Fat kid rules the world Page 6

  He’s cracked himself up and I stop long enough to stare at what I’m wearing. Bland tan pants. A T-shirt that reads DOG DAYS OF SUMMER.

  “There’s not much in my size—” I start, but Curt interrupts.

  “Screw that,” he says. “You make your size. You make your walls. It’s not about what’s out there.”

  Then what’s it about? I almost ask. But deep down I hope I already know.

  Curt shakes his head. “Listen, man, I gotta take a nap, maybe eat something. Very important. While I’m doing that you could work on this a bit, huh?”

  He says it as if I’ve been shirking an important duty out of sheer laziness, then slips off his sneakers and curls up on my mattress. I’m glad I made my bed this morning because he’s filthy again, but I can’t tell him to move. He’s just made my life. Besides, I’m too busy staring at my room wondering what the hell I could possibly plaster on my walls.

  23.

  CURT SLEEPS FOR HOURS and I start to worry that he’s sick or something. I worry about it in a distracted sort of way because really I’m trying hard to come up with ideas. Interior decorator, I am not

  I walk into Dayle’s room and stare at his sports posters and team banners. It pisses me off that I have nothing to show for my life. If it’s all about what’s inside, like Curt says, then how come Dayle has everything? I should have something, shouldn’t I? Something resembling raw meat or splattered Fat Kid?

  I go back in my room and dig around under my bed, but all I find is an old Saturday Night Live poster covered in dust balls. My shuffling wakes up Curt. He sits up with his eyes closed, then opens them and squints. It’s getting dark, so the room is dim and it takes him a moment to orient to his surroundings. I expect him to be disappointed, but he seems excited to find himself at my house.

  “Oh, yeah,” he says, low under his breath. He glances at the Saturday Night Live poster and nods approvingly.

  “What else?”

  I shrug. “I don’t think I have anything else,” I say defensively. Curt’s eyes narrow.

  “Everybody’s got something,” he mutters. “Here, put this CD on.” He crawls over to the bucket and takes out a CD. I put it on my stereo and crank it until he nods. The drumbeat is in-your-face relentless and it makes me want to move.

  “All right then.”

  Curt scans my room. He opens my closet, then my dresser and digs through both. He pulls out an old tartan blanket, my sneakers, a pair of tan pants, last week’s comic section, a black marker, my box of photos, a bottle of glue…. Midway through he pauses and asks if I’ve got something to eat. I pull a box of food from under my bed. He nods in satisfaction, and the work begins.

  We work steady for a long time, and for once in my life I forget that I’m fat. I don’t entirely forget, but I mostly forget. And when I remember it’s because Curt is working it into a mural on my wall. He draws caricatures of naked women on my tan pants, then tacks them up along with every candy wrapper and box we empty. They make a giant trail exploding out of my pants. FAT KID DIARRHEA.

  It’s my idea to tack the shoes to the ceiling. They’re sneakers Dad bought me for gym. I stuff them with Ho Hos and use red licorice in place of shoelaces. We cut up last week’s comic strips and glue them into a big square around the Saturday Night Live poster. It looks funky and I stare at it for five minutes while Curt digs through my photo box.

  “Which of these do you want up, man?” he keeps asking. This one? This one? He’s pulling out pictures of Dad and Mom. One of Dayle and me wearing matching baseball caps, arms draped around each other’s shoulders. It’s one of my favorites. Curt puts it down and takes out an eight-by-ten of Dad in uniform and says I should put it on the door. Suggests I blow it up poster size. I can tell he really likes it, but I shake my head.

  “No pictures,” I say. It’s the first idea of Curt’s I’ve disagreed with. I want to agree, but I don’t think I can stand having the family we once were staring at me every day. Mom before Cancer, Dad before Retirement, me before Fat, and Dayle before … I look hard at the picture of Dayle. Dayle before what?

  Curt shoves the loose pictures back in the box, but he takes the photo of Dad and slips it inside his shirt when he thinks I’m not looking. “Okay,” he says, “but the drum set goes over there.”

  He points to a corner of my room and I try to imagine a drum set in that spot. I’m thinking I could handle that, and I’m just about to say as much when the front door creaks and Dad’s and Dayle’s voices drift down the hall. Suddenly Curt’s standing up, gathering his things.

  “Seeing as there are plans and such, you know, or I’d stay, except for how it is.” Curt pushes his hair away from his face while his eyes dart about the room. They linger on my last candy bar.

  “Want it?” I ask, but Curt shakes his head.

  “Can’t,” he says emphatically. He takes a chewable Imodium out of his pocket, licks it, and tries to stick it to my mirror.

  “Looks good in here. Gots personality now.” He stares happily at the walls and ceiling. Then we hear footsteps coming down the hall.

  “Yeah. So. Meet you on Monday. We’ve got to, you know, conceptualize,” He doesn’t wait for my reply, just nods to himself as if it’s all agreed, and picks up his stuff. He’s got the guitar on his back and the amp in the bucket and I wonder where the hell he’s going with all that stuff. I would ask, but at that moment Dad and Dayle are passing in the hallway and Curt scuttles past, a spastic blur mumbling incoherently, laden down with all his worldly goods.

  I stare after him, thinking I should follow, but Dayle stops outside my door, buried in Gap bags and Abercrombie & Fitch boxes. He peers at me with disdain. I’m hoping he’ll say something about my room, but he doesn’t.

  “Dad,” he says, “can’t you tell Troy not to let that … that … sewer rat into the house? He smells like shit and we all know he’s a junkie.” He turns to me. “What, are you on drugs now? That’s all I need.”

  My father stops midstride. He’s wearing his usual khaki pants and navy blue T-shirt—the general-on-his-day-off clothes. He glances at Dayle and clears his throat.

  “Troy,” he says, “you are aware that your friend is a junkie, are you not?”

  I shouldn’t be startled, but I am. A surge of adrenaline rushes through my body and the small hairs on the back of my neck rise.

  “He’s not …,” I begin.

  My father’s eyes narrow.

  “Troy,” Dad says. “Curt’s a textbook case. Classic symptoms. I’ve seen junkies and your friend is definitely one of them. He needs to clean himself up. Take charge of his life.”

  I’ve heard that phrase uttered with every possible inflection in every possible setting. “Take charge” over easy. Scrambled with hash browns. One “take charge” with ketchup and weenies. Dayle has a small, satisfied smirk on his face as my father’s voice continues to drone.

  “Now, I don’t mind giving him a place to shower, some clean clothes, a hot meal,” Dad’s saying, “people deserve a decent leg up, and I know they can change if they set their minds to it. All it takes is perseverance. But Curt’s got to take advantage of those opportunities. Understand?”

  Of course I understand. It goes unsaid that I, Troy Billings, understand.

  My father looks down at me.

  “You understand what I’m telling you, Troy? I’m glad you have a friend, but don’t get too attached….”

  My gut churns. I think of all the opportunities my father has given me that I’ve failed to take advantage of. I make a mental list. Two gym memberships paid in full, a complete weight set given to me for Christmas, eighteen sessions with two different psychologists, a year and a half with a nutritionist, eleven diet books, two healthy-eating videos, a free consultation with a personal trainer, two summers at fat camp, and nearly perfect, healthy genes.

  My father waits for my response.

  “I don’t think he is …,” I huff, but my body’s inflating beyond my control. I start to stut
ter. “I-I’ve got to see Curt be-because of the band. For practice …”

  Dayle snorts.

  “You’re hyperventilating,” he says with a laugh. It’s true. I am. But I wonder why that’s funny.

  24.

  IRRESPONSIBLE FAT KID WAITS FOR JUNKIE FRIEND.

  Monday, I linger at the basketball court having imaginary conversations with Dad and Dayle in which I gain the upper hand every single time. I use words like “loyalty” and “tolerance” in a sweeping, grandiose manner and they cower. Hee-hee.

  Except, this time Curt doesn’t show up. At all. I stand there waiting, scanning each person who walks past the chain-link fence, but Curt is not one of them. The fourth period bell rings and I know I should go back inside—know I should—but I think, Fat Kid Screws Up Again, and my legs refuse to move. I meet the eyes of a passing businessman and he looks away, studiously adjusting the antenna on his cell phone. I stare at the brick facade of the school but cannot drag myself into its gaping maw.

  I decide there’s been a mistake. A huge, vast mistake.

  I set out for the subway without thinking about it. My feet slog forward, pulling my weight along with them. I wait for the F train, convinced I’ll get off at Second Avenue and go home. But I don’t get off.

  I sit next to the door, unmoving, while skinny people enter and exit. Their eyes are careful not to hover, but I can tell what they’re thinking—MUTANT TEENAGER UNFIT FOR PUBLIC SCHOOL: DEVIANT FAT KID WITH NOWHERE TO GO.

  I get off at Curt’s stop, East Broadway, and head in the direction we walked last week. I can’t remember which street he lives on, but I know his place was near the bridge. I walk past a park and a jumble of markets, past the low-income housing complexes. Everything looks wrong and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m going the wrong way or because everything is wrong. I’ve simultaneously managed to convince myself that Curt is expecting me and that he never really existed in the first place. I say it doesn’t matter, but I’m a big fat liar. I shuffle urgently and start to sweat.

  I almost miss Curt’s place, but at the last minute I recognize the AN IQUES sign in the window. I stand directly in front of the cement steps and stare between the security bars. Now that I’m here, this doesn’t seem like such a great idea.

  I imagine Curt, somewhere inside, hiding his skinny body in some angle or crevice. He’s probably avoiding me, but I can’t get past the idea that maybe, just maybe, he meant for me to meet him and he’s waiting for me to show up. Waiting to form a punk rock band.

  My hand reaches for the knob. It should be locked, so when it pushes open my heart races. Is it open for me?

  I take two steps forward and face the inner door. The apartment’s mailboxes are right beside me. Johnson. Gonzales. A smudge. I take a deep breath and reach forward. The door pushes open, and I let my breath wheeze out. Shhzzzhhsshh.

  It’s true, I think. It’s Monday and he’s here, waiting to practice…. I smile and walk toward apartment number one.

  I push open the door, the green one with the peeling paint. It’s partly ajar, and inside I can see the edge of the piano. I take a step forward and that’s when I see the man standing in the living room.

  Just like that, I’m the lead in a bad horror movie.

  “Who are you?” he bellows. “Who are you?!”

  The man’s greasy black hair is matted to his head and his face is unshaven, days’ worth of stubble protruding from pockmarked skin. I recognize him. He’s wearing the same coffee-stained T-shirt and brown dungarees he was wearing last week. I freeze.

  “I’m Troy,” I stammer. “I’m … I’m … I’m Troy. I’m looking for Curt.” It comes out in a stream of saliva.

  The man uses both hands to steady himself against the piano. His face contorts like Silly Putty and his eyes dance as if they have a life of their own.

  “Who the fuck are you? Where’s Curt?” he demands. “You come here to meet that sorry-ass son of a …” The line of epithets continues while my brain screams, Get out, get out, get out. But I can’t move.

  “No …” Huff. “No … I didn’t say that….” Huff.

  The man snarls and steps forward. “You tell Curt he comes around here one more time and I’ll shoot him. You tell ’im I know he’s been sneaking in here stealing my bologna.” His eyes narrow.

  “Where is he?” The voice is a hiss and he hunkers down low, trying to sneak a look past me. “Did he send you here? Is he in the hall? He tell you to come here and steal my food? I swear I’ll tear your goddamn, fucking balls off….”

  My body releases like a spring. I turn and bolt, and hear the man crashing behind me. I make it to the first door, then the second, down the steps, and onto the street. Behind me, the man slithers to the doorway and screams after me. He’s calling me a “fat ass, tub of lard, shit-brained motherfucker” but I don’t stop to argue. He’s probably right, but at least I’ve got my balls.

  25.

  I’M BACK INSIDE THE SCHOOL building. Back to the glorious confines of familiar misery.

  EXULTANT FAT KID REJOICES.

  I’ve never been so willing to go to class. I run through the halls—at least, I come as close to running as I can get. I slide in short bursts, then slow to a panting crawl. I’m sweating like a gallon tub of ice in the Amazon, pulling my T-shirt away from my chest to fan away the sweat, then wiping my vast, greasy forehead with my sleeve. All I can think about is returning to class. Must resume normal day. Must pretend nothing happened.

  That’s when I see Curt sitting by my locker.

  I stare in disbelief.

  “Hey, you’re late,” he says when he sees me. He’s obviously picked my lock and now he’s seemingly preoccupied by leafing through my textbooks. “This stupid guy, um, a teacher-guy maybe … came by and asked for my hall pass and I told him …” A bunch of papers spill out and Curt whisks them into a pile. “I told him I got kicked out of that class over there for being rude.” He points at the door across the hall with his chin and laughs. “I told him I was sitting here thinking about being more polite next time. Hell … Hey, man. What’s up with you? You’re late for practice.”

  I am the walrus, perched atop a muddy slope when the bank caves in below him. The world washes away like so much mud.

  “I almost got killed,” I pant. “I went to your … house … and …” I pause because Curt is now eating the Twinkies I had stashed in my locker. I take a deep breath and start again.

  “I was at your house. I went to your house.” I wait for the reaction, but Curt keeps eating the Twinkies. He eats each bite very carefully, licking out all the cream before eating the cake. I’m distracted.

  “There was … this guy there, and …”

  Curt looks up, interested for the first time. “The asshole?”

  I nod, catch my breath, and force my cheeks not to puff. I have to end the lie, and it must … not … be … funny.

  “I can’t be in a band with you,” I huff. It comes out in a mudslide of a confession. “I can’t play the drums; you need to get someone else. It was all just a lie, you know? Just a shallow, pathetic lie …”

  Curt’s brow furrows, and he looks up and down the hall as if I’m talking to someone else.

  “T, man, chill,” he says. But I can’t chill. Chilling is not within my fat, sweaty grasp.

  “I can’t play the drums!” I yell, much louder than I intend.

  Curt laughs.

  “Wow,” he says. He finishes the last bite of my Twinkie and licks his fingers as I stand there twitching.

  “That was kind of funny.”

  He waits a minute.

  “So, are you ready for practice?”

  I would strangle him if I could. I really would.

  Curt grins, stands up, punches me in the arm, hops three times. Yawns.

  “What?” he says when I don’t respond. “What? So you went to my house and the asshole probably said he was going to kill me if I steal anything else … blah, blah, blah. He always says tha
t. Bad refrain. You can’t listen to people like that.” Curt bends down to tie his sneaker, which is perpetually untied.

  “Besides,” he adds, speaking to the floor, “you could’ve taken him, easy. You could’ve reached out and squashed him. Sat on him if you wanted to.”

  Curt finds this hysterical. He proceeds to demonstrate how I could have sat on his stepfather. The demonstration involves making his butt look very big, then running in a half circle to play the role of terrified stepfather watching my huge ass descend.

  I stop twitching and chuckle despite myself. I’m trying hard not to, but can’t help it. Goddamn him, it’s funny.

  “Let’s go, then,” Curt says, dusting himself off. I give up and follow him back out the door.

  I ask him to tell me where we’re going, but he refuses to answer. Tells me something about old friends, the space-time continuum, and matters of utmost importance. I’m guessing he doesn’t know. We leave the school building and head toward the subway.

  “Curt,” I say after a while. “You really think I could’ve taken your stepfather? Beat him up, I mean?”

  Curt scowls.

  “You make it sound like the 1950s.”

  I wonder. Were there obese teenage freaks in the 1950s? I don’t say anything and Curt sighs.

  “Yeah,” he says at last. “Yeah, already. You most definitely, without a doubt could’ve taken my stepfather. You, T,” he adds, “are The Man.”

  I mean to correct him. No, I’m the Fat Kid, but I don’t.

  26.

  WE REACH THE STATION and I follow Curt down the dank steps, avoiding pools of mysterious liquid that collect in the corners of the staircase. I’m walking in a zone, hung up on the admission that I could’ve won a fair fight. It’s true, see? That’s the beauty of it. As soon as he said it I knew it was true, only it had never occurred to me before. Years of torment over imaginary losses now seem like such a waste.