The Jock and the Fat Chick (5 page)

“Can’t. I rode my bike.”

She pops open the trunk, and before setting down her groceries, she brushes aside a hat, some mittens, an ice scraper, and a few CDs. Claire picks up one of the CDs.

“If you still have an old CD player kicking around, this is Observer Effect—if you want to listen to it.”

“Sure, thanks,” I say, and tuck it in my grocery bag.

Claire shuts the trunk and opens the driver’s-side door. “Okay, so I’ll see you Saturday?”

“Sounds good.” We stand there, looking at each other. I suddenly feel self-conscious. Viktor once told me the best way to get a girl to like you is to ignore her, because it’ll drive her crazy. I think what he means is that appearing too eager could come off as desperate. I back away, surreptitiously taking one last peek at those amazing eyes.

“Okay, see ya,” I say.

When I get home after picking up Mom’s frozen dinners, I unpack the goods. I’m halfway through when I remember to check Claire’s number. I pull out my phone and read her text.

Remember, Kevin, you can always tell an orange is good by squeezing it.

I laugh. Should I text her back? I put the phone down, then pick it up. What do I write? I put the phone down again. Maybe I shouldn’t. I don’t want to seem desperate.

Once I finish unpacking, I open the fridge to check out my haul. “Looking good,” I say to Buddy, and his tail thumps. I guess this means I have to make meat loaf. I head to my room and power on the computer, so I can search for a video on how it’s done. The fan whirs and whines, and I caress the side of the machine and whisper, “Come on, baby.”

I take Claire’s CD and insert it into the drive. A minute later guitars riff in a slightly grunge, slightly seventies rock combo. I like it.

I grab my phone and type,
I’m listening to the CD now, it’s really good,
but it’s boring compared to her text, so I hit backspace to delete my message. I want to be flirty back, but it’s got to be done right. If it’s wrong, I’ll come off as some kind of teenage horndog.

I send her an emoji, a smiley face with a stuck-out tongue and winking eye.

Thursday and half of Friday is nothing more than a slow, painful exercise in killing time until I get to visit Claire on Saturday. I keep busy by hitting Shreds, getting ahead on some school assignments, and listening to Observer Effect about a hundred times. I so want to text Claire, but don’t. Best to play it cool.

Luckily, after lunch, some kid pulls the fire alarm. It’s probably someone in Mr. Lane’s class. He’s always giving pop quizzes.

Over a thousand kids spill from the exits. Of course it turns into instant chaos. Teachers shout and try to usher kids across the street or behind the school’s playing field. Students randomly yell their friends’ names or holler in concerned parental voices: “Marrrrcia?” “Booobby?” “Greeeg?” “Jaaaan?” “Cinnnndy?” Others take the opportunity to smoke. No one had a chance to grab their coats from their lockers, so kids huddle, arms crossed over chests as they bounce up and down or rock from side to side.

I get a text. It’s from Claire.

Did you pull the fire alarm?

I reply,
Ha-ha, no
.

What class were you in?

Advanced biology. You?

German.

What?

Ja! I speak four languages.

What!!!

Ja!!!

Wow. A smarty-pants. What else do you take?

Eng., German, dom tech, precalculus, World Hist., spare, and geography.

It’s no wonder we’ve never had classes together. I text back what I take, which is mostly math and science based, because I want to study kinesiology. She replies,

Me? You’re the smarty-pants. Where are you?

The idea of seeing her makes my heart do that thing it does, but harder. I type,
I’m by the flagpole,
but then I stop. My fingers hover over the keys as my stomach rises and falls. What if she comes and finds me? I mean, yeah, sure, I want to meet up, but I picture Claire through the guys’ eyes—they’d zero in on her big butt, hips, and thighs. I just know they’ll casually glance at one another, smirk, and hold in their fat-girl jokes until she’s gone.

Then, as if it’s some sort of weird sign from the universe, Dino’s ex, the cat-eye glasses girl, walks by. I shut off my phone.

Not even ten seconds later, Viktor, Armpit, and Dino show up.

“Yo, Kev!” Viktor shouts. “Did you pull the alarm?”

Why the heck does everyone think it was me?

One of the teachers glances my way, checking my mug to see if I appear guilty.

I shoulder-check Viktor and we push each other around until I go for a headlock.

“Hey!” barks Coach, and his powerful, dreaded finger makes us freeze, but then he gets distracted when the fire truck shows up and the crowd goes nuts.

ON SATURDAY I WAKE UP AROUND TEN, WHICH is early considering I’m used to sleeping until eleven or twelve. I spend the extra hour with Buddy. His hips make it harder for him to get around, so I carry him to the backyard. After he does his business, I brush him and let him know he’s a good boy. The two of us sit for a while, soaking up the midmorning sun and watching rust-colored leaves drop from our tree. I check the time on my phone. It’s three hours before I need to head to Claire’s, a thought that makes me smile and my stomach flip. I text Viktor.

Hey, workout?

Can’t. Mom’s shopping. Gotta stay with little sis.

Too bad.

Yeah, she’s kicking my butt at GTA.

I laugh and carry Buddy inside. I shotgun a preworkout drink before biking to Shreds. If I don’t get my sweat on at
least five to six times a week, I get antsy with pent-up energy. Plus, knowing that I’m going to meet with Claire makes me even more restless.

I flash my membership key tag to the guy at the counter. The place is almost empty. Good, I prefer it this way. When it’s busy, the staff plays nonstop thumping, headache-inducing music. I’d rather work out to the sounds of metal hitting metal, and machines shifting into higher gears for harder workouts. There’s something about listening to my breath, each inhalation and exhalation as I enter the zone and focus on proper lifting techniques that’s ten times better than music. Working out grounds me and clears my mind. I like the me-versus-the-iron thing. I set a goal and reach it, day by day, bit by bit, whether it’s an extra rep or adding an extra pound to the workload. It was my mom who got me into weights. Her boss, Mr. McAllister, owns several businesses and gave his cleaning staff a one-year membership to Shreds when it first opened. She, in turn, gifted it to me. They made her sign a special waiver because I was underage back then. After that, I put the membership to good use and got shredded at Shreds. I don’t know what I’d do now without weightlifting.

After focusing on quads, calves, hams, and abs, I shower and head home. In my room I play Claire’s CD. Guitars riff, and I head-bob as I pick out something to wear. I end up trying three different shirts. The deep-ocean-blue one is my
favorite, but it fits too snug across the chest now, and my nips show when it gets cold. Plus, the tight sleeve cuffs leave red rings on my biceps. I can hear Viktor saying,
Wear it! Wear it!
, because the chicks will want to rip it off so they can jump my bones. While it’d blow my mind if Claire did that, I chicken out and choose something baggier in a steel gray.

I wolf down two postworkout peanut-butter-and-cherry protein bars, brush my teeth, and grab Mrs. A’s handout. I check the directions to Claire’s on my phone and send her a text saying I’m on my way. I figure it’s roughly a thirty-minute ride, so I hop on my bike and start pedaling.

Since hanging with Buddy in the backyard this morning, the temperature has dropped. There’s a crispness to the air that somehow makes everything sharper, more in focus. Fallen leaves gather along the edges of the streets and mask the white-lined curbs. While most people dread the oncoming winter, it fills me with anticipation—of blades hitting ice, and hockey sticks slapping pucks.

I ride no-hands style for a bit to zip up my varsity jacket and then shove my hands into my pockets. With each street I head down, the neighborhoods get better. I turn onto Landfair Crescent, toward Riverview Estates. Her dad’s French restaurant must do well if they live in this part of town. Huge maple trees line the sidewalks, and they’re so big, their branches touch the trees’ branches on the opposite sides of the street. It’s like riding inside a giant kaleidoscope
of leaves in rust reds, fiery oranges, and mustard yellows. I spot Claire’s house number and pull into the driveway. It’s a three-story home, so big it has front columns holding it up. My place could fit inside their triple-door garage.

I park my bike by the side of the house and let a winding cobblestone path lead me to the front door. Before ringing the bell I wipe my sweaty palms down the front of my jeans. Is the rest of me gross? Too late to do anything about it now. Seconds later the door opens, and one of those home alarm–motion sensors chirps in the background. Claire stands there, a full step higher than me, so that she’s at chin level. She’s wearing another dress, this time a dark purple one. My palms sweat.

“Hi, Kevin.”

“Hey.”

She opens the door wide, inviting me in.

I step inside and change my earlier thought; my place could fit inside her foyer. The ceiling’s so high you could install a rock-climbing wall.

“Brr,” she says, shutting the door and rubbing her arms. She makes a “follow me” motion as she walks away, her bare feet slapping against the tiles.

I go to kick off my shoes and am horrified by the surprise appearance of my big toe, poking out of my sport sock. I twist the fabric around, covering it up.

I hear Observer Effect in the background and enter the
coolest kitchen ever. It has not one but two refrigerators, and two ovens. Damn. Her dad doesn’t fool around when it comes to food. In the middle sits a massive marble island with its own sink, and a couple of cream-colored leather barstools. On the wall opposite hangs a honeycomb wine rack, the kind that are from high-end restaurants, and it’s packed with bottles. The last wall is one big sliding glass door that leads to the backyard, with a professional-grade barbecue (no surprises there), a gazebo, and a garden. The parties they throw here must be epic.

“Nice place,” I say.

Claire curls a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Both my parents are chefs, so they designed the kitchen themselves.”

“Your mom cooks too?”

“Yeah, she’s a pastry chef.”

“Wow. I bet Thanksgiving is amazing.” On Thanksgiving at my house, Mom buys the Festive Special at the Chicken Palace. She puts it in the fridge to reheat for dinner the next day, when the restaurant closes for the holiday.

“You want a drink? Lemonade, orange juice, soda, water . . . ?”

I tell her OJ would be great before realizing my blunder. It’s high in carbs, at least twenty-five grams. I might as well have asked for two heaping tablespoons of sugar. I tell myself to shut it and to take the cute girl’s offer.

Claire opens the stainless-steel fridge door and removes
a mesh bag packed with oranges. When she snags a knife from the drawer, I realize she’s making me real orange juice and not pouring the kind from a carton or frozen concentrate.

“You don’t have to go to all that trouble,” I say. “Water’s good.”

“I don’t mind.” She slices a couple of oranges in half and places one part into this old-fashioned, two-foot-tall, silver gadget-press-thingy sitting on the counter. She rises onto tiptoes to reach for its handle and pulls down, using all her weight. The machine crushes the orange, and juice trickles from the spout and into a glass.

“Want some help?”

“Sure.” She removes the empty rind and replaces it with a fresh half, and steps aside so I can get in next to her. I grip the handle and pull down to press. More juice trickles out. When I’m done Claire replaces the old half with a new one. It’s not long before we move as a team, creating a smooth rhythm with no pauses: I squeeze and lift, she replaces, and we repeat. Halfway through filling the second glass, Claire tilts her head and smiles, causing a breath to hitch in my throat. My instinct is to say something funny, but my mind goes blank. When we’re finished she cleans up, and I carry our drinks to the marble island, and the glasses make a dense
tonk
as I set them down. There’s not much juice in each, about three swallows’ worth, but when I take a sip, I
realize why we didn’t make a lot. Fresh juice is so rich and sweet, you don’t need a giant glass of it.

Claire turns down the music, and we get started reviewing Mrs. A’s handouts, page by page. We read about the principles of food safety (like preventing salmonella), different cuts (slice, dice, julienne, et cetera), and various measurement tools.

The next time I glance at the stove’s digital clock, two hours have passed. I didn’t know there was this much to talk about when it came to food. Plus, with Claire teaching me, time just zipped by; she’s great at explaining stuff.

“Kevin?” she asks. “Can I say something if you promise not to get offended?”

“Um . . . sure?”

“Your knife skills? They’re horrendous.”

“Huh?” I say, realizing it sounded goofy. I might as well have said, “Ah-duh?”

“Can I show you how to properly hold a knife?”

I open my hands to my sides. “Sure, Coach. Whatever you want.”

Claire scrunches her face tight and barks, “Okay, drop and gimme twenty.” I make like I’ll do it, but when I don’t follow through, she crosses her arms and gives me this, “Excuse me, mister, I didn’t tell you to stop” look. So I give the lady what she wants. I go all the way down to the floor and present her with twenty of my finest. When I stand
again, her gaze flashes from my chest to my eyes and lips, then down at the ground as a smile dances across her lips. A total checkout. I play it cool.

“Um,” she says, and tries to swallow. “Okay, sous-chef, pick out a knife that feels good in your hands.” She motions to the knife block. As she opens the fridge to get something, I pull out various knives of different sizes and weights and find a decent blade. Not too heavy and not too small.

Claire reappears with a bunch of celery and rips a stalk free, setting it onto a wooden cutting board.

“I noticed you grip your knife like this.” Her fingers wrap around the handle. “It’s like you’re in a horror movie.” She performs the classic up-and-down slasher move. What you want to do is hold it like this”—Claire pinches her thumb and forefinger at the base of the blade, and the rest of her palm on the handle—“which gives you more control.”

She sets the knife down, and I pick it up to imitate her technique. As Claire moves in to check my fingers, her chest grazes my back, kick-starting my heart in that
thump-smash
,
thump-smash
rhythm. She’s got to be able to feel that, but if she does, she’s not letting on.

Man, I dig cooking.

“That’s it,” she says. “But make sure you’re touching the metal part, the bolster. Your other three fingers should just hold the handle, not grip it.” Claire tucks herself in front of me and reaches out her hand. The soft pads of her fingertips
slide across the top of my knuckles. With a gentle squeeze she lifts my hand and the knife over the stalk. Her palm pushes onto mine, causing the blade to slice through the celery with ease. Claire does it again and again, and I become acutely aware of everything around me—the warm touch of her skin, the crisp sound of the knife chopping, the small wooden knots in the cutting board, even the sweet smell of her hair.

“Now part two,” she says. “Holding what you’re cutting.” With her hand still on mine, she grabs another piece of celery and folds her fingers under to protect the tips, then places her knuckles against the blade.

“See how I’m doing it?” she asks.

I move to see better, and I’m inches from her head. “Yeah,” I say, but in a breathy voice because my mouth is next to her ear. My crotch presses against the zipper of my jeans in an instant boner.

She chops with a tat-tat-tat sound, and within seconds, the stalk is sliced.

Claire turns to me. “Your turn. Try for nice even cuts, all the same size.”

She steps back so I can give it a go, and I’m like, What am I doing again? When she lays a gentle hand on my back for support, I think, this is it: either I’m going to chop off my digits or I need to turn around and kiss her. I stop and give myself a reality check. I know Viktor makes it sound
like girls fall onto his dick every day, but those aren’t normal girls. I mean, we’re just two people paired up in the same class. Her boobs brushing against my back was an accident, one of those kitchen hazards.

I have to know: Does she like-like me, or not? I set the knife down and turn around. My eyes meet hers, and I search for any hint that might tell me I’m reading signs that don’t exist. Claire stares back, her eyes lower as her lips part in a slow, shy smile, which causes the air between us to grow thick and charged. When she glances back, I inch my way toward her. She rises onto tiptoes to meet me halfway.

Just when we’re about to touch lips in what’ll be the best kiss of my life, the front door opens, triggering the bird-chirp alarm. It startles the bejeebus out of me, and I jump back, bashing my tailbone on the counter.

“Hi, Mom,” Claire calls, not missing a beat. She grabs the remote and shuts off the music. The second Claire leaves I spin around to stick my hand down my pants, so I can push my boner painfully to one side. To my horror I realize I’m facing the sliding glass doors. Please, let there be no one out there. . . .

I hear them kiss hello, and by the time they come into the kitchen, I’ve parked my butt on the stool. I do my damnedest to appear like I wasn’t just touching my junk.

When Claire’s mom appears I can tell where Claire gets her beauty from—same long, curly black hair, same perky
nose, same hourglass shape.

Claire takes a box tied with string from her mom’s hand. “Mom, this is Kevin. I’m helping him study for finals.”

I stand up. “Hi.”

She greets me with a “Hello, Kevin,” and I detect an accent that sounds Italian. “How do you do?” she adds. “Call me Maria.”

She proceeds to kiss me on both cheeks, and I stand there like a goof, not sure what to do. I’ve never been kissed European-style before.

“So nice to meet one of Claire’s friends. Will you be joining us for dinner?”

I’m not sure if that’s an invite or one of those parental questions designed to get Claire in trouble because she never cleared it with her mother first. Viktor’s mom says loaded stuff like that, asking if I’ll stay when she doesn’t want me to. But Viktor’s mom always asks with a big smile, so it’s easy to take the bait. Only later do I find out he’d gotten in trouble because she didn’t want an extra “bottomless pit” at her table. I’m glad I don’t eat like that anymore. I’m about to say, “No, thanks,” when Claire turns to me and pleads, “You have to stay.”