Chubby Chaser (6 page)

Jason disconnected the call and put his phone away. Well, at least he had a plate of meatloaf in his bedroom that he knew was going to be there.

The next day, Jason
stopped by Harold’s and picked up a bouquet of red roses for Emily, as a peace offering, and then
made an unannounced visit to her house after school. He took the $4.99 price tag off the roses and threw it on the street as he strutted up to the front door of her house.

Emily answered on the third doorbell chime. She had on a pink tank top and low-rise jeans. Not as sexy as what she had worn yesterday to answer the door but still hot nonetheless. Her eyes blazed furiously when she saw Jason on her doorstep. She tried to close the door, but Jason caught it with his free hand.

“Baby, wait! Let me explain about Amanda!”

“Why, huh? Why should I listen to anything you have to say, you cheating prick?” She slapped him.

“Okay, I deserved that, and probably a whole lot more, and you’re right, I am a cheating prick, but it was only because I was scared.” He looked at her with his puppy-dog eyes.

“Scared?” She still sounded angry, but Jason could tell he was getting through to her.

“Yeah, scared. See, before you, I hadn’t been in a real relationship since Kat, and our relationship was so, you know, epic and intense and hard, and I could see my relationship with you being like that, and I was scared I wouldn’t be able to handle it. But I’m not scared anymore. I wanna try and have a relationship with you.” He gave her a faux-timorous smile and presented her with the bouquet of roses. “I got these for you. I really am sorry.” He saw Emily gaze at the flowers, touched, so he went in for the kill. “So what do you say? Can we give us another try?” He used his puppy-dog eyes again.

Emily took his hand in hers and looked at him with gentle eyes. “Come inside,” she said softly. She continued to hold his hand as she guided him into the house, bringing him over to the couch in the living room. “I . . . I like you. And I wanna give us another try, but now I’m the one who’s scared. You’re kinda known as a player, and I knew that when we got together, but I thought that you would be different with me than you were with other girls. I thought you liked me too.” She fidgeted in her seat as she spoke and avoided his eyes.

“I do like you.”

“Just not enough to give up other girls.”

“I promise—what happened with Amanda—something like that will never, ever happen again if you take me back.” This was one of the few promises to a girl Jason would keep, because he had no intention of staying with Emily past homecoming.

Emily looked deep into his eyes, clearly trying to determine whether he was telling the truth. “Okay, let’s try this again.” She gave his hand a little squeeze. “What happened to your face?” she asked, noting the bruises he had received from his father last night.

“I got jumped by a couple of pussies last night while out for a run. They tried to rob me, take my phone.” This was the lie he had told everyone who had asked about his battered-and-bruised face. He had told many similar lies over the years to cover up the beatings he had gotten from his father. “I got about half an hour to kill before I have to go home. You wanna stop by Larry’s? It could be our first date. We never had one.” Jason actually had to be at Sara’s in fifteen minutes for their first tutoring session, but he wanted to keep her waiting.

“Yeah, okay. Just let me grab my jacket and put these”—she held up the bouquet of roses—“in some water.” She took the flowers into the kitchen. On her way back into the living room, she grabbed her hooded pink jacket off the coat rack and her pink purse off the table near the door. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Larry’s was a local fast-food restaurant that specialized in Philly cheesesteak sandwiches. Jason placed their orders through the drive-through window: he ordered two double Philly cheesesteaks (with onions and extra mayonnaise), a large order of fries, and an extra-large Coke for himself; and Emily wanted a garden salad with low-fat ranch dressing and a small diet Coke. Jason paid for the food and then parked in the restaurant’s parking lot.

“Homecoming’s next week,” Jason said in between bites. “I was wondering if you wanted to go with me.”

“Oh, didn’t Eric tell you? He asked me if I wanted to go to homecoming with him, and I already said yes.”

Jason should have known something like this would happen. Emily was the hottest girl in school, and he’d always had guys going after his sloppy seconds, even his friends. Just as he was about to silently curse Eric’s name for beating him to the punch, he saw Emily’s lips curl into an impish smile.

“I can’t believe you fell for that,” she said, laughing. “You should’ve seen your face.”

Jason chuckled. “So I take it that means you’re still available?”

She licked a drop of ranch dressing off the corner of her mouth. “Yes, I’m still available, and yes, I’d love to go with you.”

“Coolness.” Jason finished the last of his fries.

“You know, we’re the frontrunners for king and queen. Wouldn’t it be so awesome if we both won? I can’t wait until you see my dress. It’s this pink-and-blue spaghetti-strap dress I got from Macy’s. I’ll send you a pic. I was thinking you could get a powder-blue tux. That way we can both match. Oh, and you can get me a pink-rose corsage to match my dress. And . . .”

Jason tuned Emily out, only adding an occasional “yeah” or “uh-huh” to show he was
listening
. He was stoked about homecoming, too, but all this girly shit was driving him insane. She went on and on about homecoming, her dress for homecoming, and the homecoming yearbook photos until he took her back home. He desperately wanted to tell her to shut the fuck up, but he had just gotten back into her good graces, and he didn’t want to do anything to screw it up—at least not until he had gotten everything he wanted to get out of her.

“Well, this was fun,” Emily said. “Definitely one of the better dates I’ve been on. Hope I didn’t talk too much.”

“No, no, you were great.”

“You’re so sweet.” She leaned over and kissed him. Her lips tasted like peppermint this time instead of raspberries. All of a sudden, suffering through her incessant prattle didn’t seem so bad. Jason returned her kiss. He placed a hand on the button of her jeans to unfasten them, but she pushed his hand away.

“I . . . I wanna take things slow this time.” Her voice was tender and apologetic.

“I understand.” Jason sighed and gave her his best puppy-dog eyes to weaken her resolve.

“Well, maybe just a hand job.” She resumed kissing him. One hand caressed his face while the other unzipped his jeans and undid the fly on his boxers. The combination of her soft, smooth lips; moist, warm tongue; and tight, velvety stroke made him come in eight minutes.

Sara sped to her attic on Tuesday after school. She had an idea for a painting that was begging to be put to canvas, and she was happy to oblige. The painting was a surrealistic piece of a little girl crying on a moonlit bridge, her tears falling on a casket floating on the river below.

The painting was a tribute to her late mother. Sara used black for the night sky, the river, the bridge, and the little girl’s dress; they represented the darkness that had enveloped her since her mother’s death. She used red for the casket and the girl’s hair; they symbolized the physical and the emotional bonds that she and her mother had shared. She used silver for the little girl’s ice cube–shaped tears; Sara shaped the tears as ice cubes to signify the emotional paralysis she had felt after her mother’s passing. And she used orange for the moon; everyone always used yellow, so Sara thought she would mix it up a bit.

She had the music player on her phone going as she worked. The song currently playing was Tori Amos’s “Me and a Gun.” When Sara was done, she studied her painting to appraise its quality. She thought it was one of the best pieces she had ever done, but looking at it made her feel strange: shy, even though she was the only one in the room; naked, even though she had on clothes; relieved, even though the painting depicted one of the most painful memories in her life. Sara, the feelings the painting had caused overwhelming her, turned the painting around so that it was facing the attic window. She went to the bathroom to wash the paint off her hands.

I shouldn
’
t have done that painting
, she scolded, as she scrubbed her hands clean. She should have spent her time working on pieces for her Wesleyan art portfolio, not being self-indulgent. Early-admission applications were due two months from now, and she needed to get her ass in gear: She only had one piece, besides the one she had just done, that she felt was good enough to show. And she hadn’t even started on her essays yet. Taking care to avoid her reflection, she dried her hands using the towel hanging on the hook by the bathroom mirror and returned to the attic.

Christina Aguilera’s “Fighter” was now playing on her phone. She hit the pause button. The time on her phone revealed Sara had two minutes to spare before the start of her first tutoring session with Jason Pruitt, so she darted down the stairs and into the dining room to set up, arranging her calculus book, graphing calculator, notebook paper, and mechanical pencil on the dining-room table.

Sara’s punctuality ended up being all for naught: it was now twenty minutes past the time Jason should have been there, but he still hadn’t made it. Where the hell was he? A pretty girl probably sidetracked the moron, and he expected Sara to wait for him, because he was Mr. Do it Pruitt, and everyone should work around his schedule and meet his needs.

She flounced toward the kitchen, opened the pantry, and took out a bag of taco-flavored Doritos to snack on. She wasn’t hungry, just angry and bored, and chips had always made her feel better: they had made her feel better when she first started school, and none of the other kids had wanted to play with her, because she was fat; and they had made her feel better when she was in eighth grade and had suffered humiliation via laxative-laced cookies. And they would make her feel better now, once she ate enough. Sara found herself halfway through the bag of Doritos when her doorbell rang. She put the chips back in the pantry, wiped her mouth, and answered the door, eager to give this entitled asshole a piece of her mind.

Jason pulled up in front of Sara’s two-story brick house, a half an hour late for his first tutoring session with her. He always liked to keep girls waiting for him. It kept them sprung on him, and he especially wanted to keep Sara waiting to teach the bitch a lesson for refusing to give him her number.

He checked his appearance in his sun-visor mirror: his short black hair was neat and crisp, and it accentuated his baby-blue eyes; his skin was clear, and it had retained its tan from the summer, but the bruises his father had given him marred the skin around his chiseled jaw line (although the bruises did make him look badass—well, more badass); and his lips were in desperate need of a wipe and a little Chap Stick (his make-out session with Emily had left them a little worse for wear). He used a napkin to remove Emily’s lip gloss, and then he pulled his tube of Chap Stick out of his pocket and applied a thin coat.

He popped a cinnamon Altoid into his mouth: There. Now his breath was cinnamon fresh.

Jason stepped out of his car and straightened his letterman jacket. He pulled his blue backpack from the backseat of his car, swung it over his shoulder, and made his way to Sara’s front door, ready to commence what he liked to call
Operation
:
Porking Ms
.
Piggy
. He had to ring the doorbell three times before Sara answered it. The bitch was probably stuffing her fat face.

“H—
”

“You’re late,” Sara said, cutting him off (her breath smelled like taco-flavored Doritos), “and you didn’t call to say you’d be late. I don’t have all day to wait around for you. Come late again without calling, and that’ll be the end of our sessions.” She walked past the living room and into the dining room. Jason closed the door and followed behind her. On his way to join Sara at the dining-room table, he noticed a picture of a beautiful woman with dark-red hair hanging on the wall.

“I know I didn’t call. I’m sorry, but one of my friends’ car stalled, and he needed my help, and I didn’t have your number to call you to tell you I was running late.” He flashed his puppy-dog eyes at her. He couldn’t tell whether she was buying it. She probably was. No girl could resist his puppy-dog eyes.

“That was my fault. I don’t like to give out my phone number. But I guess I should start. Remind me after our session. Pull out your book. We’ve only got half an hour left.”

Jason smiled as he pulled his book out. She had agreed to give him her phone number. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Sara did her best to teach Jason calculus, starting with summation notation, and Jason did his best to play dumb. He was actually quite adept at calculus, managing an A-minus so far this marking period, but he needed an in with Sara, and this was the only thing he could think of.

“Ugh!” Sara shrieked in annoyance, after twenty minutes of trying and failing to teach Jason summation notation. “It’s not that hard! The
i=
part underneath the summation sign tells you which number to plug into the given expression first. The number on top of the summation sign tells you the last number to plug into the given expression. You always increase by one at each successive step! God, why are all jocks such idiots?”

Jason stared at her, at first in simulated disbelief, then that gave way to synthetic anger and hurt. “You don’t have to be so mean, you know. Not everybody’s as smart as you. I mean, haven’t you ever sucked at something before?” He grabbed his things and headed for the front door. If he knew women as well as he thought he did, Sara would be stopping him any minute now.

“Wait,” Sara said.

Jason, his back to Sara, smiled.
Damn
,
I
’
m good
. He turned around to face her but made sure to affect a wounded expression first. “Yeah?” he said, feigning exasperation.

She came to him. “I’m sorry I lost my temper. You didn’t deserve that. And yes, I do know what it’s like to suck at something.” She let out a little chortle.

Jason beamed on the inside: Everything was going exactly as planned. It wouldn’t be long before she gave it up.

“I have another appointment coming soon, so come back on Thursday. I’ll move some stuff around, so we can spend more time together.”

“Okay, cool.” He turned to leave and then turned back around. “Oh wait, you said you were gonna give me your number in case I couldn’t make it on time again.”

“Oh yeah, right. Ready?”

“Just a sec,” Jason said, pulling his phone out. “Okay, shoot.”

“It’s 215-555-3039.”

“215-555-3039. Got it. Thanks. It was nice working with you. Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow at school. When’s your lunch period? You can come by my table and hang if you don’t have anyone else to sit with.” He gave her a sexy smile that could’ve charmed the habit right off a nun. Sara smiled at him, too, but hers was dripping in condescension.

“I’ll see you on Thursday, Jason.” She gestured toward the front door.

“Good night.” He gave her another sexy smile and let himself out.

Later that evening, while taking a break from doing his homework, Jason called Eric to brag about his progress with Sara.

“Guess what, bro?” Jason said, grinning from ear to ear.

“What?” asked Eric. “Chicken butt?”

“No, you fag, I got pretty far with Sara today.”

“She suck your dick?”

“No.”

“You finger her?”

“No.”

“You kiss her?”

“No.”

“Then what the fuck did you do, take her out for ice cream? I bet her fat ass loved that.” Eric snorted and laughed at his own joke.

“No, you douchebag. I got her to be nice.”

“Ooh, you got her to be nice?” Eric mocked. “That is so impressive, J. When I think about what I want to do to a girl or want her to do to me, it’s definitely being nice.”

“It’s a start, numb nuts. It’s better than anyone else has done so far,” Jason said defensively. “I also got her phone number.”

“Really? That cow-faced cunt gave you her phone number?”

“Mm-hmm.” Jason’s voice hummed with pride.

“How’d you manage to swing that?” Eric asked, suspicion in his voice.

“Well . . . she gave it to me in case I’m late to another tutoring session, but I still got it! It’s still something!” Jason yelled over a cackling Eric in an attempt to keep the victory he had just gained.

“Yeah, getting her to be nice is nice and all, I guess, and it’s cool that you got her phone number—even if it was under false pretenses—but you haven’t got her to spread her legs yet. And you won’t.”

“I will,” Jason swore, but he wasn’t as confident as he had been at the beginning of the conversation. “I’m gonna have her on all fours and begging for it in no time. In fact, let’s double the bet to four hundred.”

“Four hundred, eh?”

“Yep, four hundred. I mean, if you think you can handle it.”

“Hmm . . . I could use a new PlayStation, so okay. You got yourself a deal. I’ll tell Andy Mr. Cocky’s raised the bet to four hundred. Talk to you later, J.”

“Later.”

Jason hung up. He tried to finish his homework, so he could go to bed, but his mind kept wandering back to Sara and the bet. Why was he doubting himself? Simply because of what Eric had said? Fuck Eric! Hell, he pulled more pussy than Eric and Andy combined! The way he was approaching Sara was one hundred percent right. Being a fat chick, she was probably used to being rejected and treated like trash, and she had probably turned into an uptight, cold bitch because of it. All she needed was some human kindness. Treating her well had already started to make her thaw; a little more of the same, and she’d melt like butter, and he’d move in for the kill. His confidence now replenished, Jason was easily able to finish his homework. He fell asleep smiling.