Big Fat Disaster (25 page)

Mr. Van Horn taps the word “
Sin
” on the whiteboard. “So, is having a baby out of wedlock a
sin
?”

“Doing it—you know—
it
—with somebody you’re not married to is a sin,” Becca says softly.

One kid blurts, “My parents aren’t married!”

Kara’s friend Sarah says sarcastically, “Braggart.”

Mr. Van Horn makes the time-out sign. “Let’s put this discussion in the context of mid-1600s Boston, where a young woman, Hester Prynne, whose husband is presumed dead, has given birth to a baby girl named Pearl. Hester has been found guilty of adultery, and ordered to wear a symbol that identifies her as what you guys would call ‘a dirty skank’ upon her chest forever. When the story begins, she’s standing in the center of town on a scaffold—kind of like a stage—for three hours—so that her fellow citizens can make fun of her. Do you think that she
deserves
such a punishment?”

A tidal wave of raucous laughter comes from the back row. I turn just in time to see Kara grab a black cell phone away from another girl.

Ryan nearly jumps out of his seat. “Hey, is that my phone?”

Kara sits up straight and sneers, “No. Why would
anybody
want your phone?
Backstabber
.”

“That is
enough
, Kara!” Mr. Van Horn snaps. “Now, put your phone away or I’ll take it up and turn it over to the office.” He waits while she complies, then: “Anna, what do you think? Does she deserve that punishment?”

Anna grins. “Yeah, I
totally
think you should take her phone.”

Mr. Van Horn looks like he might pop a blood vessel, but he manages to sound sort of calm. “No, I’m talking about our hypothetical young mother: the one who’s been found guilty of adultery.”

“Oh, right…well, what about the guy who knocked her up? Why isn’t he in trouble, too?”

“That’s a very good question, and one that I hope you’ll all be able to answer by the time you finish reading
The Scarlet Letter
, by Nathaniel Hawthorne.”

The class groans, and Mr. Van Horn’s eyebrows shoot up. “What, you guys thought I just wanted to talk about dirty skanks and sex?”

Fredrick mumbles, “I was hoping…”

Mr. Van Horn snatches a worn paperback book off the corner of his desk and holds it up high. “You’ll find sex, intrigue, and much, much more within these pages.” He distributes a novel to each of us. “Page one, Chapter One! We’re on the hunt for sinners, sanctimonious hypocrites, and sympathetic fools.”

“—And skanks,” Fredrick grumbles.

“Right…” Mr. Van Horn nods. “Although you just might be surprised at what you find when you know the whole story.”

In the hallway after class, Anna hands me a slip of paper. “This is my phone number. Call me if you want to hang out sometime.”

“Oh, cool, thanks. I don’t have a phone of my own anymore, but—”

From behind us, Kara blares, “Hey,
Hallister
!” I turn, and all of her back row buds give a thumbs-up and yell, “
Like
!”

“No, Kara, it’s
Loser
, remember?
Lose—er
.” Anna forms an L with her fingers and sticks it in Kara’s face.

Kara’s friend Sarah steps right up into Anna’s face. “Better watch out, bitch, or you’ll have a fan club, too.”

Kara shoots the girl a look. “Shut. Up.”

Anna takes me by the hand. “Come on, Colby.”

Tina steps in front of us; her eyes are huge. “I just want you to know that I didn’t have anythin—”

Anna moves protectively in front of me. “Step off, bitch!”

Tina’s jaw drops. “Anna, stop it! I’ve got to talk to Colby!” She leans around my self-appointed bodyguard. “Have you seen it?
Have
you?”

Anna cuts her off. “Look, Tina, I already told you once: When you chose
Abercrombie and Bitch
over the
Nobodies
, we were done.”

Anna’s dragging me away; I jerk my hand free and take a few steps back to Tina. “What are you
talking
about?”

Mr. McDaniel strides down the center hallway, clapping his hands. “Come on, people! Get to class!”

Tina reaches for me. “Just—just—I swear I didn’t know, Colby. I don’t really ‘
Like
’ it; I just clicked ‘
Like
’ so that I could see what everybody else is talking about.”

Mr. McDaniel pulls us apart. “Now, girls. You can visit later.”

My last class of the day is P.E. I show the grumpy-looking teacher, Coach Sharp, my doctor’s orders to rest up for a few days. She jerks her head toward the bleachers, and I get the idea that I’m supposed to sit there while everybody else trudges out to the grassy area and goes through warm-ups. It’s co-ed, and by the looks of most of the people, the school dumped all the nerdiest people into one class. The only people I sort of know are Becca and Sean, the scraggly-chin guy from the
Nobodies
lunch table.

I pull
The Scarlet Letter
from my backpack and start reading. I read through “The Custom-House,” which is like an introduction to the story and is kind of confusing, but I do get the idea that the narrator feels super ashamed about his family participating in the Salem Witch Trials, and he’s digging through old family stuff when he finds the scarlet A that Hester wore. He places it on his chest, and the fabric burns him and falls to the floor. Then he finds a paper that explains what the A was for, and he decides to rewrite the story of Hester Prynne. I close the book and wonder if the narrator ever wished he didn’t know the truth about his family, too. Maybe I need a scarlet D, for
Destroy
, since finding that photo blew my family apart. Or, even better:
Disaster
.

I shake my head at the thought. I’m
wearing
my D: It’s there every second of every day, even when I pull my sheet up under my chin so I can’t feel it against my neck. It’s what I pray to God to take away, even though it’s obvious that God ignores me. I mean, really: if God really answered prayers, would my dad pretend we’re all dead? Would I live in Piney Creek, Texas, in a shitty little trailer behind people who only let us live there because one of them felt sorry for us?

God’s not going to make me normal-size, and any time I start feeling good about myself
in spite
of being a big fat disaster, my mom just has to look at me the way she does to remind me that my weight is everything to her.

I’m craving icing so badly right now that if Leah hadn’t let us know last night that she needs us to work at Sugar’s today, I’d be whipping up Dad’s cake icing recipe at home. I’d just have to get rid of the evidence before Mom gets home. Drew’s no problem; she always disappears into her room and plays her CDs. That’s just about the only thing that hasn’t changed since the day Dad walked out the door.

Being at Sugar’s will make it easier: I’ll fill a measuring cup with cake icing—not like it’ll be missed, so Leah won’t bitch about me eating her profits—and disappear into the bathroom to get numb. The thoughts are like electrical currents driving me toward the inevitable pig-out about to take place.

We board the bus. Ryan looks like he’s been sentenced to stand before a firing squad. There’s no sign of his phone, and if anyone knows who has it, they’re not talking. I fall into the nearest seat and Drew shoots by me, tripping over my feet. “I get to sit by the window today!” I fight the urge to kick her. I slouch in my seat, close my eyes, and pretend to be sleepy, but Drew won’t shut up. Her questions feel like a pesky mosquito interrupting my pig-out planning, and her voice is nothing but incoherent buzzing.

She taps me on the upper arm and babbles, “So, do you think so?…Do you?”

I jolt upright, knock away her hand, and snarl, “Leave me alone! I have a headache!”

She sits back abruptly, then turns her face toward the window. Within seconds, I hear her sniffling.

I know I should apologize for being such a bitch, but I don’t. I close my eyes, sigh loudly, and wish we were already at Sugar’s.

As we step off the bus, Leah meets us and sticks her hand in Ryan’s face. “Give me your phone. Now.”

Ryan blinks a couple times. “I was going to tell you, Mom! Wait a minute; how do you…?”

“
Now
, Ryan.” Leah’s chin is quivering, and her eyes are full of tears. “
Now
.”

“I don’t have it; it must have gotten stol—”

Leah turns abruptly and stomps into Sugar’s, slamming the front door in our faces. Ryan and I exchange wide-eyed looks. “Wh-what the hell?” he stammers.

Drew puts a hand on her hip. “What did you two do
now
?” Ryan and I shrug in unison.

He twists the knob and pushes the door open slowly, like he expects somebody inside to yell, “Boo!”

I follow him in, still intending to make a beeline for the big bowl of cake icing that’s always in the fridge. I’m actually kind of relieved that Ryan’s in trouble; maybe nobody will notice when I’m in the bathroom a while.

The dining area is empty, and we can hear our mothers yelling at each other from Leah’s office behind the kitchen.

“I’m telling you, there’s
no way
that Ryan did this! He’s the one who reported Jared for what he did. Do you
honestly
believe he’d do anything even
slightly
resembling it?”

“Who else could have done it? Do you think anyone else could have made that video?”

I step into Leah’s tiny office; Mom immediately moves to block my view of the computer monitor. I reach for her arm. Mom and Leah exchange looks.

From the computer speakers, I hear,
Thud, Thud, Thud
and someone’s soft laughter. A whisper: “What a fat ass.”

Then, a woman’s voice, maybe Leah’s, from far away: “Ryan? Where are you?”

The whispering voice again: “Oh, shit!”

Rustling. Running.

Clearly Ryan’s voice this time, a little breathless: “I’m here.”

Then, Leah’s: “What were you doing?”

From behind me in Leah’s office doorway, Ryan gasps and stumbles back against the wall.

I pull my mother away from the desk, lean down, and stare at the banner photo across the top of a Facebook page: It’s a blurry image of someone on her back—
oh my God
, it’s me using a hanger to zip up my pants! The smaller profile picture is my face—but my eyes are half closed and my mouth’s hanging open. When was that taken? The page is titled,
Colby Denton Fan Club
. Smaller print reads, “A page dedicated to my cousin, the
Fat Ass
, whose father is a two-faced cheating thief.”

My hands are trembling, but I navigate the mouse to the first entry on the page: a video. I click Play.

The footage is shaky at first as the person filming it adjusts the camera so that it’s lined up perfectly with the gaps in my bedroom blinds. There I am, jumping, stomping, and shimmying, trying to slide Tina’s fat jeans onto my body. The
Thumps
are loud even from outside my room, and the camera shakes with the photographer’s laughter.

“Dance,
Fat Ass
, dance!” whispers the voice on the video. It’s Ryan. I know it is. I glance at him now, and all the color has drained from his face.