The Jock and the Fat Chick (13 page)

Alyssa gestures with a head nod. “Check out the blob patrol at table two.”

I shoulder-check. It’s Ruby, Tiara, and Zoë. They’re sitting, minding their own business, with books open and pink highlighters in hand.

“God, shoot me if I ever get like
that
,” she adds.

Missy chuckles and whacks me in the shoulder. “You have permission to staple my mouth shut if I get that fat.”

I put down my vanilla-banana-cinnamon-cheesecake protein bar, because I’ve lost my appetite. I remember when Ruby had to serve Missy and Alyssa at the Fry Palace and how they laughed then, too.

Alyssa cocks her head to one side, as if she were observing
zoo animals behind glass. “If you stapled their mouths shut and fed them water through a tube, how long do you think they’d survive on their fat?”

Missy is quick to reply. “At least three years. No, a decade . . . no, a millennium!”

They laugh identical high-pitched cackles, a piercing sound that drills straight into my brain.

Missy nudges me with the right side of her body, inviting me into their game. “What do you think, Kevin?”

What do I think? I think it’d be nice for once to eat my lunch in peace.

“I think you two should shut it.”

They stop laughing. Their stunned expressions morph into bitch faces.

Oh boy.

Alyssa hisses. “Excuse me? Don’t tell me to shut up.”

“Yeah,” Missy adds. “We were just joking. What’s your problem?”

“Can you not find something else to talk about? How would you like it if people sat around saying mean things about you?”

Alyssa’s upper lip pulls taut to form an ugly sneer. I take back what I thought about girls not pulling off a homicidal look. I wonder if Viktor has seen this face. “What are you, the bully police?”

“No, but for once maybe I don’t want to listen to people
hate on other people.”

Missy lowers her eyes while Alyssa rolls hers. “Whatever,” she says, then with a dismissive wave, Alyssa stands up. “I’m out of here.” She turns to Missy. “Have fun with Mr.
Kill
joy.”

She leaves, making her way to the opposite side of the cafeteria to talk with some guy twirling a drumstick.

I turn to Missy. “Why would you say those things about Ruby, Zoë, and Tiara?” I purposely use their names instead of saying “them” or “those girls.” “I thought you were better than that.”

Missy glances at them, then away. She picks at a deep table scratch with her thumb. “I didn’t mean to. I couldn’t help it. Alyssa started it, and I just got sucked in.”

I’m about to say,
So, if she said jump, you’d jump?
when I stop. Missy may have never heard me make a joke about overweight people, but I have, right along with the guys. I’m just as guilty. I believe “hypocrite” is the word.

She sniffs. “Maybe we shouldn’t have said that stuff, but you didn’t have to yell at me and my best friend. I thought you were supposed to be my boyfriend?”

At the word “boyfriend,” I stare at her thumb, flicking at the table groove.

“You know,” she says, “I don’t think I’m feeling it between you and me anymore.”

I nod. “Yeah, me neither.” Saying this aloud feels like slipping off a concrete-filled backpack. Immediate relief.

Surprised, Missy blinks a few times. I think she expected me to act crushed. She pushes her chair back from the table and rises. “All right, fine. It’s over.” Her tone sharpens as she gives me a laundry list of demands. “Don’t talk to me. Don’t text me. Don’t even look at me.”

“Missy?” I ask.

She shoots me a death stare. “What did I just say?”

“You are a really smart, pretty, and fun person, and you deserve a guy way better than me.”

I anticipate her next words to be something like, “Yeah, I know,” or “You jerk,” or how about the classic, “Go to hell!,” but instead she bows her head and mumbles, “Thanks. I’m really not that mean, you know?”

I never realized until now just how much we had in common. I nod, sympathizing with her. “Yeah, I know.”

With nothing left to say, she gives me a small “see ya around” wave and leaves.

Even though I’m not hungry, I choke down my protein bars, because I’ll be working out later. My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Viktor.

What did u say 2 my grlfnd? I got like 16 messages from her

Told her 2 shut up. She was being catty.

She said you yelled at her and she thought you were going to hit her

What?
I can’t believe she said that. What’s worse, I can’t
believe Viktor believes her. I text:
That’s bullshit.

Well, she said you threw one of your protein bars at her.

Not true!

You calling her a liar?

Hell yeah

That makes you an asshole

I text him the truth about what happened, but he sends me a reply saying if he sees me, he’ll punch me in the face. Fine, bring it on. Screw him. I’m not afraid to fight the guy. He deserves to be punched for spreading rumors about me when I didn’t follow Mr. King of the School’s orders.

I get home and kick off my boots, sending them flying across the hallway. Chunks of snow splatter on the floor, but I don’t care. All I want is to put this day behind me.

Buddy hears me and awakes with a start. He takes one look at my angry face and cowers, as if he’s done something wrong.

The sight nearly breaks me into a million bits.

I sink to my knees. “Hey, Buddy . . . I’m sorry, boy.” I crawl toward him, and he lets me hold him. After a moment he settles into the carpet and sighs. I lie down opposite and stare into his big brown eyes, eyes that have grown duller over the years. He’s been my best bud since I was nine, and I know one day soon he’s going to die. Tears brim in the corners of my eyes and spill down my cheeks. I kiss him on the
head. I don’t want him to go. He’s the only one who loves me for who I am and doesn’t judge me. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stop the waterworks. Buddy extends a paw, as if to say,
Hey, it’s okay
, and I shake hands with him. “When did life get so shitty?” I blurt, my voice cracking. “Why can’t I be a kid again, huh? Why can’t we all get a do-over?”

We lie in silence, watching dust motes float in the slanted afternoon light. The room slowly grows dark, and we do this sad thing until the very last minute before I have to drag my butt to hockey. Since I’ve left zero time to make something for dinner, I grab a bottle of water, a power gel, and two energy bars to snarf down along the way.

I wait at the bus stop, shouldering my twenty-pound gear bag. My breath comes out thick, like smoke. I lean on my hockey stick and rock from side to side, the snow and rock salt crunching underfoot. I down a watermelon gel and choke on the thin syrup-like texture and imitation flavor. When the bus finally arrives, I board and take a seat near the back doors. I don’t have much time, so I tear into my dinner—a triple-chocolate, peanut, mixed-berry bar. A whitish film coats the top of it, and when I take a bite, it’s dry and tasteless, like it’s sat in a warehouse for a few years. Disgusting. I wish I had something else to eat—veggies, roast beef—anything but this. I catch my reflection in the window. My jaw sawing and my eyes red from crying.

I hustle once I’m off the bus, because I’m cutting it close
and don’t want Coach to be pissed. Dino’s coming out as I go in, and I give him a “hey,” but he doesn’t acknowledge me other than to slam his shoulder into mine.

No time to ask, “What’s your problem?” because I have to get dressed.

I dump my bag on the bench and peel off my clothes and throw on my gear. I don’t see Viktor anywhere.

Armpit, or rather Leo, heads out, passing without a word, and somehow my water bottle ends up getting kicked across the locker room. Huh. I jam my skate heel against the floor to force my foot into it faster. With less than a minute to warm-up, I hit the ice and skate hard, all under the Coach’s glaring eye for tardiness. Tonight we’re playing Howard Bay High in a practice game. Viktor, Dino, and Armpit won’t acknowledge me or pass the puck; only the junior and sophomore players do. When the game starts it gets worse. Each time Coach isn’t paying attention, I get bodychecked, first by Dino, then by Armpit.

Some of the guys on the other team start giving me funny looks. I ignore everyone’s bull and remind myself I’m here to play hockey. I up my game by skating faster and playing harder.

Viktor glides up alongside me, his mouth guard dangling on his chin bar. “So,” he says. “You like picking on girls, huh?”

I spit out my mouth guard. “She’s a liar.” I take off for
the puck.

Seconds later a stick jabs my shoulder. I turn around.

“No, don’t think so,” he says. “See, I went to your house to pick you up and talk about what happened, and had a nice chat with your mom. Seems when I asked her about all the painting you’ve been doing, she didn’t know what you were talking about.”

Coach shouts in our direction and fires the dreaded finger. “Heads in the game!”

I hightail it toward the boards, where I scoop up the rolling puck against the wall. I shoulder-check—see Viktor—but don’t pass. I don’t have to answer to him. Instead, I pivot, head for the net, and line up the shot. I pull back my stick and fake it, so I can get the goalie to drop and pop it into the net above his shoulder. He goes for it, kneeling onto the ice. I’m about to shoot when I’m sucker punched from behind. The deliberate blow knocks me off my feet and sends me sliding across the ice and crashing into the boards.

The ref blasts his whistle. The other team’s players have stopped skating out of confusion. They can’t get a bead on what happened.

Viktor skates by.

I can’t believe he’s so mad that he blew our chance at a goal.
Asshole!

He circles back and skids to a stop, spraying ice shavings in my face. “You’ve been lying to me for months. What else
have you been keeping back?”

I scramble to my feet and shove him, hard.

Viktor totters on his blades to regain his balance. He shoves me back, and at the same time we drop our sticks and throw down our gloves.

Coach barks, “Hey!”

I ignore him. “Come on,” I snarl. “Let’s go.”

He takes a bluff-shot to see if I’ll flinch. I don’t. I do the same back to him; he doesn’t flinch either.

He tries for my jersey, to pull it over my head, but I surprise him with a simple but effective uppercut to the snot box. His head snaps back, and when he’s upright again, his face registers total and complete shock. Blood smears his nose, and his eyes grow glassy.

Our fists fly.

I clock him in the upper cheek, and he hits me square on the lips, busting them open and filling my mouth with blood.

Temple.

Chin.

Cheek.

Eye.

Coach yells something, and dozens of hands pull us apart. I yank my arm free from Dino’s grip and spit blood on the ice. My eyes lock onto Viktor’s, refusing to break contact, ready for round two.

Coach screams from the players’ bench, his face all shiny and red. “You two! Get the hell off the ice! Go home! Now!”

We look at him, surprised. He’s never yelled at his star players before.

We skate toward him, and he says, lowering his voice, but with full intensity, “Are you both idiots? You want me to write ‘gross misconduct’ on your school records? You want to screw up your chances at scholarships?”

The realization of what I’ve done hits me. I shake my head.

“Then don’t come back until you can play like you’re part of a team.” I leave the ice first and hear Coach grumble, “Bloody hell” and “Goddamn embarrassing.” He holds Viktor back, so there’s no chance of us picking up in the locker room where we left off. He doesn’t have to worry, though, because I don’t bother changing out of my gear. I just swap my skates for boots, grab my stuff, and go.

The metal door leading to the parking lot slams behind me. It’s half raining, half snowing out, and in less than a minute, I’m cold and soaked to the bone. Sleet stings my eyes, cheeks, and fresh cuts. Screw the bus. I stand by the road and stick out my thumb. Luckily, a hockey dad and his kid who just pulled out of the arena offer a lift. I tell the guy thanks and climb into the back with my stick and gear. He sees my fat lip and says, “Swapping blows with your teammate, huh?”

I don’t feel like talking, but I also don’t feel like walking, so I play nice. I try making a joke, “Yeah, well, he deserved it.”

“You know, back in my day—” he starts.

I roll my eyes and let Pops babble on so his kid hears all about how civilized the game used to be, back in his day. What bull. As he yammers, his kid constantly turns to gawk at me and get a good eyeful of the guy with the “bad attitude” and “poor sportsmanship behavior.”

CAN’T SLEEP. EARS RING. HEAD POUNDS AND heart’s relocated to lips to throb nonstop. Even Buddy’s restless. He wanders from room to room, unable to settle.

I stumble into some sort of sleep around 3:00 a.m. and dream about what, I don’t know, because there’s something clawing at my leg. I open my eyes and wince from pain. It’s Buddy; he’s making swimming motions, all four paws paddling. I sit up. Something’s wrong. He’s not moving like he usually does in one of this chase dreams.

Foam froths from his mouth.

“Buddy?!”

I throw back the covers and reach out to help him, but I don’t know what to do.

I hear the bolt in the front door. Mom’s home.

“Mom?!” I yell. “Mom! It’s Buddy! Something’s wrong!”

She hurries into my room, still in her coat and boots.
She stops to take in my busted face.

She gasps. “What happened to you?”

“Buddy,” I say, refocusing her attention.

Mom sees what I see. She also holds her hands toward him but also doesn’t know what to do.

Buddy stops shaking, but he pants hard, like he’s just run a marathon. His eyes won’t stop flickering from side to side. They’re like Granddad’s before he died of Parkinson’s.

“I think he’s had a seizure,” Mom says. She picks Buddy up. “Get dressed.”

I throw on some clothes and follow her to the car, where she sets him on the backseat. I sit beside him while Mom drives to Dundas Twenty-Four-Hour Emergency Clinic.

For the entire ride I stroke his head and whisper, “Hey little guy . . . it’s okay. . . . I’ve got you. . . . We’re going to make you better, okay?”

Mom pulls up to the clinic, and I get out and carry Buddy inside. The sickly yellow-green, too-bright lighting makes me squint, and the girl at the front desk takes in my face before noticing Buddy’s twitching eyes. She hurries around the counter, waving for me to follow. I hurry past a giant uncaged cockatoo that struts and squawks, and a woman with a cat carrier on her lap, the black cat inside cowering.

We’re shown into a small all-white examining room, where I lay Buddy onto the metal table. The veterinarian sees us right away, and Mom and I keep it together long enough
to tell Dr. Yanick everything we know. She calls for an assistant, who takes Buddy into the back to start running a series of tests. She says it may take a while, so we should wait in the reception area.

I pace while Mom sits, wringing her hands. The cockatoo ruffles its feathers and screeches again. Mom calls her foreman-friend boss to let him know what happened, just in case she can’t come in tonight. He tells her to take care and to take the night off, that he’ll get someone to cover her shift. I’m grateful to the guy, because I don’t know what I’ll do if Buddy dies. All I know is that I will bawl in front of all these people.

A half hour later Dr. Yanick calls us in. Buddy lies on the examining table. His tail lifts a few inches in an attempt to say he sees me. I bend to hug him and kiss his head. His eyes still shake. Dr. Yanick explains that Buddy has vestibular disease, which is common in older dogs, and his shifting eyes are something called “nystagmus.” The nerves between his brain and inner ear are damaged, and so he’ll experience incoordination, head tilting, falling, circling, and drunk walking.

“Is he going to be okay?” I ask, petting his head.

She’s vague, but positive, and sends us home with some supplements, along with something to help with the motion sickness.

On the drive I sit in the back with Buddy in my arms. I
whisper, “You’re a good boy. I love you.”

Mom glances at me in the rearview mirror. “So, can I ask what happened to you?”

I stare out the window, the sun rising over the rooftops. The last thing I want to do is talk, so I get to the point. “I got into a fight.”

“At hockey?”

I nod.

She sighs. “Are you okay?”

I nod again.

“It’s not how you get noticed by scouts.”

I scratch Buddy behind his ears, where he likes it. “I know . . . I was stupid. It won’t happen again.”

I end up getting to school at around lunchtime, with a late notice shoved into my pocket. I can tell the gossip mill’s working overtime from all the kids’ faces and the whispers behind my back. It’s obvious Viktor and I were in a fight, because we’re wearing the evidence: his swollen eye and my busted lips. Is there anything
else
to talk about? People should just get a life. When I’m about to pass by Missy and Alyssa, Alyssa laughs loud and fake-like, but Missy doesn’t. She offers a sympathetic, pained smile, which I appreciate. At lunch I avoid the cafeteria and eat in the library. I try not to think about Buddy because I get choked up, and the last thing I want to do is cry. When I’d carried him to the
backyard to pee before I left, he lost his balance and fell, urinating on himself. He can hardly eat, either. He just shakes and stumbles to one side whenever he lowers his head. I had to hand-feed my little guy.

I have no appetite, but bite into my stupid fake-tasting protein bar anyways. I’m sick of these; they turn my stomach. I don’t even finish it. Instead, I focus on my homework and do what I have to do to get through this misery called high school, so I can get out of here and start over.

The fourth period warning bell rings, and when I stand to gather my stuff, I see her and roll my eyes. If she’d minded her own business, everything would have been different. She sits smug-like, with her army boots propped on a chair. I shove my books in my backpack and make my way over. My hand clenches my shoulder strap, so it has something to do.

“What gives you the right to poke your nose into other people’s business and ruin their lives?” I say.

Rat’s-Nest Girl doesn’t look up from her drawing of a stupid dragon. “You did that yourself.”

“Bite me.”

She raises her head to face me. “You care too much about what other people think. I could tell the first day you came to class, you were
constantly
looking around to see who was noticing you.”

Rat’s-Nest Girl continues pencil shading.

“You’re full of it,” I say.

She chuckles. “Oh, really? Is
that
why you didn’t introduce Claire to your jock-itch friends? Is that why you nearly pissed your pants when I saw you at the arena? You couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

I open my mouth, and then shut it because it’s too hard to explain with the whole FWBs, and the cloak-and-dagger games, but more than that, I’m tired. I’m sick of the bull. I did act like Claire was someone I should be ashamed of, and it’s not how to treat someone I care (or cared) about. I should have thought about her, not what other people were going to think or say.

I sigh, my head and upper body slumping. There’s no argument here. The girl with the terrible hair is right. I’m about to leave when I ask her one thing. “Why do you care?”

“Well, normally I wouldn’t, except
ma chérie Mademoiselle Claire est ma cousine
.”

I look past Rat’s-Nest Girl’s tangled mess of hair and see the family resemblance. I don’t know why I didn’t pick up on it before.

“René’s your uncle,” I say.

She turns her page ninety degrees and deepens the lines. “That’s usually how it works.”

I shoulder my backpack and then turn to leave.

“You know, Claire really liked you.”

I stop, not knowing if she’s sincere or just rubbing salt in my wounds.

“She was constantly yapping about you. ‘Kevin this, Kevin that.’ It was gross.”

A small part of me would like to smile and take some comfort in this, but a bigger part wants to break down, crumble, and crawl into a deep, dark hole.

“You were both stupid,” she goes on.

For the first time I agree with her. “I know.”

Fourth period bell rings. Great. I’m late.

“Hey,” she says just before I head out the door. From somewhere in the stacks, an adult voice shushes us.

“What?” I say, even though I can’t take anymore of her honesty.

“I like what you’ve done with your face, but I like what you did to Viktor’s better.”

After school I check in with Mom.

“How’s Buddy?”

“He’s good.”

“You sure? Because I could come home, and you could sleep.”

“No, that’s okay. He and I are just fine hanging in the living room. You just do what you normally do, and I’ll see you later on, okay?”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay . . . see you soon.”

I hang up and head to Shreds. I’ll make it a quick cardio workout to blow off stress. I walk in and flash my membership key tag. I don’t care if Viktor’s here or not. It’s a public place, and if he shows up, it’s too bad for him, ’cause I’m not leaving. I’ll fight him again if I have to. Who does he think he is, anyway? Always making fun of people who don’t follow his every order or who dare to stand out.

It turns out he doesn’t show, but I like how refusing to put up with his crap makes me feel good, strong.

I start the long walk home. I guess the cold weather is keeping everyone away, because Main Street’s deserted. Up ahead is René’s restaurant, and without thinking I glance through the front window. The place is empty except for Claire, who stands over one of the tables arranging silverware.

Seeing her gives me this sensation that’s hard to describe. It’s a weird happy yet sad emotion that hangs heavy in my chest. All I can picture is holding her hand, hearing her laughter, feeling her head nuzzle my neck.

She disappears into the back, and before I know what I’m doing, I’ve reached for the door handle and I’ve headed inside. The place is swank with all the natural woods, earthy colors, and working fireplace. Everything I expected it’d be.

She reappears and stops when she sees me. “Ah, um,” she says, clearly caught off guard. Her cheeks flush. “Welcome to La Petite Merveille,” she says in a professional, polite
manner.

“Hey.”

“Um . . . , the kitchen won’t be open for another hour.”

The way she talks, sounding all formal, stings. Does she have to address me like I’m a stranger?

I reach into my pocket and pull out a fiver. “Can I have some tea?”

She nods. “Feel free to sit where you’d like.”

I take a seat by the fireplace, so my boots get a chance to dry. I hang my coat on the back of the chair and shove my gym bag under the table.

“What kind of tea would you like? We have a Russian Caravan, which is a Lapsang souchong and bergamot blend. We have a Chinese Manchu with jasmine and puer. A chamomile—”

“If I say surprise me, will you promise not to spit in it?”

The tiniest of smiles plays on one corner of her lip. She clears her throat. “I’ll be right back.”

I watch Claire leave, missing the confident, easy sway she has when she moves. She knows who she is and where she’s going. I have always thought this was the best part about her.

Two seconds later René appears from the kitchen and his eyes laser-focus on me. I fight the urge to sit up. I hope he doesn’t march over here and throw me out. He heads for the bar, picks up an empty glass, and raises it to the light,
checking for spots. He starts polishing it with a small hand towel.

In the fireplace, flames dance and snap as heat warms my cheeks. The music, a bluesy trumpet wailing overhead, reminds me of lazy days where you hole up in your room under the covers all day because it won’t stop raining.

Claire returns with a serving tray and places a saucer, teacup, spoon, milk, and a pot of tea in front of me. “The house special. A blend of cardamom, cinnamon, clove, ginger, pepper, and organic black tea.” She nods at my fiver on the table. “No worries. It’s on the house.”

“Thanks,” I say, and before she walks away, I ask, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

She glances at her dad, who gestures it’s okay to take a break, so Claire sits. She clasps her hands in front of her, still businesslike.

I don’t know where to start, so I begin with, “So, how’s it going?”

“I’m fine. And how are you?”

“Good,” I say, and then shake my head. “No, not good.”

Her eyes flick down at the table, “Kevin?” she asks, her voice soft. “Why are you here?”

I might as well dive right in. “I screwed up. I was mad you didn’t want to be more than friends with . . .” I glance at René and wonder if he can read lips or if he possesses supersonic hearing.

“FWBs?” she says.

I nod.

She bites her bottom lip. “What I want to know is, did you sleep with that girl before or after you read my note?”

I can’t believe she’s asking me this. I never would have slept with anyone else if I’d read her email. “Before,” I say.

She seems to chew on my answer for a moment. “Then how can you say you want us to be more when you go and sleep with her?”

I lean closer. “Because you told me we shouldn’t get serious, and when I tried to change your mind, you said, ‘No, high school relationships never work out.’” I pause as something occurs to me, and I lean back. “Are you saying I should have tried harder? That when I finally understand no strings attached and be with someone else, you’re mad because I should have tried harder?” I shake my head. “That’s not fair.”

She stares before drawing in a sharp breath and covering her mouth with her hand. “You’re right,” she murmurs, lowering her palm. “It wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.” Her eyes shift around the room, taking in random objects as tears threaten to fall. “When you gave me that bracelet, I panicked. Falling for you wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did, and I got scared. Then I realized what an idiot I was, how what we had was amazing and I was throwing it away. So, I sent that email and of course, the next day my cousin tells me you
slept with someone else. . . . I thought you were lying to me about how you felt.”

“Well, it’s not true,” I say.

In a voice barely audible she whispers, “I know that now.”

We stare at the teapot, steam rising from the spout.

“So,” I ask. “Why me?”

Her brows knit together, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you knew you didn’t want a relationship because you were leaving, then why’d you pick me?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “Well, I thought you were hot. You
are
hot and funny and nice. You could get any girl in this school if you wanted.”