Fat kid rules the world Read online

  The only time Ollie can meet is early in the morning, so I’m barely awake when I get there. I’ve gotten up and dressed in my stupid tan pants with a T-shirt I hate that reads BIG DAVE’S GRILL. I tried to think of something creative to do with the outfit, the way Curt would have, but my brain doesn’t work that way. I see bland tan pants and think bland tan pants. Big Dave’s Grill is Big Dave’s Grill. I wish I’d tried harder because my pants make my ass look enormous. I have the Empire State Building of asses. Some people have a bad hair day—I have a bad ass day. I’m positive Curt will take one look at me and change his mind about my being the coolest person he’s ever met.

  I stand under the overhang outside The Dump waiting for Curt to show up, but he doesn’t, so I finally go in. I make my way to the spot where I stood during the show. Ollie’s on stage setting up the drum set.

  “Hey,” I say. He looks up, laughing at something, and nods at me. I swallow hard and try to think of something to say.

  “I’m psyched for our lesson. I’ve been practicing.” As soon as the words come out of my mouth I roll my eyes and think, Moron. That sounded stupid. Ollie doesn’t seem to think so, though. He grins and ambles to the edge of the stage. He’s wearing a studded collar and black leather pants that shine like Vaseline.

  “Good,” he says. “Curt says you’re sounding pretty decent already.”

  I look around hoping Curt arrived before me, but Ollie shakes his head.

  “Nah. He’s not here. He’s headed to Mike’s for the semiannual Be Kind to Curt Fest.”

  I must look confused, because Ollie snorts. “Mike’s parents are born-again Christians who feel obligated to be charitable to the only homeless person they know. Every six months or so, they invite Curt to live with them. It’s supposed to be ‘long-term’ but it lasts about three days before they kick him out.” Ollie shakes his head and spits. “It’s always a huge scene, too. Curt steals half the medications from their medicine cabinet; Mike chooses that weekend to pierce his tongue. Trust me. It’s a blast.”

  He runs his hand over his Mohawk. “Don’t know why they bother. Mike wants to piss off his parents, of course. Expose them as hypocrites. But I don’t know why Curt does it….”

  He waits as if he expects me to say something, maybe contribute to the conversation, and I want to. I do. I mean, I’m thinking about what he’s said, it’s just I don’t know what to add. It never occurred to me that Curt wouldn’t be here. That he might go live with someone.

  Ollie waits, then frowns.

  “Well, come on,” he says at last. “Might as well get started.”

  He lets me get settled at the drums then demonstrates a few techniques in the air and asks me to try them. I’m trying to pay close attention, but now I can’t help thinking about the fact that Curt’s not here. For the first time, it occurs to me that I know nothing about Curt. He’s my best friend, my only friend, but I don’t know where he actually lives or what he does when he’s not with me. Today I do, because Ollie told me, but usually I just wait for him to show up. Or not show up.

  I wonder why he never told me about going to Mike’s. I move to hit the drum and my stick slips from my hand and crashes to the floor. The hairs on the back of my neck rise and I turn lipstick red.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  Ollie doesn’t seem to mind. He hands me my stick and starts to correct my technique. He’s demonstrating the way I should’ve done it, telling me to hit the rim as the heads of the drumsticks hit the drum, but I’m not really watching. After a minute he starts aping around, twisting his sticks under his leg like a basketball player making an exaggerated slam dunk.

  “That,” he says, “is what you should’ve done.” He’s waiting for me to laugh, but I’m preoccupied.

  “Hey, Ollie,” I say at last, “when’s Curt coming back?”

  55.

  CURT COMES BACK MONDAY AFTERNOON, but he’s grumpy. He wants me to keep up and I can’t. He wants me to stop hesitating and I don’t. He plays his original stuff and it’s incredible. He’s never let me listen to it in practice before, so I’m distracted. I lean forward to listen when I should be adding my part.

  Curt mumbles the lyrics as if he doesn’t want me to hear them. I pick up only a few words. Lonely. Vomit. Cheese. A phrase—work full-time just to make them treat me decent. He distorts the choruses so they’re just screaming and I can’t tell what he’s going to do next, so by the time he does it I’ve missed it. I come in too late. I don’t hit the drums hard enough. He hates me.

  Curt flops down on my bed.

  “Life is shit,” he says.

  I want to ask him what happened at Mike’s, but I can tell he doesn’t want me to. Every time I start to speak he changes the nonexistent subject.

  “So, this weekend when I had my lesson with Ollie—”

  “Did I ever tell you about the group that smashes entire pies on stage? I think they suck.”

  I nod in agreement. “You told me twice,” I say. “Just two minutes ago. Anyway, what I was going to say was—”

  Curt kicks at my dresser with his Converse sneaker.

  “It’s not exactly fair. Don’t you think? I mean, if you had extra pies lying around you would share them, wouldn’t you, T? You would never hoard them, or throw them away, say, when someone else was standing right there hoping to eat some pie. You just wouldn’t do that, would you?”

  I shake my head. “No, but—”

  Curt’s face turns red. “I say screw people who hoard pie. Who needs to listen to goddamn gimmicky bastards from the suburbs who don’t know shit? They shouldn’t be allowed on stage, and, furthermore, maybe someone should steal from them. That’s what I think….”

  The thoughts are rapid, random, and unfiltered. He kicks harder and harder at my dresser until my lamp crashes to the floor. I pick it up, desperate to find some way to enter the conversation, but by the time I open my mouth, Curt’s packing to leave.

  “Fuck that,” he says, slinging his guitar over his shoulder. “I don’t need to stick around anyplace I don’t want to.” He kicks my wall hard, then glares at it, then at me, then points accusingly.

  “Like I said, life is shit.”

  “Curt,” I say, “couldn’t you just stay for din—”

  He rounds the bend and disappears down the hallway without another word. I follow him to the apartment door, but by the time I lug my huge body down the hall he’s gone. I curse myself for being too slow, for ever thinking of hoarding pie, for not coming up with the right thing to say. Maybe life is shit, I think.

  All I want is for Curt to come back.

  56.

  IT’S WEDNESDAY AND CURT’S BACK. On the one hand I’m glad, but on the other hand he’s really grumpy. Almost angry. Almost angry at me. I thought I was cool. The one person who would share my pie. But apparently I’m not. I’m sure it’s because I still suck at the drums and he’s determined I’ll never make it as a drummer. When I ask, he says, “Yeah, that’s what it is.” But I wonder because he still wants to practice.

  The rehearsal is miserable, but I invite him to stay for grilled cheese anyway. He hardly talks the whole time, and when we’re standing in the kitchen he stares out the window as if I’m not there. It’s raining and water is collecting on the sill. Curt’s fixated on it. He keeps running his fingers through his hair.

  “You got any painkillers?” he finally asks.

  We do, but I say no. Curt kicks at the table leg.

  “Cough medicine?”

  I shake my head, and Curt gets grumpier.

  “Fuck that,” he spits. “Doesn’t anyone ever get sick around here?” He rakes his fingers over his face as if he might gouge his eyeballs out and I just stand there awkwardly, listening to the butter sizzle in the frying pan.

  “I don’t want grilled cheese,” Curt says at last.

  This is a surprise and I’m annoyed because they’re already made.

  “What?!”

  I don’t think it’s unreasonable fo
r me to question his decision, but Curt shoves his chair backward and it falls with a crash.

  “I don’t want it,” he says, harshly. “I’m going … somewhere.”

  He storms out of the kitchen and I stare after him, wondering where he’ll go. I think he’s left, but later I find him asleep in my bed with every blanket on top of him. I have to dig out an old afghan and sleep on the couch. When I wake up in the morning he’s gone.

  57.

  IT STOPS RAINING ON THURSDAY and Curt shows up at my locker unannounced. I can tell right away that things are better even though he looks like crap. He stands next to me and drapes his arm around my neck—no easy feat—and manages to look semicasual while talking to his small crowd of admirers.

  “So we’ll be playing at The Dump, T and me, and we’re going to, eh-hem, do something new, so if you’re there you will see this new thing in its newness.”

  The kids look impressed. The bell rings and Curt says, “I’d tell you more but me and T gotta do lunch. Strictly a band thing, you know?”

  Curt follows me to the lunchroom, then hangs around while I go through the line with my tray. I keep glancing over my shoulder to see if he’ll disappear, but he doesn’t. He’s busy turning away people who want to sit with us. With him, I mean. For the first time in four years I actually have someone to eat with and it’s an amazing feeling. Truly amazing. I find myself staring at all my classmates, thinking, So, this is what it feels like to be them.

  I’m so enamored of Curt’s presence that I give him almost everything off my tray. My small tub of applesauce, my green beans, one of my three sloppy joes, even my dessert. He grins and licks the chocolate pudding bowl with his tongue.

  “Sorry I was grumpy,” he says with his head tipped back and the bowl poised over his face. The apology comes and goes rather quickly and I’m almost not sure I heard it. I try to think of the last time someone apologized to me, but can’t recall the occasion.

  “It’s okay,” I say, then clear my throat. A guy can’t go getting all teary-eyed in the school cafeteria. “No big deal,” I huff. We sit in silence while the noise around us rises to a crescendo.

  “So,” I finally ask to break the spell, “what’s this new thing we’re going to do?”

  Curt looks blank, and I have to remind him of the speech he made at my locker just moments ago. His brows knit. He itches his nose, then drums his fingers on the table.

  “I said that?” he asks. I nod in the affirmative and he sighs.

  “Guess we’ll have to think of something.”

  58.

  THERE IS NO NEW THING. There is only the same thing, which gets old very quickly. Practice. Practice, practice, and more practice. As the days progress, I have to mentally detach from everything I ever imagined about being in a band.

  Fat Kid Dreams of Being in a Band:

  When I imagined myself in a band, it was always fun. The word “band” conjured up hot chicks screaming for my jiggling body, fabulous music played at top volume in huge arenas, and adoring fans throwing themselves off skyscraper amplifiers. I pictured myself in tailor-made 2XX leather pants and a black beret, dark glasses pulled down as I ooze out of the limo.

  Reality:

  Curt and I in my bedroom trying to scrub half a bottle of NyQuil out of my carpet before Dad gets home. I’ve got gas and Curt’s pissed because his guitar string broke, he lost his pick, and I won’t lend him ten dollars because I’ve already loaned him twenty this week. It’s only 8:30, but Dayle’s trying to “power sleep” in order to improve his football game, so every time we actually start to play something he throws his cleats against the wall. My fingers have blisters and my fat gets in the way when I try to play anything fast.

  We’ve got two weeks before our first gig.

  “Better double our practice time,” Curt says.

  59.

  FAT KID DIES OF EXHAUSTION.

  I am caught in a warped PlayStation 2 game in which the object is to drive your obese drummer insane by using one or all of the following weapons available to you: lack of sleep, excessive motion, infrequent meals, constant nagging, or the Mother of All Weapons—the ray gun of mind-numbing terror.

  The gig is this weekend and it is quite possible I may not survive to see it. We’ve not only doubled, but tripled our practice time, and Curt is working me intensely on three songs—all ones he’s written. I can’t add anything to them, but I can almost do what he tells me. I can do everything except hit the drums hard enough. That’s our sticking point.

  It’s Monday night and we’re on our fifth consecutive hour of practice with only a minuscule break for dinner. I am expiring while Curt stands in the center of my room with his arms crossed. For the fifth time today he’s seriously pissed.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he yells.

  “I was doing exactly what you told me to do,” I say, which elicits a snort of derision.

  “Fuck that,” he answers. “You’re like some chick that’s afraid to make too much noise. You’re an anorexic chick letting her nail polish dry. You’re a goddamn anorexic cheerleader.”

  I huff and my cheeks balloon.

  “All right! I get the point, but I’m telling you I’m hitting as hard as I can. What do you want from me? The neighbors keep complaining and my father’s in the other—”

  Curt cuts me off.

  “Shit. Don’t blame this on your dad. He’s getting into our music. I can tell. He wouldn’t be letting me in here if he didn’t get off on it. You’re just acting like a pussy.”

  Now he’s making me mad, so I toss my drumsticks on the floor. This pisses Curt off even more.

  “See?” he says. “See? What the hell was that? If you were really mad you’d throw them against the wall. Shove them up my butt. Stick ’em up your nose. But no. You’ve got to toss them onto the carpet. What the fuck is that?!”

  The color is rising in my cheeks but I don’t say anything. I’m thinking about rage. Huge tectonic plates grinding. Curt narrows his eyes. He walks slowly over to my drumsticks, picks one up, and very deliberately breaks it over his knee. His eyes are locked on mine the whole time and I want to punch him, but I don’t.

  “Fine,” I say. “Fuck you. Now see how we’ll fucking practice.” I cross my arms over my chest and for a long time neither of us says anything. Then Curt looks at me and shakes his head. He lets out an exasperated sigh.

  “Go get some duct tape,” he says at last.

  60.

  THE CLOSER IT GETS to the gig, the more I’m convinced I’ve made a mistake. Another Fat Kid–sized mistake.

  It’s two days before the gig and I still can’t play the drums. Oh, I can play better than I could before. Five lessons with Ollie and marathon practice sessions have accomplished that much, but I’m still no punk rock drummer. All my illusions of concave grandeur are proving to be just that … illusions.

  I stand in front of my mirror and stare at my reflection. My crew cut is still a crew cut even though I’m trying to grow it out. My T-shirt with the inane slogan still stretches thin across my continental stomach. My fat still drips over my waistband like an overflowing vat of lard. My face still sports sagging pockets of flesh and triple chins. My fat lips still pucker like the kid in the Far Side comic that’s always collecting bugs.

  In the past two weeks I’ve morphed from Rocky to roadkill. I’m repulsive and no matter how much I try to fool myself, people will laugh. They will hold their stomachs and piss their pants. They’ll point and when I try to get off stage they’ll trip me and laugh some more. They’ll call me “fatty” and “lard ass” and “blubber.” I’ll think, You unoriginal mental midgets with brains the size of rabbit shit, but I won’t say that. I’ll wait for Curt to defend me, but in the end, he’ll side with the skinny people because he’s king of their world. He’ll say, Why couldn’t you just keep up? For God’s sake, how hard is that?!

  61.

  THE DAY OF THE GIG I start to feel sick. It comes on as nausea first thing
Saturday morning and soon morphs into full-scale plague-ridden disease.

  I climb out of bed and feel my way blindly to the kitchen. My father is standing at the sink in his boxer shorts, sipping a cup of coffee. The smell makes my stomach turn. He glances at me, oblivious, then returns his attention to the window.

  “So, Curt tells me you have your first gig tonight,” he says casually. He says it the way the man in the Folgers commercial says, “Folgers is a real bargain and tastes great, too.” Dad never says anything casually.

  I’m reaching for the saltines, but stop with my arm extended. Please, God, no, I think. Do not let my father go to the gig.

  Dayle comes in from the living room tossing a tennis ball up and down. He’s dressed in his football jersey and blue jeans and looks like he’s ready to win the Super Bowl while I’m ready to heave into one.

  “Yeah, Curt told us about the gig,” he says, joining the conversation without an invite. “He said you’re going to rock. He said you’re awesome, Troy. Can you believe that? Curt told me you can really play the drums and he said we should come tonight….”

  I can’t take it anymore. I bolt from the room and lock myself in the bathroom. About a minute later I hear Dad’s voice outside the door.

  “Troy?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Troy?” he says again. “Are you okay?”

  The question is absurd. Am I okay? Have I been okay for the last nine years? Does it seem “okay” that I am locked in the bathroom?

  “Yeah, Dad. I’m fine.”

  There’s a long pause and I wonder if he’s gone away.

  “Curt said you might be a little nervous,” he says at last.

  I’m starting to wonder when Curt did all this talking. It occurs to me that, despite everything, it may not be worth it to have such an annoying friend. Why couldn’t I have found a nice, normal friend? One who collected rocks and enjoyed perusing the TV Guide? Of course, if I’m honest, Curt found me, but that’s beside the point….