Fat kid rules the world Page 17

  “Listen,” I say, “I was thinking you shouldn’t keep your medications here. What if someone decides to water your plant? It’s starting to look a little droopy, don’t you think?” Curt frowns and inspects the plant closely. It is looking kind of wilted. “I was thinking I could take them to The Dump and you could take care of them tonight. Stash them somewhere after the show.”

  His face changes from worried to relieved, then back again. He hesitates.

  “Yeah, I guess you could do that….”

  “Great. I’ll take it now so nobody finds it before tonight’s gig.” I wipe the sweat off my forehead and Curt gives me a strange look. Yesterday he would have trusted me unconditionally, but today …

  “Thanks, T,” he says. “You’re the best. I can always count on you.”

  I laugh nervously and lift the plant. I know I shouldn’t rush this, but all I can think about is getting out the door.

  “See ya later,” I say. I want to say something else, something profound to prepare him for what I’m about to do, but I can’t. Curt looks too happy. He stops me just as I reach the door.

  “T,” he says. “You can have my next chocolate pudding.”

  FAT KID GUILT WITH EXTRA WHIPPED CREAM.

  87.

  I’M JUDAS CARRYING A VERY healthy houseplant through the halls of Union Medical. It’s the Fat Kid version of the Passion.

  My hands are sweaty and the plant weighs a thousand pounds. I try to breathe normally but imagine everyone knows what I’m carrying and what I’m about to do. Half of them shake their heads thinking, Why didn’t you do this sooner? The other half think, You fucking moron—you’re about to betray your only friend and give up the opportunity of a lifetime. I can’t decide who’s right.

  I carry the plant to the cafeteria, where I’ve arranged to meet Dad for lunch. I wind past the gift shop and through the halls until I smell the strange mixed odor of food and body fluids. Hospital cafeteria. I walk inside and wonder whether people think I’m a patient, there for some sort of medical treatment. A heart problem? Diabetes?

  I balance the plant on one hip and scan the tables. I’m looking for Dad’s polo shirt, but see Dayle’s football jersey instead. He sees me and lifts one arm as if he might wave, then scratches his head. I carry the plant over and set it in front of him.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, surprised.

  Dayle shrugs.

  “Maybe I wanted to see how Curt was doing….”

  “Maybe?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe I was wondering.”

  I almost smile, but at that moment Dad walks up, carrying a tray with three sandwiches, Cokes, and desserts. He sets them down and doles out the food, oblivious to the houseplant that sits before us like a centerpiece.

  “How’s Curt?” Dad asks. “How’s that new medication working out for him? Any better than the previous stuff?”

  I shrug.

  Dad unwraps his sandwich and takes a huge bite. He eats slowly and methodically, his chewing restrained, measured. I get the distinct impression he’s enjoying the sandwich, and that makes me happy.

  I look over at Dayle and he’s eating with a purpose. He eats fast, and looks at Dad a lot. They have the same type of sandwich and I wonder if Dayle even likes his. I think he’s trying so hard to be Dad, he might choke. I’ve never noticed this before, but I don’t have time to think about it now.

  I set my sandwich down, untouched, and take a deep breath.

  “Dad,” I say, “I think Curt needs some help. I think he should come live with us when he gets out of the hospital….” I pause. “I think maybe part of why he’s not getting better is because he doesn’t have anywhere to go … afterward, I mean, and if he had a place to stay he could get better.”

  Dad stops midbite. Dayle keeps eating, but he watches me intently. I expect him to throw a fit, but for once he keeps quiet.

  “What makes you say that?” Dad asks, but he doesn’t ask as if he’s asking for information. He asks as if it’s a question about me.

  I look from Dad to Dayle, then tip the houseplant over on the table.

  “Oh, man,” Dayle says. He stops with his mouth full, all his food wadded into one cheek. Half the pills Curt’s supposed to have taken, along with dozens of pills he’s obviously stolen, are now sitting in a clump of dirt in front of us.

  I clear my throat.

  “I think,” I say, “Curt needs a place to stay.”

  Dad stares at the collection of pharmaceuticals in front of us, and I risk a glance at him.

  “I also think you’ve considered the idea already, and I’m hoping you won’t change your mind.”

  Dad’s jaw is very tight and I hurry to make my case.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” I huff. “You’re going to tell me there are consequences to our actions, and if Curt’s stealing medication he has to be reported to the authorities. You’re going to tell me about responsibility, honesty, cause and effect….” I pause. “And that’s all good stuff. Stuff I believe in, but we both know the hospital will call the police, and we both know that Curt is over eighteen, and we both know that he’s got talent if someone would just give him a chance….”

  Emotions pass over Dad’s face like a shadow. He’s thinking even before I start talking and before I say half my speech he reaches out and grabs my arm. His hand barely makes it around half of my bicep, but his fingers grip tight.

  “You’re asking me to lie,” he says. He looks me right in the eyes. “You know that’s what you’re doing, don’t you?”

  I haven’t thought of it that way, but I nod.

  “I’m asking you to withhold strategic information,” I offer.

  Dad lets go of my arm. He runs both hands over his crew cut and glances around the cafeteria. It’s mostly empty, but the little old lady two tables over stares at us like we’re a traveling freak show. Dad glares until she turns away, then looks back at me.

  “I know you want what’s best for Curt,” he says. “But what’s best for Curt is to get help. Curt needs help. Addiction to medication is still addiction. Stealing is still stealing.”

  Dad has a point—I know it—but I have a point, too.

  “Yeah, Dad,” I say, “but a jail term is still a jail term, and a criminal record is still a criminal record.”

  Dad and I have locked gazes and we barely remember Dayle is there until he clears his throat. My heart sinks. I think for sure he’s going to say that I’m the king of the morons, and I’m humiliating him by defending my psycho, druggie friend and I can’t afford to let his whining sway Dad’s opinion.

  “Dayle,” I start, but my brother isn’t saying what I thought he was going to say.

  “If Curt goes to jail,” he says, “he won’t come back, will he?”

  The question catches me off guard and I can’t tell if Dayle thinks this is a good thing or a bad thing.

  “I mean, if he thinks we turned him over to the police, or the doctors, or something, he might do whatever they make him do, but then he’ll just go away and he won’t have anyone like he has now.”

  Dad’s lips form a thin line.

  “Right now, Curt’s got us,” Dayle says. “And he’s got Troy….”

  I stare at my brother like we’ve never met. He shrugs.

  “I’m just saying it wouldn’t do any good to turn him in, right? It wouldn’t accomplish any long-term objectives. But you’re pretty strict, Dad, and if he came and lived with us …”

  I can’t help it. I break into a huge grin. Dad’s shoulders slump and I can tell he’s melting.

  “Little brother has a point,” I say. “A good soldier keeps the long-term objectives foremost in his mind.”

  Dad gives me the look. Then he looks at Dayle. Dad may be glaring, but I almost think he wants to laugh. I almost think he wanted to be talked into this from the beginning. I’m about to say something else. Something about giving people chances and bending the rules every now and then so other peo
ple can fit through, but I don’t think I have to. I suspect Dad already knows.

  No one says a word for a full minute, then at last Dad looks up.

  “What is it you want me to do?”

  88.

  I HAVE TO TELL CURT the news. It’s four o’clock and he’s wondering why I’m back. He keeps glancing behind me to see if I’ve brought him a change of clothes or something.

  “You’re not going to stay long, right?” he asks for the third time. I figure there’s no use avoiding it any longer.

  “Curt,” I say at last, “we’ve got to talk.” His eyes narrow, then widen.

  “What?” he says. “Did they cancel? They cancelled on us?” He pauses, then glares in my direction. “Do not even tell me you’re bailing out again. There is no way in hell after all I’ve put up with….”

  He’s on a roll and I have to wave him off like one of those air-traffic controllers. “No,” I spell out with huge, sweeping arm motions. “I’m not bailing, and they didn’t cancel.” I pause, take a deep breath. “My dad knows about the medications.”

  Curt’s expression does one of those 180-degree slides where you see every thought that passes through a person’s brain. His face goes from furious to blank.

  “I gave him the plant …,” I say.

  Blanker.

  “He knows you were going to sneak out tonight….”

  He is completely and utterly vacant. I sigh.

  “Curt,” I say again, “I told Dad everything.”

  In the blink of an eye blank turns to terror. Terror turns to panic and Curt sits bolt upright, then moves to jump out of bed, but I place my huge body in front of him. He stops, settles back, and coughs, but his eyes dart around the room searching for an escape route.

  “He’s not going to call the cops,” I say. “If you agree to get help he won’t tell anyone about the pills. But you’ve got to come live with us. That’s the deal.”

  I wait for his surprised relief, but it doesn’t come. There’s a long pause and I wonder if Curt really heard what I said. I want to shout, I said you could come live with us, but I don’t. I watch Curt’s eyes scanning the room for a way out, and when at last they land on me I involuntarily take a step back.

  I recognize those eyes. They’re the eyes of someone standing just over the yellow line when the subway’s coming….

  Curt stares at the door, then starts to laugh. He laughs quietly at first, then louder, as if I’m playing the mother of all practical jokes and he’s just figured it out. He laughs as if it’s funny, but we both know it’s not.

  “You’re trying to save me?” he says at last. “You’re … trying to save … me?” He stops laughing and glares like he’s accusing me of a crime. “No way,” he says. “That’s not how it goes. I told you that from the very beginning. I saved you, remember? I saved you.”

  I cringe. “Curt,” I say, slowly and cautiously, “I’m offering you the deal of a lifetime. No rap sheet. No hospital authorities. No more living on the street….”

  Curt stops laughing and everything I thought he was melts away before my eyes. He doesn’t fidget or cough. He’s absolutely still.

  “You can’t do this,” he says. He tries to look pleading, but it doesn’t help.

  “It’s done,” I say. Pleading turns to fury.

  “You betrayed me?” he says. “We have our last best shot at a gig, you bail on me again, and you think it’s the fucking deal of a lifetime?” He chokes. “Oh, man, T. The deal of a lifetime is a sweet gig on a Saturday night. It’s a fucking cheese sandwich and chocolate pudding. It’s a friend who doesn’t fucking … fucking … turn you in to the …”

  His face is red and he runs one bony hand through his hair.

  “Curt,” I say, “I haven’t bailed on you. I’m right here. I told my dad about the pills because I wasn’t going to let you kill yourself.”

  Curt doesn’t even try to look at me.

  “They weren’t killing me,” he says. “They were making me feel better. They were prescription….”

  He’s getting louder and louder and every Fat Kid reflex in my body wants to bloat to the size of a helium balloon and float away, but I don’t. I take a step closer.

  “They weren’t your prescription!”

  My words ring out loudly and the tension in the room makes my chest constrict. I start to huff. I can feel Curt slipping out of my grasp. All this time I couldn’t see and now it might be too late. I have to convince him that he can do this. I take a deep breath.

  “You don’t want to live here for the rest of your life,” I say at last. It comes out as a whisper. “You don’t want to run a low-grade temperature forever….”

  Curt refuses to look at me, but I waddle to the other side of the bed so he’s forced to stare at my huge girth.

  “Is that what you wanted?” I ask. I’m expecting him to tell me to fuck off again, but he doesn’t. He bites his lip and twists the needle from his IV. His hands clutch the hospital blankets until his knuckles turn white.

  “I wanted a week,” he says at last. It comes out as a choked breath. “I wanted a week. Maybe two. I wanted a band when I got out. Those are things I could’ve had. I could’ve had that….”

  He chokes midsentence and sounds like he can’t get enough air. There’s sweat on his forehead and his nose is running. He’s a fucking mess. I hand him a clump of Kleenex, forcing them into his fingers, but he drops them and runs his sleeve over his face.

  “Curt,” I say gently, “you still have a band. You have a band and a place to live if you’ll just take them.” I pause, but have to say it all. “You think no one else can see it, but your whole life is this convoluted series of lies. You talk about playing into that space, that space where there’s nothing but real, but that’s the only time you ever touch it. The rest of the time you’re this big gaping wound you think no one else can see. You pretend everything, and then when someone doesn’t go along with you it’s time to bail just in case…. You think that’s living?”

  I know I should stop, but I don’t.

  “I may be this huge fat kid,” I say, “but at least I know when I’m trying to put up a facade. At least I know when I’m failing miserably. At least I can accept help from someone who offers it instead of being so fucking scared that something might go right for a change.”

  I’m huffing loudly and I don’t even care. “At least I don’t look at people and use their vulnerability to manipulate them. At least I’m not that scared.”

  Curt closes his eyes.

  “Take the deal, Curt,” I say. I mean it. With every ounce of fat on my body, I mean it.

  I wait for a long time, willing him to say yes, but Curt shakes his head.

  “Why’d you have to tell him?” he says at last. “Why’d you have to do that?” His voice shakes. “You think you can have everything, everything, and just hand it over?” He wipes his nose. “Well, it doesn’t work that way. How long do you think your dad will let me stay? Until you graduate? Go to college? How long until you get sick of the band? How long until you’ve sucked every moral lesson from this story and I’m left where I started?” He looks away. “Well, forget it. You don’t get to save me, Troy. I told you that from the very beginning. You don’t get to fucking save me. I saved you, remember? That’s how I want it.”

  My heart pounds.

  “Fine,” I say. “Then you go to jail.”

  “Fine,” says Curt.

  Only it’s not fine and we both know it. Curt is terrified and I’m sick.

  “Dad won’t pay your bail, you know. Ollie either. If the cops come they’re going to put you in restraints until you’re out of the hospital, then they’re going to charge you with stealing … or possession … or something like that.”

  I’m trying to sound all technical, but Curt shrugs like it doesn’t matter.

  “Fine,” he says. “If that’s the way you want it. I knew you’d fucking bail on me. I knew it….”

  I want to throttle hi
m, but I have one last card to play.

  “What if I could prove to you that I’m not bailing? That no one’s going to bail? What if I could show you everything you’re giving up by being too chicken to take the deal? If I could do that, would you give me one chance?”

  Curt scoffs.

  “Yeah, right,” he says. “And how exactly are you going to do that?”

  I cross my arms over my chest.

  “There’s a lot about me you don’t know, my friend.” I tilt my head knowingly. “Don’t mess with the Fat Kid.”

  89.

  IT’S EXACTLY FIFTEEN MINUTES until show time and I’m backstage at The Dump staring into the audience like a maniac. I look like a psychopath, but that’s not far from the truth, so I figure, what the hell. Everyone expects this to be a repeat of the Mount Vesuvius eruption, so the tension is thick. Piper and Mike keep walking past, shaking their heads. The girls jump every time I turn around. The stagehands make huge circles around me. They all think I’ve got stage fright, but it’s worse than that. I’m still waiting for my guitarist to show up.

  Five more minutes go by and Ollie comes over to peer around me.

  “Think they’re going to make it?” he asks for the tenth time in ten minutes.

  I nod.

  “They’ll be here,” I say. “I guarantee it.”

  I hope that I’m right. All those stories about Dad’s glory days in the Marines, crossing enemy lines … What if he’s lost his touch? What if he changed his mind and decided he won’t take Curt out of the hospital without permission? He was pretty iffy about the whole scheme to begin with, but I thought I had him convinced. I thought …

  Suddenly, the back door of The Dump swings open and there’s Dad. He nods at me, then backs up, maneuvering a wheelchair up the stairs. Huge Marine. Skinny kid who looks like an AIDS patient. Jock in a football jersey. The crowd backstage parts like the Red Sea.