Fat Boy vs. the Cheerleaders (9 page)

After work, I walked in the door and found Dad lying on the couch, eating some Italian cheese bread, which I like. Italian cheese bread is one of the better things Dad makes. (He doesn't make much, Mr. R.) “I left you a couple slices in the oven, Gabe,” he said. My heart began to beat a little heavy. My mouth watered. Like a zombie looking for flesh, I hobbled into the kitchen. I pulled the oven door open and took a big whiff. Oh, the sweet smell of melted butter and mozzarella on French bread. Without a thought in my head, I reached out for a slice and then received a blow to the shoulder, which made me cry out in pain.

I quickly turned to punch out whoever had done this to me. (Really, I meant to punch.) Grandpa stood there shirtless, a snarl on his lips. In his right hand, he carried a small, red-and-white, speedo-like swimsuit. “Put this on,” he whispered. “We're going to the river.”

“Why?” I whispered back.

“Your old man took the day off so he could stay home and keep an eye on us.”

“Eye?”

“Spying. You want a workout?”

“Yeah,” I said, staring at the swimsuit.

“Strap this sucker on your nuggets.”

“I don't know, Grandpa,” I whispered.

“Do you even have a pair of shorts you fit into?”

“No.”

“Then you'd better do as I say or we're going to have to skip today—unless you want your old man to know you're working out, which is fine by me.”

Yeah. Tiny suit. I still find it hard to believe I agreed. Back in the day, I was a pretty good swimmer. I did summer swim team with Justin for a few summers, but I hadn't been in water other than the shower for a couple of years (and I sure didn't want to wear any swimsuit, much less a damn banana hammock swimsuit). But I thought about RC III asking me if I'd lost some weight and I really didn't want to miss a workout. And I didn't want to be in the house with that cheese bread and I really didn't want Dad involved. Stupid, maybe. But I did it. Wrapped that sucker around my nuggets.

Stupid in that it caused me trouble. Maybe because in the end, who gives a crap about Seth Sellers and mean people? Who cares what they think?

I went down to the basement and pulled on this red-and-white checkered suit, which was as small as they come. I think the thing was something Grandpa wore in the 70s when he was a little bit bigger. It slid up over my thighs okay. (Grandpa had giant bodybuilder thighs back in the day.) But my waist is pretty dang big. I tied the thing and it settled under my gut. I looked in the mirror and I looked like one of those inflatable clown punching bags for kids with a rubber band wrapped around the middle. I bulged out on either side. Big time. “Oh, man,” I said. I pulled my stretchy pants on over the top and grabbed my hoodie and climbed the stairs. Felt like I was losing blood flow to my wang area. Not pretty.

Grandpa met me at the top of the stairs. He carried a duffel bag. He wore his giant old-man sunglasses. He called out to the living room, “Me and Chunk are going for groceries. You need anything?”

Dad was clearly snoozing. “What?” he mumbled back.

“Groceries,” Grandpa said.

“Good, good,” Dad said.

Grandpa went out through the back door and then crept around the side of the house. I followed, sort of ducking, I guess to stay out of sight. We jogged to the front where Grandpa parks his orange van, which he's had for my entire life. It's a 1980s Chevy. It has ripped-up seats. It sounds like a construction site when it runs, which it doesn't very often because Grandpa doesn't leave the house much, only for groceries (or to take me to school the couple times I was late).

When we were both in, Grandpa said, “Spunk River Challenge. Used to do this when I was a kid.” He turned the key. The van exploded with noise. We took off. There are no seatbelts in this van, sir, which is highly illegal.

We drove through town, scaring children with the violent noise. (We made a toddler cover his ears and cry on Park Street. The mom glared at us.) We parked at the far edge of the lot at Wilson Beach near the mouth of the Spunk River.

“We can't swim here,” I said.

“Sure we can,” Grandpa replied. “Current makes you work hard.”

“People are going to see me,” I said.

“So?” Grandpa said. “What's your problem?”

“My problem is I'm a blimp,” I said.

“Get over yourself,” Grandpa said. “Nobody gives a damn but you.”

“Yeah. Right.”

I was very, very nervous and jumpy pulling off my pants and hoodie, but I did it. I'm glad I did it. Take back the night. Reclaim Gabe!

Grandpa (wearing a silver suit so tiny it was pretty much a thong) waded right in and he's all muscle, so he's kind of a sinker. He took a couple steps and
boom
—he was under. I cried out and then jumped in after him. As soon as I hit the water, Grandpa's head popped out from under the surface. He spit water out of his mouth and said, “Stroke it, boy!” Then he took off dog-paddling. I know how to freestyle and I passed by his ass really easily.

The river is not huge, right? It's what…maybe twenty yards across at Wilson? Well, I beat the old man across by about ten yards. He shouted, “Give her another run!” So I pushed off the muddy bottom and swam back. About midway through, my muscles started burning and I stopped and took in a big breath and sucked some water in and coughed a bunch and panicked for a second and then thought,
Dude, you're like ten feet from where you can walk. Don't be a wuss.
It's not like the Spunk is super deep. The lake drops off pretty fast, but no matter what, ten yards just isn't that big a deal. So I swam another four or five strokes and got to the edge and I felt awesome. It took Grandpa about five minutes to turn around and come back to my side.

“Let's do her again.”

I did. And my muscles burned more and the current pushed me. But I just kept kicking. And the sun beat down on the water and birds flew by in the sky. And back and forth I went another time.

The third time I honestly thought I might die. (Not really, not exactly, but I was dousing out like a late-night campfire.) It took me a long time to swim that one, my heart crushing out thuds in my chest, and Grandpa totally kept up with me, doing his dog-paddle spittle swimming. He must've swallowed a couple gallons of that gross water because by the end of the third back-and-forth, he was pretty cashed.

“Good boy. Good work, Chunk,” he coughed.

We had to sort of slide up the banks on our bellies and we got pretty muddy. And once we got out, Grandpa coughed and threw up a bunch of water on the grass. That's gross.

He stood up straight, put his hands on his hips, coughed some more, and then laughed. “Hell's bells,” he said.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I don't know how to swim too good. But I knew you liked it,” he said.

“I do,” I said. “That was super fun,” I gasped.

“Mind if we lie down for a minute?”

Grandpa pulled a couple towels out of the duffel bag he'd brought. We spread them out on the ground and I spread-eagled on my back. The sun beat down on my flesh (for the first time in years), and unfortunately, I was asleep within seconds. Swimming is tough.

I wouldn't have gone to sleep if I thought anyone was around. We were too close to the maintenance shed. Easy to see for city park workers like Seth Sellers, who has a summer job with the city. He's silent like an assassin. He didn't wake us up anyway. Seth Sellers posted a picture that afternoon. “Beached Whale and Donkey Man asleep in park.”

I wish I'd at least pulled on my hoodie, you know? But the sun felt really good. I've missed the sun.

When we got home, Dad said, “Where are the groceries?”

Grandpa stumbled around for words. Then I said, “Well, I'll be damned. We left them in the cart.”

“You were gone for two hours,” Dad said.

“You were asleep, you lazy ass,” Grandpa said. “We were gone a half hour.”

“Oh, really?” Dad said.

We had to climb back into Grandpa's shit mobile to go back to the store. The mud on my belly was itchy as hell.

Dad was totally suspicious. What a jerk.

At least it absorbed enough time in the afternoon that I didn't have time to look at my computer. I don't know if I'd have gone to Gore's house with that Facebook humiliation hanging over my head.

Beached whale.

Hey, Mr. Rodriguez, there's a dude at the door.

What did Chief Bartell have to say? Does he think I'll get the electric chair?

Yeah, thank God we don't have capital punishment in Minnesota! People really hate pop machine robbers.
Die, pop robber! Zap!

The case is developing? That sounds a little scary, okay? What do you mean?

I'm telling you the whole story.

Yes, I am. If you know something I don't, you should say it!

Fine. We met at Gore's that afternoon. Camille picked me up.

Yes, sir, it is a castle. Big old pointy turret Victorian castle. It's pretty freaky really. Scary if you're scared by stuff like that. (Tess Cook, for example, is totally freaked out by old-castle-looking places apparently.)

Why would you live in a place like that when there are only two of you? Just Mr. Wettlinger and Gore in there? There are like eight bedrooms and five bathrooms!

Yes, they have parties. And there always seems to be people visiting from out of town. I saw a group on Friday. Gore's dad is gay obviously. It's not like a big secret or anything. He has old-man dance parties. I've been to one now.

I'm a pretty great dancer, sir.

In any case, the point is this: Between Camille's invitation and my freak-out post about how we're all idiots, lots of band peeps were motivated to show up at the meeting.

Wow, you have a list of attendees?

Yes, that's everybody, I think. All the original Geekers. The police do good work.

No, RC III wasn't there. He couldn't. He texted that he got in a fight with his dad, so he had to stay in for the night. He doesn't really belong anyway, you know? He's not a Geeker. Not by any stretch, man. He's a jock.

J. D. Carlson? Are you kidding?

No, J. D. Carlson wasn't there. He had nothing to do with this. He's a crazy loser. Totally on drugs.

He was caught breaking into pop machines last night? Huh. Really?

I think he did that on his own then. Random coincidence?

Well, a couple big things happened while I was out swimming, sleeping, and buying grub with Grandpa. First, Seth Sellers posted the picture of me wearing a tiny checkered swimsuit on Facebook. So that was great. Second, word started to spread around Minnekota that the school board was meeting on Friday afternoon to discuss the possible dismissal of Mr. Shaver.

The dude did it to himself, you know? Drive around drunk in this little town? Come on! Problem is, he's a nice guy and a great band teacher, so this hurt.

Camille and I got to Gore's first. We rang the bell (sounded like a church bell bonging). Gore opened the door, didn't smile, nodded, and turned and we followed her back through the giant house—big foyer, living room with giant fireplace, and giant leather couches attached to an open kitchen. (They had clearly remodeled the hell out of the place. Mom used to watch a lot of HGTV, so I recognized the quality appliances and crap.) Then we went out a deck door to the back, which has docks and looks over the lake.

“Dang,” Camille said. “I thought our farm was pretty.”

“Your farm is pretty,” Gore said. “I've seen it.”

“Oh?” Camille asked.

“You want some chips? Lemonade?” Gore gestured to a cooler with her spatula.

I walked over and got a lemonade. Camille sat down and stared out at the lake.

Gore stood over sizzling meat, totally grilling up a storm, which looked funny as hell because she was wearing a black dress that went all the way to her feet and thick black eyeliner and lipstick and she'd totally pancaked her face white as a ghost. Because I'd seen her a few times at Dante's wearing an apron, the full regalia was pretty startling, especially as she was grilling hamburgers in it.

Without looking at us, Gore said, “So that picture of Gabe. Attempt at crushing you, huh?”

“Oh,” Camille sat up straight. “Yeah. It's pretty bad. What were you doing lying around on the ground like that, Chunk?” she asked.

I popped open the lemonade and took a sip. “When? What?”

“When Seth Sellers took that picture of you and your grandpa in your shiny underpants,” Camille said.

“What?” I shouted.

“Crap. Okay. I thought you were avoiding the topic. That's why I didn't mention it in the car,” Camille said. “Chunk, um, I'm sorry to say that you're an MLAHS Facebook sensation.”

“Seth Sellers is a bad person,” Gore said without any noticeable emotion. “My computer's on the counter.” She pointed at a laptop sitting on a stone counter across the deck. “Take a look, Gabe.”

I already wanted to throw up. I already knew what I looked like in that stupid banana hammock. Like a freaking inflatable clown. I also knew Grandpa was wearing a silver thong and I knew we were covered in mud. We also fell asleep right next to each other in full view of the world. What was I thinking, sir?

No, I didn't want to see the picture itself. I wanted to see who was commenting. I wanted to see what they were saying.

Big white whale me asleep on the towel next to mostly naked grandfather. Good God, sir. Jesus.

There were dozens of comments. Mean and nasty, man. I scanned for Justin's name in the comments. If he said something mean, I'd be forced to hate him forever.

All the beached gay whale and pig boy and donkey man insults came from jocks and cheerleaders (and Austin Bates, who is in the freaking band). Mostly, it was Seth, Emily Yu, and Janessa writing back and forth. Justin didn't write anything. I had to check the “likes.” There were twenty-five. And yeah, Justin Cornell, my best friend, “liked” the humiliating picture. My stomach tightened into a walnut. I pulled out my phone and texted him,
You are dead to me.

He texted back
Why? Because I won't play in your stupid fund-raiser for our alcoholic band teacher? So sorry.

No
, I wrote,
because you're a bad person. Take care.

Whatever, Chunk.
That's all he wrote. The walnut slid up to my throat.

“You know what,” I said to Camille. “Screw this. Screw these people.”

“Yeah,” she said.

I bent over because I couldn't breathe. Then the doorbell rang. I stood up straight. “Screw Justin,” I said.

A few minutes later our numbers had grown to thirteen—Tess Cook and Austin Bates (the reprobate) and the Petersen girls and Omar Fulwider and others. Everybody had their instruments (except Austin and Omar, who are drummers, so their stuff is locked in the school). And everyone wanted to talk about the damn picture. Tess said, “I think it's cute that you and your grandpa can be naked together.”

Austin Bates said, “Jelly donut.” Then he laughed. That's what his comment on the Facebook page said too.

Schae Petersen said, “Seth Sellers is such a paltry excuse for a human.”

I listened to them all talk, shook my head, bit my lip, considered ass-dancing because that's what I'd done in the past to alleviate the stress. Then I swallowed hard and said, “I should've been naked. I'm so embarrassed.”

“What, Gabe?” Gore asked.

“Me and my grandpa are petitioning to make Wilson a nude beach because our boys need fresh air, you know? We were protesting, but we lost our nerve. Grandpa didn't want us to get arrested.”

They all stared at me for a second. Then Austin said, “Wilson nude? That'd be sweet, y'all. I want to enjoy my nakedness.” He pulled off his shirt, so all he was wearing was the bandanna on his head and his giant rapper-sagging shorts. Last thing I wanted to see.

“You'd really go naked?” Gore asked. “At Wilson Beach?”

I nodded. “Hell yeah. I'm comfortable with my body.”

“I wouldn't be if I was you, but that's cool,” Austin said.

“I wouldn't be if I was you, man,” Omar said. “You have the body of a homeless dog. Skin and tendons. Pretty gross.”

“What, dude? I work for this shit,” Austin shouted. Then he flexed. “I celebrate myself!” Then he ran toward the lake and leapt off the dock into the water.

Tess stripped off her shorts and shirt and chased him wearing her bra and underpants. Splash. She was in the water. Girl has been after Austin since kindergarten. Only the sweet Lord knows why, sir.

Gore said, “I'm going to be really mad if anyone drowns.”

“Don't worry,” I said. “I'm a very strong swimmer.”

“You are?” Camille said. “When do you swim, Chunk?”

“All the time, girlfriend,” I said.

And then I did it, sir. I peeled off my shirt and raised my arms above my head, letting my big gut expand in all its terrible glory. Omar started chanting, “Chunk, Chunk, Chunk.” Then the Petersens chanted and I cupped my ear and stared at Camille and then at Gore. Gore chanted (more whispered), “Chunk, Chunk, Chunk.” Camille just stared back at me.

I did my little ass-dance, which felt powerful, not stupid, and everybody laughed but in a good way. “I'm in,” I said. I pulled off my stretchies, revealing my plaid boxers. Kicked off my shoes. I walked out to the dock and dove like a sweet swan into the lake.

Whale or not, nobody is going to take my dignity. No more.

No, I'm fully capable of taking my own dignity. But no one else is going to take it.

We got off to a pretty rousing start. Everybody but Camille and Gore stripped to their undies and jumped in the freaking lake and splashed around. It was great, man. It was awesome. There's a lot of freedom in just saying “This is my giant ass. Deal with it.”

Ten minutes after we all jumped in, Camille walked out to the dock and said, “Gore's hamburgers are getting cold. We'd better eat them. Don't want her getting mad at us.” She drew her finger across her neck like we might get our throats cut. Everybody climbed out fast.

Gore gave us towels. She did her “kind of” smile. I could tell she was having a good time. Everybody treated her like it was normal that we'd be there, even though I'm guessing nobody had talked to her in years. We ate out on the deck.

Oh, no, I'm not that great with myself. I dried off and pulled on my shirt right away. I'm not really interested in hanging at a nude beach, man. I'm psyched people think I want to though.

The late-day sun hovered over the lake. Gore played pretty cool music from her computer. A bunch of seagulls flew around in the sky. A couple pelicans scooped fish. They don't stay around here for long. I like them. I felt awesome

That's when Omar said, “Think Shaver is going to get fired?”

Austin said, “No. Everybody around here drunk drives.”

“No, they don't,” Camille said. “That's stupid.”

Austin pursed his lips and nodded. “Oh, they do, yo. Just don't beep their horn and shout at people outside the Kwik Trip like Shaver did the other night.”

“That's what he did?” I asked.

“Yeah, dog,” Austin said.

“That's why the school board is meeting Friday,” Omar said. “To decide if they are going to fire him for acting so crazy.”

Sir, apparently a lot can go down when you're sunning yourself in a banana hammock next to a river. I had no idea about this.

Yeah, Camille knew. So did Gore.

Speedboats began buzzing heavy on the lake. You know, the evening is always thick with boaters. “Can we please go inside? I need to speak to you guys,” I said. “Too much noise.”

We all went in except for Austin and Tess. Tess said she was scared of the house. (She's a kid at heart.) They stood at the screen door. Everyone else gathered on the big couches around the fireplace. Everyone but Camille. She stood up next to me, which is fair, right? She sent out the invitation.

Before I could start talking, she said, “So we're gathered together today for a special reason. We are just five days from the beginning of band camp.”

Austin shouted from the door, “There is no band camp. The school canceled our asses and our teacher got lit up like monkey, girl. Wake up.”

“From the traditional beginning of camp. Usually. When we usually begin camp, okay?” she said.

We nodded. I wasn't sure where she was going. But I nodded, sir.

“We have decided to play a fund-raising concert for the band during Spunk River Days. That's why we're here.”

“Wall of Sound plays on Sunday night at Spunk River Days. Can't believe they're coming here. Randall Andersson is freaking genius,” Omar said.

Camille got a little flummoxed. “I know Wall of Sound is cool and I know the lake is pretty. And Chunk is fat and that's funny and everything. But we need to get organized to play our concert, okay?”

A few things occurred to me rapid-fire while Camille was speaking, Mr. Rodriguez. One, it's not funny that I'm fat. It's a fact, but it isn't funny.
Screw
you, Camille.
Two, this concert idea was totally lame. People at Spunk River Days want to see Wall of Sound, not a marching band. Plus, if Shaver was going to get fired, we'd really be raising money for nothing. There'd be no camp no matter what. Three, RC III was totally right. We should be more aggressive.

“Right,” I said, breaking in. “Also, we need to show the school that we're not a bunch of losers and we're a force to be reckoned with.”

“Hell yeah,” Austin shouted from the screen door.

Camille broke back, “The concert will do that, so—”

“What if we protested that dance squad?” I asked.

“Protested?” Schae Petersen said. “Like with signs and…and marching?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“I know,” Austin said. “We could protest it Chunk-style. Get all naked and take pictures in the girls' locker room!”

“No,” Camille said.

“Or break into Kailey's mama's dance school, yo. We could trash it,” Austin cried.

“That's ridiculous. We don't have to be criminals about this,” Camille said. “We just need to play our—”

“Did you guys know the dance squad has this new coach and they're up at the high school in the gym all week? Me and RC III watched them practice yesterday,” I said.