Big Fat Disaster

by Beth Fehlbaum

My hands are trembling, but I navigate the mouse to the first entry on the page: a video. I click Play.

  The footage is shaky at first as the person filming it adjusts the camera so that it’s lined up perfectly with the gaps in my bedroom blinds. There I am, jumping, stomping, and shimmying, trying to slide Tina’s fat jeans onto my body. The Thumps are loud even from outside my room, and the camera shakes with the photographer’s laughter.

  “Dance, Fat Ass, dance!” whispers the voice on the video. It’s Ryan. I know it is. I glance at him now, and all the color has drained from his face.

  Drew erupts in giggles. “That’s you, Colby!’

  I shriek, “Get out of here, you little bitch!” Mom stabs her index finger at the hallway, and Drew complies.

  I turn back to the monitor and watch as I fall onto my bed in my struggle. I stretch the hanger out until it’s long and skinny. I don’t remember making those grunting sounds. Outside my window, Ryan whispers, “Gross.”

  Leah reaches over, pushes the power button on the monitor, and the close-up of my face as I’m trying to roll onto my side instantly becomes a tiny white dot on a black screen.

  She moves to Ryan, where he remains bent at the waist with his hands on his knees, leaning against the wall outside her office. Leah grips his upper arm and speaks through gritted teeth. “How could you, Ryan? How dare you use your phone for something like that! Hand it over, now!”

  “I can’t, Mom…I don’t know where it is.”

  Leah blasts, “Don’t give me that shit! Where is your phone?”

  Ryan slides down the wall to the floor. When he finally speaks, his voice is choked. “I—fell—asleep—in class—today—and I think—Coach Allison—took it. Or…” He shakes his head and whispers, “It was stolen.”

  Mom is incredulous. “Are you saying that someone else uploaded the video of Colby to this page you started?”

  He nods at the floor; then his head snaps up. “Wait—what page?”

  Leah’s voice is shaking. “Says right here that the page is dedicated to your cousin, the Fat Ass.”

  “It’s not mine. I didn’t do it.” His eyes are pleading; he glances at me, then back to Leah. “Please believe me, Mom.”

  My mom says, “But you took this video of Colby, didn’t you? You stood outside her window and filmed her as she dressed, didn’t you?”

  He takes a deep breath in and nods as he sighs it out.

  “How could you do that to me?” I whisper. “Why do you hate me so much?”

  Ryan shrugs. Leah tries to yank him up by the arm, but he remains on the floor. “Don’t shrug! Answer her! Why would you do something so horrible? Is that the way I’ve raised you?”

  He starts to shrug again but catches himself. “I…thought it would be funny. I wasn’t going to show it to anybody…Probably.”

  I wobble on my feet. Mom grabs my arm and guides me onto Leah’s office chair. She tries to force me to put my head between my knees, but that’s worse than feeling like I’m going to pass out. I sit up and lay my head on Leah’s desk instead.

  “Delete it. Now. Right now.” Leah pulls me away from the desk and jerks her head at the computer. “Now, Ryan.” He slowly stands, and she shoves him toward the keyboard.

  Ryan leans down, pushes the power button on the monitor, and stares at the screen. “I can’t, Mom.”

  Leah barks, “Why not? Just do it!”

  “Well, first of all, I didn’t create this page, so I don’t know the password, and I can’t delete the video unless I’m an administrator. Second…” He lowers his head and his voice is barely above a whisper. “The video’s already been shared fifty times. Even if I could delete it, it’s out there, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it now.”

  Mom and Leah avoid each other while they both try to make this go away. Leah works at her computer, trying to contact Facebook to take down the Colby Denton Fan Club page. Mom burns up her cell phone minutes. She calls 911 to report the video, and the officer she’s put in touch with tells her that it doesn’t qualify as an emergency according to the Piney Creek police department protocol. So then she tries to call Dad, but he won’t answer. Now she’s talking to Mr. McDaniel, asking him for help to find out who did it (if Ryan really didn’t). I can tell that she doesn’t believe his story. Ryan swears that he didn’t create the page or post the video online. I still can’t believe he’d film me through my window. So much for all their talk about “doing the right thing” even when it requires sacrifice.

  My cousin and I are sitting at separate tables in the dining room. Drew’s behind the counter, trying her hand at frosting some day-old cookies. I stare at the display case of cake pops and my mouth waters, but I’d never eat one in front of Ryan—or anyone else. I hate eating sweets in front of people; can’t stand the judgy way they look at me and, anyway, seeing my rolls of fat bouncing up and down on a computer monitor has me coated in a thousand pounds of shame.

  So far, no trip to the bathroom with icing like I’d planned, although I did go in there to barf just after Leah called out to Mom that the number of video shares is up to 122.

  Still on the phone to Mr. McDaniel, Mom plops onto the chair across from me. She shoots Ryan a dirty look as she recounts Leah’s efforts with Facebook to get the video and page removed. Ryan stands, shuffles to the big bay window, and looks out on the street.

  Leah strides to the front door and flips the Open sign to Closed.

  Ryan murmurs, “How did you find out about the video, Mom?”

  “Well, all of this started around three o’clock, when Dulcie stopped in—I thought to show us the baby—but it was because her niece told her about the video. We were trying to find it on Facebook when Michael Taylor’s mom came storming in to yell at me because you posted nudity online. That woman’s got a mouth like a megaphone, so everybody’s going to hear about it before long.”

  Leah pulls the broom out of the corner and sweeps the floor. “Of all the people to talk to me about parenting skills! Anyway, I wouldn’t call that video ‘nudity.’ There’s not much bare skin—at least not the kind you think of when you hear the word ‘nudity.’ It’s sure not the same kind of nudity as Jared sent out to everyone.” Leah seems to realize how it sounded after she says it. “Um, I mean…it’s still horrible.” She glares at Ryan and yells, “Horrible!”

  “I was in my room, with my door closed. I thought I was alone.” I say it softly, like I’m calm inside. But then I close my eyes, and liquid rage boils behind my eyeballs.

  Mom wraps up her conversation with my principal. “I’ll appreciate anything you can do, Mr. McDaniel. Thank you.” She pushes End.

  Leah joins us at the table. “Any luck, Sonya?”

  Mom starts to reply, but her phone rings. “Hi, Rachel.” Her voice is flat; she doesn’t even try to put on her sunshiny voice. “Drew called you? When? Oh, never mind, it doesn’t matter…Yes, it’s terrible…Well, we’re staying put for now. It’s not like I have anywhere else to go…”

  She glances at my aunt, who can’t seem to look at her right then. “Anyway, Leah’s…handling it…Yes, she really is. He knows he did wrong, I think.” She sighs heavily, leans her forehead on her palm, and says through gritted teeth, “If Colby wasn’t so fat, none of this would have happened. Nobody would ever think that watching her get dressed would be funny, if she’d just lose weight.”

  Leah gasps, “Sonya! How can you say that?”

  News flash: the liquid rage behind my eyeballs is gasoline, and Mom just threw a match on it.

  Two words: I’m done.

  I’m. Done. I rise from my chair and casually walk toward the front door.

  “Where are you going, Colby?” Leah asks in what sounds like her own version of Mom’s sunshiny voice.

  I sigh shakily; my throat is tight, and my voice is high and pinched. “I need some time alone. I’ll be outside.”

  Mom’s words scald me to the depths of my soul: If Colby wasn’t so fat, none of this would have happen
ed.

  I step into the sunshine and become fixated on the heat rising off the asphalt. The sun’s rays are rippling, dancing, and I see myself—stomping, shimmying, lifting one leg high and then the other, as I struggle to get those goddamned jeans on.

  An awful awareness settles in and stays: Everyone knows. People are watching the video at this moment, and they are laughing at my disgusting body.

  A car speeds past and catches a pothole. Thud.

  Thud. Thud. Thud. What a fat ass.

  My mind is buzzing with pain, electrified by my mom’s words, and there, on the narrow walk in front of Sugar’s, I am struck by a cyclone of everything that’s happened since that day in my dad’s office.

  My father with his tongue down that woman’s throat…

  Rachel shoves me away: “I hate you! If you hadn’t found that picture…”

  “If Colby wasn’t so fat, none of this would have happened…”

  “We need to pray for Colby.”

  I’m hopeless. Hopeless. It’s hopeless.

  “Hey, Hallister, where’d you get that shirt?”

  “The grand jury indicted Mr. Denton…”

  “Colby’s a big fat disaster.”

  Please, God, make me normal-size.

  “I don’t want to be homeless!”

  What a fat ass.

  What a fat ass.

  What a fat ass.

  Honk!

  I jump out of my skin, and the passing truckload of football players laughs. One of them stands and nearly falls out of the pickup bed when he imitates my shimmying jeans dance.

  No more. No more. The forces that were driving me toward the cake icing just an hour before have multiplied times a million, and they’re zooming toward a solution. I’m out of here. I can’t take it. The tears I’ve held in since I saw myself in the video escape all at once, and a sob erupts that feels like it comes from the soles of my feet.

  At that moment, I’m convinced that I am completely and utterly alone in this world. I doubt that my father loves me anymore, or if my mother ever has. I’m a fat, worthless wretch of a person who is done with this shit. Enough.

  Even though I’m sure He’s not listening, I say it anyway: “God, if You have ever loved me at all, You’ll let me die.”

  I walk casually and stop in front of an old white house a few lots down from Sugar’s. There’s nobody in it; the place is for rent. It’s located at the top of the first hill as people come into town. Leah’s always bitching about how fast drivers clear the rise; it’s like they don’t realize they could run somebody over until it would be too late. I sit on the steps and notice a kitten that’s been hit by a car. It’s near the curb. Once in a while the warm breeze blows slightly and flutters the kitten’s fur.

  An idea crystallizes in my mind, and I know I’m going to do it this time. It’s not the first time in my life that I’ve envisioned becoming roadkill; it’s just the first time I’ve decided to give it a shot. I rise from the steps and stand on the curb, looking down at the dead kitten.

  I dart out in front of the first car that clears the hill, but the driver jerks the wheel and avoids hitting me. He slams on his brakes and makes a quick U-turn, rolls down his window, and chews me out for nearly getting killed.

  I pretend to apologize for being in the road and walk slowly back to the Sugar’s parking lot. A few cars pass, but they’re going much too slowly to really hurt me. I sit on the bench in front of Sugar’s and bargain with God:

  If You don’t want me to kill myself, make a rainbow appear in the sky, like when You promised Noah that You’d never flood the world again. It’s the least You can do for me: Look at the parents You saddled me with.

  There’s not a cloud in the sky, and patience is not one of my strengths, so I give God one more chance to convince me not to kill myself:

  If You don’t want me to kill myself, make Mom come outside and apologize for saying that none of this would have happened if I’d just lose weight. I’ll forgive You for my dad walking out on us, if You make my mother at least pretend to not be a heartless, horrible person.

  I scoot all the way to the end of the bench, lean to the left, and peek in the big bay window. Mom is sitting at the table, staring at her phone. Probably checking her text messages. Drew calls to her and she laughs, smiles, and stands.

  She…smiles? How can she smile when a video of me is spreading like wildfire through the school? How can she smile with the same mouth she uses to say horrible things to me?

  I give God—and Mom—one more chance. I peek in the window again.

  Mom looks toward me.

  Our eyes meet.

  My heart skips a beat.

  She takes a step toward the front door.

  Relief floods my body: There is a God, and He is sending my mom outside to apologize to me.

  I sit back on the bench and quickly dry my face with the neck of my shirt. I rub my eyes and take a few deep breaths. I can forgive her, if she’ll just say she’s sorry for hurting me so badly. Maybe we can start over. She’ll understand how much I need her to love me the way I am. And I—I can try harder to be interested in the stuff she likes. Maybe I’ll ask her if we can start going on walks together. I might even lose weight. That’ll make her happy.

  Moments pass: I don’t know how many, but the sun shifts in the sky. Bells chime from the Catholic church a couple of streets over. One…two…three…four…five.

  We arrived at Sugar’s around 3:30. How long have I been sitting out here? Maybe I’m supposed to look for the sign. I do a quick scan for a rainbow, but all I see are three black vultures circling.

  Three’s my lucky number; I’ll give Mom a third chance. I lean over and look in the window again. She’s moved behind the counter with Drew, and she’s helping her decorate the day-old cookies. Drew holds up an iced cookie; Mom nods and smiles at my perfect little sister’s masterpiece.

  She’s not coming.

  A numbness—kind of the same fuzzy feeling I get from stuffing my face—spreads from my head to my toes, and I know without a doubt that I’m going to do it this time.

  I walk purposefully back to the house for rent and wait for my chance. I can hear the low rumble of a semi-truck approaching the top of the hill. I step off the curb, and, just in case anyone’s watching, I pretend be looking for something in the center of the road. My hair falls over my face, and I’m watching for the gleam of the truck’s grill as it clears the rise. Relief. No more. I can’t take it anymore.

  I close my eyes. Why did I have to be the one to find that photo? Why can’t I stop eating like I do? Why does my mom hate me so much? And that video! Oh, my God, the video…

  The truck is getting louder; I spy an oil stain in the oncoming lane and step into the center of it. The road shakes; a hot wind gently lifts my hair from my shoulders, and I am frozen by the sight of the truck’s grill coming straight for me.

  The airbrakes squeal. I close my eyes tightly and hold out my arms like Jesus on the cross. Over the deafening roar, I think I hear someone call my name. I grimace, waiting for the truck to slam into me.

  I’m hit, but it’s not what I expected. I thought I’d be killed instantly, but instead I’m thrown sideways, and I feel no pain until I land with a Thud and a Snap. I’d swear that my lungs collapse. It seems that the screaming truck is upon me, and I expect to be hit again. I gasp and inhale a lungful of acrid, burning-rubber-tinted air.

  I’m confused; I expected to see a white light and feel God’s arms around me. Am I on fire? My skin feels like it’s on fire. Maybe I’m in Hell.

  Pounding footsteps, then a sound unlike anything I’ve ever heard before, like a waterfall of loss. A woman’s voice: “Oh my God, oh my God! No-No-No-No-Nooooooooo!”

  Blackness.

  I don’t know how long I’m out, but it’s as if I jolt into consciousness and see a half-full Coors beer bottle inches from my face. An orange and black beetle nearly smacks head-on into the bottle but veers around it at the last moment.
I look back, up, and to the right and see the three vultures still circling against the blue sky. I face the beer bottle again and sharp stones and sand rub against my ear. I close my eyes. My left side feels as if I’ve been skinned alive.

  Alive. I’m alive. My mind replays the moment I stepped into the road, raised my arms, and saw the truck bearing down.

  I become vaguely aware of voices­—of one voice in particular. Someone is wailing. There is an intense pulsing under my body.

  From far off, I hear sirens. Then up close, footsteps and shuffling in the sand. Someone says, “Oh, my Lord, here’s where the other one landed. Is this your sister, little girl?”

  Drew yells, “Mama, we found Colby!” My sister’s blonde hair is soft on my face. She covers my upper body with hers and whimpers, “Colby, are you dead, too?”

  Dead…too?

  I try to speak, but I can’t. The baby-shampoo smell of Drew’s hair mixes with that of burning rubber, and a jolt of terror zaps my body. I gasp and instinctively throw my right arm across her back, pull my little sister tight against me. What is Drew doing in the road? She could get hit!

  Her voice is muffled. “Colby, I can’t breathe! Let me go!”

  But I can’t.

  Someone peels my arm off of Drew, and she pulls away from me. Relief floods my body when I see her face. “You’re…safe,” I sob.

  Drew nods, her voice tiny. “Yeah, I’m okay. But…” She gazes toward the road.

  But…what?

  Drew bends at the waist and presses her face against my forehead. She kisses me again and again, says into my skin, “Oh, Colby, I’m so glad you’re not dead, too.”

  I hear a woman’s voice but I don’t understand what she says. Drew slides back onto her heels and gets to her feet. I think I’ll join her; I slowly roll onto my back and the pulsing beneath me explodes into excruciating pain. I scream, but it doesn’t sound as if it’s coming from me.

  I look down at my left arm; it’s bent all funny. I stare at it, try to wiggle my fingers, and sharp pain jolts all the way up to my shoulder. A blue print dress fills my vision and a woman says soothingly, “Now, now, baby, stay where you are. Help’s on the way.” She kneels beside me, slides her purse off her shoulder, and uses it to elevate my head.