Fat kid rules the world Page 3

  He redirects the sneer from Curt to me.

  “Now what have you done?” he mutters under his breath, managing to sound pissed and offended all at once. Ever since Mom died Dayle’s been convinced I’m plotting to irreversibly humiliate him.

  I clear my throat.

  “Well …”

  That’s when my father comes out of our apartment building. We don’t live in a big building, it’s a shabby five-story walk-up, but Dad still stops to lock the security door just in case someone decides to break in while his back is turned. He strides over and plants himself in front of me.

  There are now only two options as I see them. Curt can leave or Curt can leave. Elvis or no Elvis, the time has come. I wait for Curt to make his exit, but he doesn’t move. My father gives him a single disdainful glance before focusing on me. Priorities. As usual, he radiates quiet disappointment. He’s a neon sign advertising the Blue Light Special: Disappointed Dysfunctional Parent Disappointed Dysfunctional Parent. I’m sure Curt can see it flashing. Couldn’t anyone?

  “Where have you been?” he demands. The question is barked at top volume, and from the corner of my eye I see Curt nod in appreciation. My Dad is an ex-Marine and he has terrific lung capacity. Dayle smirks and opens his mouth to say something rude, but Curt interrupts.

  “Band practice,” he says before anyone can answer. We turn as one and Curt nods, encouraged by our undivided attention. “Yup,” he says, “band practice.” I gape and he amends his statement.

  “I mean, really just band formation, mental thought, planning today, but soon-to-be band practice of the most intense kind.”

  No one can translate what’s just been said. I glance at Dad and his face is screwed up like a raisin. My dad is big, like me, but all muscle. Six foot, five inches of tall, lean Marine. Since he retired he does freelance security for rich people uptown who want their own personal commando. Dad fits the part. Like me, he keeps a crew cut, but his cheeks aren’t fat and he never huffs. He is not, under any circumstances, funny.

  “We’re called Rage, or Tectonic, or Rage/Tectonic,” Curt continues. “Sort of a punk rock, Clash sort of thing.” He’s making it up as he goes along, but liking what he comes up with. The hint of a smile plays at his lips. My father turns to me.

  “Troy? Who is this?”

  For a moment, the entire absurd day flashes through my brain and I know the only truthful answer is “I don’t know.” Then I think of every other pathetic day I’ve spent for the past seventeen years, and decide, just once, I’d like to pretend I’m in a rock band.

  “Dad,” I say, “this is Curt MacCrae.”

  A burst of laughter explodes across the street, and one of our neighbors yells something in Spanish. I swear they’re laughing at me. I picture the scene as everyone else must see it. Huge whale of an unsplattered Fat Kid, emaciated piece of dirty blond twine, repressed bewildered military machine, and Dayle. Three freaks and a normal kid standing on the sidewalk.

  My brother looks like he wants to sink into the concrete. I almost feel sorry for him, and I wish he might find the whole thing funny. I mean, it is funny, isn’t it? But I can tell he doesn’t think so.

  I shift position and my thighs rub together. No one says a word, and in the absence of a response, my mouth gets diarrhea.

  “Curt’s played with a bunch of bands, and they’re all really good. Nothing you guys would’ve heard of, of course, but that’s only because you don’t listen to that kind of music, but it’s all hidden in my sock drawer, or it was, but now I’m going to take it out, so you might hear it sometime. Curt’s amazing on guitar….”

  Curt grins. “And vocals,” he adds. “I do awesome vocals.”

  I nod. “And vocals.”

  My father’s eyes narrow.

  “Shit,” says Dayle.

  Dad glares at him while I rush to say just one more thing.

  “I didn’t tell you about Curt before because I didn’t want you to get mad.” This is pure B.S. and Dayle knows it.

  “He’s lying,” he whines, but Curt shakes his head.

  “Not,” he says. He glares at my little brother as if he might squash him. Dayle’s got muscles like Dad, but he’s little and I almost think Curt could win by stench alone. Finally, Dad sighs.

  “Dayle,” he warns. Then, like a good soldier, he regains the tension in his jawline and focuses on me. “If you were meeting your … friend,” he says, “you should have told me.” He turns to Curt, his attention directed at him for the first time. I hold my breath wondering what he’ll say. Will he think Curt’s too good for me? Tell him to find someone else to play drums in his band?

  My father’s eyes narrow.

  “You,” he states, “are unacceptably dirty.”

  Dad glances toward our apartment and Dayle’s eyes bug out.

  “Dad, you’ve got to be kidding. We can’t let him use our bathroom. I swear, only Troy could pick up such a loser. If anyone at school hears about this …”

  He stifles the last thought before he utters it, but there’s an awkward moment while my father and I look at the ground. Curt just smiles directly at Dayle. It’s funny to watch my little brother get so pissed while Curt looks so smug. Makes me pervertedly happy. It’s The Battle of the Skinny Kids now playing on the Fat Kid Channel. I want Curt to win even though he’s skinnier.

  Dad ignores Dayle and heads toward the apartment. Dayle and I automatically fall in line behind him, even waiting in rough formation while he unlocks the security door, but Curt follows in a meandering path, nearly getting locked out, then taking the steps two at a time once we’re inside. He pokes his head around the corner on each floor, stops and starts about ten times, darts down the hall to inspect our neighbor’s welcome mat, then has to jog to catch up. I think, Damn, it’s only two flights of stairs and a hallway. Dad doesn’t say anything, but I know it bugs him.

  Once we’re inside he makes Curt sit in one place while he gets him a bathrobe, towel, and new set of clothes. The clothes will never fit, but that doesn’t stop Dad from declaring that everything Curt is wearing must be disposed of. Curt’s face turns horrible shades of white and I think he might pass out, but he doesn’t say a word. Only coughs twice.

  Despite this, Curt looks supremely happy as he walks down the hall from the living room to the bathroom. He stares at every picture, and there’re a lot of them. The apartment is filled with pictures of our family and in every one of them Mom’s beautiful. She’s always smiling and her long, dark hair makes her look Mexican. She looks nothing like my father, brother, and me. I watch Curt studying her and wonder what he sees. Does he think I’m adopted?

  When Curt finally disappears into the bathroom, Dayle explodes.

  “You can’t really think you and this homeless kid can start a band. Where did you meet him anyway? He smells. He’s a freak. He’s worse than you, Troy. Almost worse than you. No one’s really worse than you because you’re such a major loser.”

  I swallow hard. My little brother doesn’t get the fact that this is Curt MacCrae. He’s not just any homeless person. He’s a school legend. If Dayle weren’t a freshman jock he’d know that.

  “You’re too young to remember,” I say, “but Curt was real popular at school a couple years ago. And he’s not homeless all the time.”

  My cheeks huff while I talk. Dayle pouts.

  “Troy, you’re the king of morons. You haven’t played drums since seventh grade, and you weren’t even good then. You don’t own a drum set. You can’t be active for more than five minutes before you’re out of breath. Who do you think you and this Curt person are going to play for, anyway? You never go out. I swear to God …”

  I could drop the lie right there, but I don’t.

  “Curt’s a great musician,” I say instead. “You’ll see, Dayle. He’s going to teach me everything he knows and Rage/Tectonic is going to be huge. Just wait.”

  Just wait.

  9.

  I NEED SERIOUS MENTAL HELP. What kind of pe
rson lies about being in a band when it’s obvious that this is absurd? I mean, what the hell was I thinking? What did I imagine would happen?

  I try conjuring the possible results of my lying.

  First possible scenario: Curt comes clean. Literally and figuratively. He comes out of the shower racked with guilt and confesses on the spot. He tells Dad about saving my life. Dad tells me it’s time to go back to the psychologist. Not the young one with the fabulous tits who made the hour seem like an X-rated movie. No, the old one who breathed like he had emphysema and couldn’t think of anything more creative to ask than “Do you miss your mummy much?”

  Scrap that.

  Second possible scenario: I come clean. A week has passed and Curt is lounging around the house in my father’s robe eating the maraschino cherries Dad keeps stashed behind the entertainment center. Dayle starts harping on me about my negative drumming talent and I crack under pressure. I confess to being a serious punk rock wannabe and everyone, including my father, laughs at my ability to delude myself. He kicks Curt out and Curt tells everyone connected to the music scene that I am—literally—the biggest loser he’s ever met. They write a punk rock song about me and it contains the chorus Split a gut, split a gut, laugh until you split a gut….

  I’m ill.

  Out of desperation, I conjure a third and final scenario that involves neither of us coming clean. This time, I pretend to be Curt’s drummer until some future date when Curt loses interest in me. That would be tomorrow. Tuesday at the latest. Curt hangs out and eats free food, then he splits. No one’s surprised, but no can say it’s my fault. No one could say I didn’t try, right?

  The choice is clear. FAT KID MAKES AN EFFORT.

  10.

  FAT KID PROVERB # 12: A clear choice is still worth agonizing over.

  I pace the halls outside the bathroom door. Curt takes forever to shower, but when he opens the door, there I am waiting for him. A truly pathetic display of neediness. A blast of steam hits me in the face and Curt emerges like a rock star from a dry-ice fog. If he weren’t the only other person in our house I wouldn’t recognize him. He’s entirely whiter, blonder, and skinnier than anyone could have imagined. Curt MacCrae has raised the bar on my dreams of emaciation.

  Holy shit, I think, he’s concave.

  Curt ignores me. He walks to the living room while simultaneously trying to pull a T-shirt over his head. The T-shirt is one of Dad’s and it reads MARINES in block letters. It’s way too big and Curt can’t find the armholes. He crashes into the wall, straightens himself out, then settles on the couch next to Dayle. Immediately, he picks up the remote control and changes the channel from ESPN to Comedy Central.

  Normally, Dayle throws a fit if someone changes the channel, but today he’s too busy staring to notice. Not only is the T-shirt too big, but Curt’s also trying to wear a pair of Dad’s pants that are approximately eighteen sizes too large. He has them rolled at the waist to keep them from falling down. Even so, the pant legs drape past his feet onto the floor. He’s an elf transported to a land of giants.

  Dad comes out of the kitchen, glances at Curt, and scowls as if it’s entirely Curt’s fault the clothes don’t fit.

  “Unacceptable,” Dad says at last. He motions Curt toward the kitchen. “Just … just … just sit over there and eat something. Troy, get your friend something to eat. I’m going out.”

  Dad sticks his wallet in his back pocket. By all appearances he intends for Curt to sit and eat until he grows to a more acceptable size.

  As opposed to an unacceptable size, of course.

  11.

  HMM … WHAT TO DO. When Dad says to do something, I do it. Ever the obedient Fat Kid, I start looking for food I can force-feed Curt. Only Curt has no intention of staying put. As soon as Dad’s out the door Curt makes a low whistle and goes straight to the garbage can. He fishes out all his clothes and throws them into the kitchen sink. I watch, one hand suspended over the loaf of Wonder Bread, as he turns both faucets on full blast.

  There’s something about the days-old food rinsing off the shredded, splattered denim into the silver sink that’s enormously pleasing. I almost point it out, but Curt’s looking annoyed and Dayle’s lingering in the doorway, so I keep my mouth shut. Curt turns to me. He appears to be concentrating very hard.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” he says as if picking up on a conversation we just recently left off. He speaks only to me, as if Dayle’s not even there. “We’re going to get you to a show or two, possibly four, then we’re going to find you some drums, one of the well-rated sets to which I referred in the cab. Eh-hem. Now, I imagine your dad’ll spring for a set if he’s convinced that we’re serious, which, of course, we truly are. And being serious, as we are, we’ll make plans to pick up my guitar from my mom’s place and start jamming when she and the asshole are at work. When I think you’ve got it, it being the technical drumming part of course, we’ll pick up some gigs…. We’ll plug our selves by word of mouth now, you know, to build an advance buzz, see? That way, by the time we get our first gig everyone will think we’re well-known and we will have successfully … emm, yes.”

  Curt ticks off this mental list as if the items are mathematical principles easily organized into an equation. Dayle rolls his eyes.

  “If I lived here,” Curt continues, “it would be way much easier for us to practice. Very beneficial. But, I don’t know, I mean, I don’t think your dad would go for that. But in a while, when he likes me, well, then …”

  Dayle makes a choked gasping sound and his eyes bug out like a kid about to bite it in a horror movie, but Curt doesn’t appear to be the slightest bit tempted to acknowledge him. He continues talking while I watch in awe.

  “So, I’ll meet you at, shall we say, school, in the morning. I’ll talk us up, you’ll skip for practice, and it’ll be a sweet deal.”

  Just like that. All wrapped up.

  “You two have got to be kidding,” Dayle growls. He’s shifting his weight from one muscle-toned leg to the other. My gorgeous, perfect, in-control little brother might just piss his pants. I grin. It’s the Fat Kid’s moment in the sun.

  Curt smiles slyly, then continues ignoring him.

  “Worst class?” he asks.

  Is he serious? I glance at Dayle, but the question seems legit.

  “Gym,” I say. Curt thinks hard.

  “Mmm-hmm. Gym. When’s gym?”

  “Third period.” More thinking.

  “Mmm-hmm. Third period. Before and after?”

  I narrow my eyes. Answer carefully. “Math and study hall.”

  Curt nods like a Mafia kingpin closing a deal. He articulates his next question very slowly, so I know it’s important.

  “Are you … good … at math?” he asks. I wait an equally long time before responding, giving the question my full attention.

  “Yes,” I say decisively. I should leave it at that, but when you’re fat you cannot miss an opportunity to prove yourself. “I’m good at all my classes except gym,” I add. Then I curse myself because it’s not true. I failed metal shop.

  Curt nods, unaware.

  “Excellent,” he says. “You’ll skip math, gym, and study hall every Monday….” There’s the briefest of pauses before he asks his next question. I expect it to have something to do with the plan, but I’m wrong.

  “You got any … cough medicine?”

  The question is so totally unrelated I think I’ve heard him incorrectly. I don’t respond and he coughs, almost as an afterthought. I shake my head. Curt shrugs and the mood pops like a cherry.

  12.

  THE NEXT MORNING I WAKE UP with a start and look around for Curt, but there’s no sign of him. I think I remember meeting him yesterday, but now I’m not so sure. I’ve woken up from reality convinced it was a dream.

  My breath tastes like the bottom of someone’s shoe after he’s stepped in dog shit. If I have to be fat couldn’t I at least have minty-fresh breath? I get up and pull on clean underwea
r and tan pants. I would shower, but I barely fit inside and I hate flooding the floor. Pisses Dayle off. And Dad. I settle for lots of deodorant.

  I pick up a T-shirt that’s wadded behind my stereo and smooth it against my leg. When I lift it to my face and sniff I realize it’s the same one I had on yesterday. Smells like Curt—body odor and subway grime.

  I put it on because it’s my only tangible evidence that Curt MacCrae really exists. Like a man who’s met God, I now question my memory of events. Did he really say his name was Curt MacCrae? Maybe that’s just what I wanted to hear. Was he really at my house? Perhaps my brain, boggled by the stress of a thwarted suicide attempt, released powerful chemicals to convince me of a delusion. Did we really eat at a diner and pretend to form a band?

  I lumber to breakfast, Fat Kid on a mission.

  We sit down to eat and I annoy even myself with my incessant questions and my need to confirm reality with the only eyewitnesses I can find.

  “Last night, when Curt was here, did you think the television was sort of messed up?”

  “When Curt was in the kitchen didn’t you think he looked a lot different?”

  “Did Curt say something to you about the clothes you bought him?”

  Dad and Dayle are less than helpful. Dayle no longer looks curious, he looks repulsed, and my father, well …

  “Troy, pass the salt,” he says, exasperated. He’s too embarrassed to look at me.

  “Yeah, right, Dad. Sorry.” I snort. Could I be more pathetic? I take a tenth pancake. A second helping of eggs. Bright yellow egg yolks swirl with deep red ketchup on my plate. I decide to chalk up Curt MacCrae’s presence in my life to a sick joke.

  FAT KID HALLUCINATES ABOUT COOL FRIEND. Not funny, just sad.

  13.

  DAD DRIVES ME TO SCHOOL and, as always, I’m a surreal spectacle. He double-parks so I can get out, and the kids on the street stop to laugh.