Fat Boy vs. the Cheerleaders (8 page)

Thanks. That tea hit the spot.

Okay. When he said, “Oh, no, you're doing something,” I had to tell Dad something because I didn't want him to know I was exercising, which I know doesn't make any sense, except I was worried he'd want to join in. He'd stink up the joint. He'd start and do it for a couple days. Then he'd quit exercising. Then I'd quit and then we'd eat a thousand tacos. And I'd feel hopeless again, which for some reason I didn't, even though some bad stuff was going on.

Instead of telling Dad about Project Kill Chunk, I told him about the lack of band camp, about the pop machine. He was almost interested! Like, for twenty seconds, he listened! Dad's opinion? “You need to write a letter to the editor,” he said. “People in town will be upset if they know what's happening. Might get some support.”

Then he ate a couple sandwiches. (Grandpa didn't cook because our workout got in the way of his cooking schedule.) Then Dad watched
Pawn
Stars.

I sat at the table after Dad left. Grandpa cleaned up around me. He asked, “What are you stewing on?”

“Dad's right, right? I should write a letter to the paper.”

“Seems reasonable,” Grandpa said.

“It does.”

Generally, I think of Dad as being such a loser. I'd never pay attention to his advice. (Look what he's done for us so far—chased Mom away, gotten us fat as hell, gotten us an old man to live in our house.) I could complain about bad government and notify the community about the upcoming concert too!

So instead of watching TV, I went downstairs and sent a message to Ms. Feagan asking her for an example of a good letter to the editor. She sent me a few and wrote
I believe I know what you're upset about and I'm completely on your side, Gabe. Let me know if I can be of further assistance.
That made me feel great! So I grabbed my laptop, stretched out on my bed, and wrote a letter, copying the kind of language that was in Ms. Feagan's examples. I worked so hard on it. I tried to channel my inner Justin Cornell. I tried to sound so balanced and smart and true.

Yeah, it's in my email. So is Friesen's response. Let me pull it up.

June 11

Dear Good People of Minnekota:

Democracy does not function behind closed doors. Democracy only works in the full light of the day when all interested parties are deemed worthy of notification and participation. In the case of the school district's recent repricing of vending machine items and the subsequent redistribution of vending machine profits, democracy failed.

Without warning or discussion, the Minnekota Lake Area High School band lost its vending money, the money that funds summer programs. At the same time, Minnekota Lake Area High School cheerleading received said monies for the purposes of creating a new dance team. While I do not argue against the introduction of new programming at the school and would never say that cheerleading is anything but a wonderful and vital aspect of the student extracurricular community, I do argue with the behind-closed-doors process that resulted in this action and the subsequent alcohol-fueled arrest of Mr. Shaver, the band teacher.

Changes affect real people (Mr. Shaver and the children).

If changes are to be made, if resources are to be redistributed, as is often necessary, let the changes be brought before the stakeholders and let the community determine what is and what isn't of value.

For now, the band is fending for itself (hopefully) by doing a live concert during Spunk River Days, date and time TBA. Be there to support your hometown band like we support the football and basketball teams!

Sincerely,

Gabriel Johnson

MLAHS Class of 2015

It was about 8 p.m. when I finished and I rolled out of the bed and stretched and blinked. Then I carried my computer upstairs to show the letter to Dad and Grandpa.

Dad was snoring in his chair. Grandpa sat at the kitchen table reading a
Cooking
Light
magazine.

“Hey, will you read this over for me? I have to send it in by midnight to get it in Thursday's paper.”

“Uh-huh. Yup,” Grandpa said.

I put the computer in front of him. He stared at it for about five minutes, which seemed a little long. He blinked. Sniffed. Then said, “You're a hell of a smart kid. That's good. That's just plain good, Chunk.”

“All right,” I said. “Thanks, Grandpa!”

“Doesn't mean that jackass Friesen will print it. Man comes from a long line of pissants and assholes. Just be aware of that fact.”

“He'll print it. What's he got to lose?” I said.

“Kaus advertising bucks,” Grandpa said.

“Oh.” I thought for a second. But weren't papers required to print opinion letters? Wasn't that their job? “Well, I tried to be respectful,” I said.

“It's a good letter, Gabe.”

I went back downstairs, took a big breath, felt all proud and powerful and right and good. Then I fired the letter to [email protected] and that bastard wrote me back in like ten seconds! This is what he wrote:

Chunk,

Nice try. We have a representative democracy. We elect a school board, so it makes the important decisions for our community. The school board decided about the pop machine. I should know because I was at the meeting, so I was part of the situation over there. And I know Shaver is sad and in a pile of trouble now, but that is his own fault for not acting like an upstanding man. Sorry I can't print your letter because you do not understand the nature of government. We should fire your teachers.

Sincerely,

Bob Friesen

Okay, sir. You know who's a total idiot?

That's right! Bob Friesen! He's the
publisher
of the local
newspaper
and he doesn't know anything about
government
! My teachers, especially Mr. March in eighth grade, taught me plenty about government. There's an open meeting law in Minnesota that requires school boards to announce not only the time and place of the meeting but what's going to be on the agenda so community members can make statements for or against what's being voted on (took me ten seconds to verify on Google). They posted the meeting about defunding the fall play. Because of Ms. Feagan, everybody went to the meeting to tell them no!

Friesen is a jerk. Representational democracy? Holy balls, I know what that is! I'm not stupid. Bob Friesen wouldn't publish my letter because…because—

Money.

Yeah, he's Kaus's golf buddy too. At least, he used to be. Things are changing with the Kauses.

Oh, balls, was I pissed.

I ran upstairs and told Grandpa what happened.

He nodded and smirked. “Yup,” he said.

“Who do I report this to? Who can I complain to?”

“Hell if I know. Ask your dad in the morning. He might have an idea.”

“Damn,” I said.

I trudged back downstairs and jumped on my bed and called Camille to tell her about this outrage!

Her reaction wasn't what I was expecting. She said, “You didn't tell me you were going to write a letter, Chunk. I should be the one writing the letters.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Well, I'm the smart one. Everybody will think we're just joking if you write letters.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Oh, really?” I said.

“Can I post on Facebook that we're going to have a practice at Gore's house tomorrow?” Camille asked.

“Great,” I said. “Fine. You'd better do that so I don't screw it up and tell people we're practicing in the lake or something because I'm so dumb.”

“Don't be a sour apple,” Camille said.

Is this stuff black iced tea, Mr. Rodriguez? I mean, caffeinated iced tea?

I feel weird.

Because I don't know if you've noticed, but my mouth is going really, really fast and I feel a little bit jumpy like maybe I just drank several coffees or Dews or whatever in a very short time. And I was so thirsty I think I've sucked down like four glasses of that iced tea and
man
. Look at my hand! My hand is waving around fast! Look at that sick speed! I think my heart's beating too fast!

I'm better. I'm okay. I wish I could go outside. Fresh air. I could use some fresh air.

Okay.

Camille posted an announcement on Facebook about practicing for this stupid Spunk River concert that wasn't really scheduled and lots of people decided they would show up at Gore's house, which surprised me and also clearly surprised Gore.

I called her at her house from Dante's the next morning because she didn't work with me on Wednesday. I gave her the list of band peeps who were going to attend. She was excited and sort of pissed. “But I hate all those people and now they're coming over?”

“You volunteered,” I said.

“I'll grill some hamburgers,” she said. “Dad ordered like ten pounds of grass-fed beef. It's tasty. Everyone will like it. Except for the vegetarians. Is anyone a vegetarian? I'm thinking about being a vegetarian.”

“I don't know.”

“I'll grill veggie burgers too. I made my own with dried mushrooms and black beans. They're good.”

“Sweet. Thanks,” I said.

“Holy cow! I don't like any of those people,” she said. Then she hung up.

Goth girl says holy cow. Ha-ha.

After the shop closed, me and RC III sat down at the picnic table out front, which was becoming like our office because we sat out there so much. RC III brought a whole box of leftover bismarcks. (Dante overproduced donuts because the morning before was so crazy.)

RC III opened it and grabbed a jelly-filled one and then offered the box to me.

“No, thanks,” I said.

“Really?” he asked.

“Can't. Those things will make you fat,” I said.

“True. If you eat too many of them.”

“Every day, which is what I've been doing for the last couple years.”

“Well, not lately. You dropping weight?” RC III asked.

Okay, Mr. R. Okay. This question filled me with such instant pride I can't even tell you. I had been in huge pain and exhausted for almost five days. I hadn't broken though. I ate no donuts. No pop. I barely had a third of the dinner I usually ate. I'd worked out…hard. And yes, that morning, when I pulled on my damn stretchy pants, they felt a little loose in the midsection.

Like the stretch didn't have to stretch so far.

“A little,” I said, nodding. “Working out with my grandpa.”

“Your grandpa in his jock strap at the door? Weird, dude,” RC III said.

“Yeah. Totally.”

Awesome he mentioned dropping weight because that was enough for me to look those donuts in the eye and say,
You're not going down the hole, chocolate friends.

Then he asked me about Gore; “She have a boyfriend or anything?”

“I don't know what she does,” I said.

“She's cool,” he said.

“I guess,” I said.

“You like her?”

“No!” I said. “Remember? I'm mean to her.”

“Chill. Just asking, man,” he said. “Watched you on the phone with her. Your face was all lit up.”

“What do you mean ‘lit up'?”

“Smiley. You going to her house tonight?”

“Uh. Yeah. Everybody. Because—” I got all tongue-tied because I suddenly wondered if I loved Gore. I'm crazy. “Just because she volunteered her house. Guess we'll put her ballroom to use. We have to practice for our nonexistent concert, you know.”

“Uh-huh. Did you come up with any better strategies? I fear for that concert.”

Then I told him the story about my letter to the editor and he shook his head.

“So much for free press, man.”

“I know. Blows my mind,” I said.

“You know what? I think you should have a protest.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Why are you laughing?” he asked.

“Are you kidding?”

“No, this town is backward and inbred and shit. Needs some shaking up. You should protest those cheerleaders and that new candy coach of theirs right up in their faces.”

I thought about it.
He's right, right?
Then I pictured me with super long hair and Camille in her hippie pants playing tambourine, singing
We
shall
overcome
to the cheerleaders. “That's pretty funny,” I said.

“How is that funny?” he asked.

“Like, if they had evil corporate cheerleader offices and we'd come and camp out in their plaza and smoke weed and play Hacky Sack and guitar and bongos and crap. Hilarious.”

“First, my grandfather was part of the civil rights movement and he'd be pretty offended by what you describe as a protest.”

“Oh, sorry.”

RC III stood up. He was jacked. “Second, those girls have already occupied your summer program. That crazy-ass coach is up at your school, squawking at them like she belongs. Don't you think they should know the pain they're causing you all? The pain of occupation?”

“Maybe—” I said.

“Uh-huh. I'm right.”

“You are?”

“Mind if I come over for your practice tonight?” he asked.

“No.” Then I shook my head. “You want to come to band practice. Really?”

“Yeah, I'm curious about your band.”

“You know we're like a marching band, not a rock band, right?”

“Uh, dude, I heard you play a lot last year. I'm in sports, you know?”

“No. I had no idea!” I said. “You? You're so small and out of shape!”

RC III laughed his
hehe
giggle laugh. “You farmer kids crack me up, man.”

“I'm not funny,” I said. But I got a little burst of adrenaline. If RC III showed up at the band rehearsal, people might think we're friends.

Whoa. I just said that out loud, Mr. Rodriguez. I want you to know that I know saying that out loud makes me sound like a big superficial idiot, okay? I'm telling you the truth about everything because clearly a liar would try to hide the fact that he's so superficial and dumb, right?

At the time, I thought RC III wanted to go to the practice because he was hot for Gore, but I think he actually really likes nerds generally.