The Jock and the Fat Chick (2 page)

I grab a protein bar from my backpack and search the dusty cupboards for something that isn’t too weird or gross to eat. Let’s see . . . Spam, wiener sausages, and more chunky stew.

Once it’s open, I turn the contents over and dump the fish on top of my protein bar. Oily tuna juice drips into the sink as I use my fingers to evenly spread the meat.
There,
I think,
this should make Coach happy.
I ignore how it looks and smells and sink my teeth into the moist fish, then press into dense texture that resembles particleboard. I won’t lie—the meaty tuna with a burst of mint-chocolate tastes disgusting, but I push past it and gnaw my way through. Food is nothing more than fuel. I continue munching, my jaw sawing from side to side like a camel’s, but minus the white gob of dangling spit. Before long, a slight pain flares in my masseter muscles, but I push through it. I grab a clean bowl from the cupboard and a spoon from the drawer to place into the dish-drying rack.

See, I’m also a good son. I do dishes, too.

WEDNESDAY: DOM TECH DAY. I WAIT UNTIL second bell, when Viktor and the guys have headed to their classes, before I hurry past the cafeteria to the east hallway. I keep my head down. I’ve never walked through the artsy-fartsy wing before. I’m not even sure where I’m going. Up ahead are four classrooms. A series of screaming cat sounds tells me the first room is for music. Across from that a bunch of kids wear paint-splattered white shirts, so that’s the art room. The next class is empty, which means the last one on my right should be it. I fight the urge to keep going and head for the emergency exit that leads to the parking lot. If I do that, my GPA will drop. I imagine Coach’s voice hollering, “Suck it up, buttercup!” and shove my hands deep into my jacket pockets. It hits me that I’m wearing something with my last name plastered on the back. Good one. Too late to run back to my locker, so I slip it off and bunch it up under
my arm. “Scholarship,” I mumble, and step inside.

It might be the biggest room in the school, other than the gym. There’s a bunch of stoves, sinks, blenders, and other shiny, silver machine-things that I have no clue what they’re for. No microwave though. At the front there’s this extra-long counter on a platform riser, just like in science class. Plus, there’s a long mirror hanging from the ceiling, and angled downward so that from where I’m standing, I can see two sinks and a stovetop. It reminds me of something from a cooking show.

There are all girls in here, and I scan the back of everyone’s heads, hoping there’s no one who knows me and who’d get off on telling the whole world I’m in this class. The quick answer is no—not the hipsters, stoners, and the weird girl in the space-punk clothes with the unwashed, matted rat’s nest of tangled hair is a definite hell-no. Wait—I do recognize someone. She was one of the girls with Zoë yesterday, walking on the running track. I doubt by her anime fan T-shirt she’s friends with anyone who knows me. Good.

When Mrs. A enters, I step aside. Good ol’ Mrs. A. At six feet two she’s a smidgen taller than me, with a mass of brown curly hair and a solid blocklike frame. She looks like she could hold her own in a rugby scrum. She’s all right, I guess. I hear she helps out with fund-raising bake sales for various clubs.

Mrs. A turns to me. “Mr. Kevin Conners,” she says. “It’s
so nice of you to join us.”

Everyone turns to check me out. Thanks, Mrs. A—direct a stadium spotlight on me, why don’t you? A few girls are surprised to see a guy, some others giggle, and one of them with glazed eyes snorts.

“All right, ladies, settle down. Kevin, take a seat.”

I grab one at the back, closest to the exit. The space-punk girl with the rat’s-nest hair keeps staring at me after everyone else has turned around. She gives me this pissy face, like I’ve rained on her parade or something. What’s with that? I finally have to give her a “what’s your problem?” look until she minds her business. Mrs. A makes her way to the front, carrying a stack of papers. “I have marked your household budget assignments,” she says. She hands the pile to someone in the first row, who searches for her paper before passing along the rest.

“For the most part, everyone did well. You remembered the recommended percentile expenditure on items like rent, mortgage, transport, and retirement. One or two of you need to review compound interest over twenty-five years, so see me after class.”

Score one for missing that unit. The food diary was bad enough.

“I hope everyone brought their three ingredients for today’s assignment. We’re preparing a meal for two in under forty-five minutes, and it needs to cost less than ten dollars
per person, so don’t forget the math when you portion items out. And I want to see receipts, so remember to turn those in. Okay, team up with your partners.”

Everyone either heads for a workstation carrying a grocery bag or they go to the industrial-sized fridge to grab their food. Mrs. A is about to say something to me when she’s interrupted by a girl in a black dress, who asks a question.

My eyes wander to the girl’s long, shiny, wavy black hair, then right to her full, round butt. I can’t help it. She has this perfect shape, like the figure eight.

Wow. Who. Is. This?

“Since Christina’s moved away,” Mrs. A says to her, “I’d like you to partner with Kevin, and you two can work at the front.” Mrs. A points at me, and the girl turns around. I see eyes so amazing it’s clear I need glasses. How did I miss seeing her a minute ago? Is she new at this school? She must be.

I play it cool and make my way between the rows of desks toward the front. My hands, which hung natural-like at my sides a second ago, grow all weird, morphing into something like goalie’s gloves. I shove them into the pockets of my jeans. Ugh, this must be what Armpit’s like around girls.

My new partner steps onto the riser. She’s short, and her head reaches my sternum. From the fridge, she pulls out a canvas bag and sets it onto the teacher’s demonstration desk. At least we scored the best setup.

“Hi, I’m Claire Riel,” she says, and doesn’t sound thrilled to be working with the new guy.

I manage to muster a “hey” back, but because she’s pretty, she robs me of my brain function, and it comes out sounding like a caveman’s grunt.

Claire slips on a red apron plastered with white hearts. She pulls the strings tight, tying it off, and the material hugs her chest and hips. I tell myself to stop and not be that guy who stares at the boobs, no matter how incredible they might be, because it’ll come off as creepy. She hands me a second apron, a blue one with tiny ladybugs and some frilly stuff along the edges. I give her a look like she’s nuts.

“We have to,” she says, and sighs, like she knows how unfortunate it is, and then adds, “or Mrs. A will deduct points, and I can’t have that.”

“Oh.” I scan the room to see who might be looking before I take the stupid-looking thing and put it on. I feel ridiculous, and when I glance down, I get an eyeful of white froufrou trim and two size-thirteen feet poking out from underneath. I make a mental note to never wear shorts in this class, because if I do, it’ll look like I’m wearing a skirt.

“So, uh, what’s on the menu?”

“Wild mushroom and halibut risotto.”

I recognize three of those words.

From nowhere she produces two mini-sized chopsticks, and before I can ask what they’re for, she does some kind
of magic ninja move where her shoulder-length hair is piled high and held in place with two sticks. I stare in wonder; it defies physics.

She grabs a pot and frying pan from beneath the counter and fills them with water. Once set onto the burners, she cranks up the heat.

I notice a lot of kids with their heads down, reading recipes in books or on the backs of packages.

“Is there a recipe?”

“Nope.”

I arch an eyebrow. Normally, I’m for winging it, but I need to pass this class. Before saying anything, Claire hands me a brown paper sack. “Do me a favor and brush these?”

Since I have nothing to do, I take the bag from her and tip the contents onto the wooden cutting board. Funky flesh-colored mushrooms with flat tops tumble out. They’re nothing like the white ones on pizza.

“Weird,” I say.

“They’re oyster mushrooms, because they taste like oysters.”

I make a face.

“You’ve never had oysters?” she asks, and sounds shocked, like I’ve just told her I’ve never tried air.

I let her know I don’t eat slime.

She shrugs. “Your loss.”

Great. Why do the hot ones have to be weird? I guess it
could be worse; I could be stuck working with that space-punk rat’s-nest girl.

I pick up a mushroom and turn on the tap to wash off the dirt.

Claire gasps and grabs my hands, pulling them away from the water. Her touch catches me off guard.

She slaps her palm over her heart. “Oh my god, that was close.”

Huh? I eye her warily. “Ah, yeah. The world nearly ended in a fireball.”

She rips a sheet of paper towel from the roll. “Here,” she says, taking the mushroom from me, “let me show you.” She turns the shroom over and points at its underside. I take note of two things: countless black ridges and her pretty hands—I admit, noticing a girl’s hand is weird. “The flavor and aroma come from the spores, and when you rinse them with water, you wash them away.” She turns the shroom over and brushes the top of it in smooth, gentle strokes. My mind can’t help but go to a dirty place. I make my brain change the subject.

“So, are you new at this school?”

Her head tilts to one side. “No. Why?”

“I dunno. I’ve never seen you before, not in the halls, dances, cafeteria . . .”

Claire hands me the wad of paper towel, so I can take over the cleaning.

“Yeah, I never eat in the cafeteria. It smells funny, like botulism and budget cuts.”

I think she just cracked a fine joke that sailed over my head. She adds, “I’ve seen you, though. In that assembly, with the cheerleaders.”

I remember said assembly, a big rah-rah thing to get more kids out for school spirit stuff, like cheerleading. The girls asked Viktor to help with their demo, and he immediately recruited me and the guys. He said all we needed to do was to lift them onto our shoulders, and if our hands touched a butt or two, well, it was just an occupational hazard. Of course, I had to grunt like it was the best thing ever.

A thrill runs up my spine, making me stand a little taller. Claire remembers me? Cool. I can’t believe we’ve never had a class together. How’s that possible? Maybe we did and I didn’t notice? No. I would have remembered her. I think of something to keep the conversation going. “Have you ever had Mr. Lane as a teacher?”

“OMG, yeah. He’s the worst!” Claire strokes an imaginary beard before she claps once, loud and with authority. “Sock-pulling-up time, ladies and gentleman.” A few kids glance up to see who’d said that and smile.

Without thinking, I lightly whap Claire’s upper arm, like we’re old friends swapping war stories. “So this one time before school, my buddy threw a piece of cheese above Mr. Lane’s desk, to see if it’d drop on his head during class, but
it just stuck to the ceiling.”

Claire lays a hand over her mouth, then lowers it to unveil a big grin. “I
thought
that was a cheese slice!”

“Yeah, and it stayed up there the whole year!”

We crack up, and when the pot of water on the stove boils, she reaches for a few cubes of something, along with a bunch of herbs to toss in.

“I thought we could only use three ingredients?”

When Claire leans forward I get a whiff of her shampoo. It’s fruity, like peaches.

“Herbs, spices, and oils don’t count,” she says, like it’s a hot secret.

“Oh,” I say, and I think I’m supposed to be impressed.

I glance at the workstations and see a lot of spaghetti packages. Easy enough: pasta, ground beef, and a can of sauce. Even
I
could make it, but I wouldn’t. Carb overload. A protein bar or power gel is ten times better.

Claire grabs another frying pan, and in this one she adds a massive hunk of butter. As it melts, I can’t help but picture my six-pack dissolving with it. A little fat I can handle, no problem; hell, the body needs it, but a quarter cup of butter has about forty-six grams of fat. The pan turns a shiny silver. Funny, I never noticed how good melted butter smelled before. Claire adds half a cup of rice to it—more carbs—and stirs it with a wooden spoon. Is she frying dried rice?

She catches me observing her. “You don’t cook, do you?”

“How can you tell?”

“You look scared.”

“What? I’m not scared. . . .” My eyes shift quickly from the pot to the pan, like the sight horrifies me.

I get a smile.

The water in the first frying pan boils, and she turns down the heat. Using her fingers, she picks up the fish and sets it in the center of the pan, so it becomes half covered in water.

“You’re boiling fish?” I ask.

“Nooo, it’s called poaching.”

“‘Nooo, it’s called poaching,’” I mimic, but then realize Claire doesn’t know my sense of humor.

She gets real quiet, then tilts her head to the side. “You know . . . you should be nicer to the one who holds the recipe.”

I pretend to zip my lips shut. She’s funny, and clearly isn’t afraid to tease me back.

Mrs. A clears her throat and announces that she needs to make some photocopies and we have twenty minutes left. The second she shuts the door behind her, Claire leans over to say something, and without meaning to, my eyes land on her chest—I’m not trying to be a perv, but I can’t help catch a peek at her cleavage and her deep-red bra strap.

“You know she’s not going to the copier room, right?”

“Huh?” I say, like a Neanderthal. Red bras must do that
to me.

“Mrs. A. She’s not going to the photocopy room.”

“No?”

Claire shakes her head and then makes a
V
with two fingers and brings them to her mouth, like she’s smoking a cigarette. It’s obvious Claire has never held a smoke before.

In mock-shock I whisper “Noooo,” and pinch two fingers, bringing them up to my mouth, like I understand that Mrs. A has left to toke on a joint.

Claire laughs so hard she grabs on to my arm to steady herself.

I glance at her hand squeezing my tricep. Could she be flirting with me? I scan the room. To my horror, the messy-haired, black makeup–eyed freak show glares at me like something out of a scary Japanese film. What the hell is Rat’s-Nest Girl’s problem, anyway? Shouldn’t she be burning or sacrificing something? Her beady-eyed gaze slaps me back to reality and why I’m here—scholarship. I refocus on our assignment. “So, what now?” I say, using my good student voice.

Claire ladles a large spoonful of broth, containing herbs and spices, and pours it over the rice and butter in a circular motion.

“Stir,” she instructs. “But don’t overstir.”

I’m about to ask how one could possibly overstir when the anime girl and her partner wave Claire over. She wipes
her hands on her apron and then hurries down the platform. For a second, I wonder if they’ve called her so they can make a crack about me, but as they chat, no one laughs or glances my way. Claire tastes their dish and reaches for an herb, I think. She says something and points to something else—it might be hot sauce—and gives it two shakes over the pot. She instructs them to stir and then wipes her hands again.