The Jock and the Fat Chick

by Nicole Winters

  She nods.

  The front door’s alarm chirps, which means Claire’s dad must be home, or she’s got a sibling I don’t know about. My first guess is right because it’s the same guy from the restaurant. He enters the room and slaps his hands together before rubbing them vigorously back and forth, like he’s ready to get down to some serious cooking. He stops when he sees me.

  “Oh, hello,” he says.

  Claire gives him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Dad, this is Kevin. He’s in my dom tech class.”

  I say hi, and I’m thankful I don’t get a double kiss.

  “Nice to meet you. Call me René.” I notice that he too speaks with an accent, but this one’s French. No wonder Claire can speak so many languages. Maria sets the now-cooked chicken onto the counter and goes to kiss him.

  Man, what a kissy family.

  He washes his hands in the sink and glances at what we’re making.

  “Tell me, Kevin,” he asks. “Which do you prefer, French cooking, or Italian?”

  Claire gets this horrified expression on her face, which I don’t get. “Dad! I can’t believe you asked him that.” She turns to me. “Kevin, you don’t have to answer.”

  I’m glad Claire said that, because other than eating canned spaghetti as a kid, I’m not much of an expert on Italian food, and I’m sure I’ve never tried French food. Isn’t it just small portions on a big plate? I’ve had French fries and French toast, but I’m smart enough to know he’s not talking about that.

  René shrugs. “What? It is a simple question.”

  “Behave yourself,” Maria warns in a playful voice.

  “What?” he says again, and raises both hands in the air. “I am innocent. A harmless question.”

  Claire snorts. “Yeah, right.”

  I smile even though it’s clear I don’t get their inside joke.

  Maria cuts the chicken, and Claire dumps all the ingredients—rice, chicken, nuts, and salad—into a huge wooden bowl the size of a kitchen sink. Claire hands me some plates and cutlery, and I follow her into this huge dining room with a massive table. I count the high-back wooden chairs; it sits eighteen. There’s even a fireplace in here. We gather near one end.

  René walks to the mantel and picks up a remote. He points it to the ceiling, and with a simple press of a button, music fills the space. It’s something classical-jazzy, like what you’d hear in one of those five-dollar-a-cup coffee places. Maria and Claire take a seat, and Claire taps the chair next to hers for me to sit, so I do.

  We help ourselves, but only after they insist I go first. I pick up the bowl, and I’m not sure how much to take because when it comes to rabbit food, I could snarf down the whole thing myself. No wonder Viktor’s mom had a fit. I take a medium-ish-size helping, and when I pass the salad to Claire, our fingers brush. I’d like to think we did this on purpose.

  “So tell me, Kevin,” René says, his eyes locked on mine and unblinking, like he knows I’ve been hoping to make out with his daughter. I sit up in my chair. “What are you going to do when you graduate?”

  “Well,” I answer in my good student voice, “I’m thinking of sports medicine, like rehab. I’ll start off with a degree in kinesiology and then narrow down my options from there.”

  “Uh-huh,” he says, and the room grows quiet so I fill the silence.

  “I’m trying for a hockey scholarship,” I add, and eat a forkful of chicken and wild grass salad-thingy. My mouth fills with the taste of cool, sweet, crisp apple; chicken; crunchy walnuts; and soft, warm, wild rice in oil. Damn, I hope there’s seconds. I keep chewing, taking in all the flavors and different temperatures. I wonder if I’d be able to make this on my own.

  “Good for you, Kevin,” René says. “I hope you get it. If a person focuses and works hard enough, they will achieve their dreams.”

  He turns to Claire. “And what has my daughter decided to do with herself after she graduates?”

  Claire sets down her water glass. “Ugh,” she says, sounding exasperated. “Not this again, Dad.”

  “What?” he cries. “Time’s running out. You have to pick, and soon.”

  “Darling,” Maria says, and rests her hand on top of René’s. “She will choose when she’s ready.”

  I must look like I’m out of the game and parked on the players’ bench because Claire turns to me and explains, “I’m not sure if I want to study French cooking in Paris or pastry in Milan.”

  Now I get the earlier in-joke, when he asked if I liked French or Italian food.

  I stare at Claire. This girl thinks big. She’ll be off to Europe either way.

  René continues, “You need to decide, because either career asks for total passion and commitment. Of course, I want you to follow in my footsteps,” he says in a joking manner.

  Maria acts shocked but clearly isn’t by the smile on her face. “There’s nothing wrong if our daughter becomes a pastry chef,” she tells him.

  “No-no, nothing at all, but who could make sweets sweeter than you?”

  Maria laughs, and as they continue exchanging lighthearted banter, Claire turns to me and smirks, as if to say her parents were only slightly food obsessed, plus embarrassing.

  “I just want her to think about it,” René says.

  “But I am thinking about it.”

  “Kevin,” he says, “what do you think?”

  Two things: I have no idea, and I wish my mom knew how to cook.

  “As long as there are seconds, I’m up for either.”

  René slaps his hand on the wooden table and roars with loud, hearty laughter. “I like you, Kevin.” Still chuckling, he passes the wooden bowl my way. “Eat, eat.”

  Claire sighs and shakes her head. “I like the freedom cooking gives me. But I also like being creative with cakes. I don’t know.”

  “You’ll decide when it’s time and not a minute sooner,” Maria says, and turns to me. “So, you play hockey?”

  I nod. “Yes. I’m a forward.”

  “I don’t know anything about hockey. What does a forward do?”

  I keep the explanation simple. “I score goals and prevent the other team from scoring.”

  “Oh, sounds logical. I’ve never been to a hockey game.”

  “Really? You should. It’s fun.”

  Claire laughs. “Yeah, Mom. You at a hockey game. I’d like to see that.”

  “What? Why not? I can go to a hockey game if I want.”

  “Right, and eat hot dogs and drink cheap American beer?”

  Maria makes a disgusted face. “You’re right, I wouldn’t. But what I will do is ask if everyone is finished and if they want to try my new coffee cake.”

  “Ooh, yum,” Claire says.

  I’ve never had coffee cake before, and I have to say, coffee in cake doesn’t sound appealing. But Mom taught me that whenever you’re at someone’s house, it’s impolite to turn down food. It comes from the old days, when you had to travel a long way to visit someone, and your host was so honored they’d offer you their best food and drink. I wonder if that’s why, when I was a little kid and I had friends over, we’d always order takeout.

  Claire and her mom rise to collect dishes. I get up to help, too.

  “No-no, Kevin,” Maria says. “Sit. I insist. You are our guest.”

  I slide back down in my seat. Claire disappears with her mom, leaving me alone with René.

  “So,” he says, picking up his water glass and swirling around the liquid. “How long have you known my daughter?”

  I swallow. Play it cool. He has no idea we nearly kissed, unless . . . Oh god, what if he’s got security cameras? What if he was in the backyard? I tell myself to stop with the paranoia and to answer his question.

  “We’re in the same domestic tech class together, so . . . just over a week?”

  His bushy eyebrows rise, and I wonder what it means. He finishes his glass, and I fill the silence.

  “She’s been teaching me how to cook because I’m not good at it, and i
f I get a good grade, it’ll help with my GPA and a potential scholarship.”

  Claire pokes her head into the dining room. “Kevin, would you like some tea?”

  “Sure,” I tell her, even though I’ve never had tea before; I’m just glad for the change in topic. Wait, aren’t we having coffee cake? Won’t that be weird drinking tea and eating coffee-flavored cake?

  He catches me watching her walk away.

  “So, you are using my daughter?”

  What? Where’d that come from? My cheeks blaze with heat. Hold on, is he asking if I’m using his daughter to get an A, or is he asking if I’m using his daughter to get into her pants? Oh god!

  “No, sir,” I say. Okay, it’s only half true—we are using each other to get an A. My face continues to burn. It’s so hot, I could cook bacon.

  From the other room Claire asks, “What kind of tea, Kevin?”

  “Whatever you’re having,” I answer, because I don’t know what you’re supposed to say.

  “Good,” René says, and I hope it’s the last of his third degree and that Claire comes back, because right now, I want to crawl under the table.

  “How do you take it?” she asks.

  “Ah . . . regular?” The answer comes out like a question, and I think I just blew my never-had-tea-before cover.

  “Dad? Tea? Double milk?”

  “Yes, darling.”

  Maria returns with plates and cutlery. On the top dish sits the package tied with string that she’d brought home. She unties the knot and folds back the cardboard flaps. I stare at her creation: all round and golden brown, the top covered with small crumbly things drizzled in icing sugar.

  “You made this?” I ask.

  René and Maria chuckle, and I realize I’ve just stuck my big foot into my big mouth. I bet Claire’s mom is famous for her cakes, and I just sounded stunned that her mom could bake.

  Claire returns with four cups and a teapot on a tray. “This tea is a house blend from Mom’s bakery. She owns Lemons and Cream on Spenser Street.”

  “I know that place,” I say. “I bought a cupcake there once, for my mother on Mother’s Day. She really liked it.”

  Maria smiles and cuts me a generous slice, and I try to recall the last time I ate something sweet. Technically, I eat dessert-like food all day with the protein bars, gels, and drinks, but this is the real thing. I wait until everyone has a piece and René says, “Bon appétit,” before taking a bite. I taste sugar and pumpkin, or something like that. It reminds me of a perfect fall day, sitting in the backyard, soaking up the late-day sun with Buddy by my side. There’s no hint of coffee flavor, though, so I ask, “Am I supposed to taste coffee in this?”

  Everyone smiles, and Maria good-naturedly says, “No-no, coffee cake is just what you call a cake you eat with a cup of coffee.”

  Man, I’m a foodie dud. I make an effort to chew more slowly this time, matching pace with the Riels, who seem to eat from pure enjoyment rather than snarfing down food for fuel. I don’t know if they planned it this way, but the tea goes great with it. Wait, I’m sure they planned it this way. I bet nothing they make is just slapped together, that there’s a conscious effort to how everything blends.

  “I love the balance between the tart apples and the pumpkin, Mom,” Claire says.

  I ask Maria what she calls it.

  “Autumn Harvest Crumble.”

  “It’s really good,” I say, and wish I could say more about it, like how the flavors balance or meld or whatever you say to a chef or a baker to show them you appreciate their work.

  After dessert I insist on helping by clearing the table. René grabs the remote from the kitchen counter, and soon the kitchen fills with the same upbeat music. Claire fills the sink with soapy water, and I realize they’re not using their dishwasher. Claire washes, her mom dries, and René puts away leftovers. He hums a little before singing the song in French. He then glides to Maria’s side and takes the dish towel from her hand so he can dance with her. I stand by the island, watching them sway to the music, both smiling at each other. Claire’s folks are kind of cool.

  When it’s time for me to head home, René offers a firm handshake and says it’s been a pleasure to meet me and that he hopes to see me again. Maria kisses me on both cheeks, and this time I’m not as stiff when she does it, but I’m still unsure what to do in return. Do I air-kiss someone’s wife? Luckily, her parents head into the kitchen, leaving Claire and me alone.

  Claire opens the front door, and the alarm chirps as brisk night air floods the foyer. I head outside, taking a step down before turning around, so she’s at chin height again. Although I’ve spent the last few hours with her parents, I feel like I’ve just been on a date. Claire smiles, and my heart thump-smashes. I shoulder my backpack and shove my hands deep into my pockets, because they threaten to morph into goalie gloves again. Are we going to kiss? Should I kiss her? I mean, we almost did earlier, or did I just think that we almost did?

  “Thanks for coming over,” she says. “I guess we didn’t get around to the beef Wellington part, huh? Well, we’ll just have to meet up again.”

  “Yeah, sure, no probs.”

  Yeah, sure, no probs? What am I saying? Way to fumble a beautiful pass. I try to recover the play. “Uh, thanks for helping me study. Oh, and for dinner. Your folks are cool.”

  She rolls her eyes, like her parents are embarrassing, and I want to reach out and take her hand to kiss the top of it. I’ve never done anything like that before, but it feels like a classy thing to do. She clasps one hand in the other. Now if I can just haul mine out of my pockets, I might try it. I remove a hand—

  “So, I’ll see you in class?” she says, and my window of opportunity shuts. But wait, what was all that in the kitchen before her mom came home, and the “thanks for helping me study” just now?

  Claire leans in and gives me a kiss on both cheeks. “Bye, Kev.”

  I smile. She called me “Kev.”

  I ride home feeling sky high.

  CHAPTER 6

  FIRST THING I DO ON SUNDAY IS WAKE UP AND plug my phone into its charger because I forgot to last night, and the battery’s dead. It buzzes to life with eight missed messages, all from Viktor. The texts basically ask where the hell I went to and how much I missed out. He said he hung out with Alyssa and Missy at Missy’s place, and he was pretty sure if I’d gone, Missy would have sucked my dick. Yeah, right. Like I’d have let that happen. I delete his messages. I hope he doesn’t bring this up when we’re around the guys. If Armpit finds out, he’ll probably punch me for blowing my chances at getting laid.

  I meet up with Viktor at Shreds for our Sunday cardio session. He’s already on the treadmill, so I hop on the machine next to his and glance at his workout display. He’s roughly five minutes into it.

  “Hey, man,” he says, finishing his warm-up and kicking up the pace. “Where were you last night? I texted you like a hundred times.”

  I press a series of buttons, setting it to interval sprint mode, and the machine beeps three times before the running belt churns. “Yeah, sorry. Battery ran out. Didn’t get your messages until this morning.” His treadmill revs high and loud for an all-out sprint. His shoes slap in a heel-toe, heel-toe formation. I told him he should shift his weight so that he runs on the balls of his feet and there’s less stress on his knees, but Viktor’s going to do what Viktor wants to do. Two minutes pass before the machine slows to a jogging pace and he can speak.

  “I’m telling you, Missy was hot to trot. Where were you?”

  I increase my speed and deliver the excuse I came up with on the bike ride here. “My mom nagged me about doing some painting around the house.” My machine ramps up for two grueling minutes.

  “Well,” he says when I slow to a jog again, “you missed out. The girls picked up some gin—you know, the panty remover—and when we ran out of soda, Missy walked to the corner store to get more and that’s when Alyssa blew me.”

  “No way,” I say, a little too loud b
ecause a random guy, staring at himself in the mirror, breaks his gaze to look at us.

  Viktor makes me wait until after his two-minute sprint is up before spilling details.

  “Yup. Right in the living room.”

  I do what’s expected when a buddy gets some: I hold out my palm and say, “Score!” We slap hands while still running.

  Our workout syncs, and the thud-thud-thud of our footsteps echo throughout the space.

  When we slow down again, Viktor still won’t drop the topic. “I’m telling ya, you would have gotten some too if you had your phone on. Missy wants what’s in your pants.”

  Between breaths, I tell him, “Nah,” and try an honest tactic to get him off my back. “You know me, I like me some boobs.” I hold out my hands, like I’m grabbing a luscious handful. “And she lacks.”

  Viktor doesn’t take the bait. He seems more confused, borderline annoyed. “Dude. I’m doing my best to help you get laid. You must be the only guy-virgin with standards. How about you get some first, and then you worry about being picky? A BJ is still a BJ.”

  “What if I don’t want to?” I say, and realize my blunder, so I add, lightning fast, “I mean, right now. Maybe I just want to focus on a scholarship and not have to deal with girls.”

  He shakes his head, like he can’t figure me out, and I can’t blame him. He’s gone out of his way for me, and I keep running interference. No wonder he asked if I was gay the other day.

  I change the subject by talking about the NHL rookies, and how they’re doing early in the season. I scan the gym and spot a girl by the free weights with a similar body type to Claire’s.

  “Hey, how about a BJ from her?”

  One side of his face bunches up in a “you’re kidding me” expression. He scoffs. “Yeah, maybe, if the lights were off.”

  It’s my turn to shake my head in disgust. He laughs.

  “She’s not that bad,” I say.

  “Aw,” Viktor says in a baby voice. “Does chunky give you a chubby? Does she make you tingle in your pee-pee?”

  “Har-har.”

  After working out I ride to the grocery store to buy some food. I think about how nice it was to have a family dinner at Claire’s, so I buy some eggs and greens. When I get home I open the door to the backyard to find Mom in her lawn chair. She’s bundled up tight in a sleeping bag and reading (and smoking) as she soaks up the sun. No matter what time of year, this is her Sunday ritual—reading and vitamin D. She says it’s her church.