Teenage Waistland (30 page)

East leans forward, her eyes darting around to make sure Char hasn’t magically left the ladies’ room without the door—in our direct view—opening. “Char is going to Tijuana in just over two weeks to get a Lap-Band. Her mother has already booked the flights.”

I think this over for exactly 0.3 seconds and holler,
“No!”
I clamp my hand over my mouth—everyone’s staring at us and East is slumping in her seat and primed to crawl under the table. “She didn’t tell me anything about this,” I whisper. “Am I not supposed to know? Did Char tell you not to tell me?” East shakes her head. “Well, okay,” I say in a normal voice. “We’ll just have to talk her out of it.” East shakes her head again.

“I’ve already tried. She’s set on doing it.”

“Even now? Even with Jen? Didn’t that send up any warning signs for Char?”

East rolls her eyes. “She broke the news to me at the cemetery!”

“Did Char ever get any professional help whatsoever after that whole abortion thing?”

East flinches. “No, I seriously doubt it. I don’t remember her disappearing after school, ever.”

“Well, let’s just tell her about what happened in group today. How you and I realized that there is something to all that ‘dealing with the underlying problem’ stuff,” I say. “That Jen didn’t deal with her issues and look how it turned out for her.”

East shakes her head again and gives me a respectable
what kind of freakin’ moron are you?
look. “Let’s be real, Marcie. Betsy’s been trying to explain the same stuff to us for weeks and we didn’t get it. You think Char’s going to get it just like that?” East says, snapping her fingers. “Trust me. I have thirteen years of experience trying to talk Char out of whatever she’s had her heart set on at the time, and it’s never happened. Not once.”

“Okay—I got it! Let’s talk her
into
rejoining Teenage Waistland. Bitsy will make sure Char’s dealing with things properly—or is at least willing to—before she clears her for surgery. And we can help her.”

But East is shaking her head yet again, and I’m ready to throw the condiments on the table at her, starting with the maple syrup.

“I’ve suggested that already,” East says in a whiny voice, like I’m spouting the obvious and completely useless. “But she said she can’t go back—she’s too ashamed to face Bobby. And the rest of the group.”

I put my head in my hands. “And after today’s terrible
run-in with him, she’s going to be even more resistant to facing him.”

“Unless …,” East says, leaning forward.

“Unless what?” I whisper urgently. “Hurry—she’ll be coming back any second!”

“Unless we talk to Bobby like you talked to me. Once he understands why Char lied about everything, he’ll forgive her. And once
he
forgives her, she’ll want to come back!” East says triumphantly.

Now I’m shaking my head. “East, do you really think Char’s going to let us explain to Bobby that she had an abortion at age twelve and then
maybe
attempted to kill herself afterward? If so, I agree with you: once he knows those things, he’ll understand why Char
had
to hide the reason she wasn’t cleared for surgery, which forced her to lie about having had the surgery.” I stop to take a breath. “But it’s tricky. Once he knows those things, do you think he’ll still want to be with her? It’s heavy, and their
thang
has only been going on, what, three—”

“She’s coming out!” East whispers. She’s frantic and rearranging the menus and the napkins as though their disarray will tip Char off that we’ve been discussing her.

“East, calm yourself and listen carefully! Your job is to talk Char into giving us permission to tell Bobby
everything
.” She’s nodding nervously like I’m reciting a grocery list and she’s supposed to memorize each item. “East, it’s
one
thing.”

“So what’s your job?” East asks as she smiles and waves at Char.

“
My job
is having the stepsister who’s going to take us to him, of course.” Char’s perfume hits my nostrils and I jerk back in my seat and pick up a menu.

“Oh God, you’re not really thinking about getting a job this late in the summer, are you, Marcie?” Char says. Her face is clean and she’s looking better.

“Nah. I’m just going to sit back and live the good life in old Alpine, New Jersey. There are worse places to be.”

I’m knocked flat on my back again for like the fiftieth time today, the latest humiliation courtesy of Freddie LaRocha, who’s looking tanned and meaner this year. He’s got a good twenty pounds on me these days—I’m down about twenty-five since the surgery. It would’ve been more, but I’ve been lifting super heavy the last week or so to make up for lost time. MT offers me his hand.

“Down again, you virgin wussy. What’s up with that?” he says as he pulls me to my feet.

“Just rusty,” I mumble. I’m sore all over from the squats and bench presses I did this morning
after
my ten-mile run, but lifting after practice would be worse. Dad’s home by then, and he’d be on my case over every rep. He kicked my butt so hard this weekend, I’m lucky I can move at all today.

Coach’s got his hands on his hips and he’s looking at me like I just handed the winning play over to the opposing team in a crucial qualifier. “You’re off, Konopka. Quit daydreaming and step it up.” He blows his whistle and waves the
guys in. Then, as he’s leaving the field, Coach calls out, “Tomorrow, ten a.m. Our first preseason game is coming up quickly, and you guys are looking pretty lame.”

“Game, lame. You’re a real poet, Coach,” Craighead says as he sprints in and pulls off his helmet. Then he swings around and whips the helmet into my chest-protected gut—the only place on me that
isn’t
hurting. “You owe me twenty bucks, Konopka. I had my money on you, dude, and you let me down.”

I yank Craighead forward with his helmet and slip him into a headlock. No matter how tired or pathetic I am, being able to take Craighead is a given.

“That hot-sex-on-a-volcano story is crap,” I snap, pulling him in tighter. “What proof does MT have anyway?”

“MT—show him,” Craighead yells as he struggles against my grip. MT, over by the bleachers chugging Gatorade, puts the bottle down and strides over all cockylike. Like he’s rehearsed this. He reaches into the front of his sweats and rips out a tiny red lace thong. There’s more fabric in my sweatband.

“So that’s what you’re wearing lately, MT?” says Zoo, running over so he doesn’t miss any action. I release Craighead and use my freed arm to give Zoo a high five.

“Funny, dick. They’re Alicia’s. Volcano Girl proof,” MT says, twirling the panties around on his finger.

“Nah—they’re his mother’s,” LaRocha chimes in. Benny, Todd, and a few sophomores from the second string head over, and there’s now a small crowd gathered to inspect Volcano Girl’s thong.

“Like they don’t sell those at Walmart, jerk-off,” Zoo says.

MT’s eyebrows are up and he’s grinning broadly, still
twirling the thong. “Oh, yeah? How about Camp Trivia for a hundred. How do kids keep track of their clothes?”

“People know their own clothes,” I mutter. I don’t do camp—I’d be the last to know.

MT makes a buzzing sound. “Sorry, Konopka. The correct answer is: What are name labels?” The guys start howling as MT untangles the thong and turns it inside out. “Alicia Conroy!” he announces, thrusting the panties and the name tag into everyone’s faces. MT scores and the crowd goes wild. The label looks legit.

“You’re smoked,” Craighead says.

“The Refrigerator is da freezah. Dude is froze,” LaRocha pipes up.

“Brrr,” a bunch of guys repeat. “Brrr. Brrr. Brrr.”

“So, Bobby—ready to concede defeat? Unless you scored with those—
cough cough
—Manhattan babes of yours?” MT says, still grinning and getting in my face.

“Give my boy space.” Zoo pushes him back.

I don’t even care anymore about being the last virgin standing—these guys can be such morons. But I’m tired and my muscles ache, and the heckling is pissing me off. Plus, I don’t need to explain myself in front of these sophomores. It’s none of their business. “Screw off,” I mutter, and walk toward my mom’s car, the guys cracking up behind me. Then a gorgeous blonde in tiny white shorts walking toward me from the parking lot starts calling my name. I think I must be having heatstroke or that the late-afternoon sun is screwing with my eyes. I pick up my pace—the guys aren’t that far behind and I know they’re watching.

“Bobby?” this beautiful girl says, and I nod. It’s a girl I’ve never seen before. “I’m Liselle Rescott, and there are some
people who need to talk to you.” She motions her head toward a silver convertible off by itself in the corner of the parking lot. East and Marcie are sitting inside looking in our direction. Char’s not with them.

“Sure,” I say. I turn around and hold my helmet up and sort of wave at the guys, hoping they got a good view of her. And also that they take the hint to back off. “See you tomorrow,” I yell. Then I turn back toward the parking lot and walk up the hill with Liselle.

“I’m Marcie’s stepsister,” Liselle says as we approach the car.

“Yeah, I heard that,” I say, and immediately regret it. I don’t want to be tied to that dildo thing in this girl’s mind.

“Marcie and East were afraid you wouldn’t talk to them, so they sent me out to find you,” she says, ignoring my stupid comment.

“How did you? Find me, I mean,” I say. I glance behind me and see that Zoo, MT, and Craighead have lost the rest of the group, but they’re still heading my way—
not
in the direction of their parked cars. Crap!

“Oh, that was easy.” Liselle laughs. “You’re the only Konopka in Syosset, and when we got to your house, your mom sent us here. She’s very nice, your mom. She invited us in to wait for you, but we thought we should speak with you alone.”

I’m pretty sure I know who this is all about, but I don’t see any way of avoiding the conversation—the guys are like twenty seconds behind us. I glance back again and Liselle, maybe sensing I’m about to make a break for it, says, “Hop in the back, Bobby. We’ll go get something to drink.”

Liselle’s ride is sweet—a sleek 2008 BMW M6 convertible.
Damn thing has a V10 engine and 500 horsepower. But I don’t have much time to drool over this beauty because Marcie, in the front passenger seat, and East, in the back, are both glaring at me.

“Hi,” I say as I climb into the seat next to East. Already I feel like an idiot. Little sports car—the two of us can hardly fit and our legs are riding up against each other. Liselle slams on the gas, propels the car backward, and then zooms off through the parking lot and onto the street.

“Where to?” she asks.

I give her directions to Buetti’s deli and immediately realize how fried my brain must be; that’s a prime destination for the guys after practice. “Let’s make it the Wendy’s on Route 25A—just turn left here.”

The wind is blowing everyone’s hair around like crazy, and East is trying frantically to keep it out of her face. The breeze feels great, and we’re going so fast, I’m hoping it’s carrying away the smell of my sweat. Marcie’s feet are pushed up against the dashboard and she’s screaming, “Liselle, you’re going to get us killed!” Between the roar of the engine, Marcie screaming, and the wind, it’s way too loud to talk, until in two seconds, we whip into the Wendy’s parking lot and Liselle cuts the engine.

“I’m going to get us drinks,” she says as she hops out of the car and walks toward the restaurant. Her shorts are riding up and it’s hard not to watch. Impossible.

East is smoothing her hair and Marcie is cleaning her glasses with her T-shirt. My chest protector is cutting into my hip, and I try to unhook it through my shirt.
Unhooking a frickin’ bra
. Not a skill I have.

Marcie notices and says, “That thing working?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Great idea you guys had.”

Marcie turns around in her seat and locks eyes with me. “No,” she says, “not ‘guys.’ Char. It was
her
idea.”

“How’s she doing?” I say, like everything’s totally fine and we’re just a group of normal kids chilling.

“Char’s why we’re here,” Marcie says. “She thinks you hate her.”

“Nah,” I say, “I don’t hate anybody. Why would she think that?”

Marcie looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Because you pretty much ran face-first into her after group on Friday and then bolted without a word.”

“This is what you came all the way out here to talk to me about?” I say and push the driver’s seat forward to reach the door handle. Marcie locks the door from the controls on her side and I laugh and manually pull up the lock. She locks it again as I go for the door handle.

“This isn’t a game,” she says. Not a fun one, anyway. “Look. East and I think you need to understand why Char lied about the surgery to everyone.” Not everyone.
Me
.

“Maybe if Char thought I should know, she would have told me herself,” I say, and then mentally kick myself for sounding like a girl with all their analytical nonsense. I push the front seat forward again, but Marcie crawls over the stick shift and slams it back with the full force of her body. Now she’s peering over the driver’s-side headrest, her face maybe six inches from mine. I drop back into my seat.

“When we tell you the story, you’ll understand why Char couldn’t tell you herself,” Marcie says. “So please, just hear us out.”

I throw up my hands. “Shoot.” Marcie glances at East,
who nods back at her. Right. Like East was going to do the talking. Marcie takes a deep breath as if what she’s about to tell me is earth shattering. Just girl drama, probably.

“Park Avenue Bariatrics put Char’s surgery on hold because they had questions about something in her medical history, something Char
couldn’t
own up to and talk about because it—it could have destroyed her friendship with East. I mean, it didn’t, but it could have.” Marcie stops and looks at East again, but East’s head is turned away, like she’s finding this big green Dumpster really fascinating.

“Look, Marcie, I gotta hit the shower and head to my dad’s store. Is that it?”