—wait, everyone has them—your recording of meals and snacks—right?” Betsy says looking around. Bobby’s working his hand in his front pocket and pulls out a folded square. It looks like one of those paper fortune-tellers Char and I used to make. You pick a number, move the points, then pick another number, until you open a flap to reveal one of the fortunes you made up.
You will kiss Bobby
, I say to myself, and visualize it for a second. This is a ridiculous baby thing to be thinking. I’m embarrassed about my own mind sometimes.

“Hold on to them for a second,” Betsy says. “I’ve got your surgery dates!” She’s waving a sheath of paper like it’s a victory flag.

Everyone claps, but not Char. No, she’s
shimmying
! “Bring it,” she shouts, and gets everyone into another round of clapping and laughing. I lean forward to glance at Bobby. He’s laughing too, of course, but his eyes are, like, glued to Char’s jiggling chest. I think Marcie’s also catching this. She’s got a smirk on her face. Marcie’s okay, but I don’t see why Char’s getting so cozy with her. They exchanged phone numbers at Chow Fun House two weeks ago, after the first group session.

Char’s really focused on everything changing. Lately, all her sentences begin with “After we get the bands …” I’m not sure if I
can
change. I’m not even comfortable not wearing black. It’s like I’m falling further behind. When Char was blabbing away with Marcie and Lucia in the restaurant, I just sat there. Same thing with Bobby. I just sat there while they were giggling up a storm. It’s like she’s this champagne bottle and I’m a cork. She’s the one transforming before we transform. I mean she’s sociable enough in school, but here it’s like a
Char Gone Wild
video.

“Most of your surgeries are scheduled for the third week of July,” Betsy says, startling me out of my thoughts. “And—this is critical, folks—make sure you confirm your date and time with your parents and bring back this form signed.” Betsy passes the surgery schedules to Coco, but before Coco can take hers and pass them on to Lucia, everyone is out of their seats grabbing for a copy. Char and I have our surgery on the same day. I’m in the morning, seven-thirty, and she’s at three p.m. This is already backward: Char leads, I follow.