Big Fat Disaster (31 page)

Anna is at her locker. She glances at me but immediately looks away. She’s wearing a black T-shirt that’s fabric-painted: “R.I.P. Ryan. We Love You!” I look around and realize that lots of people are wearing the same style shirt. I shake my head. Did Ryan realize how much his classmates loved him? Why would he kill himself? Then I remember that he did not, in fact, kill himself. Even
I’m
starting to believe the suicide story.

I doubt anyone will wear a shirt like that after I die.

Michael nearly knocks me over as he leaves Coach Allison’s room. “I dumped your crap on your desk. I’ll be back for it at the end of class. OkayOkayBye.”

Coach Allison leans against the wall by my desk. I loop my backpack over my chair, unzip it, and withdraw a pencil and my workbook. I settle into my seat, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched.

Coach Allison clears his throat, and I follow his gaze to Ryan’s empty desk next to mine. He looks at me with heavy-lidded eyes. “I just want you to know that I didn’t like your cousin, but I wouldn’t wish the choice he made on anybody.”

He takes off his hat and holds it over his heart. “I guess that betraying people must’ve weighed heavily on him, and…” He sighs and frowns. “It’s a damned shame.” He shakes his head, puts his cap back on, trudges to the whiteboard, and writes “Unit 2, Exercises D, E, F, G. Due tomorrow.” He returns to his desk and pulls up Solitaire on his computer.

I’m slogging my way through Exercise E when somebody taps me on the shoulder. I turn; a folded paper sails past my face and lands on my desktop. I glance at Coach Allison to see if he’s watching, but he’s asleep in his chair.

I unfold the note and read it:

I write back “
Who did it
?!” and refold the note. I pick up my pencil, slide out of my chair, and move toward the electric sharpener on the table near Tina’s desk.

I glance at Coach Allison: still asleep. His head is tilted back, and his mouth hangs open. He snorts, looks wildly around, and barks, “Why are you out of your seat?”

I hold up my pencil and nod toward the sharpener. He blinks rapidly, surveys the classroom, then leans back in his chair and immediately falls asleep again. I toss the note on Tina’s desk and return to my seat without sharpening my pencil.

Tina bolts for the door as soon as the bell rings. I grab my backpack and try to catch up with her; I just make it into the hallway when I’m jerked backward. “Oof!”

“Goddammit, are you
trying
to ruin this for me?” Michael yanks my backpack off my shoulder and slides it over his own. He nods toward Mrs. Clay. She’s on patrol in the center of the hallway outside her room, watching us behind those thick glasses of hers. She gives Michael a little smirk and shuffles back toward her door.

I stomp my foot. “I need to talk to Tina. Follow her!”

“Well,
I
need to get to my next class, and I have to drop you and your crap off first, so where to?”

I’m still trying to watch where Tina goes.

Michael pokes me on the shoulder. “I
said
, ‘Where to?’”

“Oh. Life skills.”

“Jesus Christ; that’s clear on the other side of the world from Ag! Hurry up!” He takes off.

I slide into my seat as the tardy bell rings.

Michael tosses my backpack onto the table, turns to Mrs. Lowe, and oozes charm. “Ryan and I had become close friends, so I’m paying tribute to him by helping Colby any way I can, but my next class is in the Ag barn on the other side of campus. Would you be willing to write a pass, please?”

Mrs. Lowe embraces Michael in a sideways hug. “That is so sweet of you to help her. I’d be happy to write an admit pass! You’re Michael Taylor, right? Chief Taylor’s son?”

He smiles in an “
Aw, shucks
” kind of way and nods.

She scribbles a pass and hands it to him. “Here you go.”

Michael cuts his eyes to me and bumps his eyebrows up and down. I frown and shake my head.

Mrs. Lowe distributes a handout titled
The Life Change Index
. She strolls to the front of the room and says, “In the 1960s, two doctors conducted a study about the changes people had undergone over the course of a year. As a result of their research, they created a way of charting stressful events by assigning a point value to them; for example, moving to a new town or state is worth 62 points, while beginning or ending a school year is worth 10.

“As you know, we’re working on meeting our needs in positive ways. It’s important to understand the causes of stress so that we can choose healthy responses to it. You’re going to assess the amount of stress in your life. Place an X next to any event that’s happened to you in the last twelve months, and then total your score. You may begin.”

Mrs. Lowe smiles at Becca, who I notice is wearing her usual plaid western shirt, jeans, and boots. I’m starting to think of it as her uniform. Our teacher slides into the chair next to me, leans over, and whispers, “How are you, Colby?”

I shrug and stare at the handout.

She nudges my hand. “I was at Ryan’s memorial service. It was so nice to hear people speak well of him. He was in this class last year. During our investigation of family relationships, he shared openly about what it was like to live with an abusive person.”

The photograph of Leah with a broken nose and handprints on her neck zips through my mind. I immediately feel ashamed for the way she was treated on the Fourth of July, but I try to keep my face neutral.

“I’m sure I’m not telling you anything new, I mean, since you’re his cousin, you probably know about what they went through.”

It seems like she’s waiting for an answer, so I give her the one that seems to work: “I didn’t know him that well…yet.”

“Well, you hang in there, okay?” Mrs. Lowe gives me a sympathetic smile, pats my hand, and slides out of the chair to circulate among my classmates.

I stare at the
Life Change Index
handout and look for “
Asshole Cousin records video of Big Fat Disaster squeezing into impossibly small jeans
,” but apparently that’s not a very common event.

I hear whispering and turn to see the boy who stared at my stomach hanging over my jeans last week. He’s got his hand over his mouth, leaning over to the girl next to him. He glances at me, whispers, “Yeah, that’s her.”

I lower my head so that my hair acts as a curtain and spy on them. The girl sneaks her smartphone out of her purse and taps the screen. She glances at me to see if I’m watching, so I shift in my seat and tuck my hair behind my ear. I act like I’m studying the stupid-ass chart.

Mrs. Lowe’s voice is firm: “Angela, no phones out in class.”

She murmurs, “Sorry,” slides her phone into her purse, waits for Mrs. Lowe to turn her back, and pulls it out again. Within seconds, she frowns. She hisses to the boy, “It’s not there anymore. That sucks! I wanted to see it.”

The boy breathes, “Yeah, too bad. It was awesome.”

So, according to this
Life Change Index
, my life is more fucked than even I realized it is:

Parents are separated or divorced
(90 points);

Personal illness or injury
(broken arm: that’s good for 80);

Death of a close friend
(75…although, since we weren’t friends and we weren’t close, maybe I should only count 37.5 points for that one. Furthermore, maybe I don’t suck at math as much as I thought I did);

Moved to a new town
(62);

Change in financial status
(58 points for my dad never sending us any money.
Go, Dad
);

Problems with friends
(Is Anna really my friend? She won’t be if she finds out the truth about Ryan. Oh, what the hell: 55 points);

Working while attending school
(30 points, but working at Sugar’s does provide me with cake icing, so that could balance it out…);

Began school year
(10 points…although I’ve only been to school 2½ days so far, so does that really count?);