Fat School Confidential (25 page)

   
Wendy saw me, and headed my way. I tried not to notice—that was, until she plopped down on the floor right next to me.

    “
I don’t think this is wise,” I whispered—covering my mouth in case there were lip readers in the room. She glanced at me, taking her journal out of her pack. She didn’t say a word, but her actions said it all.

   
She was staying put.

   
If only I’d put up with Rodriguez, instead of this, I thought.

   
Tom Eccleston opened the show. After some talk of respecting boundaries, B.C. Vicki handed out awards to her “butterflies”— students who achieved some measure of success while under her therapeutic care.

   
Tom then asked the assembly, “Is anybody ready to move up?”

   
It was my turn for the spotlight. I must have looked suspect with Wendy sitting right next to me. Making very little eye contact with the crowd, I walked over and stood next to Tom, as he went through the motions. Flipping through my Think and Ink, he leaned in.

    “
Mind if I call you Joe for this?” he asked.

   
I didn’t like the idea of being called “Joe” in front of my students (all, except my star student), but I nodded anyway. I wanted to get the whole thing over with. At this point I felt

embarrassed. I didn’t need validation for my program’s sake. I certainly didn’t need it from the masses before me.

   
Then why the hell did I decide in the first place to do this? Did I really want to succeed in my program, or—perish the thought—did I really just want to impress Wendy?

    “
Everything checks out. Your step average is close to thirteen, fourteen thousand a day, and you’ve logged all of your meals.”

   
Scattered applause and isolated whoops and cheers aroused a smile out of me. I was happy I was still admired, despite the growing rumors. Clasping my hands, I readied for the next part.

    “
Now I can’t verify that you clean your room and that you don’t have any unmets, but we’ll take your word on it,” Tom said, to raucous laughter. That alone should have put me at ease. On the contrary, I felt claustrophobic. But I was willing to grin and bear it. Nervous as a schoolboy, I read my “personal commitment,” a short statement that encapsulated my reasons why I wanted to take the challenge to better myself with the program, prefacing it with the briefest of bios. Student-written commitment statements ran the gamut of literary composition—from a haiku of ascension penned by a then-awkward David Messing, to a ten-page treatise on the evils of fast food and its effect on struggling L.T.W.C.s. I kept mine short and sweet.

   
Not looking up, I heard good ole Elijah shout out, “Move him up!” prompting Tom Eccleston to jog over to Mr. Coleman and hand him a white Boulderer wristband to slide over my wrist. The job done, I strode back to my chair. Wendy, too absorbed in writing in her journal to glance my way, seemed in another place. I thought it would have been nice if she’d at least say “congrats,” or “way to go,” or something to that effect, but no dice.

   
I never bothered to tell Ellie of my Boulderer status. She didn’t need to know my lofty status as a Long Term Weight Controller. She was happy I lost weight. Wasn’t that enough? Looking back, I thought her absence added to my anxiety at Summit. Had Wendy avoided me while Ellie was around, my transition to Boulderer would have been heartfelt rather than hollow. But then, I wasn’t exactly thinking with my big head.

   
It was Saturday, February Tenth—my mom’s birthday—and Wendy wanted me on campus. A Valentine’s Day dance was taking place that night, and she didn’t want to be stuck twiddling her thumbs with the other wallflowers while rap blasted from the DJ’s speaker system.

   
Whatever Bill said to warn me meant nothing to me. He wasn’t around, and without Sheila horning in on my business, I felt free to do as I pleased. Shame and Guilt were knocking on my soul’s front door, but I wasn’t letting them in. More likely, they were already in but I was too distracted/fixated/blinded/

consumed by my own interests to give a fuck.

   
That afternoon, I left for school in blue jeans, Doc Martens and a long-sleeved black dress shirt. A little less casual than usual, but not formal enough to trigger any alarm bells with Ellie. The only comment she made in parting was, “You look nice.”

   
I look “nice?” Was she my mother seeing me off to the prom? She knew what was going on. She had to.

   
The Admin building was empty and unlocked. It was standard practice to lock up the building when no one was around. Res staff weren’t consistent. B.C.s and teachers were better. I couldn’t care less.

   
I called Mom from my cell phone. Wished her a happy birthday. She sounded a little sad. Told me she was taking the bus the next day to San Manuel—an Indian casino and bingo parlor in San Berdoo. Since retiring, Mom occupied her time with watching telenovelas, sharing gossip with the one or two Spanish-speaking friends she still had in her life, and bingo. Of the three, bingo seemed to be the most rewarding.

   
Why I waited till the end of the day to call Mom on her birthday was beyond me. Perhaps I had hoped she’d pick up on my angst and tell me what I was doing was wrong. In other words, have her make me feel worse than I already did.

   
I was such a masochist.

   
That night, the fitness room was transformed into a dance hall. While students tripped the light not so fantastic and staff chaperoned, Wendy snuck away to hang out in my office.

    “
You sure they won’t come looking for you?” I asked her. She was head to foot in black: black hoodie, black track pants, black Converse shoes. A far cry from her brown on white ensemble she wore on our little jaunt in the country. She wasn’t dressed to impress. She didn’t have to. With that face and that hair and the minimal makeup she wore, she was cute. More than that, she was at goal weight.

    “
I told Jerry where I’d be,” she replied.

    “
Oh that makes me feel so much better.”

   
Sarcasm aside, Wendy knew full well we were playing with fire. We weren’t fucking and we weren’t even kissing, but we knew we weren’t supposed to be in each other’s presence on a Saturday or Sunday.

    “
This must make you feel kind of special,” she said, looking smug sitting kitty-corner from me.

    “
What do you mean?” I asked, clueless.

    “
I mean, of all the guys I could be spending time with, I chose you.”

   
Wendy was right. I did feel kind of special. Since meeting her, I always felt kind of special.

   
I also felt kind of crazy.

    “
How does it make you feel?” I lobbed her way.

    “
We’re like indestructible. Two against the world. Nobody understands me like you.”

    “
You mean Moby.”

   
Wendy huffed—irritated that I brought up my alias, “Moby.”

    “
What difference does it make?”

    “
You tell me,” I replied.

   
Wendy looked at me square in the face. “Well, who the hell am I talking to?”

   
I didn’t respond. I wanted her to say more.

    “
You know how many times I’ve had to defend you?”

    “
No… Defend me?”

    “
Like every time Carlos or one of those other fuck-ups have said anything bad about you, I always defended you.”

   
Wow. Wendy defended me. Me.

    “
What do they say about me?” I asked. I just had to know.

    “
Well, Carlos for one thinks you’re just using me,” she replied, handing me her copy of Queen. I placed it on my computer’s CD tray. “Using you?” I asked.

    “
I don’t want to say what the other guys said.”

   
I knew where this dance was taking me. Wendy probably wanted me to ask her, “What did the other guys say?’ leading her to say that the guys were convinced that a) I wanted to fuck her, or; b) I wanted her to blow me—with her hope that either response would illicit an emphatic “Ewww!” from me.

   
But I didn’t go there. I might have been acting like a slime ball behind Ellie’s back with this friendship, but I did have standards—such as they were. Instead, I changed the subject.

    “
Could we talk about L.A.?”

    “
Let’s,” said a grinning Wendy. There was an unspoken moment between us, then a simultaneous stammering.

    “
You first,” I offered.

   
Arching her back for a stretch, Wendy seemed to ready herself for some serious brainstorming. I didn’t mean to ogle her, but the way she was presenting herself—intentional or not, left me with a good view. She didn’t notice. She didn’t have to. My God, she was pretty.

   
She was fucking hot.

    “
So, I was thinking, maybe you could arrange to take me to one of those colleges in L.A. Especially the one you found downtown.”

   
I corrected her. “You mean the one we found downtown.”

   
The “college” in question was a trade school designed primarily for young women trying to make a new start for themselves. Heavily subsidized by the state, with onsite room and board, it would have been perfect for Wendy, if it were not for one, teeny-tiny obstacle: her mom.

    “
There’s no way I’d be able to justify taking you down there, unless it’s with a bunch of other students, plus additional staff.”

    “
You think?”

   
Was she was really questioning me, or was this her attempt at going toe-to-toe with my brand of sarcasm?

   
My cell phone rang, “Under Pressure” blaring loudly. Wendy roared with laughter. I signaled her to keep quiet so I could take the call. She mouthed an “Oh.”

   
It was Ellie. Wanted me to pick up some veggies and rice milk on the way home. I turned away from Wendy so I could talk without distraction. My time was being monopolized, but I had to pull the reigns somewhere. I ended the call with Ellie, telling her I’d be home in an hour or so. I turned to face Wendy—and to our more intriguing tête-à-tête.

    “
Here’s what I think,” I proposed. “We ought to wait till you graduate. I’ll take you there myself.”

    “
On graduation day?” she asked. She meant that I’d take her—cap and gown still on—to L.A.

    “
Sure.”

    “
We’re talking the whole tour.”

    “
The school, the clubs, the beach. Whatever.”

   
Wendy stared off.

    “
What will your wife think?”

   
Was Wendy intimating that our friendship had the makings of an affair? Or was her concern simply related to the planned trip upon her graduating fat school? I didn’t know how to answer that. Her plans—and mine—seemed a million miles, a million years away.

    “
Let’s worry about that, and your mom, in May.”

   
The seed was planted. Wendy was going to go with me/Moby—to the City of Angels—at the end of the school year. I’d take her in my shiny red Honda, without her mom and Ellie knowing the extent and/or nature of the journey. I’d be gone for a couple days, and then I’d return.

   
I still didn’t know what Wendy wanted from me. On our little “practice” road trip, she acknowledged our friendship as more than “platonic.” But aside from some suggestive conversation and body language, I was left confused. Perhaps she was too.

   
Nothing was happening.

   
And yet, everything was.

   
The following Monday, no one mentioned anything of our office “slum-in” over the weekend, which I found odd. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something didn’t feel quite right. Senior staff seemed cold and distant with me. Well, they always seemed that way, but this time, they seemed colder and more distant. Somebody from res must have ratted me out, and that I was being observed. To what end, I had yet to find out.

   
That night, Wendy called me, using the prepaid phone I gave her. Our talk was brief, perhaps lasting no more than three minutes. It centered on her boredom with school, and her excitement over going to L.A. with me. Other than my

suggesting her code name ought to be “Matilda,” I downplayed it all. I wanted to do what I could to stall her. I didn’t try to discourage her. But I knew full well that at the rate we were going, gallivanting the way we were, we weren’t going to make it to graduation day.