Biggie

by Derek E. Sullivan

  Chapter 15

  We Don’t Make Fun of You Because You’re Fat

  Work has always been my time. There’s no one here to bother me. There’s plenty of food and drink. Over time, my best customers have realized that I hate talking, so they don’t even attempt chitchat. I know it’s just a glorified gas station, but I love it here.

  Tonight has not been much fun. Like a kid brushing his teeth a hundred times before going to the dentist, I lay off the junk food. I haven’t eaten any junk food since Dr. Pence told me I might have diabetes.

  Dr. Pence thought I had diabetes once before. The previous diagnosis I knew was stupid. People just know when there’s a disease walking around inside of them. This time, I’m starting to believe I have it. My skin itches all over as diabetes ravages my body. Dr. Pence warned me so I have only myself to blame. But for the hell of it, I’m laying off fried foods this weekend. It’s probably too little too late, but what the hell.

  So I’m chugging water bottles with reckless abandon. In the hour and a half I’ve been at the store, I’ve finished four bottles of water. I wait patiently and nervously for Annabelle. I know she works tonight and she always gets something before her five-hour shift. I want to find a way to bring up Mr. Crawford without making her suspicious that I have been reading her email.

  Call me an idiot, but I think I should just tell her. Be honest. I hear girls at school complain about lying assholes all the time. Maybe if I tell her that I read a poem of hers back in seventh grade and I go into her email every now and then to read more of them; tell her I’m her biggest fan; tell her I don’t read any other emails, she will blush and appreciate my honesty. Maybe if I’m honest, that will set her mind at ease, knowing it’s a friend who’s peeking.

  I want Annabelle to have the perfect date and that’s why I go into her email. What girl wouldn’t want the perfect date? I know most guys are selfish and don’t care about what their girlfriends think, but I’m different. I have to be. Big guys like me can’t get by on our looks. Girls need to be impressed by our honesty and our caring nature.

  No, this is stupid. I can’t tell her. She’ll overreact. Never mess with a teenage girl.

  I hear a car door slam and I know it’s Annabelle. Her Taurus door squeaks when she opens and closes it. That sound gets me excited in a B. F. Skinner kind of way. I struggle to find breath. For some strange reason, I stand up straight; I haven’t voluntarily stood up at work since, well, ever.

  She walks in without looking at me and heads to the coolers. We just hung out a few days ago, where’s the hello?

  She sets the energy drink down.

  “Hey, Annabelle,” I say. “How’re you doing?”

  “Okay, Biggie,” she answers.

  “No candy?”

  “Nope,” she snaps.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Fine,” she takes the change from my hand.

  Since the other night, things have changed between Annabelle and me. How do I know? I know because simply knowing things about her isn’t enough anymore. For years, I was happy with insider information. Now if I know something, I have to do something. I can’t just let her mope around.

  I know I’m not her boyfriend, but I still feel like I have to solve this Mr. Crawford problem. From her latest email to her cousin, I know he’s stalking her and she caught him driving up and down her street. I need to help.

  “You know Mr. Crawford, right?” I ask.

  She spins around with a confused look.

  “He came in here and was a complete jerk to me,” I lie. “I hate the guy and wish he would leave town.”

  “What did he do?” she asks.

  “Just treated me like an idiot.”

  “Mr. Crawford’s a nice guy to everyone,” she says.

  To be honest, I’ve never talked to Mr. Crawford. I’m learning that while he may be a pervert who loves to stare at girls’ cleavage, he could also be a nice guy.

  Annabelle walks toward me and sets the energy drink back on the counter. “Have you been talking to friends of mine about me?”

  “No,” I say. “Why?”

  “I’m just going to say this one time and then I’m going to leave,” she says. “Quit playing games. I don’t know what you’re doing, but please stop.” She picks up the drink and heads for the door.

  “You can tell me anything,” I say to her back. “I don’t talk to anyone, so every secret is safe with me.”

  Still facing the door, she repeats herself, “Quit playing games. I don’t like it.”

  “I’m not playing games,” I say. “I just want you to know.”

  She turns around. “Have you heard that I’ve been having issues with Mr. Crawford? Who told you?”

  “No one said anything.”

  “Whatever, I know you’re in AP math classes. He’s not your teacher, and he lives in Waverly, so he wouldn’t stop in here on a Saturday.”

  “Annabelle,” I say.

  “I’m just going to go, because, to be honest, I feel really uncomfortable right now.”

  “Don’t leave,” I say.

  This could be a dream. My entire body feels hollow. I can’t feel my heart beat, my blood flow, my lungs pump, my stomach churn, or my eyelids blink. This could be a dream. There is no noise. No one else is in the store on in the parking lot. Not a single car has flown by the store on Highway 3. Yes, this could be a dream.

  “Fine,” she says. “If you have something to say, I’m listening.”

  “I’m not playing games.” A lump grows in my throat and I feel like I could suffocate any second. Knowing it’s now or never, I keep my mouth open and force out the words. “I’ve just liked you forever, so I want to make you happy. You need to know that whatever I’ve ever done, it was to make you happy.”

  “Ever done?” she asks.

  With no reservations, I blurt out, “I can read your emails. I know everything about the real Annabelle. You can be yourself. In fact, that’s what I want.”

  She fires the Monster at my shoulder. Shocked, I don’t move. The aluminum can bounces off my shoulder, sending a sharp pain down my arm.

  “You hacked into my computer!”

  “It was an accident.” I squeeze the pain out of my arm, I hear a whistle behind me. As if someone shot a BB through the can, energy drink squirts out of the aluminum like Old Faithful. The broken can spins like a pinwheel in a hurricane, dancing all over the floor. Turning away from Annabelle, I corner the can like I’m chasing a chicken and snag it. Energy drink fills my palms and covers my forearms and T-shirt. I toss the can into the garbage and find that Annabelle’s left the store. I race after her.

  “Leave me alone,” she yells, facing the highway.

  “Annabelle,” I say out of breath. When will the morning walks start helping? “Please, let me explain.”

  She turns and I stand there speechless. I have no idea where to start. I have two choices. I can go with the perfect dates or the poetry. I go with the perfect dates. “I just wanted to know what you like, so I could take you out on a perfect date.”

  She points her finger at me. “First off—and you fucking listen to me!—we have never, ever, ever gone out on a date. And I swear to God that if you mention last night to anyone, I will tell the world that you got into my email like some pervert. Second, why are you so weird?”

  “I’m not weird,” I reply and notice that people at the pumps are watching Annabelle swing her head and hands, searching for words, like she’s having an epileptic seizure.

  “You’re the weirdest person I know. You never talk, you never go out, and you never try to make friends. And then when you decide to hang out with someone, you break into their email to see what they like to do. That’s weird, Biggie. You know what normal people do? They ask the person, ‘What do you like to do?’ But not you. You hack into people’s co
mputers.”

  She stops talking to catch her breath. Two carloads of people pull into the parking lot and decide to watch us instead of entering the store.

  “I’m so sorry” is all I can come up with.

  “You don’t talk because you think people will make fun of what you say. That’s weird,” she says. “I know what you think. You think we make fun of you behind your back because you’re fat, but we don’t. I swear. We make fun of you because you’re just so weird.”

  “Listen, please,” I beg. “It was something I tried in seventh grade and it worked. I read some of your poetry. I just wanted to know about you, and I was too shy to ask.”

  “You read my poetry.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Fuck you, Biggie. Fuck you.”

  “Why are you so mad? I’m coming clean. I’m being honest.”

  “It wasn’t for you!” she screams. “I didn’t want you or anybody else in this hick town to read my poems. Do you have any idea how embarrassed I am right now? I feel like an idiot!”

  “Don’t feel like an idiot. I’m the idiot.”

  “Stay away from me,” she pleads. “I hate everything about you. I didn’t think you could be any weirder.” She gets into her car and slams the door.

  Chapter 16

  Third Chances

  I sit outside Dr. Pence’s office and wait for my tests to come back. I haven’t eaten in ten hours, but I’m not hungry. I want to have diabetes. I want to die. Today in school, everyone stared at me. I know Annabelle told everyone what happened. Even if she didn’t, word would have spread anyway. Finch is a small town, and a girl screaming at a guy in a parking lot is big news.

  I’m now the fattest and weirdest kid in school, and it’s only a matter of time before I’m arrested for illegal email surveillance or computer hacking.

  I rub the small circular bandage on my arm where the nurse took my blood. The results from my blood glucose test should be finished any second now. My mom keeps telling me that everything’s going to be all right, but I’m ignoring her. She’s another female I’ve hurt in the past week. When did I become such a liar? When did I stop being a good person? My love of junk food made me fat and hurt everyone around me. I would rather die than look into either Mom’s or Annabelle’s eyes. If not for my perfect attendance, I would have skipped school today, got out of Laser’s truck, and just walked all over town. People say that when times are tough, you should be around friends. I disagree. For me, when times are tough, I want to be alone. I’m happy only when I’m alone.

  “Henry,” Dr. Pence’s secretary says. “Dr. Pence is ready to see you.”

  I get up with Mom, Laser, and Maddux.

  “Sorry,” the nurse says, “he only wants to see Henry. He’ll call the rest of you in later.”

  I hate Dr. Pence. He thinks it’s still 1950 and the world doesn’t have WebMD or websites about being overweight. I don’t need a doctor to tell me that I have to lose a hundred pounds. And I really don’t need a doctor that loves to sit on the edge of his desk and look down on me. He’s probably like my customers who eat potato chips and drink Mountain Dew and never gain an ounce of weight. How can everybody in town eat like me, but not look like me? Can you answer that, Doc?

  “Hey, Henry,” he says in his fatherly tone. “How do you feel?”

  Really? That’s what he’s opening with? How do I feel? I haven’t eaten for ten hours and I probably have diabetes, which, along with my high blood pressure, means I’m going to need medicine and constant healthcare for the rest of my life. So to be honest, Doc, I’m doing pretty shitty, but I know Mom wants me to be polite, and I’ve hurt her enough this week, so I keep my thoughts to myself. “Okay,” I lie.

  “I asked you in here alone so we could talk about a few things,” he goes on with his dry, I’m-the-smartest person-in-the-room tone. I’m sure he uses it everywhere. I bet his kids hate him too.

  “Do you remember when I saw you in February?”

  I nod.

  “We tested you then for diabetes and it came back negative,” he reminds me. “So I told you that you were given a second chance. With your parents we came up with a healthy eating plan. Do you remember?”

  I nod again.

  “Well, I’m going to ask you if you and your family did what I asked, and you can be honest. Whatever’s said in here will stay in here. No one will know.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Do you remember telling me that you were going to start exercising regularly?”

  Of course I remember. I remember everything, I’m a straight-A student. Can you just tell me what I need to do? I think to myself, but out loud I say, “Yes.”

  “Henry, your mom wrote out your weekly diet for me.” He holds up a piece of paper. “It looks like a lot of good food, healthy vegetables in moderation.” He puts the piece of paper in front of me. It’s a monthly calendar that Mom puts together. Every day it has what she plans to make for our family. “Is that what she makes for you?” Dr. Pence asks.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “After breakfast, do you ever get something else before school?”

  I nod. Last week, I would have lied, but suddenly I’m tired of lying.

  “When?” he asks.

  I say nothing. I just hang my head.

  “Henry, I need you to be honest with me so I can help you. How many days a week do you eat on your way to school?”

  “Most days.”

  He nods, disappointed.

  “After you eat the lunch your mom packs for you every day, how often do you get more food in the cafeteria?”

  “Most days.”

  “And after dinner, how often do you get more food?”

  “Just on nights I work, but I haven’t recently.”

  “How recently?”

  “The last week.”

  “Henry, your mom said she found a note you forged to get out of gym class. Have you been going like she asked?”

  “Yeah, I’m going to gym this year.”

  “What about last year?”

  I just shake my head.

  “Why, Henry? Why did you treat your body like that, knowing what you know? You have high blood pressure and are a hundred pounds overweight. Why don’t you do something about these health problems while you’re still young and capable of change?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I want you to know that I appreciate your honesty and I’m not going to tell your mom about all the extra eating you have done. Even if I did, she wouldn’t care as much about the lying as she would about the fact that you’re slowly killing yourself.”

  “Do I have diabetes or not?” I stand up and look him in the eye. I’m so sick of his judgment. He’s like 180 pounds, ripped. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be three hundred pounds. He doesn’t know what it’s like to live my life. I don’t want a lecture. I just want to know if I need to start taking diabetes medication.

  “No, Henry, you don’t have diabetes,” he says. “God wants you to have a third chance.”

  “What?” I start to cry right there in his office.

  “You don’t have diabetes. It came back negative.”

  I put my face in my hands and cry harder than when my grandma died. I can’t stop. I have no control. I can feel the tears roll down my cheeks.

  Dr. Pence reaches for a box of Kleenex. “Listen, Henry, I don’t mean to be insensitive because I know this is very emotional, but you haven’t beaten it, not yet. You have to change your life now. You have to quit lying and sneaking around and let the people that love you help you.”

  “For the past week, I’ve been exercising, getting up at five a.m., to run with Laser,” I say with the tears falling onto my tongue. “He’s been driving me to school so I won’t get food. I have started to change my life, and I think that’s why I
’m okay.” I wipe the tears from my face and breathe slowly to stop crying.

  “You’re only okay for now, and you still have high blood pressure.”

  “I know, but I swear, Doctor, I’m going to change, change everything.”

  “Good. Now go through that door there and clean up,” he says. “It’s my personal bathroom. No one will be in it.”

  I keep wiping tears off my cheek as I walk into the small bathroom. I turn on the sink and try to wash the puffy out of my cheeks. I blow my nose and take choppy breaths. My face feels frostbitten and my fists are clenched.

  I look at my face, and I look so fat. The red, puffy cheeks only emphasize what people see when they look at me. I’m fat. I stare at my rounded shoulders and bloated chest. Not even the XXL T-shirt can hide my colossal gut. I’ve never really looked at myself like this before. I’m studying. It’s not a quick glance while I comb my hair. This is an inspection.

  Dr. Pence said God wants me to have a third chance, and I know most people don’t get that. I’m going to finish all the goals I’ve set for myself. I’m not going to be fat anymore. I’m going to weigh two hundred pounds. I’m going to be in shape. I’m going to throw a perfect game for the Yellow Jackets. I’m going to be valedictorian. I’m going to continue my perfect attendance. And no matter what happened this weekend, Annabelle is going to be my girlfriend. I’m going to kiss her, hold her, and have sex with her. We will go out to eat, to movies, to concerts. We will text all day long at school and talk on the phone late into the night. To accomplish these goals, I have to set another one. One so important, I stand up straight, suck in my gut, and confidently say it out loud.

  “I’m not going to be weird anymore.”

  Chapter 17

  The Cool Group

  I need to show Annabelle that I can be just like everyone else—a “brick in the wall” as Pink Floyd sang. To do this I will need to make friends, tell jokes, and be social—all things I don’t normally do at Finch High School.