Big Fat Disaster
Page 19
“I’ve got Coach Allison next: math class. But you really don’t have to do this. I can manage just fine; I—” I reach for my backpack.
He jerks away. “Oh, no; no way! My dad finds out it was me who shot out those headlights, and I’m dead. I don’t know how that old bitch found out about it, but I’m not taking a chance on her telling.”
“What about Fredrick and José? What’ll happen to them if he finds out?”
Michael shrugs. “Who cares?”
“You’re not helping my case for redemption, Mr. Taylor,” a crackly voice says from behind us.
Michael’s eyes widen. “Let’s go!”
He’s halfway down the hall by the time I exit the room.
Anna is at her locker. She glances at me but immediately looks away. She’s wearing a black T-shirt that’s fabric-painted: “R.I.P. Ryan. We Love You!” I look around and realize that lots of people are wearing the same style shirt. I shake my head. Did Ryan realize how much his classmates loved him? Why would he kill himself? Then I remember that he did not, in fact, kill himself. Even I’m starting to believe the suicide story.
I doubt anyone will wear a shirt like that after I die.
Michael nearly knocks me over as he leaves Coach Allison’s room. “I dumped your crap on your desk. I’ll be back for it at the end of class. OkayOkayBye.”
Coach Allison leans against the wall by my desk. I loop my backpack over my chair, unzip it, and withdraw a pencil and my workbook. I settle into my seat, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched.
Coach Allison clears his throat, and I follow his gaze to Ryan’s empty desk next to mine. He looks at me with heavy-lidded eyes. “I just want you to know that I didn’t like your cousin, but I wouldn’t wish the choice he made on anybody.”
He takes off his hat and holds it over his heart. “I guess that betraying people must’ve weighed heavily on him, and…” He sighs and frowns. “It’s a damned shame.” He shakes his head, puts his cap back on, trudges to the whiteboard, and writes “Unit 2, Exercises D, E, F, G. Due tomorrow.” He returns to his desk and pulls up Solitaire on his computer.
I’m slogging my way through Exercise E when somebody taps me on the shoulder. I turn; a folded paper sails past my face and lands on my desktop. I glance at Coach Allison to see if he’s watching, but he’s asleep in his chair.
I unfold the note and read it:
Colby,
I’m sorry about Ryan. I know who stole his phone. He’s not the one who started that Facebook page. I know it doesn’t matter now, but I thought you would want to know that he didn’t do it.
Tina
I write back “Who did it?!” and refold the note. I pick up my pencil, slide out of my chair, and move toward the electric sharpener on the table near Tina’s desk.
I glance at Coach Allison: still asleep. His head is tilted back, and his mouth hangs open. He snorts, looks wildly around, and barks, “Why are you out of your seat?”
I hold up my pencil and nod toward the sharpener. He blinks rapidly, surveys the classroom, then leans back in his chair and immediately falls asleep again. I toss the note on Tina’s desk and return to my seat without sharpening my pencil.
Tina bolts for the door as soon as the bell rings. I grab my backpack and try to catch up with her; I just make it into the hallway when I’m jerked backward. “Oof!”
“Goddammit, are you trying to ruin this for me?” Michael yanks my backpack off my shoulder and slides it over his own. He nods toward Mrs. Clay. She’s on patrol in the center of the hallway outside her room, watching us behind those thick glasses of hers. She gives Michael a little smirk and shuffles back toward her door.
I stomp my foot. “I need to talk to Tina. Follow her!”
“Well, I need to get to my next class, and I have to drop you and your crap off first, so where to?”
I’m still trying to watch where Tina goes.
Michael pokes me on the shoulder. “I said, ‘Where to?’”
“Oh. Life skills.”
“Jesus Christ; that’s clear on the other side of the world from Ag! Hurry up!” He takes off.
I slide into my seat as the tardy bell rings.
Michael tosses my backpack onto the table, turns to Mrs. Lowe, and oozes charm. “Ryan and I had become close friends, so I’m paying tribute to him by helping Colby any way I can, but my next class is in the Ag barn on the other side of campus. Would you be willing to write a pass, please?”
Mrs. Lowe embraces Michael in a sideways hug. “That is so sweet of you to help her. I’d be happy to write an admit pass! You’re Michael Taylor, right? Chief Taylor’s son?”
He smiles in an “Aw, shucks” kind of way and nods.
She scribbles a pass and hands it to him. “Here you go.”
Michael cuts his eyes to me and bumps his eyebrows up and down. I frown and shake my head.
Mrs. Lowe distributes a handout titled The Life Change Index. She strolls to the front of the room and says, “In the 1960s, two doctors conducted a study about the changes people had undergone over the course of a year. As a result of their research, they created a way of charting stressful events by assigning a point value to them; for example, moving to a new town or state is worth 62 points, while beginning or ending a school year is worth 10.
“As you know, we’re working on meeting our needs in positive ways. It’s important to understand the causes of stress so that we can choose healthy responses to it. You’re going to assess the amount of stress in your life. Place an X next to any event that’s happened to you in the last twelve months, and then total your score. You may begin.”
Mrs. Lowe smiles at Becca, who I notice is wearing her usual plaid western shirt, jeans, and boots. I’m starting to think of it as her uniform. Our teacher slides into the chair next to me, leans over, and whispers, “How are you, Colby?”
I shrug and stare at the handout.
She nudges my hand. “I was at Ryan’s memorial service. It was so nice to hear people speak well of him. He was in this class last year. During our investigation of family relationships, he shared openly about what it was like to live with an abusive person.”
The photograph of Leah with a broken nose and handprints on her neck zips through my mind. I immediately feel ashamed for the way she was treated on the Fourth of July, but I try to keep my face neutral.
“I’m sure I’m not telling you anything new, I mean, since you’re his cousin, you probably know about what they went through.”
It seems like she’s waiting for an answer, so I give her the one that seems to work: “I didn’t know him that well…yet.”
“Well, you hang in there, okay?” Mrs. Lowe gives me a sympathetic smile, pats my hand, and slides out of the chair to circulate among my classmates.
I stare at the Life Change Index handout and look for “Asshole Cousin records video of Big Fat Disaster squeezing into impossibly small jeans,” but apparently that’s not a very common event.
I hear whispering and turn to see the boy who stared at my stomach hanging over my jeans last week. He’s got his hand over his mouth, leaning over to the girl next to him. He glances at me, whispers, “Yeah, that’s her.”
I lower my head so that my hair acts as a curtain and spy on them. The girl sneaks her smartphone out of her purse and taps the screen. She glances at me to see if I’m watching, so I shift in my seat and tuck my hair behind my ear. I act like I’m studying the stupid-ass chart.
Mrs. Lowe’s voice is firm: “Angela, no phones out in class.”
She murmurs, “Sorry,” slides her phone into her purse, waits for Mrs. Lowe to turn her back, and pulls it out again. Within seconds, she frowns. She hisses to the boy, “It’s not there anymore. That sucks! I wanted to see it.”
The boy breathes, “Yeah, too bad. It was awesome.”
So, according to this Life Change Index, my life is more fucked than even I realized it is:
Parents are separated or divorced (90 points);
Death of a close friend (75…although, since we weren’t friends and we weren’t close, maybe I should only count 37.5 points for that one. Furthermore, maybe I don’t suck at math as much as I thought I did);
Moved to a new town (62);
Change in financial status (58 points for my dad never sending us any money. Go, Dad);
Problems with friends (Is Anna really my friend? She won’t be if she finds out the truth about Ryan. Oh, what the hell: 55 points);
Working while attending school (30 points, but working at Sugar’s does provide me with cake icing, so that could balance it out…);
Began school year (10 points…although I’ve only been to school 2½ days so far, so does that really count?);
Drum roll, maestro? The grand total is…460, unless I knock off 37.5 points because Ryan and I weren’t close friends, which leaves 422.5.
Mrs. Lowe claps her hands and says, “Time’s up! Did anyone have a score higher than 250?”
I start to raise my hand until I notice that no one else is as fucked up as I am.
Mrs. Lowe gives me another of her sympathetic looks. “That’s not surprising, Colby. Death of a loved one is extremely stressful.”
Why does everyone assume that I loved him?
Mrs. Lowe hands out another worksheet: This one is titled Long-Term Stress versus Short-Term Stress. There are five blanks, one for each type of stress. “Okay, now complete this chart by describing your stressors. I’ll be coming around to help you figure out if your stress is long-term or short-term.”
I stare at the page. What’s the point? I’m not sticking around much longer anyway. I raise my hand. “Um, may I please go see Mrs. Healey? She told me to check in with her if things feel too overwhelming for me.”
“Of course, sweetheart.” Mrs. Lowe scribbles a pass and hands it to me.
I give her a wobbly smile, then head for the hallway and make a left like I’m going to the counselors’ office, but I cut down the first hallway on the right and duck into the girls’ bathroom. I go into a stall, lock the door, sit on the toilet fully clothed, and put my head in my hands.
I hear footsteps and lift my feet so that I’m hidden. Someone tries to open my stall door, but they find it’s locked.
The person hisses, “Shit,” and goes into the other one instead. I guess whoever was in there before didn’t flush, because she groans, “Grossssss,” and pushes the handle. I wait for the usual bathroom sounds to happen, but instead I see knees on the floor, and soon I hear gagging, dry heaves, and spitting. It finally ends, and the toilet flushes. The stall door flies back against the wall. I leave my hiding place atop the toilet and peek out between the stall wall and door.
It’s Tina. She’s splashing water on her face and rinsing out her mouth. I open the door and step out. She straightens and sees me in the mirror but immediately looks away.
I ask, “Are you sick?”
She focuses on the running water. “Um…yeah, I think it’s something I ate.”
I move beside her at the sinks. “Who did it?”
She gives me a funny look. “Huh? Oh, we had, um, eggs for dinner last night, and—”
I set my jaw. “No, that’s not what I mean. Who made the Facebook page? Your note said that Ryan didn’t do it and that you know who stole his phone. So? Who did it?”
Tina pumps soap into her palm, runs a little water over her hands, and rubs them together. “Just—all you need to know is that he didn’t do it, okay?” She rinses her hands, shakes them off, and moves to the air dryer.
I step forward. “No; not okay.” I reach for her shoulder and kind of pull on it.
She jerks away like my hand is on fire. “Don’t touch me, Colby. I’m not going to tell you. I can’t.”
The liquid rage boils inside me. “Tell me who made that page, Tina.” My throat’s getting tight and I feel myself starting to cry, which makes me even angrier. “It’s not fair! Do you get that? It’s—not—fair!” I shove her hard.
“What are you girls doing in here?” Coach Sharp’s voice cuts through the blasting air dryer. She’s standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face.
Tina glances at me. “I was…sick, and Colby was…checking on me.” She tilts her head and gives me a warning look.
Coach Sharp narrows her eyes. “That’s not what it sounded like from out in the hallway, ladies.”
I rub my hand over my cast and stare at my feet. My heartbeat is pounding in my ears, and the air dryer’s whining like it’s stuck on. Something about it echoes the roar of the semi, and Ryan’s bloodied face whizzes through my mind.
“You girls get to class,” Coach Sharp says gruffly. She makes clear that she’s waiting for us to leave, so we walk out ahead of her. I pull the hall pass out of my pocket and find that it’s soaked through with my sweat.
I go back to life skills class. Mrs. Lowe is at the board, outlining the four stages of stress: alarm, resistance, adaptation, and exhaustion.
I put my head down on the table, and even though I’ve pretty much sworn off bothering to ask God for even the simplest things, I offer up a prayer that He’ll please make Ryan’s bloodied face disappear from my mind and never come back again.
Michael’s a no-show after life skills. I feel stupid, standing there holding my own backpack while waiting for him to arrive to carry it for me, so I head for lunch.
I’m standing outside the exit door of the cafetorium food line, watching for Tina, when my very own personal assistant emerges, carrying a tray of food. “Oh, my God, there you are. When I made it to your classroom after Ag, you were gone.” Michael shoves the tray of food at me. “Here…Oops, I’m supposed to carry it. Where do you want it?”
I make a face. “That’s your lunch—”
“I know, but I can get another one.” He tilts his head toward the long table at the back of the room where all the teachers eat and speaks through gritted teeth: “Crazy Miss Clay is watching us. Tell me where you want to sit. Now!”
Just then, Tina emerges with Kayley and Kara. I order, “Follow them.”
“Seriously? Those are your peeps? I had no idea.”
“Sure,” I say sarcastically. “Didn’t you know that we’re best friends?”
He shrugs but does as I ask.
Kayley’s eyes widen when I slide into the chair opposite Tina, whose lunch tray is overflowing with pizza, chips, cookies, and fries. Her head’s down and her hand is set on “shovel.”
Kara’s right next to me, but she’s so focused on Tina that she hasn’t even noticed. “Jeez, girl, did you leave any for the last lunch group? I thought you didn’t eat that kind of stuff anymore. Aren’t you afraid you’ll turn into El Tubbo again?”
Tina speaks through her food but doesn’t look up. “I’m just hungry, that’s all.” I’m vibrating with anger that she knows who made the Facebook page but refuses to tell me. She may be determined to focus on her food, but I’ve made up my mind that I’m going to get an answer.
I have a pretty good idea and I go for it, setting my sights directly on Kara. “Sooo, you found Ryan’s phone in the bathroom, huh?”
Kara’s head snaps to the left. “Huh? Oh. Hey, Hallis—I mean, Colby. Um, yeah.” She looks away, and redness starts in the center of her neck, then crawls toward her head. “Yeah, it’s like I told Ryan’s mom. I found it in the bathroom. On the sink.”
I tilt my head. “Tina says she knows who made that Facebook page…you know, the Colby Denton Fan Club.” My voice is shaking, along with my insides. I look down at the food on my tray and start to pick up a French fry, but my hand is trembling too much.
Kara shoots lasers at Tina, who is too busy gorging herself on cookies to notice, then turns the hateful look on me. She gets it right back. “Are you trying to say that I made that page?” She bares her bucked teeth and wrinkles her rat-like nose. “I wouldn’t waste my time creating anything with
your name or your fat ass on it.” She leans in so close to me that I can see where she has plucked away what would be a unibrow. “Want to know what I think, Colby?”
My anger-fueled confidence vanishes, and I’m hyper-aware of my overwhelming fatness in comparison to her. I say nothing; my heartbeat is thundering in my ears.
Kayley leans forward, grips Kara’s forearm, and speaks in a sing-song warning tone: “Hey, K-K, don’t forget what Mr. McDaniel said…” She waits for Kara to meet her gaze, but she won’t. “Hey. K-K—”
Kara shakes free and turns her upper body until it mirrors mine. It feels like my mass is casting a shadow on her small shape, like an eclipse.
She whispers, “I think the biggest tragedy of all is that you weren’t killed alongside your asshole cousin.” She pulls her lips back over her buckteeth into a horrible smile and nods slowly, watching my reaction. “Everybody feels that way, Hallister. They’re just acting like they care because Mr. McDaniel held this tear-jerker of an assembly and told us that when you came back to school, we’d better”—she throws up air quotes—“show compassion, or else.” She snorts. “As. If.”
I finally find my voice, even though it’s only a whisper: “You’re a miserable bitch, Kara.”
Suddenly, Tina pushes back from the table and runs for the hallway. I bolt after her, partly to escape Kara and partly to demand that Tina confirm my suspicions. She dashes into the bathroom, and I’m hot on her trail.
Tina chooses a stall with a faulty lock, and the door swings open just as she deposits her lunch into the toilet.
I step forward. “Are you o-ka—”
She violently wretches again: her shoulders rounded, her back a perfect curve. A moment later, she reaches up and flushes the toilet.
My voice echoes off the walls. “Tina? Do you need me to get the nurse?”
Still kneeling on the floor, she shakes her head furiously and says weakly, “No—no. Just—just get out. Leave me alone.” She wobbles to a standing position and moves to the sink, bends down and rinses her mouth under the tap. She repeatedly runs her hand over her mouth, echoes of my own strange habit. She might be half my size now, but in that moment, I know who she is: Tina is me.