Big Fat Disaster

by Beth Fehlbaum

  She stands, moves to the front door, and holds it open, signaling Chief Taylor that our interview is over. “You should be satisfied now. If you’re not, then I don’t know what you’re looking to find here. It’s not Colby’s fault that Ryan was killed. She didn’t force him into that road. He put himself there.”

  Leah has Ryan’s body cremated, and Mr. McDaniel offers to hold a memorial service at the high school. The cafetorium stage is lined in funeral wreaths, and the place is so full of teenagers, it looks like lunchtime.

  One kid after another comes up on the stage to speak about Ryan and what he meant to them: how he was so funny, and the way he was always there for them when they needed someone to talk to. I never knew that Ryan.

  I wish I could quiz each speaker: Excuse me, but did you bail on Ryan-the-Traitor after he reported Jared for raping that girl named Kimmie? Or did you keep having these deep, funny, meaningful conversations with Ryan-Your-Best-Bud?

  It’s like a beauty pageant of mourning. Each speaker is just a little more broken up than the last one about the person so many people had labeled “The Friendly Neighborhood Narc” and “Snitch.” But nobody calls Ryan any names at his memorial service. Nobody mentions that he got the shit kicked out of him on the last day of school, the YouTube video of the beating that immediately disappeared, or that when he walked down the hall they gave him the middle finger and mouthed, ‘Fuck you!’ behind his back. I keep an eye out for Mark, José, and Fredrick, but I don’t see them. Doesn’t mean they aren’t there; I ask Mom for a pain pill about halfway through the service, so my mind gets a little fuzzy.

  When it’s over, I spy Kayley and Kara as we’re walking to the car. They appear to be arguing, passing something back and forth. They notice us, and Kayley gives Kara a shove in our direction. Kara approaches Leah with something black in her hand.

  “I found this phone in the girl’s bathroom the day Ryan died. I wasn’t sure whose phone it was, but somebody told me they thought it was Ryan’s because his phone was, you know, stolen. Or something. So…”

  Leah doesn’t respond, and Kara throws her arms around her shoulders. She sounds like she’s crying, but there are no tears. “I—I thought it might have, you know, pictures or videos on it that you might want to have since, you know, Ryan took lots of them. I mean, there’s lots of them on his phone, I guess, I mean—I—I didn’t look at all of them or anything…Anyway, I wanted you to have it.”

  “Thank you,” Leah says woodenly.

  She doesn’t hug Kara back.

  Anna and Sean drop in to see Leah after the memorial service, and she directs them to our trailer. I snuck an extra pain pill when Mom left her purse on the kitchen counter, and I’m resting on my bed waiting for renewed numbness to set in. When Mom taps on my bedroom door and announces that I have company, I try to wake up.

  Anna gingerly hugs me and fluffs my pillows for me. “Hey, we miss you at the Nobodies table.”

  “You barely know me,” I mutter. “It’s like what you said about your shitty little school: How can you miss what you’ve never known?”

  She looks like I slapped her. “Well, I knew Ryan, and I loved him. You’re his cousin, so that means I care about you, too. Besides, if you’ll remember, I took up for you when Abercrombie and Bitch were bugging you. I thought we were friends.”

  “Yeah, if you say so,” I mumble. Anna’s eyes flash, and I expect her to flip me the bird the way she does everyone else.

  Sean fidgets with a rip in the knee of his jeans, making it larger. His hands are shaking and he chokes out, “It’s…it’s pretty awesome that you tried to save Ryan like that. Even though, you know, he still…died.”

  I glare at him. “That has got to be the dumbest thing anyone has ever said.”

  Anna leans forward. “I know you feel bad, but at least you tried. I mean—”

  I cut her off and ask bitterly, “Did you ‘Like’ the page, too, so that you could see the video that Mr. Wonderful made?”

  Her eyes are huge. “Facebook took it down already.”

  I sit up; my head swims. “That’s not what I asked. Did you see the video he made?”

  She glances at Sean; they both look at their feet.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I lie back onto my pillows and carefully readjust my injured arm. I stare at my lower dresser drawer and wish it still held my snack stash. It’s gone now, though, thanks to Mom catching me with the cookies.

  Anna blurts, “Look, we’re here, okay? Yeah, we saw the video, but…we’re here. It didn’t change the way we feel about you. We’re sorry about Ryan—about him dying…about everything. I can’t imagine him doing something so dickish as making that video! Something must have made him do that—something crazy—because the person I knew was really sweet.”

  I choke out, “Like, if I wasn’t so fat, he wouldn’t have made it?” Jeez, maybe I’m the only person in the world who thinks it’s fucked up that my mom said that.

  Sean’s voice is high. “What? No, man, that’s crazy. Are you…What kind of drugs are you taking? Ryan made a mistake, okay? But he’s not the one who uploaded the video to Facebook. He couldn’t be.” He sat on the edge of my bed. “I mean, look: when Ryan wanted to report what Jared did to that girl, I tried to talk him out of it. I told him that if he did it, he’d be bringing a huge shitstorm down on himself, and, boy, was I right…The thing is, Ryan insisted that he had to tell. Said he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t. So…I guess what I’m saying is, even though Ryan fucked up by filming you through your window, I know he wasn’t such a jerk that he’d upload it online. There’s just no way.”

  Sean kneels next to my bed, like he’s pleading. “Ryan and I were friends for years, and he’d never do something that cruel. I mean, yeah, Ryan could be a jerk sometimes, but he wasn’t a heartless asshole or anything. Seriously, Colby.” Sean’s voice cracks and even though I refuse to look at him, I can tell he’s starting to cry.

  I sniff and say coldly, “Then I guess I don’t regret trying to save him.” If everybody believes this story, why not go with it? The only person who knows the truth sure isn’t talking. Hell, he’s not even a whole person anymore. This could be my chance for a brand-new start, if people can forget about the Colby Denton Fan Club and my Fat Ass jeans dance. Now that I’ve had time to think about it, I’m not even sure I would have tried to save him if he had been trying to die.

  Moments pass with no one speaking. Sean unfolds himself and gets to his feet in the cramped space between my bed and dresser. Finally, Anna speaks up. “Look, we’re going to go, okay? It’s obvious that you don’t feel like being around anybody, and we’ll see you when you come back to school. I hope you feel better.”

  Sean scoots sideways until he’s standing directly in front of me. I stare at the stainless steel chain draped between his belt loop and pocket, and I imagine wrapping it around my neck until I can’t breathe. He says softly, “Peace out, Colby.”

  “Peace out,” I whisper.

  I took my last pain pill on Sunday around noon, and I’m dreading school without something between reality and me. While Mom’s busy putting on her makeup Monday morning, I rifle through her purse, hoping that one of my pills might have fallen to the bottom of it. I find my iPod hidden in the zipper compartment. I take it out and slide it into my pocket.

  There are two lint-covered Midol tablets under her billfold, but I don’t bother swallowing them. Bloating and cramps are not my biggest problem.

  I enter Mom’s bathroom, lower the lid on the toilet, sit fully clothed, and watch Mom expertly apply eyeliner. “Can I please stay home just one more day? What if someone bumps my arm? The bone might get knocked out of place.”

  She frowns. “Look, Colby, I know you don’t want to go to school and face all the questions. If people ask you about “The Accident,” just tell them you don’t want to talk about it.”

  I watch a wolf spider crawl stealthily out of the clothes hamper and sneak along the baseboard.
“We’re still calling it that? ‘The Accident’?”

  She gives me a sideways look. “Out of respect for Leah, yes. The medical examiner could not conclusively rule Ryan’s death a pedestrian suicide, and she still doesn’t believe that he was trying to kill himself. You and I know what really happened, but we don’t have to keep hammering Leah with it.”

  Mom fluffs her bangs with a brush, spritzes them with hairspray, and helps me to a standing position. She takes my face in her hands. “I’ve been thinking, Colby. So many people have expressed this to me in the last week, and…it’s really made me realize that even though I dislike your food issues, and I wish you could find it in yourself to change, well…just knowing that you were willing to sacrifice your life for Ryan’s has made me see you in a whole new light. Other people see you as a hero, and it has made me realize that you are a hero. You are.” She blinks back tears. “I don’t think I’ve appreciated you for the selfless person you are until now. I am very proud to be your mother.” She kisses me on top of the head. “I don’t say it often enough: I love you.” She gently wraps me in a hug.

  It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mom sends Drew and me out the door with instructions to eat at school. She’s out of money, and we’re out of groceries. Guess I shouldn’t have eaten that entire box of Pop Tarts last week…at least not all at once. Good thing they’re reopening Sugar’s today, so Mom can make some money.

  Leah’s house is overflowing with prepared meals that her friends have dropped off in recent days, but I’d rather be hungry than go to her house for food. It’d mean I have to face her.

  She’s like a zombie, in a daze, mindlessly putting one foot in front of the other. The only person she really loved in the whole world is gone, and even though she hasn’t said so, she must know that it’s my fault. She must. Maybe I’m wrong about needing to wear a scarlet D for “Disaster.” Maybe I need an M for “Murderer.”

  I try to tug Drew to our usual seat on the bus, but she insists on sitting in Ryan’s old place. She scoots over to the window and uses her finger to write Ryan’s name in the condensation on the glass. She draws a heart around it, then pulls her knees up to her chest and buries her face.

  I stare at my feet and dread what my day will bring. Without the yellow pills to put my mind to sleep, it’s whirring with images of the semi bearing down, Ryan’s unseeing eyes, and Mom kissing me on the forehead and telling me that she’s proud of me.

  The electrified thoughts that make me pig out—or seek a face-to-face with an oncoming semi—are urging me to try again to die. I clutch my skull. Why won’t the inside of my head be quiet?

  Deep down, I know the thoughts are right: I don’t deserve to live. I used to hate myself for not being beautiful like my sisters, but it’s multiplied times a thousand now that I’m a lying sack of shit, too. Just like my father.

  José doesn’t do his “Puta”-kissy-face routine at me when he gets on the bus, and of course, Ryan’s dead, so he can’t call him “Pendejo”—“asshole” in Spanish—anymore.

  Michael does his usual “I’m God’s gift to the World” act as he bumps his way down the aisle, but his fans are very quiet today.

  Mr. McDaniel meets me at the front doors of the school. He crooks a finger at me to follow him into his office. A lady I don’t know is waiting for us.

  “Have a seat, Colby,” Mr. McDaniel says as he falls into his chair. “This is Mrs. Healey, one of our counselors. She’s here to help make your transition back to school as smooth as possible.”

  I cradle my casted arm and lower myself into the chair.

  Mrs. Healey places a hand on my shoulder. “I am sorry you’ve been through so much, Colby. Mr. McDaniel filled me in on what your family was dealing with before you moved to Piney Creek. I can’t even imagine the sense of loss you must be feeling in light of Ryan’s death. He was one of my favorite people in the world. A real sweetheart. You could say that I was his Number One fan.”

  I nearly ask, “Are you serious?”—But instead I mumble, “I didn’t really know him that well. We…hadn’t been around each other long enough to become close.”

  I look at my hands and sniffle, because here’s the deal: People expect others to be a certain way, so they act the way they’re expected to act—even if it’s all bullshit. I learned that from my dad, and I have to agree with him: It’s not easy. But if he kept it up for so long, I know I can, too.

  Mrs. Healey’s eyes fill with tears and she rubs my upper back, ending with a pat-pat-pat. “What can I do to help you deal with the loss, Colby?”

  “Absolutely,” Mr. McDaniel interjects. “PCHS is here for you.”

  This is what I want to say: “You know what, Clueless People? Ryan videotaped me while I was dressing, laughed at me, and called me a Fat Ass. Because he did that, somebody—maybe not him, who knows?—posted the video on Facebook, and now everyone in this fucking school has seen my big fat ass bouncing all over the page. So, to tell you the truth, ‘Ryan’s Number One Fan’ and Mr. ‘PCHS Is Here for You’? I’m undecided as to whether he’s that big a loss.”

  This is what I do say: “Just…maybe…get some of the girls who were giving me a hard time about my dad to leave me alone? So I can get over…what happened?”

  “I’m on it,” Mr. McDaniel says. “I’d already spoken to Kayley and Kara about their behavior before, but I give you my word that in light of what occurred to Ryan, they have a new understanding about the need for compassion. Ryan’s death has shaken the student body to its core, Colby. I think you’ll see a kinder, gentler side of people now. That’s the sense I get. What about you, Mrs. Healey, based on the counseling you’ve done since this tragedy?”

  She nods. “Oh, most definitely.” She turns toward me, puts her hand on mine, and says softly, “Your classmates are so in awe of what you did. I can’t begin to tell you how many of them say that they would not have been brave enough to throw themselves in front of a speeding truck to try to save another person’s life. There’s no question that Ryan’s death is unspeakably sad; however, perhaps because of what happened, your classmates will think about others more than themselves.”

  Mr. McDaniel speaks up. “Your heroism on that day is like a stone thrown into a still pond. It will have a ripple effect that no one can overestimate. Perhaps knowing that others consider you a hero will provide some small comfort to you. What you did that day will live on forever, Colby. There’s no going back.”

  Mrs. Healey looks into my eyes until her face crumples, and she turns away to grab a tissue.

  “Go on to class now,” Mr. McDaniel says in a thick voice. He looks like he’s about to start bawling, too. He scrawls out a pass and hands it to me. “We’re here for you, so please don’t hesitate to let us know if you need help.”

  I rise and move toward the door. My eyes are brimming with tears as it sinks in completely: If these people find out the truth, they will hate me just like my mom hates Big Fat Disaster Colby. I am fucked, and there’s no going back.

  I have to try again.

  I have to die.

  I hand Mrs. Clay the pass and move to my seat.

  “Colby, come back here, please.”

  I awkwardly slide my backpack off my good arm, loop the strap over my chair, and approach her desk.

  Mrs. Clay doesn’t just eat rose petals; she reeks of them, too. Her perfume is so strong that my eyes burn a little, and I blink a few times. Her smile reveals frosty pink lipstick all over her yellowed teeth. Arms wide, she shuffles around her desk and envelops me in a suffocating hug, rocking me back and forth. At last she pushes away, but holds me by the upper arms. She cuts her eyes to the side. “Michael, come here.”

  From his seat front and center of her desk, he demands, “What’d I do now?”

  Her voice fairly sizzles. “It’s what you’re going to do, Mr. Taylor: Given her injury, Colby is in need of a personal assistant. You, sir, shall be that person.”

  Sh
e notices that he hasn’t budged and orders, “Get yourself up here now, Michael Taylor, or I will tell your father about the marriage-y-juana that you bought behind the field house after school yesterday.”

  He bolts out of his chair. “How do you?…Who told you?”

  When she nods at me to return to my seat, the light reflects off her glitter-shadowed eyelids. She arches a penciled-on eyebrow in Michael’s direction. “It was a lucky guess, Mr. Taylor. That’s where your father bought his marriage-y-juana when he was my student.” She moves so close to Michael that he backs up a step, and she plunges forward after him. For a moment, they appear to be dancing.

  “I told you, Mr. Taylor: You are my personal project. I am determined to confirm my hypothesis: that you are not beyond saving. You shall prove the same to me by showing compassion to a person in need.” She points a long pink fingernail in my direction. “Colby needs someone to carry her books, her lunch tray, and, perhaps, tie her shoes from time to time. You shall be Johnny-on-the-Spot.”

  Michael throws himself back into his desk so hard that it skids across the floor. He sneers, “What if I just pay someone to do it? Is that good enough to keep you quiet?” He punctuates the sentence with a snort and mutters, “Crazy old bag.”

  Mrs. Clay plucks a rose petal and holds it up to the light, studying it. She sighs. “Well, in that case, I suppose I’ll have no choice but to tell your father about the headlights on the police cruisers that you shot out with your minions, Fredrick and José.”

  Michael jerks around in his seat and shoots an accusing glance at his teammates, whose eyes are as big around as CDs.

  “Just do it, dude!” Fredrick whispers loudly.

  José hisses, “Yeah, man up!”

  Michael slides my backpack over his shoulder and asks, “Where to now?” He shoots lasers in Mrs. Clay’s direction. She returns his bold stare and gives him a yellowed, lipstick-stained smile. He sighs heavily, rolls his eyes, and mutters, “Ugh. Fuck my life.”