The Jock and the Fat Chick (15 page)

Any tips?

Yeah. Suck his dick

Ha-ha. U r a dick

Ha-ha. The guy’s cool

I carry Buddy back inside, and I’m about to close the patio door when there’s a knock. The guy’s early. Mom answers it, and I hear her say hello and invite him in. He’s tall, like six foot seven, and he has to duck to make it under the doorframe. He sees me standing, holding Buddy.

“Hi, are you Kevin?” he asks, and he’s got the deepest-sounding voice I’ve ever heard. “I’m Marcus Antonopoulos,” he says, and my ribs actually vibrate.

“Hi,” I say, then realize I’ve blown my first move. All the interview materials say I’m supposed to walk up to him and offer a firm, confident handshake. Instead, I’m holding a sick dog. “Uh . . . just a second.” I carry Buddy into the kitchen and set him onto his new comfy doggy bed.

“Nice dog,” he says.

“Thanks. His name is Buddy.” Buddy wags his tail when he hears his name. “He’s got vestibular disease, so I look out for him.”

Marcus smiles, and I think what the hell and extend my hand, figuring better late than never. “Nice to meet you,” I say, and hope Marcus isn’t allergic to dogs or anything. He takes my hand, and I give a firm shake.

“Won’t you come in,” Mom says, clenching a tea towel in her hands. “Let me take your coat.”

He gives it to her, and I show him through the kitchen and into the living room.

“Would you like anything to drink?” Mom asks. “I just made some coffee.”

He takes a seat in the chair. “That’d be great.”

I sit on the couch, and Marcus sets his briefcase onto his lap. He unlocks it, the clasps making crisp
snap-snap
sounds. From within he pulls out a file, which I guess is mine, and closes the case, resting it by his feet. He opens the folder and skims its contents. I know I’m supposed to act like he’s pursuing me and not the other way around, but I’m not sure what to do. Should I say something to fill the space, or do I let the guy read? I dunno. They never covered this in the prep videos.

Mom returns with a tray containing two mugs of coffee, sugar, milk, and three glasses of water. She also brings the bowl of mixed nuts, which I’d forgotten, and although she didn’t ask if I wanted water, I’m grateful she’s brought some because my throat and tongue are desert dry. Way to play it, Mom.

He thanks her and takes a sip of coffee.

Marcus starts by asking me a series of questions, like how I’m doing (great), my favorite subjects in school (science, math, and gym), and how long I’ve been playing hockey (since I was six).

“You know, even though we have the highest number of grads who go on to play hockey professionally here, or in Europe, the odds are a long shot. Like one percent.”

I nod.

“What will you do if you’re not drafted?”

“Well, if I get a chance to attend Michigan State, I’ll study kinesiology.” I stop and wonder if I should have said something like, “Well, sir, my only plan is to get drafted, no matter what.” I dunno, am I giving him the right answers? Should I be showing him my sheer determination to play professionally? I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. “I’d like to work in physical therapy in a hospital or a rehab clinic,” I add.

He nods and jots down some notes before scooping a handful of nuts to pop into his mouth. He chews, and I hope he likes what I made and he doesn’t choke or anything.

“So, why do you want to attend Michigan State?”

“Well, I’ve visited the website and the online message boards, and I’ve talked to a couple of guys who go there, and they say it’s a good school. I hear the athletic staff is tough, but fair, and the kinesiology program is solid.”

“You know Coach Barker was an assistant coach when he was a student there?”

“Really?”

“Does he still do that thing with his finger?”

I laugh and nod, and Marcus has a good chuckle over it too. He glances back at my résumé. “It says here you like to cook?”

I smile. “Yeah. I never used to, but I failed a gym
assignment last year and had to take a dom tech class for extra credit.”

One of his eyebrows shoots straight up, the same with Mom’s, and I’m glad he can’t see her. I square my shoulders and face him head-on. I explain the diary assignment and how I thought eating protein bars, gels, and shakes all day is what athletes did. Then I launch into the dom tech class and everything I learned.

“I cook all the time now. I love it. I’ve noticed a big difference in my workout recovery time, and I have a lot more energy. I won’t go back to what I did before.”

I wait for his reaction, knowing it was a big risk to tell him this, but I think the way I handled my answer, by explaining what I learned, is not only honest, but it also makes me stand out from the other applicants. It makes him remember me. That’s what the video said, to be yourself and say something they’ll remember about you.

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” he says. “I wish more of my athletes thought like you did. There’s no substitute for the real thing.”

He takes another handful of nuts. “Did you make these?”

I nod.

“They’re good,” he says, and chews.

“Thanks.”

He shifts in his seat. “Kevin, I like you. You’ve got the
right qualities we want in a student and athlete.”

“Thanks.”

“I tell you what. I’m prepared to talk to the board about seeing what we can do to make sure you attend Michigan State on a full scholarship.”

A full ride? My jaw drops, and Mom grips the armrest, so she doesn’t leap from the chair and scream.

“No promises, but I’ll definitely try.”

I’m so stunned it takes a second to speak. “That’d be great,” I say.

Marcus hands me his business card. “I want you to let me know if any other schools contact you.”

I tell him I will, and after he leaves, Mom and I give each other big hugs.

“Oh, baby, you did good,” she says, rocking me from side to side.

“Thanks, Mom.”

She wipes a happy tear from her face and then grabs my chin between her fingers. “Now I want to hear all about this assignment you failed.”

I END UP HEARING FROM THREE OTHER schools: Bemidji State, Davenport, and Bowling Green, all offering partial scholarships. As requested, I let Marcus know about the other offers, which is good because it means he’ll try harder to give me a free ticket. While I wait to hear back from him, my life pretty much returns to normal. Sure, a few guys try to razz me about dom tech, but I shut ’em down by basically saying, “Yeah, well, girls love a guy who can cook,” but I don’t grab my gut like Coach, because nobody wants to see that.

I head for third period bio when I spot Mrs. A in the hallway. It’s hard not to miss the tallest woman in school who towers over most of the students.

“Hi, Mrs. A.”

Her eyes light up.

“Oh, Kevin. I’m so glad I found you. I was hoping you
and Claire would give a cooking demonstration to my freshmen this Friday during lunch. I want to show them just how much fun cooking can be.”

That push-pull, bittersweet sensation comes over me. Mrs. A continues smiling, probably thinking her request is a no-brainer, seeing how Claire and I got along so well.

When I don’t reply right away, her happy face fades and she looks sad. No, she looks . . . beaten down and defeated.

“I have a particularly tough crowd this semester,” she says, confiding in me. My heart immediately goes out to her. Dom tech has always been considered a joke, something to make fun of, a girlie elective course, but kids have no idea what they’re missing. She’s an awesome teacher. It must be hard to constantly fight an uphill battle.

I decide to push past that it’ll be awkward working with Claire again and shrug like it’s no big deal. “Yeah, sure. Anything for you, Mrs. A.”

“Really? Oh, good!” She punches the air in a comical gesture, like her plan to win over the kids is coming together.
Mrs. A,
I think,
you’re all right.

“Good,” she says. “I’ll let you two make whatever you want because I know it’ll be simply scrumptious. I’ll see you on Friday.”

A few minutes later, my phone buzzes. It’s Claire.

Hey . . . did Mrs. A talk to you?

Yeah

So . . . you up for it?

Sure

Okay . . . what do u want to make?

I type
Dunno,
fully aware that one-word replies aren’t exactly helping. If I’m doing this for Mrs. A, I should try. I add:

Meeeat???

lol

I smile.
Something simple . . . pizza?

Gourmet pizza?

Yes!

Shop aft school & go to my place?

I think about it and then do something I’ve never done but want to. I text:
My place?

On the drive to my house after a grocery run, we keep the conversation focused on the meal and nothing else. Which is good because it’s weird being with her, in her car. It’s hard not to fall into old patterns, like wanting to play Ikeeya Monkeys or giving each other a quick kiss whenever we’d stop at an intersection.

“Up ahead is my street,” I say. “The fourth house in.” I point to an open space between two parked cars.

I unlock the front door and hold it open as we carry in the goods. “My mom’s asleep, but no worries, it takes a lot to wake her. She works night shift,” I add this last part because
I don’t want to hide anymore. If people don’t like the truth about me, or my family, or who I am or what I like, then it’s their problem, not mine.

We set the stuff onto the kitchen counter. Buddy’s in the living room, flaked out in his doggy bed. His tail
thump-thump-thump
s, and I go to pet him. “How you doing, boy?” He opens one eye.

“Aw, is this Buddy?” Claire asks, bending to pet him on the head too. “He’s so cute.”

I pick him up. “Hey, would you do me a favor and open the sliding glass door to the backyard?”

“Sure.”

She opens it, and I carry Buddy outside to pee. Once he’s done he snuggles into my shoulder, and I bring him inside again. When he’s settled I show Claire around the kitchen and bust out the spice rack, to show it off.

She picks up the jar of Indian spices. “Wow, you have garam masala? Impressive.”

“Yeah, it’s awesome sprinkled on chocolate ice cream.”

A horrified expression comes over her, and I add, “I’m kidding! I’m kidding!”

She wipes her forehead, like it was a close call.

We get to work divvying up tasks. She’ll take on the dough, and I’m in charge of meat, three kinds: bacon, ham, and salami. Together, we’ll do the veg and cheese prep for two pizzas, one veggie, the other meeeat.

Since there’s not enough counter space, I clear and clean the kitchen table, so she has somewhere to roll the dough.

“Watch this,” she says after flattening the dough to the size of a Frisbee. She picks it up, and with a flick of her wrist, sends it spinning into the air above her. She catches it and chucks it up again. It’s cool the way the centrifugal force stretches out the dough. I can’t take my eyes away from what she’s doing. It’s mesmerizing.

“It’s my Italian genes,” she says, like it’s a fact.

I chuckle. “This is why you are a kitchen goddess.”

She grins and keeps spinning. “Hey, did I tell you my plans for after graduation?”

“No, what?”

“I’m going to Paris to study culinary arts.”

“Congrats. Your dad must be proud.”

“Totally. He did a jig and everything.”

“So what made you decide cooking over baking?”

“There’re more options with cooking, and I love playing with all the herbs and spices.” She lays the dough onto the baking pan and sings, “Oh, saucier . . .”

“Yes, Coach,” I reply.

She laughs and touches my arm, leaving a flour print on my skin. The warmth of her hand makes the bottom of my stomach dip. I step back, surprised at how much it hurts, slipping back into the casual way we do things. It must show on my face, because she pulls her hand away.

“Sorry,” she says.

I play it cool. “No problem.”

I scoop up some tomato sauce for the dough, spreading it evenly, and move aside so she can arrange the toppings before popping it into the oven.

As it cooks, we clean. Claire washes, and I dry and put away. Other than the sounds of dripping water and utensils clinking, it’s quiet as we work. I can still feel where she touched me, and all I want to do is touch her back. It pains me being this close to her. There’s even a moment when I’m putting something away that I catch her watching me, but when I turned to meet her gaze, she dunks her hands into the suds.

Mom makes an appearance, wandering out of her bedroom, still in her pink robe.

“Hey, Mom.”

She peers at me through sleepy eyes. “Whatever you’re making, it smells delicious.” She stops in her tracks when she notices a stranger in her kitchen.

“Oh, hello.”

“Hey, Mom, this is my, ah, friend, Claire. Claire, this is my mom.”

Mom clutches her already closed robe tighter. “Hi, Claire. It’s nice to meet you. Glad you’re seeing me in my Sunday best.”

We laugh, and I tell her that by the time she showers and
gets ready for work, her coffee and pizza breakfast will be ready.

Mom seems grateful for the exit, and I make the coffee as Claire sets the table.

I’d put on some music, but it just wouldn’t be right. I don’t feel like I’ve got my footing around her. I exchange glances with her again as she lays out the plates. She’s friendly but formal. It’s as if we know each other, but we’re strangers, too. It’s weird. I’m tempted to bring it up, but what am I going to say? It’ll just make things more awkward. Is this what people mean when they refer to an elephant in the room?

Mom returns wearing her work uniform, and I take the pizza out of the oven, slice it up, and serve.

She gushes over the food we made. “So you must be the one who’s responsible for Kevin’s cooking,” Mom says, taking another bite.

“Kevin’s a good cook,” Claire answers.

“Wish I knew how,” Mom says. “It’s a good skill to have.”

I chuckle. “You sound like Coach Barker.”

“Well, then he must be a smart man.”

It gets quiet as we munch, and Mom takes a sip of coffee.

“You have a nice backyard, Mrs. Conners,” Claire says. “I bet you grow a lot of herbs in the summer.”

“I usually grow flowers, but, you know,” she says, glancing my way, “I might just try some herbs and tomatoes this year.”

“That’d be cool,” I say, and imagine how nice it’d be to experiment with them in the kitchen.

After we eat, Mom excuses herself because she has to leave for work. I wrap up another pizza slice along with an apple for her lunch.

“Well, Claire. It was nice to meet you,” Mom says. “I hope to see you again.”

I glance at Claire. Will she say she hopes to see her soon, too?

She smiles. “It was nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Conners.”

After Mom leaves, Claire and I stand in the hallway. She turns to me. “Um, I should head out too.”

I help by grabbing the grocery bags from the fridge for her to bring tomorrow. “Thanks for coming over,” I say.

She slides on her coat. “Yeah, it was fun.”

I slip on my boots and walk her to her car, carrying the bags. It’s cold out, and I should have grabbed my jacket, but meh.

Claire unlocks the trunk, and I set the bags inside. Gone is the shoebox of old CDs.

“Your mom’s nice, and Buddy’s a sweetie,” she says, opening the driver’s-side door and getting in. She starts the engine and lowers her window. “I’ll put the food in the fridge when I get to school tomorrow.”

I shove my hands into my pockets and bend, so she can see me without having to crane her neck. “Sounds good.”

We both smile, and there’s a pause. Then I realize this was when we usually kissed. My guts feel scrambled.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say.

“Yeah . . . hey, Kevin?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad Mrs. A asked us to do this. I’ve missed hanging with you.”

“Me too,” I say, and get that friends-but-strangers feeling again. I tap the roof of her car twice before stepping back.

Claire waves and pulls onto the road, and I stand there, watching the red taillights disappear down the street. Under the streetlamp the wind sends light dustings of snow across the road.

Inside the living room I take a seat on the floor next to Buddy. I scratch his head as I think of Clare and sigh.

“What am I going to do, Buddy? I don’t think I can handle being friends with her. It hurts too much.”

Buddy sighs and rests his head in my lap.

On Friday in Mrs. A’s class, Claire and I have two minutes to set up before the minor niners arrive. We get busy, unpacking, grabbing what we need for our stations, and I don my ladybug apron. I think I should have worn shorts today, because it’d have been funny.

The kids pile into the room, and to my surprise, four guys take seats along the back row. They’re jocks; I can tell
because they glance around before giving me a “we recognize you” look. I nod and can’t help but smirk. I wonder if Coach put them through the fitness and diet log assignment and this is their extra credit? It’s like staring at my younger self.

Mrs. A appears like a burst of sunshine and introduces Claire and me, talking us up like we’re celebrities. She tells the class to sit back and enjoy the show. We get to work. I’m nervous at first, with everyone watching, but just like hockey, I focus and the crowd disappears.

Claire and I get chopping, starting with the peppers, mushrooms, and garlic. We sync our cuts on the wooden cutting boards, making semiautomatic-machine-gun, tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat sounds. If this were a cooking show, the camera would zoom in for a close-up. From the corner of my eye, I notice Claire smiling; maybe she’s thinking the same thing?

“Frying pan’s coming your way,” she says.

“Sending you the flour.”

“Got the oil?”

“Passing it over.”

It’s just like old times, the way we flow. I move on to the meats, prepping them for different thicknesses, according to cooking times. Claire gets going on the dough for the two pizzas. As we work, Mrs. A talks to the class about the kinds of dishes they’ll be making. Something catches my eye in the reflexive surface of the stove’s glass countertop. It’s Claire,
and she’s looking at me. This time when I turn to face her, she doesn’t turn away, but rather smiles all shy-like.

I smile back.

The ceiling in the classroom is higher than my kitchen, which means Claire has more room to play. She tosses the dough up, and all eyes lock on her, even Mrs. A’s, as Claire catches and tosses again. The dough spins, spins, spins, and I’m sure one or two kids hope she’ll miss or punch a hole through it, but there’s no way it’ll happen. My heart can’t help itself—it thumpity-smashes. This is the amazing Claire Riel. On her final throw, as all eyes glance up, Claire looks right at me and gives me this amazing smile. She’s in her element, grinning wide, back teeth showing and everything.

In that moment it becomes evidently clear: I want her back.

Once the oil in the frying pan heats, I toss in the meats to sear in their juices. Awesome aromas fill the room and while it cooks, I roll up my sleeves and grate cheese.

I have to know if she thinks the same way.

I put some power and speed into grating so it’s done fast. Yeah, I’m a show-off, but why not? It’s all about getting these guys excited about cooking.

I glance at Claire, who stretches the dough onto the large, round pizza pans.

I get an idea.

As I move behind her to grab a towel, I drag my fingertips
across her back. At first she moves aside because she thinks she’s crowding me, but I raise an eyebrow to say I kinda meant it. She gives me a “did you do that on purpose?” look. I smile.

Is she game?

She ladles the sauce while I finish cooking the meats. As she moves on to arranging the cheese and veggies, she lifts her foot and glides it up the back of my calf. I have to cough to stifle my moan as I arrange the meats on top of one pizza and act like nothing’s happening.

Claire pops our creations into the oven, and the niners are invited to ask questions. One kid wants to know something about something—I don’t know what because as Claire answers, our hands reunite under the counter. At first it’s our pinky fingers, lightly touching and saying hi. Then our ring fingers get reacquainted before index, pointers, and thumbs jump into the action. Whatever Claire’s saying shifts from serious to happy, as I try my hardest to control the expression on my face.