The Fat Boy Chronicles (3 page)

Friday, 9–8

Please Don't Read This Page

We had school pictures taken today—I really hate picture day. It's okay to get out of class but that's about all it's worth. Ever since middle school, when I started getting bigger, I have dreaded the long walk. I feel like Frodo walking to Mordor. It used to be fun waiting in line, watching everyone comb their hair or asking, “How do I look?” I guess about three years ago, I quit asking. I remember the first time someone answered with a smile and said, “Oh, you look great, Jimmy,” but I could tell they didn't mean it. They wanted to say, “You look pretty fat, Jimmy.”

Today was no different. I got real nervous waiting and once again, it felt like forever before it was my turn. There's not much I can do to make my hair look decent; it's curly and sticks out all over the place. I tried getting it all shaved off last summer, but that made my face look even fatter.

“Sign this,” the picture lady said. She shoved a form at me.

“What grade are you in?”

“Ninth,” I told her.

She looked up at me. “Oh, really. Well, sign this,” she repeated.

I filled out the form and stood quietly in line behind a kid named Frank. There's not much to do except watch the person getting photographed. White screen, bright lights, just great, let's shine a big light on Not–So–Slimmy–Jimmy.

“All right kid, sit on the stool and face left.”

I sat down.

“Other left.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said.

“Your glasses are reflecting too much. Tilt your head.”

I could feel everyone's eyes on me and I started sweating. I thought I could get in a quick wipe of my forehead and I raised my arm.
Click!

“Don't move, sit still,” the lady yelled at me.

Someone behind me giggled and then I heard, “I wonder if that's a wide–angle lens?”

Ha, ha.

I hate picture day. I could use a tan. The lights make my face look like a big pillow with eyes. At least it's not like family pictures with my whole body showing. I'm not quite Mr. Photogenic, you know. Actually the only parts of me that would look good in a picture are my “tits,” as the football players call them, but they'd only be good if they were superimposed on an aging model that has been liposuctioned to the point of hanging flesh.

So, then, the lady goes, “Tilt your head down,” then, “Up a bit. Okay, hold it right there.”

She took forever and my eyes were drying out. I couldn't stand it. Blink.
Click
. Oh, great.

“Gee.” She glanced at my form. “Jimmy. Let's try again.”

I actually thought about running out. I didn't want the pictures anyway.

“C'mon. We have lunch in thirty minutes,” someone said.

Then another one: “Maybe she's taking his picture in stages. Like those panorama things.”

All I could think was
Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!
The last “Shut up!” I blurted out.
Click.

The lady gave up. Mom probably won't be buying these pictures.

“Retakes are in a month,” the helper lady told me as I went out the door.

Yippee. I can't wait.

Sunday, 9–10

I don't know why Paul's parents won't let him have a cell phone. I mean, what's the point? They bought him a used PC and let him have the Internet. I think it's pretty lousy, especially now, since there's been a murder right near his house. What if the creep kidnaps Paul? He won't be able to call 911 or anything. I mean, every kid has a cell phone nowadays.

Even though he doesn't have a cell, Paul's still been spying on the murder site behind his house every day, plus he found more information about Kimberly on the web, like the autopsy report. It said she was missing a bone in her throat—the hyoid bone—that can be critical in determining whether a person has been strangled or not. The report said there was no evidence of illegal drugs and that the rest of her body was intact. They still suspect the boyfriend, but I wonder how an eighteen–year–old kid could remove a bone from someone's throat, especially his girlfriend's. The Channel 12 News said he was a good athlete but only an average student. It appears she had sex recently, probably with him. Not his biggest worry, since he faces murder charges. He admitted he was with her the night she died, but still claims he didn't do it. Her mom and dad were on the news crying, holding up her senior picture.

Channel 19 played a video of Kimberly playing trombone with her school marching band. The nose ring doesn't fit with the marching band, but who knows. I mean, I'm in jazz band, and even we don't wear nose rings. Most band kids I know are geeky, but to them I'm still the fat kid nobody calls.

Tuesday, 9–12

Please Don't Read This Page

Guess what? Paul and I are already getting hits on our MySpace site. We're making up all kinds of stuff for my sister's face to say. Some of it's really stupid, but pretty funny. Every other word she uses is “like” and she skips school all the time. She likes to make out and sneaks her parents' cigarettes. So far, no one has asked to meet her, but you can tell most of the guys are really interested. I've been listening to my sister when she's on the phone, and writing down things she says so I can put them on MySpace. Mom saw me writing and wanted to know what I was doing. I told her I was writing in my journal. “That's a strange place to write. It looked like you had your ear glued to your sister's door.”

I started to make up something, but she stopped me. “Don't start anything with your sister. I'm watching you, Jimmy Winterpock.” As Mom walked down the stairs, I heard my sister squeal, “Oh, that's so gross! I wish I could've seen his face!” Then my sister hung up and called another one of her girlfriends. I took more notes as she told the whole story about some girls who put a pile of dog mess, wrapped in newspaper, above the door of Chad Barron's porch, because he cheated on Halle Duncan. They had it set up so that when he opened the door it would fly all over the place. Amy Cacaro faked her voice and called Chad from a pay phone. She said she was a new neighbor and had a flat tire a few houses down the street. She wondered if he could help her. The guy must be a complete idiot because he fell for it. Two other girls hid behind one of the neighbor's fences and saw the dog mess fall on Chad when he opened the door. They said it was hilarious. He was cussing and calling for his mom. I bet his parents were really mad.

That night Paul and I added the story to MySpace. We had Starr take credit for thinking up the dog mess and putting it on Chad's porch. Of course, we didn't use Chad's real name.

Every guy who wrote thought it was pretty funny that a girl could think up something so gross. All but one. He didn't think it was funny at all. He thought it was one nasty trick. Paul thought maybe this guy is the killer. I wasn't too sure. I thought he might be some undercover cop. That would be NOT good. Paul said that if it was a cop, he would be glad that we were trying to catch Kimberly's murderer.

Saturday, 9–16

At the beginning of every year, at least one teacher assigns an essay about summer vacation. So one day before school started I got really bored and decided to get a jump on my homework and write about something I did over the summer. Just my luck, the one year I have it ready, not one teacher asked me to write about my summer vacation. So, instead of wasting all that work, I decided to put it in this journal. You can grade it if you want, or give me extra credit for it, or something. I really worked hard on it. So, anyway, here is my essay.

My Summer Vacation in Gatlinburg

This past summer, my church youth group went to a conference in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, called Summer Jam. It was really cool since we had so much to do. We could buy souvenirs, play laser tag, ride the go–carts, play miniature golf, or hang out in the amusement park. I love laser tag, and really pushed it, but all my friends wanted to go to the water park since it was so hot outside. I reminded them that if we played laser tag, the building would be air–conditioned, but that didn't change their minds, so my dad drove us to Splash Mountain Water Park.

Splash Mountain is a pretty sweet water park with a wave pool, a Lazy River, and water slides. It sounded really fun and exciting, but I don't really like to swim. I'm pretty big, especially in the chest and it's embarrassing for me to take my shirt off, not so much around my friends, but in front of strangers.

At first I just sat in a chair by the Lazy River. I was determined to stay out of the water, so no one would see how fat I was. Plus, I have to squint to see without my glasses. But, my friends kept encouraging me to get in the water, and in the end, I couldn't resist. I took off my shirt and thought, “I don't care what they think about me. It doesn't matter what people say.” I kept repeating that to myself. Once my shirt was off, I heard some kid from another group say that I had the biggest chest of anyone he knew, girls included.

Later, when I got out of the Lazy River and headed towards one of the slides, the humiliation got worse. Kids I didn't even know laughed in my face and pointed at me. I heard one say that he bet the water level went up when I got in. You would think they would at least wait until I passed by them to say anything. They acted like I was a clown hired by the park to entertain everyone. I suppose I should have played along with their jokes and shook my body around, acting silly, but that's not who I am. I don't like being the center of attention so I rode down one slide and then hid in the wave pool. My friends felt bad that I was by myself, and told me to ignore the other kids, but I couldn't. The rest of the trip went okay, but I didn't go swimming again. Neither did my friends. We did play laser tag, but it wasn't as much fun as I remembered.

Monday, 9–18

Paul hates Northview. He says the kids are all a bunch of geeks, and he usually skips lunch because the cafeteria is so gross. I don't
mind school, but I don't have too many friends. At least I have Allen and Spencer to sit with at the lunch table. I forgot to mention Spencer, a new kid from Montana that moved to my street. He's a freshman like me. My mother really likes his mom, and they kind of introduced us to each other. He rides the bus home from school sometimes with us, but his dad takes him in the mornings. He's Mormon and has to get up earlier than most kids and have seminary. I think that's a special prayer meeting or something. He's really athletic and is going to try out for the soccer team. He has lunch the same period as Allen and me, so I asked him if he wanted to sit with us. He's really cool, and I noticed the girls try to talk to him all the time. Spencer told Allen and me he played club soccer in Montana and hopes to get a college scholarship. I don't play soccer anymore because I can't run very fast. I tried this summer to play in a club league, but all the other kids made fun when I ran after the ball, and I saw some of the parents pointing. So I decided I'd rather be in jazz band and play the sax.

Wednesday, 9–20

Allen is such a brainless kid. Spencer and I really gave it to him during lunch today. I mean, he walked to the table, well, I wouldn't really call it walking, I would have to call it waddling, like he had on high heels or something. As soon as we saw him, Spencer said, “Man, what's wrong with you? You look like you messed in your pants.”

Allen grinned like he always does. “Somebody just stuck a pencil down my
butt–cheeks. I have to dump my stuff before I can get it out.” He had a funny look on his face. Then he put his tray on the table and reached down the back of his pants. I could see the tables behind him laughing their heads off. But what made matters even worse, he pulled out the pencil and placed it on the table, right next to our food. That about made me and Spencer puke. Finally, Spencer couldn't take it any more. “Dude! Get rid of that freaking thing! You don't just toss it on the table like it's just any pencil. That thing is contaminated. What's with you, man?”

While Allen was at the trash can, Spencer talked to me about him. “We have to tell him how to wear his pants. He doesn't have a clue sometimes.”

“Tell me about it,” I said to Spencer, while shaking my head. I mean, Spencer's right. Allen wears these big pants that hang halfway down his cheeks, and when he bends over you have a clear view of his crack. I've seen kids throw spit wads down the back of his pants, and act like they're making a “basket.” Allen has so much fat, he doesn't even feel it.

So, we both told Allen to get some pants that fit, and I threw in that he needed to get some shirts that fit, and shoes other than Hush Puppies. “I mean, those look like they belong to some old man.”

Allen just looked at me with his fish eyes, and said, “They did. They're my grandpa's shoes. He died last year, and my grandmother gave me his shoes cause they're my size. I like wearing them.”

“Are those your grandpa's pants too?” Spencer asked.

“Yeah,” said Allen. “But I have some that don't hang so far down.” He scratched his butt. “That pencil didn't feel too good.”

“Then why are you smiling about it?” Spencer asked him. “We can live with the shoes but the pants have got to go. I will never look at a pencil the same again.”

We didn't say anything more to him about his clothes. If the kid missed his grandpa enough to wear his clothes, then his grandpa must have been a pretty good guy. There's no getting people. Just when you think you have them all figured out, they do something that just blows your mind, if you know what I mean.

We might go to the movies this weekend if there's something good playing. If not, maybe we can go back to our old neighborhood. That would be nice. I miss my old house.

Saturday, 9–23