Fat kid rules the world (15 page)

I am the Rocky Balboa of obese drummers.

IT’S BEEN TWO WEEKS
and Curt’s listening to me practice. He hasn’t said a word in over an hour and it’s not ’cause he’s asleep. He’s lying on my bed with his feet propped against the wall, watching intently. I’ve screwed up twice that I know of, but there’s been no response. I’m starting to think he’s stoned, but then he gets up and takes out his guitar. He plugs it in and starts a wicked intro that blows me away. He looks back at me over his shoulder.

“Keep up,” he says.

It’s not a song I’ve heard and I’m positive I’ll screw it up. And I do. I fumble the sticks and come in a fraction of a beat behind Curt no matter how hard I try not to. Then I notice he’s changing the rhythm. He waits until I’m committed then cuts out, waits a beat, and comes back in with a new guitar line. I think,
Is he messing with me
?

He is, but not in a bad way. He tries to suppress a devious grin and keeps glancing over his shoulder to see if I’ve caught on. I pretend I’m clueless, but the next time he starts a line I launch into a loud drum solo instead. It’s clumsy and ends with a huge crash of the cymbals, but it’s good enough.

“Fat Kid’s Revenge,” I say.

I don’t mean to, but I say it just as Curt’s about to launch into his guitar line and it throws him off. He messes up, then his eyebrows shoot to the top of his forehead, and his face splits into a huge grin. He wrinkles his nose and starts a high-pitched screech, which he follows with a cool riff.

“Skinny People Fleeing in Terror …,” he says midway through. This cracks him up, and it cracks me up that it cracks him up, so now we’re both laughing. I have to work hard at coming up with something new on the drums. I end up using the bass drum pedal over and over again, like the footsteps of approaching doom.

“Jocks Everywhere Run For Cover.” This amuses Curt to no end.

“Perfect People Piss Their Pants….”

“Rich Bastards Abandon Bank Accounts.”

I drill the snare and Curt plays something vaguely related. We sound like crap, but we’re playing loud and hard and it feels good. I push the tempo as fast as I can until even Curt can’t keep up. He’s thrilled. He lets the guitar land on one screaming note, then smashes it against the floor in exultation. I think he might throw himself into the drum set, but at the last minute he changes his mind and falls onto the floor instead. He lies there catching his breath.

I almost join him, but then I get a better idea. There’s only one thing that could follow such an awesome jam session. One thing left to complete the night. I wait for Curt to look up.

“Dinner?” I ask.

The look on his face is worth all the money in the world. I’ve just created Curt Heaven and we both know it. His eyes light up and for a moment he doesn’t say a thing. Finally, he speaks directly to the ceiling.

“I knew it,” he says, solemnly. “‘
Curt
,’ I said to myself, ‘
this is the coolest person you will ever meet
.”‘

It’s the moment in my life I’ve been waiting for ever since I gained weight. The camera zooms in, the music swells, the crowd does the wave. I want to laugh or cry, or laugh
and
cry, but in the end I only sit there and blink, knowing the moment will disappear as soon as I take my next breath.

I CAN’T WAIT TO HANG OUT
with Curt again. Saturday I have my second lesson with Ollie and Curt’s supposed to meet me there. I’m looking forward to it, but it’s raining and the subways are crowded, so I arrive frustrated.

The only time Ollie can meet is early in the morning, so I’m barely awake when I get there. I’ve gotten up and dressed in my stupid tan pants with a T-shirt I hate that reads
BIG DAVE’S GRILL
. I tried to think of something creative to do with the outfit, the way Curt would have, but my brain doesn’t work that way. I see bland tan pants and think bland tan pants. Big Dave’s Grill is Big Dave’s Grill. I wish I’d tried harder because my pants make my ass look enormous. I have the Empire State Building of asses. Some people have a bad hair day—I have a bad ass day. I’m positive Curt will take one look at me and change his mind about my being the coolest person he’s ever met.

I stand under the overhang outside The Dump waiting for Curt to show up, but he doesn’t, so I finally go in. I make my way to the spot where I stood during the show. Ollie’s on stage setting up the drum set.

“Hey,” I say. He looks up, laughing at something, and nods at me. I swallow hard and try to think of something to say.

“I’m psyched for our lesson. I’ve been practicing.” As soon as the words come out of my mouth I roll my eyes and think,
Moron
. That sounded stupid. Ollie doesn’t seem to think so, though. He grins and ambles to the edge of the stage. He’s wearing a studded collar and black leather pants that shine like Vaseline.

“Good,” he says. “Curt says you’re sounding pretty decent already.”

I look around hoping Curt arrived before me, but Ollie shakes his head.

“Nah. He’s not here. He’s headed to Mike’s for the semiannual Be Kind to Curt Fest.”

I must look confused, because Ollie snorts. “Mike’s parents are born-again Christians who feel obligated to be charitable to the only homeless person they know. Every six months or so, they invite Curt to live with them. It’s supposed to be ‘long-term’ but it lasts about three days before they kick him out.” Ollie shakes his head and spits. “It’s always a huge scene, too. Curt steals half the medications from their medicine cabinet; Mike chooses that weekend to pierce his tongue. Trust me. It’s a blast.”

He runs his hand over his Mohawk. “Don’t know why they bother. Mike wants to piss off his parents, of course. Expose them as hypocrites. But I don’t know why Curt does it….”

He waits as if he expects me to say something, maybe contribute to the conversation, and I
want
to. I do. I mean, I’m thinking about what he’s said, it’s just I don’t know what to add. It never occurred to me that Curt wouldn’t be here. That he might go
live
with someone.

Ollie waits, then frowns.

“Well, come on,” he says at last. “Might as well get started.”

He lets me get settled at the drums then demonstrates a few techniques in the air and asks me to try them. I’m trying to pay close attention, but now I can’t help thinking about the fact that Curt’s not here. For the first time, it occurs to me that I know nothing about Curt. He’s my best friend,
my only friend
, but I don’t know where he actually lives or what he does when he’s not with me. Today I do, because Ollie told me, but usually I just wait for him to show up. Or not show up.

I wonder why he never told me about going to Mike’s. I move to hit the drum and my stick slips from my hand and crashes to
the floor. The hairs on the back of my neck rise and I turn lipstick red.

“Sorry,” I say.

Ollie doesn’t seem to mind. He hands me my stick and starts to correct my technique. He’s demonstrating the way I should’ve done it, telling me to hit the rim as the heads of the drumsticks hit the drum, but I’m not really watching. After a minute he starts aping around, twisting his sticks under his leg like a basketball player making an exaggerated slam dunk.

“That,” he says, “is what you should’ve done.” He’s waiting for me to laugh, but I’m preoccupied.

“Hey, Ollie,” I say at last, “when’s Curt coming back?”

CURT COMES BACK MONDAY AFTERNOON,
but he’s grumpy. He wants me to
keep up
and I can’t. He wants me to stop
hesitating
and I don’t. He plays his original stuff and it’s incredible. He’s never let me listen to it in practice before, so I’m distracted. I lean forward to listen when I should be adding my part.

Curt mumbles the lyrics as if he doesn’t want me to hear them. I pick up only a few words. Lonely. Vomit. Cheese. A phrase—
work full-time just to make them treat me decent
. He distorts the choruses so they’re just screaming and I can’t tell what he’s going to do next, so by the time he does it I’ve missed it. I come in too late. I don’t hit the drums hard enough. He
hates
me.

Curt flops down on my bed.

“Life is shit,” he says.

I want to ask him what happened at Mike’s, but I can tell he doesn’t want me to. Every time I start to speak he changes the nonexistent subject.

“So, this weekend when I had my lesson with Ollie—”

“Did I ever tell you about the group that smashes entire pies on stage? I think they suck.”

I nod in agreement. “You told me twice,” I say. “Just two minutes ago. Anyway, what I was going to say was—”

Curt kicks at my dresser with his Converse sneaker.

“It’s not exactly
fair
. Don’t you think? I mean, if you had extra pies lying around you would share them, wouldn’t you, T? You would never hoard them, or throw them away, say, when someone else was standing right there hoping to eat some pie. You just wouldn’t do that, would you?”

I shake my head. “No, but—”

Curt’s face turns red. “I say screw people who hoard pie. Who needs to listen to goddamn gimmicky bastards from the suburbs who don’t know shit? They shouldn’t be allowed on stage, and, furthermore, maybe someone
should
steal from them. That’s what I think….”

The thoughts are rapid, random, and unfiltered. He kicks harder and harder at my dresser until my lamp crashes to the floor. I pick it up, desperate to find some way to enter the conversation, but by the time I open my mouth, Curt’s packing to leave.

“Fuck that,” he says, slinging his guitar over his shoulder. “I don’t need to stick around
anyplace
I don’t want to.” He kicks my wall hard, then glares at it, then at me, then points accusingly.

“Like I said, life is shit.”

“Curt,” I say, “couldn’t you just stay for din—”

He rounds the bend and disappears down the hallway without another word. I follow him to the apartment door, but by the time I
lug my huge body down the hall he’s gone. I curse myself for being too slow, for ever thinking of hoarding pie, for not coming up with the right thing to say.
Maybe life is shit
, I think.

All I want is for Curt to come back.

IT’S WEDNESDAY AND CURT’S BACK.
On the one hand I’m glad, but on the other hand he’s
really
grumpy. Almost angry. Almost angry
at me
. I thought I was cool. The one person who would share my pie. But apparently I’m not. I’m sure it’s because I still suck at the drums and he’s determined I’ll never make it as a drummer. When I ask, he says, “Yeah, that’s what it is.” But I wonder because he still wants to practice.

The rehearsal is miserable, but I invite him to stay for grilled cheese anyway. He hardly talks the whole time, and when we’re standing in the kitchen he stares out the window as if I’m not there. It’s raining and water is collecting on the sill. Curt’s fixated on it. He keeps running his fingers through his hair.

“You got any painkillers?” he finally asks.

We do, but I say no. Curt kicks at the table leg.

“Cough medicine?”

I shake my head, and Curt gets grumpier.

“Fuck that,” he spits. “Doesn’t anyone ever get sick around here?” He rakes his fingers over his face as if he might gouge his eyeballs out and I just stand there awkwardly, listening to the butter sizzle in the frying pan.

“I don’t want grilled cheese,” Curt says at last.

This is a surprise and I’m annoyed because they’re already made.

“What?!”

I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to question his decision, but Curt shoves his chair backward and it falls with a crash.

“I don’t
want it
,” he says, harshly. “I’m going …
somewhere
.”

He storms out of the kitchen and I stare after him, wondering where he’ll go. I think he’s left, but later I find him asleep in my bed with every blanket on top of him. I have to dig out an old afghan and sleep on the couch. When I wake up in the morning he’s gone.

IT STOPS RAINING ON THURSDAY
and Curt shows up at my locker unannounced. I can tell right away that things are better even though he looks like crap. He stands next to me and drapes his arm around my neck—no easy feat—and manages to look semicasual while talking to his small crowd of admirers.

“So we’ll be playing at The Dump, T and me, and we’re going to,
eh-hem
, do something
new
, so if you’re there you will see this new thing in its newness.”

The kids look impressed. The bell rings and Curt says, “I’d tell you more but me and T gotta do lunch. Strictly a band thing, you know?”

Curt follows me to the lunchroom, then hangs around while I go through the line with my tray. I keep glancing over my shoulder to see if he’ll disappear, but he doesn’t. He’s busy turning away people who want to sit with us. With him, I mean. For the first time in four years I actually have someone to eat with and it’s an amazing feeling. Truly amazing. I find myself staring at all my classmates, thinking,
So, this is what it feels like to be them
.

I’m so enamored of Curt’s presence that I give him almost everything off my tray. My small tub of applesauce, my green beans, one of my three sloppy joes, even my dessert. He grins and licks the chocolate pudding bowl with his tongue.

“Sorry I was grumpy,” he says with his head tipped back and the bowl poised over his face. The apology comes and goes rather quickly and I’m almost not sure I heard it. I try to think of the last time someone apologized to me, but can’t recall the occasion.

“It’s okay,” I say, then clear my throat. A guy can’t go getting all teary-eyed in the school cafeteria. “No big deal,” I huff. We sit in silence while the noise around us rises to a crescendo.

“So,” I finally ask to break the spell, “what’s this new thing we’re going to do?”

Curt looks blank, and I have to remind him of the speech he made at my locker just moments ago. His brows knit. He itches his nose, then drums his fingers on the table.