Fat Boy vs. the Cheerleaders (2 page)

Styrofoam cup, sir? Why do these places still have Styrofoam? It's bad for the environment.

No, I don't hate you for drinking the coffee. I just wonder, Mr. Rodriguez.

Okay. So Wednesday morning. Four dollars and fifty cents jangled in my stretchy pants pocket. Just enough for three bottles of Code Red. (I was keeping myself in check—no extra money so I wasn't tempted to go for more.) Maybe I was crabby, but I felt good about the fact I was trying.

And then—totally evil surprise. Parched, ready for my first Dew of the day, I strolled into the cafeteria and discovered that all pops in our pop machine had been jacked from a buck fifty to $2.25! No longer did I have the proper coinage for three Code Reds. I only had enough for two. I couldn't make it through a school day on two Code Reds!
Oh,
no, no—

By lunch, I was swimming in the swamp of despair. Sick in my heart, sir. I finished my second and last Code Red of the day and looked down at my empty tray (school-quality corn dog already sucked into my belly).

Camille said, “Chunk, what's your damage? You're not remotely funny these days.”

“I got nothing,” I mumbled.

“Seriously, what's going on?” Justin asked. “You're on a downward slide, man.”

Although it wasn't the only problem, it was the problem of the day. I pointed at the pop machine and whispered, “Pop price.”

“Are you kidding?” Camille asked.

“No.”

“Really?” Justin said. “The price of pop has knocked you on your ass?”

“Yes. Unfair business practices,” I mumbled.

“How so?” Justin asked. “Prices are determined by the market. Look. Chandra Gore is up there buying pop right now. The market will bear the higher price.”

I looked over and watched Chandra Gore (one of the “sad sacks” in our health class project) pull a bottle of lemonade from the machine. Her real last name isn't Gore. It's Wettlinger, but Wettlinger isn't goth enough for her, so we call her Gore. She tries to look like hell. (I know now that she's beautiful, sir, so beautiful.) She wants to be scary (all bleeding black eyeliner and makeup that makes her look pale and dead).

“So? What about competition?” I asked. “Where's the competition? There's only one pop machine in here, owned by one company that sets the price. No competition.”

Justin cocked his eyebrow, which has always been his way of saying,
Dude, you are an idiot.

But Camille agreed. “I don't believe we should have all these sugary drinks for sale in a school, but as long as we do, Chunk really has a point.”

“I suppose there's a lack of competition,” Justin said. “But the profits do go to the band program and bands aren't cheap. Isn't it reasonable that we pay a premium for pop to support the common good of the band?”

“Oh, yeah,” Camille said. “Point Cornell.”

“Stick it in your asses,” I said.

“Whoa. Dude,” Justin said.

“Stick what? A pop? Can I borrow a couple bucks so I can buy one?” Camille asked.

Justin laughed.

“Seriously. Stick it,” I said.

“I'm just joking,” Camille said.

“Keep your stupid jokes to yourself,” I said.

“Will do,” Camille whispered. Her face got red.

Justin squinted at me. He said, “Okay, Chunk. Let's talk to the principal. We should lodge a complaint at least. You're right. That's a pretty crazy price hike. What's wrong with a quarter? Just from our research, we know there are low-income kids who drink a ton of pop. They're probably doing that instead of eating breakfast. They have to be suffering from this.”

Justin is class president, so he acts all powerful.

Camille nodded like she agreed but then left the table, probably because I hurt her feelings.

Justin made a plan for us to go to see Principal Deevers.

Here's something I've recognized, Mr. Rodriguez: Even if you're a born leader, leading takes practice and discipline, and if you've spent two years sucking down hot dogs while ass-dancing, you sound like a buffoon in leadership situations. I did anyway. The leadership bone weakens when not used.

After school, Justin and I walked into the principal's office. Without my minimum three Code Reds, I was totally wiped and a little whacked, a bit confused, and my muscles felt like bags of sand.

We got past the turtleneck and pink sweater secretaries based on Justin's president cred and got in front of Mr. Deevers, sat down in his florescent light office.

He wasn't happy to see us. Why would a principal suffer discomfort at getting a visit from one of his top students and me, an inflatable boy who never causes harm but only brings joy? Maybe because he's a central figure in a scheme to defraud said students out of their hard-earned American dollars?

“What do you guys want?” he asked.

“Justice,” I mumbled.

Justin raised his eyebrow, laughed. “We're just curious about the sudden steep price increase on the pop machine.”

Deevers cleared his throat. “Happens. Inflation. Sorry,” Deevers said. “Is that all?”

Justin got a little pissed. He's not used to educators acting dismissively toward him. “Did your costs rise by fifty percent? I doubt it. Why the need for extra cash?”

“Calm down, Justin,” Deevers said. “All money is going back into programming. Come on. Times are tough for education. You know that. Property values are down all over the district. Fewer people visited Minnekota resorts the last few years. Tax revenues are…are lessening. Money is tight and we're depending on those proceeds to fund a lot.”

“Fund more than just the band?” Justin asked.

Deevers smiled a fake smile. His eyes darkened. “Well, ha-ha, there will be an announcement tomorrow on that front. Ha-ha,” he said.

I squinted, stared at that fake smile. “Ha-ha?” I asked. “What do you mean ‘Ha-ha'?”

“I didn't say ‘Ha-ha,'” Mr. Deevers said.

“Yes, you did. Ha-ha,” I said.

Justin whispered, “Keep cool.”

“Ha-ha. Wait for tomorrow. Big announcement,” Deevers said.

“Ha-ha? Ha-ha?” I barked. “Are you taking my money? Are you running away to Mexico?” I cried.

“No, Chunk!” Deevers laughed. “Of course not.”

“Jesus,” Justin whispered.

“I don't have enough money to live!” I shouted.

“Time to go,” Deevers said.

I was upset. Hugely so. I spent so much money on pop even before the price hike. My family doesn't have much money. I was so mad. But I was useless about it. Why didn't I say something about poor kids who don't eat breakfast at all, who need the caffeine even to have a fighting chance? Instead, I accused the principal of going to Mexico. I was an idiot. That's what I mean about a weak leadership bone. That's what I had.

We got out of the office and Justin walked away from me without saying a word.

The next day, I tried to hold it together by overdosing on the Dew.

I went to the machine again and again. Six times in total. Almost fourteen bucks worth of Code Red in a day.

Oh, balls.

I need to confess something, sir. That's why you have me here, right? Confession? I might as well put it all on the table.

The money I earned working five hours a week at Dante's Donuts during the school year wasn't enough to pay for that much Dew at $2.25 a bottle. Please allow me to shed the ugly light on my stupid face, okay?

I robbed Grandpa of twenty bucks that morning. Plucked four five-dollar bills from his wallet while he fried eggs. Terrible. Part of the reason Grandpa lives with us is that he's poor. He invested all his money in this power drink made by one of his old buddies from back in his buff and oily bodybuilder days. It was called
Tiger
Lightning
and it supposedly had the essence of tiger testicles in it. But it turned out the secret ingredient was actually a synthetic steroid and Grandpa's friend had his ass sued off by the government. And Grandpa lost just about everything and there I am stealing from him? What a jerk.

But I was almost out of money and I couldn't take another day like the one before because I was weak and trembling and stupid all day. I don't want to be stupid. So I stole money and I poured that Code Red down my throat all morning. Too much Dew. At lunch, I was sweating, heart palpitating, probably on the cliff edge of overdosing. I couldn't concentrate. I could barely talk.

Camille said, “Gabe? Chunk? You okay?”

I nodded, but I was not okay.

Justin said, “Stop drinking that crap. You've got red dye all over your lips. You're freaking out.”

I couldn't stop. The higher price made me want it more. I needed all the Code Red.

Scary. Have you ever noticed there's something about scarcity that drives people totally crazy? At least, it does for me. It happens at home too. Like, if Grandpa makes less mashed potatoes for dinner (sometimes he runs out of potatoes, so there's less), instead of peeling back, being reasonable, being a good member of my household (one that shares), I totally go wild. I dish out double my normal portion the first time around to keep Grandpa and Dad from eating a remotely normal amount. (I need mine!) This pisses them off, as it should.

“Hold on, buddy! That's hogging the trough!” Dad will say.

But I don't care. I can't care. The idea that I won't get my fill explodes in my heart, makes me desperate, and I explode all over those mashed potatoes. I jam them in my mouth as fast I as can in hopes I'll be able to scoop even more onto my plate before Dad and Grandpa want seconds.

When I get in that
Take
it
all
now
mode, Dad says stuff like, “You're showing why democracy is bound to fail, Gabe. Somebody always wants more than their fair share and that someone is willing to forgo ethical considerations to get what they want.”

(Dad should know. He hoards chips and chocolate in his closet.)

Then I'll say some crap like, “Capitalism is about winning, dude.”

How messed up, right? Was I winning by downing untold gallons of Code Red? I stole from Grandpa! I poured money into that machine! My knees and back hurt all the time! I poured Code Red into my body, which made me want even more Code Red, which made me need more money and made me fatter! Sounds a lot like losing.

And—here's the real kick in the nuts—turns out that money I was spending wasn't even going to my band.

The next hour was study hall.

Justin, Camille, me, and a few others sat at a table in the cafeteria. They were all laughing and I'm usually the guy leading that. But I had my head down on the cold, stinky tabletop, my eyes closed. “Ha-ha!” I heard people laughing. “Ha-ha!”

Then there was silence. I looked up just as Kailey Kaus and the rest of the cheerleaders streamed into the room. We all stared. Kailey, Janessa Rogers, Emily Yu, and the rest put up posters all over. The posters had a picture of cheerleaders cheering on it. The headline read,
YES, THE RUMORS ARE TRUE!

“Rumors?” Camille asked.

“This is the announcement Deevers was talking about yesterday,” Justin said.

“What announcement?” Camille asked.

I stared at Kailey Kaus. Man, I always stared at Kailey Kaus. Forever.

Dad talked to you about her this morning, right, Mr. Rodriguez?

Let me admit this right now, sir: I used to love her. Used to. I don't now. I hate her now. She's my enemy.

Used to be different though. Back in elementary school, she lived in the house right behind mine, another crap ranch house. Her dad hadn't gotten rich yet. We went to Westlake Elementary, right on Lake Minnekota. Kailey's mom and my mom hung out. Kailey and I were more than best friends.

We were like a little husband and wife. We spent all our time together. I was Luke Skywalker and she was Princess Leia. (“Darth Vader is around that corner! Ah!”). I had a toy light saber. Her mom rolled her blonde hair into those cinnamon bun things Leia has. We attacked the Death Star. (“We can do it!”) We raised her doll babies together. (“Juniper has a runny nose, Luke. Get a Kleenex!”) (I don't think we totally got that Luke and Leia are brother and sister.) We danced at the imaginary ball, celebrating our successful destruction of the Death Star. (Kailey's mom taught me to dance. She gave me lessons.) We were so close. Sometimes, during the summer after fifth grade, right before she moved across town, Kailey would knock on the basement rec room window at night. I'd slide out of that little slot and we'd run around in the dark, holding hands. We'd lie down in the dewy grass and look at the stars.

Amazing. I loved that.

There's this little girl who lives in Kailey's old house now. She plays on the back patio, reminds me of my love for Kailey.

But these days, Kailey is best friends with Janessa and Emily. Those girls want me to ass-dance. They don't know that the whole reason I learned to dance in the first place is because Kailey's mom was the teacher. Those girls laugh behind my back—but not so far behind me I can't hear them. I'm freaking Eight-Butt Johnson, man. I'm a fat, stupid joke to them.

Anyway, the poster.

YES, THE RUMORS ARE TRUE!

THANK
YOU
FOR
SUPPORTING
THE
NEW
DANCE
SQUAD
WITH
YOUR
POP
PURCHASE!

All around “New Dance Squad,” they had drawn in hearts and stars and smiley faces. It made me want to puke.

“Holy balls,” I whispered. “Oh, my God.”

“This completely sucks,” Camille said. “Doesn't the school board have to vote to fund something new?”

“I'm sure the school board did vote. We just didn't hear about it,” Justin said. “It's no big deal.”

That pissed me off, sir. “No big deal?” I said. I kicked back my chair, stood up. “This is fraud! I spent that money to help the band! We've been bamboozled!”

“Kailey's mom and dad have to be behind this,” Camille said.

“Behind this? Behind what? A new school program? That's not exactly in the realm of conspiracy. Don't be so dramatic,” Justin said. “Nobody's hiding anything.”

“Uh, Kaus Company? The pop machine? They own it? The price went up?” Camille said. “Kailey's mom is head of the school board? Kailey is suddenly getting a dance team? Sounds like conspiracy to me.”

“Drama,” Justin said. “Just relax.”

Here's the thing, sir. I did relax. “Oh,” I sighed. I thought about Kailey knocking on my window the summer after fifth grade. “Crap,” I said.

“Chunk's right,” Camille shouted. “We've been bamboozled.”

“Would you both please shut up?” I said quietly. I sat down, put my head back on the table.

“I'm getting kind of sick of your attitude,” Justin said.

“Seriously, Chunk,” Camille said.

“Whatever,” I mumbled.

Terrible day, sir. It went on too. I didn't take a ride home from Justin after school. I left right as the bell rang and walked. Seth Sellers and Emily Yu pulled up next to me in Seth's car as I walked. “Hey, turd!” he shouted.

I stared straight forward, kept moving, didn't make any jokes.

They rolled along at my speed for about twenty seconds. They were expecting me to make an ass of myself, I'm sure. Then Seth shouted “Later, fat ass” and tore off.

Grandpa made lasagna that night. I ate a whole pan by myself.

“You doing okay, Chunk?” Grandpa asked.

Dad read his magazine.

“Fine,” I said as I plowed through that lasagna.

Before school the next morning, the last morning because it was the last day of the year, I took a bunch of quarters from my dad's change mug. I wanted to drink all the Code Red in the world. I wanted to fill up and explode.

Hey. I have to go to the bathroom, Mr. Rodriguez.