The Jock and the Fat Chick (11 page)

The pitying expression on her face kills me. I wish the ice would crack so I could fall through. Claire goes to take a step forward, and subconsciously, without thinking, I rear back. She loses her balance, and in an attempt to regain it, she grabs my arms. I catch Claire, but everything else drops. The bracelet and velvet box bounces onto the ice, then slides away from me.

She gasps and slaps a hand over her mouth. “Oh-my-god, Kevin. I’m-so-sorry.”

I steady her with one hand as I stoop to scoop and shove all of it into my pocket.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it,” I say.

Her eyes grow big and apologetic. “Are you sure? It’s not damaged, is it?”

“Nope, it’s fine,” I say, even though I have no idea if it’s
okay or not.

Couples glide around us. Girls are nestled into guys’ chests, arms are wrapped around one another. That should be us. Instead, I shrug and say, “Yeah, no worries. Guess I went overboard, huh?” I add a little chuckle. “I should have given you that rubber chicken instead.”

My joke fails, epically.

I get the pity look again. “Here you are doing something incredibly nice, and I—I totally ruined it.”

I force out another chuckle, even though I’m miles away from finding anything funny. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you sure?”

The more we stand talking about it, the more I clench my teeth and try to smile through the disaster.
Just. Let. It. Go,
I think. “Yes, seriously. It never happened.”

I smooth her bangs to one side and peck her on the forehead to show her it’s no big deal. As I pull away, guiding her with me, I can’t help but glance around at the bleachers, wondering who might have witnessed this humiliation, or worse, recorded the next viral rejection video. Thankfully, people are too absorbed in their lives to care. I breathe a sigh of relief, and just when I think the worst moment of my life is over, who do I see leaning against the boards, wearing an orange cleaning vest and holding a broom?

Rat’s-Nest Girl. And worse, she sees us.

You’ve got to be kidding. She works here? Unbelievable. I
skate backward, pulling Claire away from prying eyes.

“Ouch,” she cries, before realizing I’d squeezed her hands a little too hard. I loosen my grip.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get some hot chocolate.”

I drop Claire at her house. Even though we kissed good-bye, things felt off, a little faked and forced. I made a total fool of myself for thinking that maybe with all the “loves” and “xoxo” text sign offs, she’d changed her mind about us. Ugh, I’ve got this gross, putrid feeling in my gut I can’t shake. It’s like acidic shame combined with sour humiliation. I almost pull over to throw up.

I’m nearly home when this car behind me starts flashing its high beams and blasting its horn.

Beep-beep-beeeeeep!

What? Go away.

Beeeeeeeeeep!

I scream, “Piss off!” and glare into the rearview mirror. It’s Viktor’s car. I growl, “Yeah, yeah.” I plaster on a fake smile and raise my hand in a wave. Viktor follows me, and when I pull to a stop in front of the house, he pulls his car alongside. We roll down our windows.

I try, but can’t seem to unclench my jaw. “Hey, ’sup?” I say. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

“On my way to Alyssa’s and saw your car. You should try turning on your phone, dude.”

I slap my chest and pockets in a big fake display of “Oh my god, where’s my phone?” I’m irritated at myself for doing this. I’ve had enough drama for one day—hell, for a lifetime. I sigh and act mock-relieved as I pull out the phone and examine it. “It’s a piece of crap.” I chuck it on the seat beside me. “I was going to call you. Want to hit Shreds?” At least that part is true.

“Can’t. Family visiting from out of town, plus, I’m banging Alyssa.”

My hand clenches. His “sleep with girls for the hell of it philosophy” makes something in me snap. I think about my mom and dad and wonder how many girls Viktor’s hurt. Oh, I’m sure there are stories about girls using him back, but still, he goes from girl to girl to girl, collecting them like hockey cards.

A horrible thought occurs to me: Is Claire doing the same thing, but with me? No. She’s
nothing
like Viktor. I quickly dismiss the thought.

“Cool,” I say, commenting on his banging activities.

“Yeah, I think I really like her.”

“Oh, yeah?” I say, but don’t believe it. It’s Viktor we’re talking about here. Longest relationship: two weeks.

“No, man,” he says, his voice growing serious. “I mean I really,
really
like her.” He leans his head against the seat’s headrest, as if he’s gazing at the stars. He grins. “She spins my world.”

You have got to be kidding me.

He looks back at me with this lovesick-puppy expression. “I know, right? Isn’t it awesome?”

I want to get out of my car and punch him in his stupid face. Instead, I grip the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. “Yeah, ah, it’s great. Beauty slays the beast.”

He chuckles. “We need to work on getting your ass laid.”

I try to swallow, but my throat’s a desert.

“Well, see ya later, man,” he says. “Merry ho-ho and all that.”

“Yeah, same back.” He pulls away, and for the second time today, I grind my teeth. I have to sit in the car for a moment and just breathe. It’s all I can do.

On the last day of school before Christmas break, there’s nothing to do. Marking exams has teachers so fried they either tell us it’s a free “study” period, or they show us old movies from the eighties like
The Breakfast Club
and go on about what a breakthrough this film was and how it changed cinema for teenagers.

I don’t text Claire, and I don’t get a text from her, which is fine. I’d rather lay low for a while.

With little to do on our spare before lunch, me, Viktor, Armpit, Dino, and a few other guys hang in the cafeteria by the back wall. They play this “You have to bang the next chick that walks into the room” game, and each time someone
nerdy or ugly comes in, the guy who’s it groans while the rest laugh their asses off. Yeah, it’s dumb and immature. I keep my mouth shut, and I’d come up with an excuse to leave, but after what happened yesterday, I don’t want to be alone. When it’s my turn and Mrs. A appears, guys erupt into a chorus of hysterics. Multiple hands slap the table, and Armpit even wipes away imaginary tears. The game now requires them to delve deeper into my choice as teachers become a particular wild card that involves grossing one another out by describing the mechanics of getting it on. They’re so busy dishing details of me and Mrs. A bumping uglies, no one notices Claire. The sight of her causes me to stiffen. I thought she never came in here? I figured this was the one place I wouldn’t accidentally run into her today.

Claire glances around, and when she sees me, she lifts her hand in a “hi” wave. I notice how for the first time my heart doesn’t thump-smash. Instead, my guts churn, munching on yesterday’s acidic rejection leftovers. Luckily, the guys are too busy laughing and cracking jokes about me to notice her. When Claire makes her way between rows of mostly empty seats and tables, I realize she’s intentionally seeking me out. A multitude of emotions smash into one another, like two hockey teams in an all-out brawl. I wanted Claire to like me back the same way I liked her. I had hoped she wanted more, but she said no. FWBs, that’s it. But now that she knows I wanted more, does this mean it’s over? If it’s not,
can I go on being with her, knowing she doesn’t like me just as much? Am I just a sucker? Added to all these thoughts is one big adrenaline shot; I don’t want Claire becoming the next target of their dumb game.

I glance at Dino, who throws his head back in laughter. Cat-eye glasses girl was the best thing to happen to him and he tossed it away.

Armpit bursts out, “Geriatric bang!”

More roars of hilarity.

I stand up. “Ha-ha,” I say. “Mrs. A would toss me around like a rag doll, and you’re just jealous.” The guys titter and tee-hee. “Gettin’ a drink,” I add.

The game moves on to the next player, and I make my way across the cafeteria. I head gesture for Claire to follow me to the drinks cooler.

I slide open the glass door and grab some water.

“Hi, Kevin,” she says in a soft, cautious voice, like I’m some kind of wounded baby bird. It hurts. Why is she talking to me like this? We’re FWBs. I clamp down on the pain.

“Hey,” I say, and make my way to the cashier.

“I’m sorry for what happened with the bracelet.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s cool. It’s fine.” My words sound colder than I mean them to, and I try not to get sucked into the wounded look on her face.
This is what she wanted. Don’t get serious. It won’t work. Europe, blah, blah, blah . . .

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Um . . . okay. So, I wanted to let you know—”

Her voice starts doing this weird thing. It rises throughout her statements, making everything sound like a question, and all I hear is
Are you okay? Are we good?

“—my dad’s shorthanded at the restaurant, so I’ll be busy until after New Year’s. So . . . if you don’t hear from me, that’s why.”

I nod. “Sure. No problem. It’s cool.”

The cafeteria lady stands with her hand out, waiting for money. She’s obviously overheard our conversation because she rolls her eyes, like our problems are stupid.

I pay for my drink. “So, I’ll catch you later?”

She opens her mouth, but stops.

Roaring laughter ripples across the cafeteria, and I glance over my shoulder. Their next victim, Principal Bandell, had walked into the room.

“Um . . . okay,” Claire says. “Sure.”

“Okay,” I say, walking backward, away from her. “I’ll see ya.”

She smiles, but her eyes remain sad. She opens her mouth to speak, but closes it, changing her mind.

I steel my expression and pretend I don’t notice. I join the guys again.

“Okay, Viktor,” Armpit says. “You’re next.”

Still with the dumb game?

Ruby walks in, and the guys slap knees, hands, tabletops, and one another. Armpit makes
oink-oink
sounds. It’s not often Viktor’s the butt of jokes, so the guys are eager to jump in. Wolves on a bunny, limbs tearing from limbs. Flesh, blood, bone.

“Come on,” I say, with a slight edge to my voice. “She’s not
that
bad.”

The second the words leave my mouth, it’s total silence, like I ripped a fart at a funeral. They all stare, including Viktor.

“That’s if you’re into porkin’ pigs,” I add.

Howls of laughter.

“Yeah, ha-ha,” I say. “I was just kidding, ha-ha.”

I shut my mouth for the rest of the day.

Can I be a bigger asshole? Answer: yes.

THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS ARE FULL OF HOLIDAY stuff, shoveling driveways, buying a tree, and decorating it with popcorn strings and ornaments I made as a kid. My Christmas gift to Mom is cooking a full holiday roast turkey meal and to make sure she doesn’t eat anything frozen or from a can for the week she’s off work. Her gift to me is a large, four-tier spice rack. It’s got over forty different kinds of herbs and spices, including exotic ones for Indian and Middle Eastern cooking. This, plus the promise she’ll try to quit smoking. All in all, it’s a sweet Christmas. The day after, Claire invites me to her place for dinner, but I say no, that I’m busy. It’s too self-punishing, hanging with her folks. What’s the point in becoming more attached when she’ll slice me out of her life in a few months?

I meet up with Viktor at the gym instead.

In the changing room, I peel off my shirt, and Viktor
whistles long and low.

“Man, you’re getting soft,” he jokes.

I glance at myself in the mirror; the diamond-cut six-pack is still there. Then I check out Viktor’s torso and notice he’s catching up to me in the cheese-grating department. I reaffirm my priorities—get the damn scholarship.

We zero in on our lower bodies and midsections today, starting with barbell squats, then hams, tris, and calves. We finish with military-style crunches. Viktor lies on his back and raises his legs. I stand behind him, grab his shoes, and chuck his feet forward or to the sides as fast as I can. He has to stop the momentum and bring his legs back to me.

“Hey,” he says. “Missy’s having a New Year’s Eve party.”

“Oh, yeah?” I throw his legs to the ground. I don’t even wonder what Claire’s up to because I know she’ll be working.

He hauls his legs back. “Yeah. Her folks are out of town. It’ll be epic.”

“For sure,” I say, and send his feet flying to his left three times in a row to throw him off.

He grunts with effort. “I said I’d pick up a pony keg.”

“Nice.”

After another dozen tosses, he gets up and we switch places.

He pushes my feet to the side. “Hey, so, who was that chick in the cafeteria you were talking to the other day?”

My heels smack the mat.

“What chick?” I ask, raising my feet again.

“The big one with nice tits.”

Irritated, I furrow my brows, but to Viktor it appears like I don’t know who he’s talking about and need a second to think. “Oh, yeah,” I say, pushing hard on the upswing. “Some random girl from science.”

“She was looking like you two had a thing going on.”

I shrug. “I dunno, guess she wanted a piece of the Kev. Who wouldn’t?” He laughs. We finish up and head for the changing room. Discussing Claire with Viktor and pretending I don’t know her puts me in a foul mood. I pitch a fit when my lock won’t open on the first three tries. When it finally does I throw it open, letting the door slam against the one beside it. On top of that I don’t even feel like I’ve just worked out, either. Total waste of time.

It’s a mild night for a New Year’s Eve party. No snow, no wind. Viktor scores a sweet parking spot in front of Missy’s, and the second we open the car doors, we hear deep bass thumping from her house.

Viktor pops the trunk, and I grab one end of an eighty-pound pony keg to help haul it out. We trudge through snow and slush and to Missy’s front walk. We don’t bother knocking or ringing the bell because no one would hear us over the music, anyway.

In the foyer a dozen kids perched on the stairs erupt
with approval at the sight of tonight’s contribution.

Everyone who is anyone is here: popular kids, hockey players, cheerleaders . . . Viktor and I receive constant cries of “whoo-whoos” and “all rights” at our offering. We set the keg in the kitchen, and Alyssa and Missy welcome us in skimpy black party dresses that fit their bodies snug, like a second skin. We each get hugs. As Missy wraps her arms around me for an embrace, all that enters my mind is how she’s nothing like Claire. She’s taller, for one; more angular. Am I doomed to spend the rest of my life comparing every girl to someone who has no interest in being with me?

“Thanks, guys,” Missy says, and we shrug like it’s no biggie. Once Viktor gets it hooked up and the beer’s flowing, I pour us four drinks. We stand in a tight circle and knock our red plastic cups before chugging and christening the keg. After refills Viktor shouts, “The bar is open! Drink! Drink!”

Missy gets called away by one of her friends, and I watch her leave. Heck, if Viktor can take advantage of every girl that comes his way, then why can’t I? Maybe Claire reminding me we’re just FWBs was a good thing. I’m a free man. I can be with anyone I want. We’re not committed.

Speaking of which, Viktor and Alyssa now play tonsil hockey, big time, so I beat it and take a tour of the place.

The front room is where most of the girls gather to dance. Over two dozen of them and the school’s token gay
guy grind their bodies to a beat thumping so hard, delicate porcelain figurines on the wall unit bounce. On the couch a couple of hockey players stare, mouths open. A girl I was once paired up with in chemistry, Simone, stops gyrating long enough to reach for one of a dozen shot glasses filled with caramel-colored liquor. She brings the drink to her lips and throws back her head, downing the shot in one gulp. Then she sticks out the tip of her tongue to lick the glass’s bottom clean. God, if girls only knew how easy it was to turn guys on. No wonder we’re perpetual meat-suits of hormones with raging hard-ons.

Simone sees me and smiles.

“Hey, lab partner,” she slurs, and in bare feet tiptoes across the hardwood floor. She opens her arms for a hug, and I think,
Wow,
she
wants me, so why doesn’t Claire?
She presses the tall, long length of her body against mine, and I let myself go and wrap my arms around her. Her warm touch dulls the ache in my chest. I wish she knew everything that happened and this was the reason for the hug.

A new song begins. Simone pulls away to dance, but not before she slaps my chest and slurs, “Kevin, you’re hot” and follows it up with a kiss. Not just a peck on the cheek, but the full-blown, openmouthed kind, right on the lips. The guys on the couch cheer, and I taste sweet liquor. Simone steps back, delivers one hell of an impish grin, turns around—sort of—and keeps dancing. The guys give each other high
fives, but instead of relishing in this studly moment, I feel strangely hollow, like I’m detached or miles away and nothing is real.

I need another drink.

Halfway to the kitchen, my phone vibrates. I pull it out, and it’s a text from Claire.

Miss u

And just like that, my wounds rip open again. The pain is sharp and intense, like someone’s shoved a syringe into my chest and left it to dangle. What is “Miss u” supposed to mean? Why is she texting me this? I can’t figure her out. I don’t want to deal with it right now, so I shut off my phone.

Viktor, Armpit, and Dino sit around the kitchen table. They’re playing a card game we invented called Face-Plant. The object is to get drunk fast without any of the hand-eye coordination needed for something like beer pong. Basically, you drink lots until someone passes out, usually on their face. Thus, the name Face-Plant.

Dino runs his hands over his clean-shaven head. “Yo, Kevin. You in?” He went bald a week ago to show off the six-inch birthmark on his cranium.

I pull up a chair across from Viktor. “I’m in.”

Cards are dealt and played. Everyone laughs except for Armpit, because he’s got the lowest number and has to take three shots of whiskey while the rest of us take one. We drink and time it so that everyone slaps their glasses down
in unison.

Armpit picks up the deck and shuffles. He and Viktor trade glances before he speaks. “So, Kevin,” he says, and from where I sit across from him, the smell of booze wafts heavily from his breath. He should avoid open flames. My money is on him to face-plant first. “I hear you’re into fat chicks.”

His comment blindsides me. Thinking fast, I turn my head to one side to appear confused, as if he’s lost me.

“What?” Dino asks, jumping on the dick-train. “Kevin’s an FA?”

Viktor turns to Dino, looking puzzled.

“Fat Admirer,” Dino explains. “So, a chubby chaser, huh?”

I take a deep breath and try to breathe normally. Play it cool. I say, “Fuck you” and turn to Armpit. “Deal.” As he hands out the cards, I think,
What the hell prompted this?
I glance at Viktor. He’s looking over the top of his card and smiling, like he’s enjoying the show.

“So, how big we talkin’ here?” Dino goes on. A wry smile twists his lips and morphs his mug into an expression of sick pleasure. Huh. I know what Dino’s doing. He’s making a power play. I bet he’s pissing his pants with joy that no one’s bringing up pink-haired cat-eye glasses girl.

“Muffin top or BBW fat fetish? ’Cause a few extra jiggles are nice. Gives you something to hang on to when you bang
from behind.” He stands and holds his hands waist-high before thrusting and jerking his hips. The guys laugh, and I have to hold back from punching him. All eyes lock on me now, and my next move is critical. It has to be swift and sure. I grip the table’s edge and lean forward, like I’m about to Hulk out and flip it over. When the room goes dead silent, I make my move and utter a long, loud, lazy, “Meoooooow.”

Everyone cracks up, and I lean back in my chair with palms resting behind my head, looking smug. Crash and burn, man, crash and burn. Equilibrium restored. But when the grin slides off Dino’s face, I realize I got him good all right, too good. I can pretty much feel the ache in his chest, because it’s my pain too. It would have been kinder if I’d punched him.

Viktor shakes his head, bemused, and we lay down cards; this time it’s me with the lowest hand, which they find hilarious. I have to take three drinks while they take one. I let the last shot roll around my mouth and allow the cheap whiskey to burn my gums.

“Hee-hee! Kevin’s gone hogging!” Armpit slurs. “Oink, oink!” I grit my teeth. “Come on, tell us. You look like the kinda guy who enjoys spanking the pork.”

“Fuck you,” I say again, trying to make it sound funny, but it’s getting harder to hold back the patience in my voice. My shoulders grow tight, and my knee’s itching to hammer. I have to ask myself why I’m going through all this bull for a
girl who doesn’t love me back.

Missy and Alyssa enter the kitchen, and Missy shoots me a broad smile. I stop shuffling long enough to hold out my hand and invite her to sit on my lap. When she does I curl my arm around her waist and deal the next round, my forearm brushing her back with each flick of the card. She slides her arm across my shoulders to lean in for a better look at what I dealt for myself. I nuzzle closer, letting her see it. I’m keenly aware our mouths are a few inches apart.

I turn to Armpit. “You were saying?”

He mumbles, acting like he has no clue what I’m talking about.

Alyssa stands behind Viktor and wraps her arms around his neck. I sense him eyeing me, so I slide a hand onto Missy’s knee and give it a gentle squeeze. That’s right, take it in, Mr. Viktor, I can score too if I want, and I don’t need your help. Missy hugs me back, and I notice barely-there freckles across her pert nose. She’s pretty and smells like Cheetos and coffee-flavored toffee.

We throw down our cards, and I lose again, which means another three shots. I give one to Missy as I down the other two. The beers and booze hit me all at once, making me warm, fuzzy, and touchy-feely. I run my hand along Missy’s back, and she nuzzles my earlobe. A twinge of guilt tries to unsettle me, but I cut it off at the pass. It’s not like I’m cheating on anyone.

I turn to Missy. “Wanna give me the grand tour?”

The guys erupt in exaggerated “Whoo” sounds, and Viktor adds, “Getta room.”

“Sure,” she says, standing, and before we leave the kitchen, I refill our beers. I catch Alyssa and Missy trading fast, sly grins with each other.

Missy and I hang in the hallway for a bit and make small talk with some of her friends. At one point I find myself completely surrounded by girls who all laugh and talk in that high-pitched excited way. Missy cracks a few jokes, and when she wraps her arm around mine to tuck in closer, it triggers a memory of Claire. How she’d always do the same wraparound thing with me. I didn’t think it could hurt any worse, but somehow it does.

“You okay, Kevin?” Missy asks, noticing that I’ve drifted away.

I nod and sigh. “Yeah, it’s just been a hard week.”

She tilts her head to the side, like she understands, and then draws me in for a nice hug. Just like with Simone, Missy’s touch helps dull the pain.

“Do you want to go upstairs and talk?” Before I can answer, she takes ahold of my hand and pulls me, guiding me through the crowd and past kids sitting along the stairs. In the hallway two kids play tonsil hockey, and when Missy reaches for the first door on her left, someone downstairs shouts, “Forty-five minutes till midnight!,” and they’re
followed by a chorus of yells and cheers. Missy flicks on the light, and my eyeballs get a blast of all things pink, along with other girlie, frilly stuff, like fuzzy animals and posters of horses.

She slides her arms around me for another supportive hug. I can’t help it. I reach for a little comfort, a little relief, and sink into the warmth of another human being. I wish she knew everything, so I didn’t have to go through this alone. I guess I cling on for a little too long because when she pulls away, she looks at me—like, really looks at me—like she sees into my hurt heart. She lays a gentle hand on my cheek, leans in, and kisses me to make it better.

I kiss her back, and before long, we’re making out, hardcore. Hands travel up and down and all over. We French, and I lift her up and she wraps her legs around my waist. She grabs the back of my T-shirt to yank it off, and I walk us to her bed, where we land with a bounce and she squeaks with laughter.

She reaches for my belt buckle, undoing the clasp and drawing the leather strip through the loops before dropping it to the floor.

I slide my hand under the bottom of her dress to pull it up and remove it, and she scrambles away from me in a weird, catlike reaction. The second I think,
Oh god, she’s going to run screaming from her room, what have I done?
, Missy slaps the light switch, plunging us into darkness. I can’t see a
thing, not my hand in front of my face. She leaps back into bed.