Fat kid rules the world Read online

  SKINNY PUNK GENIUS SAVES FAT KID

  “Lucky for you I was at that station,” Curt says as he watches me eat. “I mean, since I saved your life and all.” His eyes track each bite I take, but when I offer him my fries he won’t take any.

  “I wasn’t going to jump,” I say, holding a french fry in the air. I’m lying, but only halfway.

  Curt scoffs.

  “Were,” he says as if there’s no argument. “I was watching you for, like, an hour. That rude, twirpy kid left, then three trains passed and you never looked up from the tracks. Then the insane laughter and I knew you’d lost it. I said to myself, Curt, you save this kid’s life and he will surely buy you lunch.”

  “I wasn’t going to jump,” I say again with my best resolute look. I was just thinking. Just thinking.”

  Curt considers this at length.

  “How come?” he finally asks.

  I want to give him the you-moron look the kids at school have perfected. Maybe say something sarcastic like, “Use your imagination.” I want to say, “Open your eyes. I’m a fucking three-hundred-pound teenager living in the most unforgiving city on earth. I’m ugly and dumb and I make stupid noises when I breathe. I annoy and bewilder my only living parent, mortify my little brother, and have no friends.”

  I shrug.

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  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland

  (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

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  Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Published in the United States of America by G. P. Putnam’s Sons,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 2003

  Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2004

  10

  Copyright © K. L. Going, 2003

  All rights reserved

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Going, K. L. Fat kid rules the world / K. L. Going

  p. cm. Summary: Seventeen-year-old Troy, depressed, suicidal, and weighing nearly 300 pounds, gets a new perspective on life when a homeless teenager who is a genius on guitar wants Troy to be the drummer in his rock band.

  [1. Obesity—Fiction. 2. Musicians—Fiction. 3. Interpersonal relations—Fiction.

  4. Drug abuse—Fiction. 5. Suicide—Fiction. 6. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction.]

  I. Title. PZ7.G559118 Fat 2003?[Fic]—dc21?2002067956

  ISBN 0-399-23990-1

  Speak ISBN 0-14-240208-7

  Designed by Gina DiMassi. Text set in Charter.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Table of Contents

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  Acknowledgments

  Author Biography

  1.

  I’M A SWEATING FAT KID standing on the edge of the subway platform staring at the tracks. I’m seventeen years old, weigh 296 pounds, and I’m six-foot-one. I have a crew cut, yes a crew cut, sallow skin, and the kind of mouth that puckers when I breathe. I’m wearing a shirt that reads MIAMI BEACH—SPRING BREAK 1997, and huge, bland tan pants—the only kind of pants I own. Eight pairs, all tan.

  It’s Sunday afternoon and I’m standing just over the yellow line trying to decide whether people would laugh if I jumped. Would it be funny if the Fat Kid got splattered by a subway train? Is that funny? I’m not being facetious; I really want to know. Like it or not, apparently there’s something funny about fat people. Something unpredictable. Like when I put on my jacket and everyone in the hallway stifles laughter. Or when I stand up after sitting in the cafeteria and Jennifer Maraday, Brooke Rodriguez, and Amy Glover all bust a gut. I don’t get angry. I just think, What was funny about that? Did my butt jiggle? Did I make the bench creak so that it sounded like a fart? Did I leave an indentation? There’s got to be something, right? Right?

  So it’s not a stretch to be standing on the wrong side of the yellow line giving serious thought to whether people would laugh if I threw myself in front of the F train. And that’s the one thing that can’t happen. People can’t laugh. Even I deserve a decent suicide.

  That’s why I’m standing here. Because I can’t make up my mind. I’m thinking about what Dayle said. Go ahead … I wouldn’t miss you. Go ahead … Go ahead … I’m telling myself my brother didn’t mean it, but even I know that’s a lie. Meanwhil
e it’s hot and I’ve been standing too long…. I close my eyes and imagine the whole scene as it might play out.

  First, the train is coming, its single headlight illuminates the dark tracks. I hear its deep rumble and take the fateful step forward. I want to picture myself flying dramatically through the air but realize I wouldn’t have the muscle power to launch my body. Instead, I would plummet straight down. Maybe I wouldn’t even get my other leg off the platform—my weight would pull me down like an anchor. That’s how I see it. The train plows into me; my fat busts apart, expands to cover the train window and the tunnel walls. I’m splattered. Except for my left leg, which is lying on the platform untouched—a fat, bleeding hunk of raw meat.

  FAT KID MESSES UP—coming soon to a theater near you.

  I start to laugh. Suddenly there’s something funny about it. I swear to God. There really is.

  2.

  “YOU LAUGHING AT ME?” The disembodied voice is clearly addressing me.

  “Huh …?!” I turn away from the tracks.

  “You’re laughing at me?”

  “No …”

  Who the hell is talking to me? I have to scan the entire subway platform before I find the voice. Twisted staircase, black gum-covered tile walls, infested concrete pit … and then, ah, the source of the paranoid voice. He’s right beside me, but he’s sitting on the floor, which is why I didn’t see him.

  He looks like a blond ferret. Stringy unwashed hair and huge eyes, jeans that are barely recognizable, stained white T-shirt, huge red overshirt, ratty old sweater … The sneakers, one Converse and one Nike, are both untied and the layers are all partially buttoned even though it’s got to be one hundred degrees in the subway. The guy is so filthy I can hardly look at him. I mean, he’s caked—looks like an old war victim from some black-and-white film.

  There’s one more thing I notice—and if I’m telling the truth I should admit that I noticed it first. He’s the skinniest person I’ve ever seen. Even in all those layers, the kid is skinny.

  “You mocking me?” I say, angry. I want to say it with a snarl, but when your cheeks are puffy you don’t snarl, you huff. A little puff of air escapes despite my best intentions and I end up sounding like an overweight dog farting. My eyes dart and I think, Did that sound funny?

  The kid laughs. His face wrinkles and he looks even more like a ferret. He says, “Now that was funny.” Except he doesn’t hold his nonexistent stomach and howl, and he doesn’t try to keep a straight face to be nice while obviously choking on suppressed hysteria. He says it straight-out. Makes me think. A little puff of air while I was trying to be tough? I guess it is funny. The dirty, skinny kid got it right.

  I’m ready to give him full credit and be on my way, mosey along to contemplate some new nonfunny form of suicide (FAT KID GETS HIT BY A BUS?), but the blond ferret stands up and extends a grimy hand.

  “Curt MacCrae,” he says. That’s when I just about piss my pants.

  Curt MacCrae is a legend at W. T. Watson High School. He’s the only truly homeless, sometimes student, sometimes dropout, punk rock, artist god among us. He’s the only one who’s ever played a concert at The Dump. The only one that bands like the Trees and King-Pin invite to hang with them. He’s the only one to get into five fights in one day, get the crap beaten out of him in all five, and still have everyone’s respect. He’s the only fucking genius guitar player I’ve ever met. And, of course, he’s the only one to get up in the middle of class on a Tuesday and disappear for good. Kids at school loved that.

  Since then, no one’s actually seen Curt MacCrae, and that was last year. The school newspaper took a poll and three-quarters of the student body think he’s dead. Everyone refers to him as the Blair Witch of the Lower East Side. And I just shook his hand.

  “Troy,” I say. “Troy Billings.” It comes out starstruck and I frown a little to compensate. “I know your music. I mean, I heard a bootleg of a show you played with Smack Metal Puppets. It was so great. Really great. Really, really great.”

  Curt makes a face, then glances at the tracks. He walks sideways two steps and cocks his head, thinking hard. The F train speeds into the station and the Sunday afternoon crowd climbs into the empty train. I should’ve thrown myself in front of it, but now I’m left standing there, awkward.

  “That’s my train,” I say. I need to split before I do anything stupid. Anything else stupid.

  Curt grins. “Hell it is.”

  “What?”

  “You owe me lunch.”

  “What?” This, the only word in my vocabulary.

  He hops twice.

  “I just saved your life. It’s the least you could do.”

  He says it matter-of-factly and I’m confused. I’m standing there sweating and I wonder if I smell. God knows he does. He reeks.

  “I owe you lunch?” I say, further solidifying the impression that I am a moron incapable of conversation.

  “Yeah. Mmm-hmm. Handicapped elevator’s this way.” He shrugs in no particular direction and takes off. I’m insulted about the elevator comment and he’s completely wrong about saving my life, but I’m hungry and by some freak occurrence in the universe Curt MacCrae appears to want to have lunch with me. So, I go.

  3.

  WE EMERGE OUT OF DARKNESS into bright sunlight and Curt points like an explorer declaring land in the distance.

  “Diner,” he says, as if the word explains it all.

  I’m way out of breath, so I just nod. I think about catching a cab back home, maybe just handing Curt the money for lunch. I haven’t eaten in a restaurant since ninth grade, when Dad dragged Dayle and me to his military retirement dinner. It was a fancy restaurant and I had to wear a suit. A fat kid in a suit is definitely funny. But this is worse. Huge Fat Kid and filthy, skinny, blond ferret. Half of New York City stops to watch. Curt is oblivious, intensely focused on the diner’s front door.

  “How much money you got?” he asks as we wait to be seated. I’m thinking this isn’t such a hot idea even if it is Curt MacCrae. I’m thinking I should have jumped.

  “Twenty,” I say. I really have thirty.

  The waitress approaches and gives us the look—the one where her eyebrows shoot up to half the height of her forehead. At this point she makes an effort to control them by turning them down into motherly concern. Doesn’t work. She doesn’t look like a mom—she’s got big hair, big earrings, and big breasts.

  “You boys want a seat?” she asks, as if it’s something special she’s doing just for us. Curt doesn’t hear. He’s too busy rubbing his hands together like one of those madmen in the old monster movies. Dr. Frankenstein bending over a collection of body parts.

  “Twenty, huh?” He licks his lips and grins, slides into the booth beside the window even though the waitress is clearly leading us to a table in the back. He picks up the menu and stares at it like a wild man. Somehow his staring does not give the impression that he’s actually reading. He stares too intently at one spot.

  I force my body in across from him and catch several men at the counter watching us. They look away and I think this place feels cramped and smells like alcohol at 2:00 in the afternoon. I think, I’m about to eat lunch with Curt MacCrae at a Bleecker Street dive. Me and the psycho Elvis of rock, hanging out. Not bad for the Fat Kid, right?

  The waitress comes back with our waters. She’s wearing one of those authentic-looking diner outfits. Short black skirt, white blouse. The buttons on her sleeves are undone and when she sets down our glasses I can see her bare wrists. Erotic. I’m practically salivating just looking at them, but Curt says “Grilled cheese” before she’s even set his glass on the paper place mat. She smiles and the eyebrows go up again. Curt takes a deep breath.

  “And french fries,” he says, then contorts his face as if he’s just made an agonizing mistake. “No,” he says with resolve. Then, “Yes.” “No” again, then, “Damn, damn, damn, shit. Yes. French fries and ketchup. Lots of ketchup. Oh, man.” Curt grins so big I think his face
will split and the waitress laughs. I make a mental note. Skinny blond kid excited about food. Very funny.

  “And for you?”

  The waitress wants my order. Is she mocking me? God, I want to touch her. Her legs are full and long and if I could just reach under that skirt … I need to control myself. Must. Not. Be. Sex. Starved. Loser. A drop of sweat lands on my menu. I stare at it, then wipe it off with my shirtsleeve.

  “Same, no fries,” I say. I try smiling to compensate for my uncontrollably lewd thoughts, but my cheeks turn red and I huff instead. The waitress doesn’t seem to notice. She’s too busy smirking at my order.

  “Are you sure?” she asks.

  I’m not. In truth, I want to order everything on the menu but can’t stand the pressure. I’m convinced everyone is secretly watching me and no matter what I order I cannot win. Too much and they’ll nod knowingly. Too little and they’ll think, A bit late for that, now isn’t it? I huff again before I can help it and with the release of that little puff of air I think, Aw, screw it.

  “Give me the french fries,” I say, “with lots of ketchup.”

  Apparently that’s the correct answer, because she nods and heads for the kitchen. Once she’s gone I want to make small talk, but Curt’s too distracted. I ask him a bunch of questions about music, things I’ve always wanted to know, but all I get is “Hmm” and “Yeah” in no particular relation to anything I ask. Furthermore, every time we nearly make eye contact Curt’s head whirls around as if someone could be getting away with the Great Food Heist behind us. Watching him makes me motion sick, so I give up all attempts at conversation until the food arrives.

  The waitress sets down the plates of grilled cheese and fries and Curt actually gets tears in his eyes. He leans close to the table and puts his dirty head near the food. It appears as if he’s listening to it. The waitress hesitates. She can’t keep her eyes off him. For that matter, no one in the whole goddamn diner can take their eyes off him.

  Curt goes straight for the ketchup bottle. He pours a dollop of ketchup onto his spoon and eats it directly.

  Watching Curt eat is somewhere between appalling and torturous. It’s appalling because he puts so much ketchup on everything. I imagine I’m eating lunch with Hannibal Lecter. It’s torturous because he enjoys it so much. He’s extremely emotional about everything he eats.