Fat kid rules the world (14 page)

“You’re such a liar,” he says. “There’s no way you went to that club. No way.”

He says it the same way he always does.
Pompous
.

But this time he doesn’t look so sure.

THE PHONE RINGS EARLY
Monday morning. Too early. Dad’s getting ready for work and Dayle’s hogging the bathroom. No one calls at 6:45 on a Monday morning.

“Hello?” My voice betrays skepticism.

“Yeah, hello?”

“Yeah?”

“Hello?”

I’m stuck in a twilight zone conversation that can’t seem to begin.

“Who is this?”

There’s a pause.

“It’s Curt.” The voice sounds unsure. There’s a lot of noise in the background and I swear I hear an announcer saying, “Chicago. Last call for Chicago.”

I cringe. “Where are you calling from?”

I have visions of Curt halfway across the country calling to tell me it’s over. No band. The phone crackles and he coughs into the receiver.

“You want to meet today?” he asks. “We could meet at your place because mine’s mostly off-limits for … indefinitely.”

My heart stops pounding and I let out a long breath.

“Okay,” I say, slowly. Then, afraid I’ll miss out on the opportunity, I say it again more enthusiastically. “Yeah. Okay.”

Curt sounds relieved.

“Cool,” he says. “I’ll come over and we can practice the songs I played at the club. I set up another lesson with Ollie, but not until later in the week. That’s okay, though, because we gotta work on timing and—” Curt’s on a roll but I’m watching Dad walk past my bedroom door.

“Wait,” I say. I have to say it twice before Curt listens. “Wait. I can’t skip class anymore. I got in trouble last time. We can practice here, but it’s got to be after school.”

There’s a long pause. So long I can hear the entire announcement asking everyone to check their personal belongings.

“You won’t skip?” he says at last.

“I can’t,” I say, then hurry to cover my ass. “But I still want to practice. The concert was incredible. You were
awesome
….”

I can almost hear Curt nodding, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“But you won’t skip?” he asks again.

I pause, wondering if I should recant. Every Fat Kid cell in my body is screaming for me to do it, but a voice is whispering in my ear, saying,
Don’t risk it, don’t risk it
. I glance at the empty hallway.

“No,” I say finally. “Sorry, but it’s gotta wait until four forty-five.”

WHEN I GET HOME
it’s 4:20 and Curt’s waiting. Actually, he’s sleeping in the hallway outside my apartment, his guitar leaning against the wall behind him. I have to nudge him with my foot to wake him up. I don’t ask how he got through the security door. I’m not sure I want to know.

For his part, Curt looks surprised to see me. He’s squinting and his hair’s all matted to one side.

“Troy. Yeah. Right. I just got here.” Curt’s barely awake and already he’s distorting reality. There’s something funny about that, so I chuckle.

I want to say,
How stupid do you think I am
? But I don’t. I just
open the door with my key and let us in. I keep looking over my shoulder at him and he gets annoyed.

“What?!” he says.

I shake my head.

“Nothing. Nothing. It’s just … you seem … different.”

Curt makes a weird face. “Well, I didn’t take anything if that’s what you think …,” he says, but that’s not it. I’m looking for the Curt that was on stage. The one who was so honest it was painful. The one who seemed like a rock star. Now that we’re at my house, sitting in my room, I have a hard time believing it was really him.
Who was that masked man
?

Today, he’s hyper and erratic and can’t get through a whole song without stopping. He’s supposed to be teaching me the music but he leaves out big chunks and refuses to sing any lyrics. He starts out playing one thing, then merges into a totally different song without warning.

It’s not going well and it gets worse when Dad gets home. Dad issues an executive order that Curt will be staying for dinner, and this is good because it makes Curt happy, but it’s bad because now Curt can’t pay attention long enough to play
anything
. He keeps running into the hall to check on the progress of dinner.

Dad’s a good cook when he wants to be and the apartment fills with the smell of roast beef and gravy and Curt’s practically sweating by the time it’s ready, then all of a sudden he doesn’t want to go. He lingers in my room and says he thinks we should practice the intro one more time. I look at him like he’s insane, partly because I know he’s hungry and partly because when Dad cooks, promptness is required.

I have to work hard to herd him toward the kitchen, and when we finally get there the table’s set and Dad and Dayle are already sitting down.
Welcome to the Cleavers
. Until Curt and I join them.

I sit next to the roast beef and mashed potatoes and Dad passes the peas and bread. As usual Dayle hogs the quart of milk. We wait for Curt to sit down, but he stands in the doorway looking nervous before sliding in next to Dayle. He folds his hands as if he’s about to pray, looks up, notices we’re not praying, and unfolds them guiltily. Dad glances at the clock to indicate that we’ve lingered too long, but he doesn’t say anything. Just passes the bread to Curt.

There’s a lot of shuffling as the food gets passed and I sit back to watch the drama. It’s twisted of me, I know, but I kind of enjoy the intense discomfort of it all. Everyone looks pained and for once I’m not the cause. Tonight, I am the most comfortable person in the room. I watch them all like a sociologist.

First, there’s Curt. I know Curt’s uncomfortable because he’s restrained. He doesn’t show any excitement except in the corners of his eyes, and he’s very careful to sit still. His napkin falls off his lap repeatedly and every time it does he glares at it as if it’s betrayed him. When he bends down to pick it up he tries not to bend his body, as if that might count as too much movement. Soon he’s engaged in an all-out secret battle with the napkin that culminates in a covert stabbing with his fork.

Then there’s Dad. I know Dad’s uncomfortable because he doesn’t speak. He limits himself to nods of encouragement or censure and keeps his posture perfect. This means he has to stifle his desire to correct Curt’s posture, which is not perfect. Consequently, his grip on his knife tightens until his fingers turn completely white.

And of course, there’s Dayle. I know Dayle’s uncomfortable because … well, I wouldn’t have known it if I hadn’t seen him dish the roast beef, but as soon as he lifts the serving fork I know. He takes one portion instead of five even though he’s desperate to gain weight, and he never once looks at Curt as he passes the tray.

Curt, however, takes five helpings, then puts half of it back. Then he retakes half of the half he just put back.

Dad takes a deep breath as the scene repeats itself with the mashed potatoes. And the peas. And the bread. Finally, Dad can’t stand it any longer. He sets down his knife and turns to Curt.

“So,” he says. “Do you have a job?”

It’s the last question anyone was expecting and I cough like I’m hacking up a lung. Curt chokes on a pea and I wait for it to come flying out his nose, but he manages. He drinks his entire glass of milk to recover.

“Ummm … Yes. Occasionally,” he says at last. He screws up his face as if he’s thinking really hard, then coughs into his napkin. “I get paid to play guitar sometimes,” he says in a muffled way.

This is not the correct answer and Dayle squirms in his chair. I have an intense desire to make hand signals under the table to feed Curt the correct responses.

My father eats a forkful of potatoes very intently.

“I meant,” he clarifies after a pause, “do you have steady employment?”

Curt sinks into his chair, becoming one with the wood. He takes a minuscule bite of bread and I can almost see him shrinking. He looks around the kitchen, stares at the refrigerator, taps the left tong of his fork.

“
Well
,” he says, drawing the syllable out. “The answer to that would be, most technically … no.”

Dad looks smug. At least as smug as Dad ever allows himself to look.

“Have you
ever
had a job?” he asks, leaning back in his chair. He eats more steadily now, systematically finishing one food before beginning the next. His attention is perfectly divided between Curt and the mashed potatoes.

Curt on the other hand stops eating altogether. He nods enthusiastically. “Yeah. I mean,
yes
,” he says carefully, “plenty of them.” Then his smile fades midthought. “But I tend to get fired.”

Dad’s just about to take a bite, but he looks up, his eyebrows shooting high on his forehead. I can tell he wasn’t expecting the tag line.

“Why do you get fired?” he asks as Dayle and I exchange glances across the table. I wince, Dayle looks frantic, and Curt frowns, shrugs, then finally sighs loudly.

“Well,” he says. “I steal stuff and sleep when I’m not supposed to.”

Dayle sputters. He knocks over his glass and milk sloshes across the table. He wipes it quick with his napkin, apologizing profusely. My eyes bug out and Dad’s fork makes a jagged path through his peas, raking them into the gravy.

“Why would you do that?” Dad asks, completely off guard. His brow is crinkled and his cheeks actually puff just a tiny bit.

Curt looks around the table. He pauses, then sets his jaw. He takes several bites of food at once, just in case it gets taken away, and with his mouth full he says, “I do it because I’m hungry and I’m tired.” He swallows hard and takes several more bites very quickly. He eats intently, but never stops looking at Dad.

I lean back in my chair and let my jaw drop to the floor. To my knowledge, it’s the most defiant thing anyone’s ever said to my father. It’s at least the most defiant thing anyone my age has ever said to him.

Dayle and I stare, wide-eyed, waiting for the drill sergeant to take over, but Dad leans back and sets down his fork. He nods slowly.

“I see,” he says at last, and passes Curt the roast beef.

DAYLE IS SO IMPRESSED
it’s not even funny. He pretends not to be. He stands by the sink rinsing the dishes and complains to Dad.

“It’s Troy’s night to do the dishes. I did them last night and the night before….”

He keeps stealing glances at Curt, who’s trying to help clear the table but is really just getting in the way. Curt takes each plate and hands it to me to hand to Dayle. He almost drops two of them, but Dad ignores the near catastrophes and grabs a beer out of the fridge. It snaps with a hiss.

“Troy will do the dishes this weekend,” he says. He looks at me with something
almost
resembling pride. “Right now the guys have to practice.”

I stand in the middle of the kitchen holding a gravy-covered plate in one hand. It drips over the side onto the floor with a splat and I lean down and spend a long time cleaning it up. Long enough to grin like crazy before standing back up.

Skinny people, eat your heart out.

FAT KID’S BACK IN THE GAME
.

SITTING IN MY ROOM
after dinner, I tap away at the drums while Curt picks out a simple melody and sings under his breath. It sounds good, and I try to tell him, but he won’t hear it.

“I should go,” he says. I look up.

“What? Dad said you could stay over.”

He shuffles his feet, unplugs his guitar, and runs his fingers through his hair.

“I don’t know.” The statement lingers before he finishes it. “I mean, when would he want me to leave? Because this practicing has to be long-term. For the band. Sometimes it takes a long time to get gigs and we’ve got to see it through, see?”

I don’t see, but I nod anyway. I’m prepared for skepticism about my commitment. Not only did I already threaten to quit, but when you’re fat, people naturally assume you aren’t committed. They think you’re not disciplined because if you
were
disciplined you wouldn’t let yourself get fat. A + B = C.

So I’m prepared with my defense.

“I totally understand,” I say, oozing confidence. “I want you to know that I am one hundred percent committed to learning the drums. I’ve thought about it a lot since the show, and I know I can do it.”

I take a deep breath. “I’m sure it seemed like I was going to wimp out on you after the first lesson with Ollie, and
I was
, but that’s just because I hadn’t been to a show yet. I didn’t know what it could be like. But now that I have been …” My cheeks turn red and I huff. “Now that I’ve seen what it’s like I know that’s what I want. I never felt, you know … part of things before. It was as if I … well, what I’m trying to say is that if you and Ollie think I can be a good drummer, I’ll work my ass off. Starting now. That’s a promise.”

I’ve just delivered the Fat Kid equivalent of the Gettysburg Address. I hold my breath waiting for Curt to laugh. A fat kid being overly sincere. That’s got to be hilarious,
right
? But Curt only frowns and looks embarrassed.

He waits a long time, then says, “Okay, but when does that mean I have to
leave
?”

I’M A SWEATING FAT KID
practicing the drums. I come home from school and my day’s been shit, but do I turn on the television? No! Do I hang out in the kitchen eating Little Debbie Snack Cakes? No! I go straight to my room without passing Go and without collecting two hundred dollars. The drums become my Little Debbie Snack Cakes.

I practice with or without Curt. Sometimes he shows up and sometimes he doesn’t, but I’m there, regular as a high-fiber diet, sitting on the throne. I even buy myself a book.
Drumming for Dummies
. Dummies seems too kind, almost like a compliment, but I buy it anyway. I read it cover to cover, then buy four more books and a video. I go home and practice rimshots and overtones. I practice playing with different feels, in different times. I play along to every CD I own.

All the while I’m thinking,
This is not funny and anyone who says it is can go to hell
. I’m working my ass off, just like I said I would. Dayle comes home from practice and I’m playing. Dad comes home from work and I’m still playing. The neighbors scream, but I
still
keep playing. I play until my arms hurt and I’m out of breath, huffing away like a stranded porpoise. I’m a total freak, but that’s no one’s problem but mine. Mine, damn it. Mine with a capital “M.”