Fat kid rules the world (8 page)

“Looks good in here. Gots personality now.” He stares happily at the walls and ceiling. Then we hear footsteps coming down the hall.

“Yeah. So. Meet you on Monday. We’ve got to, you know,
conceptualize
,” He doesn’t wait for my reply, just nods to himself as if it’s all agreed, and picks up his stuff. He’s got the guitar on his back and the amp in the bucket and I wonder where the hell he’s going with all that stuff. I would ask, but at that moment Dad and Dayle are passing in the hallway and Curt scuttles past, a spastic blur mumbling incoherently, laden down with all his worldly goods.

I stare after him, thinking I should follow, but Dayle stops outside my door, buried in Gap bags and Abercrombie & Fitch boxes. He peers at me with disdain. I’m hoping he’ll say something about my room, but he doesn’t.

“Dad,” he says, “can’t you tell Troy not to let that … that …
sewer rat
into the house? He smells like shit and we all know he’s a junkie.” He turns to me. “What, are you on drugs now? That’s all I need.”

My father stops midstride. He’s wearing his usual khaki pants and navy blue T-shirt—the general-on-his-day-off clothes. He glances at Dayle and clears his throat.

“Troy,” he says, “you are aware that your friend is a junkie, are you not?”

I shouldn’t be startled, but I am. A surge of adrenaline rushes through my body and the small hairs on the back of my neck rise.

“He’s not …,” I begin.

My father’s eyes narrow.

“Troy,” Dad says. “Curt’s a textbook case. Classic symptoms. I’ve seen junkies and your friend is definitely one of them. He needs to clean himself up. Take charge of his life.”

I’ve heard that phrase uttered with every possible inflection in every possible setting. “Take charge” over easy. Scrambled with hash browns. One “take charge” with ketchup and weenies. Dayle has a small, satisfied smirk on his face as my father’s voice continues to drone.

“Now, I don’t mind giving him a place to shower, some clean clothes, a hot meal,” Dad’s saying, “people deserve a decent leg up, and I know they can change if they set their minds to it. All it takes is perseverance. But Curt’s got to take advantage of those opportunities. Understand?”

Of course I understand. It goes unsaid that I, Troy Billings, understand.

My father looks down at me.

“You understand what I’m telling you, Troy? I’m glad you have a friend, but don’t get too attached….”

My gut churns. I think of all the opportunities my father has given me that I’ve failed to take advantage of. I make a mental list. Two gym memberships paid in full, a complete weight set given to me for Christmas, eighteen sessions with two different psychologists, a year and a half with a nutritionist, eleven diet books, two healthy-eating videos, a free consultation with a personal trainer, two summers at fat camp, and nearly perfect, healthy genes.

My father waits for my response.

“I don’t think he is …,” I huff, but my body’s inflating beyond my control. I start to stutter. “I-I’ve got to see Curt be-because of the band. For practice …”

Dayle snorts.

“You’re hyperventilating,” he says with a laugh. It’s true. I am. But I wonder why that’s funny.

IRRESPONSIBLE FAT KID WAITS FOR JUNKIE FRIEND.

Monday, I linger at the basketball court having imaginary conversations with Dad and Dayle in which I gain the upper hand every single time. I use words like “loyalty” and “tolerance” in a sweeping, grandiose manner and they cower. Hee-hee.

Except, this time Curt doesn’t show up. At all. I stand there waiting, scanning each person who walks past the chain-link fence, but Curt is not one of them. The fourth period bell rings and I know I should go back inside—
know I should
—but I think,
Fat Kid Screws Up
Again
, and my legs refuse to move. I meet the eyes of a passing businessman and he looks away, studiously adjusting the antenna on his cell phone. I stare at the brick facade of the school but cannot drag myself into its gaping maw.

I decide there’s been a mistake. A huge, vast mistake.

I set out for the subway without thinking about it. My feet slog forward, pulling my weight along with them. I wait for the F train, convinced I’ll get off at Second Avenue and go home. But I don’t get off.

I sit next to the door, unmoving, while skinny people enter and exit. Their eyes are careful not to hover, but I can tell what they’re thinking—
MUTANT TEENAGER UNFIT FOR PUBLIC SCHOOL: DEVIANT FAT KID WITH NOWHERE TO GO
.

I get off at Curt’s stop, East Broadway, and head in the direction we walked last week. I can’t remember which street he lives on, but I know his place was near the bridge. I walk past a park and a jumble of markets, past the low-income housing complexes. Everything looks wrong and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m going the wrong way or because everything
is
wrong. I’ve simultaneously managed to convince myself that Curt is expecting me and that he never really existed in the first place. I say it doesn’t matter, but I’m a big fat liar. I shuffle urgently and start to sweat.

I almost miss Curt’s place, but at the last minute I recognize the
AN IQUES
sign in the window. I stand directly in front of the cement steps and stare between the security bars. Now that I’m here, this doesn’t seem like such a great idea.

I imagine Curt, somewhere inside, hiding his skinny body in some angle or crevice. He’s probably avoiding me, but I can’t get past the idea that maybe,
just maybe
, he meant for me to meet him and he’s waiting for me to show up. Waiting to form a punk rock band.

My hand reaches for the knob. It should be locked, so when it pushes open my heart races.
Is it open for me
?

I take two steps forward and face the inner door. The apartment’s mailboxes are right beside me. Johnson. Gonzales. A smudge. I take a deep breath and reach forward. The door pushes open, and I let my breath wheeze out.
Shhzzzhhsshh
.

It’s true
, I think.
It’s Monday and he’s here, waiting to practice
…. I smile and walk toward apartment number one.

I push open the door, the green one with the peeling paint. It’s partly ajar, and inside I can see the edge of the piano. I take a step forward and that’s when I see the man standing in the living room.

Just like that, I’m the lead in a bad horror movie.

“Who are you?” he bellows. “
Who
are
you
?!”

The man’s greasy black hair is matted to his head and his face is unshaven, days’ worth of stubble protruding from pockmarked skin. I recognize him. He’s wearing the same coffee-stained T-shirt and brown dungarees he was wearing last week. I freeze.

“I’m Troy,” I stammer. “I’m … I’m … I’m Troy. I’m looking for Curt.” It comes out in a stream of saliva.

The man uses both hands to steady himself against the piano. His face contorts like Silly Putty and his eyes dance as if they have a life of their own.

“Who the fuck are you? Where’s Curt?” he demands. “You come here to meet that sorry-ass son of a …” The line of epithets continues while my brain screams,
Get out, get out, get out
. But I can’t move.

“No …” Huff. “No … I didn’t say that….” Huff.

The man snarls and steps forward. “You tell Curt he comes around here one more time and I’ll shoot him. You tell ’im I know he’s been sneaking in here stealing my bologna.” His eyes narrow.

“
Where is he
?” The voice is a hiss and he hunkers down low, trying to sneak a look past me. “Did he send you here? Is he in the hall? He tell you to come here and steal my food? I swear I’ll tear your goddamn, fucking balls off….”

My body releases like a spring. I turn and bolt, and hear the man
crashing behind me. I make it to the first door, then the second, down the steps, and onto the street. Behind me, the man slithers to the doorway and screams after me. He’s calling me a “fat ass, tub of lard, shit-brained motherfucker” but I don’t stop to argue. He’s probably right, but at least I’ve got my balls.

I’M BACK INSIDE THE SCHOOL
building. Back to the glorious confines of familiar misery.

EXULTANT FAT KID REJOICES
.

I’ve never been so willing to go to class. I run through the halls—at least, I come as close to running as I can get. I slide in short bursts, then slow to a panting crawl. I’m sweating like a gallon tub of ice in the Amazon, pulling my T-shirt away from my chest to fan away the sweat, then wiping my vast, greasy forehead with my sleeve. All I can think about is returning to class.
Must resume normal day. Must pretend nothing happened
.

That’s when I see Curt sitting by my locker.

I stare in disbelief.

“Hey, you’re late,” he says when he sees me. He’s obviously picked my lock and now he’s seemingly preoccupied by leafing through my textbooks. “This stupid guy, um, a teacher-guy maybe … came by and asked for my hall pass and I told him …” A bunch of papers spill out and Curt whisks them into a pile. “I told him I got kicked out of that class over there for being rude.” He points at the door across the hall with his chin and laughs. “I told him I was sitting here thinking about being more polite next time. Hell … Hey, man. What’s up with you? You’re late for practice.”

I am the walrus, perched atop a muddy slope when the bank caves in below him. The world washes away like so much mud.

“I almost got killed,” I pant. “I went to your … house … and …” I pause because Curt is now eating the Twinkies I had stashed in my locker. I take a deep breath and start again.

“I was at your house. I
went
to your house.” I wait for the reaction, but Curt keeps eating the Twinkies. He eats each bite very carefully, licking out all the cream before eating the cake. I’m distracted.

“There was … this guy there, and …”

Curt looks up, interested for the first time. “The asshole?”

I nod, catch my breath, and force my cheeks not to puff. I have to end the lie, and it
must … not … be … funny
.

“I can’t be in a band with you,” I huff. It comes out in a mudslide of a confession. “I can’t play the drums; you need to get someone else. It was all just a lie, you know? Just a shallow, pathetic lie …”

Curt’s brow furrows, and he looks up and down the hall as if I’m talking to someone else.

“T, man, chill,” he says. But I can’t chill. Chilling is not within my fat, sweaty grasp.

“I can’t play the drums!” I yell, much louder than I intend.

Curt laughs.

“Wow,” he says. He finishes the last bite of my Twinkie and licks his fingers as I stand there twitching.

“That was kind of funny.”

He waits a minute.

“So, are you ready for practice?”

I would strangle him if I could. I really would.

Curt grins, stands up, punches me in the arm, hops three times. Yawns.

“What?” he says when I don’t respond. “What? So you went to my house and the asshole probably said he was going to kill me if I steal anything else … blah, blah, blah. He always says that. Bad refrain.
You can’t listen to people like that.” Curt bends down to tie his sneaker, which is perpetually untied.

“Besides,” he adds, speaking to the floor, “you could’ve taken him, easy. You could’ve reached out and squashed him. Sat on him if you wanted to.”

Curt finds this hysterical. He proceeds to demonstrate how I could have sat on his stepfather. The demonstration involves making his butt look very big, then running in a half circle to play the role of terrified stepfather watching my huge ass descend.

I stop twitching and chuckle despite myself. I’m trying hard not to, but can’t help it.
Goddamn him, it’s funny
.

“Let’s go, then,” Curt says, dusting himself off. I give up and follow him back out the door.

I ask him to tell me where we’re going, but he refuses to answer. Tells me something about old friends, the space-time continuum, and matters of utmost importance. I’m guessing he doesn’t know. We leave the school building and head toward the subway.

“Curt,” I say after a while. “You really think I could’ve taken your stepfather? Beat him up, I mean?”

Curt scowls.

“You make it sound like the 1950s.”

I wonder.
Were there obese teenage freaks in the 1950s
? I don’t say anything and Curt sighs.

“Yeah,” he says at last. “Yeah, already. You most definitely, without a doubt could’ve taken my stepfather. You, T,” he adds, “are The Man.”

I mean to correct him.
No, I’m the Fat Kid
, but I don’t.

WE REACH THE STATION
and I follow Curt down the dank steps, avoiding pools of mysterious liquid that collect in the corners of the staircase. I’m walking in a zone, hung up on the admission that I could’ve won a fair fight.
It’s true, see
? That’s the beauty of it. As soon as he said it I knew it was true, only it had never occurred to me before. Years of torment over imaginary losses now seem like such a waste.

Curt cases the station while I waddle slowly, mentally erasing thousands of predicted pummelings. When I finally reach the turnstiles Curt slides up next to me and gives me a signal. It’s a strange, skinny-person’s hand motion and I stare blankly until I realize what he wants. He wants to jump the turnstile and thinks that if I swipe my Metrocard very slowly while he hops across I’ll block the view of the unsuspecting clerk who’s watching from the booth. That way I pay, Curt doesn’t, and the New York transit system is none the wiser. Unless, of course, the clerk catches on and calls the cops. Then we’ll be cleaning gutters for the next month. A surge of fear pulses through my body. Then I stop.
Hell
. I swipe my card.

Curt jumps and we’re clear.

He lands in a hop on the other side. “Did you see that?” he says. “Oh, man, that was the coolest! That was so fucking awesome! Do you know how many trains I could ride for free? We could do this all the time. We could sell your services….” He stops hopping and wipes his brow. “What’s ironic,” he adds, shaking his head, “is that everyone’s so busy trying not to look like they’re looking at you that they’re really not looking at you.”