Biggie

by Derek E. Sullivan

  In one motion, I reach forward, lift him off the ground by his winter coat, and flatten him against the refrigerator door. Magnets, coupons, and photos go flying in all directions. He retaliates with a punch to my ear. It doesn’t hurt. All I feel is a tingling in my hair. With my left hand, I squeeze his throat and lift. “Call me fat ass again. Do it!” His boots kick my shins, which only makes me squeeze harder.

  “Let him go!” Jenna screams.

  His fingernails slice my wrists, leaving rivers of white lines on winter-dried skin.

  “Let him go!” Jenna punches my shoulder as hard as she can and I drop Ben. He drops to his knees, and Jenna punches my shoulder again as my friends and Ben’s friends just watch. After the second punch, I turn to tell Jenna to quit it, and before I can speak, she punches me right in the nose. The pain shoots throughout my head before I can touch my nose. I’m light-headed, off balance, and blind. Okay, not blind, but I can’t see clearly and end up walking into a wall headfirst.

  “Everyone, get the fuck out!” Jenna yells.

  Ben regains his balance and pulls himself up with the help of the countertop. He tries to soothe his girlfriend. “Baby, calm down.”

  “Fuck you,” she says. “I told you, no more fighting in here. Now get out, everyone.”

  All of us walk out slowly. When we get outside, Ben turns to Killer. “You can have her, but she’ll cheat on you too.”

  Our group ignores Ben and walks toward the truck. “What were you doing?” Jet asks Killer.

  Killer just grins and says, “I love college girls.”

  As we get to my truck, I feel blood on my tongue. My nose is bleeding all over my mouth, lips, and chin. As I look for something to plug my nose, I hear Courtney.

  “Hey, guys! Here are your coats.” Courtney runs out of the house. “Is your nose bleeding?”

  Assuming she doesn’t need an answer, I say nothing. It would have been hard for me to talk anyway with my fingers squeezing my nose shut.

  “I’m really sorry, guys,” she says. “Jenna and Ben are kind of toxic sometimes.”

  She offers a little grin as I take my coat. “Next time, no crazy boyfriends, I promise.”

  I don’t say it, but I know it. There won’t be a next time.

  Chapter 25

  The Bathroom Statue

  A handful of Kleenex stops the bloody nose, but my right eye, which ten minutes ago collided with a wall, is bugging the hell out of me. A puddle of tears sits on my cheekbone. My eye, surely black and blue, throbs to the vibrations of the truck’s tires on the interstate. Lucky for me, the midnight sky fails to light even the smallest area in the truck. The tears from the punch from a girl and the collision with the wall are a secret from the other three guys.

  “I know we all want to talk about it, so I’ll say it. Did Biggie almost kill someone?” Jet asks.

  “He was a foot off the ground,” Kyle says.

  “Thanks for stepping in, guys,” Killer says. “That guy’s fists were so fast.”

  “Well, you were making out with his girlfriend,” Kyle reminds him.

  “Whatever, he’s crazy and she’s dumping him,” Killer says. “We didn’t just fool around, we talked, too.”

  They chatter on about the fight and Jenna and Courtney. I really should be listening to find out exactly what happened behind the locked bedroom door, but all of my energy is focused on holding in tears and staying on the suddenly icy road. My fingers are trembling and can barely hang on to the steering wheel. My eyes keep trying to close.

  I notice a sign for a rest area, two miles away. A grin soothes me. If I could just clean myself up, wipe off the tears, and get this Kleenex out of my nose, I would be okay. The rest area delivers just what it advertises—rest, a break from this truck, from these guys. I don’t want to hear about Jenna’s punch or her ability to kiss.

  I head to the men’s room, which is perfect: clean and empty. I plant my palms on the white porcelain sink and stare at myself in the mirror. My hair reaches for the ceiling in a million different directions. My cheeks are puffy from tears and my lips look chapped. The corner of my eye is red, but it’s hard to tell if it’s from the punch or the crying. It’s not blue, like I feared, but maroon. Slowly, I stretch out the thin facial tissue and then breathe hard through my nose. No blood. Thank God for small victories.

  I sit on a toilet and close the door. Suddenly, I’m safe. No one can come in here; no one can bother me, hit me, make fun of me or call me weird in here. This will be my new home, my safe place from a world that I never wanted to be a part of in the first place. Everything was awesome before I admitted to Annabelle about the email surveillance. We went out, an actual date. I shouldn’t have said anything about Mr. Crawford. Whoever said that honesty is best policy should see me now.

  Two months of trying to be normal have led me here, a toilet stall at an interstate rest area. I’m not in the stall because I have to use it. No, I’m in here because I just got punched in the face by a girl as I tried to protect Killer, who stole the girl of my dreams only to cheat on her.

  How is that not weird? How does my old life seem normal all of the sudden? People don’t drive thirty minutes to get in a fight; they stay at home and sit on Reddit all night. Annabelle had it wrong. I’m normal; it’s everyone else in my two-bit town that is weird. I just want to go home to my bedroom and lie down in my bed.

  I walk out of the stall just as Killer walks up to a urinal. He unzips his pants and leans forward, staring at a wall of advertisements for snow machines, real estate agents, and limousine drivers.

  “Hell of a night,” Killer says over the sound of his propelling piss.

  I say nothing and wash my hands.

  “Thanks for standing up for me,” he continues. “That was a cheap shot. Jenna told me that her boyfriend was a jealous asshole, and I guess she was right.”

  I stay quiet, just using the brown paper towels to rub the water off my hands.

  “She was pretty cute,” Killer goes on. “No offense, but she’s a lot hotter than Courtney. Not that you shouldn’t keep dating her, but you have to admit that Jenna’s the better-looking sister.”

  I finally speak, “I know why you’re with her.”

  “Who, Jenna?” Killer walks to the sink and turns on the water. “Why? Because she’s in college and really, really hot? And it’s not just her looks. She’s smart.”

  “You know who I’m talking about.” I just stand there, right in the center of the bathroom. Not a bone in my body has moved. My hands aren’t shaking, my legs aren’t twitching, and my eyes forget to blink. I’m a massive, seventeen-year-old bathroom statue.

  Killer gives me a dumb what-are-you-talking-about glare, causing rage to run throughout my body with the same velocity as the pain did a half hour ago in Jenna’s kitchen.

  “Anna?” Killer asks for clarification.

  I nod and he continues to quickly wipe water off his hands with a paper towel.

  “Biggie, when Kyle brought you to my house, I was skeptical. I mean, you were a weird duck. But, now that I’ve gotten to know you and hang out with you, I feel like you’re a good guy. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m happy to be friends with you. And because we’re friends, I haven’t told a soul about your hacking into Anna’s computer. I could tell everyone you’re a pervert, but we’re friends, so I keep it to myself.”

  He rips off a sheet of brown paper towel and starts to rub his hands dry. Looking right at me for the first time since he walked into the bathroom, he continues, “You see, friends don’t make life difficult for friends. Friends make life comfortable. And since we are friends, I’m not going to make your life difficult by saying anything.”

  I remain a statue. Perfectly still in between the stalls and sinks. Two feet in front of Killer, whose face turns red with the fear that I will rat him out to Annabelle.

&
nbsp; “You think I care what people think of me?” I calmly answer. “For another shot at Annabelle, I would take all the laughs. Tell everyone. She knows I’m not a pervert. They were just harmless emails.”

  He stops and takes a deep breath. “You don’t get it.” He starts to poke his chest with his finger. “Anna loves me. Hell, she has since she knew what love was. Go ahead and tell her. All I have to do, then, is go to her doorstep, cry a few tears, tell her that I’m so, so sorry, and she’ll take me back. She loves me.”

  I don’t say anything because I can’t think of anything. My mind’s blank. He just goes on and on, like he’s the future valedictorian and I’m the dumb jock.

  “Biggie, I like Jenna and when she punched you in the nose, that only made me like her more. Who knows? Maybe things with us will work out. If they do, I’ll cut Anna lose and you can be Prince Charming. You can be the shoulder she runs to. But if you say anything, if you do what friends don’t do to friends, then I will, out of spite, keep her around until we graduate.

  “You can judge me all you want, but the simple fact is that I’m Brian Burke and you’re the strange kid who sits in the back of the room and peeks into girls’ computers. She loves me for who I am—the quarterback, the power forward, and the starting pitcher. And she hates you because why not. What does she need you for? That’s why she’ll forgive me and never forgive you.”

  He turns back around and shoves the paper towel in the garbage can. The metal top swings back and forth from the force of his dried hands.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “I like you, Biggie. I know you’ll always be a good friend.”

  He leaves and the bathroom door closes behind him. I still stand there, perfectly still. All I can think about is what Kyle said. All I can picture is Annabelle giving in and losing her virginity to that asshole. I squint hard to erase the image of them in the backseat of his Mustang. He said she loves him because he’s Brian Burke, star athlete. I honestly believed I could win her heart by getting close to her, showing her that I’m the nice guy. I’m a fool.

  When I get home, I quickly take off my jeans and bloody shirt, and put on my running clothes. I walk down the steps and sit in a chair in the living room. Calmly, I slide on the tennis shoes and tie the laces. Finally, I lean back, stare down the hallway, and wait.

  Forty-five minutes later, the hallway light powers on. Laser, barefoot and still in the shorts and T-shirt he slept in, appears with his palms rubbing life into his eyes.

  “Biggie”—he seems startled—“you’re up early.”

  “I need to say something.” I lean forward and allow a deep breath to give me confidence. “I started working out because I wanted to throw a perfect game. I wanted to take my magic pitch and baffle twenty-one straight hitters. But, now I want something else. Now, I want to be like you, like Aaron, like Maddux. I want to be …” I stop and search for the perfect word. Laser, still probably half asleep, waits quietly. “I want to be the best, the best baseball player in town.”

  “It’s going take work,” he says.

  “I will work as hard as I have to.” I stand up. “I want you to train me like you do Maddux. You see him as the best player of his time. I need you to see me like that. And I’m willing to do whatever it takes. Train me like you train him. Make me the best baseball player at my school.”

  Laser walks up to me. His hair disheveled and his eyes a little bloodshot. “I love this attitude, but you need to slow down. One step at a time. You make the team and then we look at the next step. All this talk about being the best is just talk, and to be honest, you’re not ready to talk like this.”

  I lean down and place my eyes inches from his. “Don’t underestimate me. I’m serious. Stop thinking of me as a lazy fat ass and start looking at me like you do Maddux.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “I’m tired of it. I’m so tired of other guys getting what they want and I just stand there. I’m tired of standing on the sidelines and watching other people find happiness. It’s time for her to stop ignoring me and start cheering for me.”

  “Her?” He catches the slip. “Who are you talking about?”

  Chapter 26

  Repetition

  For the past six months, my life has been in a state of repetition. Every day is just like the previous one. I wake up at 5 a.m., work out with Laser or Mom, go to school, and stare at Killer and Annabelle. Then, I head home and throw pitches to Maddux or Kyle. After a healthy dinner, I study for a couple of hours, hop on the computer to solve some girl’s problems, and then go to bed around 1 a.m.

  The only real break from the monotony comes on the first Tuesday of every month—doctor day. After school, I ride with Mom to Dr. Pence’s office. We always get there early and pass time reading outdated magazines. She flips through US Weekly, and I read month-old copies of ESPN the Magazine.

  Either nurse Janet or Phyllis—I prefer Janet because of her sly grin of a smile—will call me back, measure my height, write down my weight, take my blood pressure, and withdraw a vile of blood.

  When they’re done, I wait roughly fifteen minutes for Dr. Pence. While I wait, I slip into a drafty gown. Eventually, Dr. Pence pokes and prods me. When we’re done, he tells me, “It’s harder to keep your weight down than it is to lose it.”

  I was dropping weight like the Cubs lose baseball games. In December, I lost twenty-six pounds. In January, I dropped another fifteen. Although I had only twenty-eight days, I lost twenty-one pounds in February. On March 1, I weighed 248 pounds. When Laser and I went running in the morning, we did just that: run. On March 22, I ran two miles in seventeen minutes, fourteen seconds.

  Then, I just stopped losing weight. In April, I actually put on four pounds. Maddux said it’s because Laser upped my weight training. Mom said it was because my workouts were no longer strenuous. I believed them.

  Now, it’s May and with the Iowa High School baseball season starting in a few weeks, Dr. Pence wants to see everyone. As I sit in the waiting room, I feel exhausted. Instead of looking at a magazine, I reread diabetes symptoms on my phone. It says diabetes can affect vision, which leads me to stare at the clock on the far wall. Is it blurry? Could I see it better last time?

  This is ridiculous. If I didn’t have diabetes at 317 pounds, I’m not going to catch it at 250.

  “Kari, Henry, the doctor can see you now,” Phyllis says.

  Where’s Janet? She’s my lucky nurse.

  “Good luck, Biggie,” Laser says as Mom and I walk toward the nurse.

  We walk past the patient rooms and turn left into his office. He’s already there, planted on the corner of his desk. As he stands up to greet us, I see a freshly opened box of Kleenex. Seeing the tissues takes my breath away. Is that for me? My mom? Calm down, I tell myself. There was a box last time too, and you didn’t have diabetes. Get yourself together.

  We all sit in the same spots as we did eight months ago after Laser busted me for sneaking junk food before school. It seems like yesterday.

  “Henry, how are you?” Dr. Pence asks.

  I want to respond, “You tell me. You have all the answers. You took my blood and ran tests.” But like always, I suppress my anger. “Fine,” I say instead.

  “Well, I just brought you here today to say, Kari, you have a healthy son,” Dr. Pence says. “He’s still about forty pounds overweight, but his tests look good overall and I don’t think he needs to come here next month.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Mom says.

  What a fucking asshole. Really, I’m healthy. That can’t be said in a phone call or in an email? You have to leave me hanging for twenty-four hours? I thought I had diabetes. I thought I was sick. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I wanted to jump up, grab his white coat, and throw him up against the wall like I did that asshole in Marion. I can just see him planted above his desk, legs flailing, saying he’s sorry with
the little breath he has left.

  “Biggie”—Moms brings me back to reality—“isn’t that good news?”

  “He couldn’t have told us on the phone?” I mumble.

  Chapter 27

  Nonexistent and Average

  It has been written that someone must do an activity ten thousand times to master it. I used to believe that whoever wrote that must have never seen a five-year-old play piano or an eleven-year-old like Maddux hit three home runs in a game. For most of my life, I thought it was a dumb saying.

  Yeah, I have sucked at sports most of my life. Why? Because I was an out-of-shape slug with no motivation. I sucked, by choice. To slip into the shadows, I had to erase thoughts of, “Biggie could help my fill-in-the-blank team” from the heads of Finch coaches. While I was packing on the pounds and watching coaches turn away from me in disappointment, I believed that at any time I could turn things around. Lose a few pounds, practice my craft awhile, and I would be a better athlete than Killer or Jet or Kyle.

  Despite my improved health, my athletic abilities in gym class are somewhere between nonexistent and average. The high from my perfect game in Wiffle ball was sobered by chest pains and dropped passes when we moved on to flag football. While football made me want to die, it wasn’t anywhere near the torture of volleyball. At least in football, I had an idea where the ball would be going. In volleyball, the ball flew all over the place. During one twenty-minute volleyball game, I got hit in the face seven times, three of which bounced off my arms first.

  While volleyball incurred the most bumps and bruises, basketball provided the most laughs. The basket seemed the size of a hula hoop when Killer or Jet shot the ball. But for me, getting the basketball through the orange aluminum rim was like threading the eye of a needle. I lost count of how many balls bounced, clanked, or skimmed the rim before one, thankfully, dropped through. I would have celebrated, but I was gassed from running up and down the court defending classmates who moved ten times faster than me, even while dribbling a ball.