The Jock and the Fat Chick

by Nicole Winters

  “Veggies are gross,” she says.

  “You had them on your pizza.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How?”

  “Yours weren’t smothered in cheese, tomato sauce, and bread.”

  Two hours later, end credits roll and Missy leaps off the couch. She spins around with hands out, martial-arts style, eager to fight. Since I’m a warm-blooded guy, I indulge her. I get up and raise my hands. She begins with a few silly, light taps, and I easily block them. Missy’s all giggles as she tries to get me, but after a minute she grows quiet. We circle each other. Her kung-fu hands now form into fists, and her playful chops resemble boxing punches with the odd “Hai-ya!” thrown in. The more I dodge her obvious attempts (she always looks where she’ll strike), the more frustrated she gets. Her eyes narrow in an all-out war. Missy surprise attacks, rounding her shoulders to tackle me football-style, right in the bread basket, in an attempt to throw me to the floor. I give in and pretend the 110-pound girl is getting the best of me. We roll around for a bit, which is hot, and when she climbs on top and tries for the umpteenth time to pin me, she draws her lips back, uttering what she thinks is a manly man’s “grr.” Instead, an image of a little Chihuahua pup pops into my head, which makes me laugh. Girls just can’t pull off the “I kill you” look; it doesn’t suit them. Missy stiffens at my schoolgirl tittering, and she slaps me in the shoulder.

  “Dooooon’t!” she whines. “Shut uuuuup!”

  That makes me laugh even harder, and I need to roll her off, so I can turn onto my side to suck in more air.

  Another playful slap helps me get it under control.

  “Okay, okay.” I hold up my arms. “I give in.” I go to sit up, and she leaps, throwing all her body weight at me. Her knees crash-land in the middle of my chest, driving the air from my lungs.

  “Yes!” she cries, and clasps her hands high above her, like she’s just won the MMA title. I play weakling and let her gloat. When she bends forward for a kiss, I make it a slow, lingering smooch to say playtime is over. We keep kissing, and her body relaxes on top of mine as we make out and head for second base. Right when we’re about to get it on, Missy stands and grabs my hand, indicating we should go upstairs, because she must have total darkness. I gave up a while ago asking if we can do it anywhere else but her room. Or if I could at least have a little light—a candle, or cracking the door open a smidge if the bathroom light is on—but each time she looks at me like I’ve asked her to run naked down the street.

  “Why?” I protest in the dark. “You have nothing to hide.” I search for the general location of her head, so I can kiss her lips instead of her nose. “Do you know how many girls would kill to have what you have? You’re tall, lean, muscular—”

  “Yeah, no waist, no chest.”

  “Huh.”

  There’s a short pause before she comes back with “What’s ‘huh’ supposed to mean?” Her tone has a slight edge, and I picture her head to one side.

  “Nothing,” I say. “It’s just kinda funny, that’s all.”

  “What do you mean ‘kinda funny’?”

  Now I’m glad I can’t see her. “No one’s happy with what they’ve got. You know how people with curly hair always want to have straight hair, and people with straight hair want curly hair? Funny like that. You’ve got a great bod,” I add.

  “Ew. I don’t want curly hair.”

  To change the subject I narrow down the location of her lips and kiss her before rolling her body so she’s on top. Missy sits up, straddling me. The Missy in my head who moves in the dark is different from the one in the light. This one’s softer, curvier. Pillowy. I reach to touch the curve of her thighs, and just as I slide my hands toward her nice round butt, she leans back, and my palms accidentally graze her hip bones.

  My fantasy fades.

  Missy climbs off me when she discovers my boner’s gone. “It’s okay,” she says. “It happens.”

  I mumble an apology and try to ramp up my imagination again, starting with a sweet set of breas— Wait, what am I doing? I roll away from her. Everything about this is wrong.

  “Hey, snuggle me,” she says, and sticks out her butt, so it touches mine in a playful attempt to spoon her.

  I roll over and she tucks in close. I throw my arm across her shoulder and pull her tight, my hand in a fist.

  She deserves better.

  When I wake the next morning, the room’s quiet except for the occasional hush of a passing car on the street. I stare at the ceiling and at the big brown horse nuzzling its colt against a backdrop of snowcapped mountains. The light streaming through her sheer pink curtains casts the room in the color of upset-stomach medication. I turn to face Missy and look at her—I mean, really look at her—lying there so pretty and peaceful. I break into a sweat and throw the tangled covers off me. What the hell am I doing here? I mean, I like Missy. She’s nice, and we share some laughs, plus, the wrestling–kung-fu last night was fun, but I don’t really like her. I mean, I do like her, just not in a girlfriend kind of way. I place a hand over my eyes and squeeze my temples. Missy should be with someone who adores her the way I use to adore . . .

  Stop it. She’s gone. Get over it.

  I roll onto my side and sigh. I’m in this bed because I can be, not because I want to be.

  Missy mumbles awake.

  “Missy?”

  She groans and reaches for her T-shirt. After putting it on I turn around. “Can I talk to you about something?”

  She flops face-first into the pillow. “Let me guess,” she mumbles into the foam. “You’re not into me and you want to break up with me—”

  Wait. How could she know? This might be easier than I thought.

  “—and it’s because you’re gay.”

  “Whoa! What?”

  Face still buried, she continues, “You’re breaking up with me because you want to tell me you’re gay.”

  I blink, once, twice, three times. “I’m not gay. Why would you say that?”

  She faces me and shrugs. “Because of what happened last night with the”—she points at my crotch—“and also because Alyssa said that Viktor said that he didn’t think you were into girls and that maybe you’re just going out with me to prove him wrong.”

  “I’m not gay!” I repeat.

  She rolls onto her back. “Okay, fine, you’re not gay. What’d you want to talk about?”

  Oh god. If I break up with her now, she’ll think it’s because I’m gay. I’m screwed. How the hell did the conversation end up here? You asshole, Viktor. He’s the one who pushed Missy onto me.

  I think fast and say, “I—I just wanted to ask where you saw yourself in the future. You know, after graduation?”

  “College, obviously, why?”

  “Oh yeah? Which one?” I ignore the loud voice in my head screaming, You coward! College? Why the hell am I talking to her about college?

  “I dunno, maybe state, but I also want to go to NYU or SFU.”

  “Me too, right? I mean, not NYU or SFU, but I’ve been thinking, since we’ll be going to different schools, maybe we should keep things light between us—you know, not get too serious. Let’s face it, long-distance relationships never work.”

  Alert the press, the award for supreme, lying asshole, jerk, dickwad goes to me, Kevin Conners. Again the voice screams: Why are you making Claire’s deal with her? You want to break up, not continue dating! My skin crawls. Why the hell am I doing this?

  Missy sits up. Deep pillow lines mark her cheeks, like scars. “So, you’re saying you want to sleep with other girls?”

  “No. No, not at all. I just don’t want our hearts to get broken, you know?” You spineless coward. Grow a set already.

  “Oh,” she says. “But I’ve had a crush on you for a long time, so I guess my heart’s already done for.”

  No-no-no-no-no. I’ve made everything worse. I bite back the panic. “I’ve gotta go,” I say.

  “No, stay.”

  “I�
��I can’t. I have to feed my dog.”

  I reach for my crumpled jeans on the floor.

  “Okay, text me?”

  Sure, how’s: I don’t want to go out with you and it’s not because I’m gay, ’cause I’m not. It’s all just a huge mistake. Sorry, I’m a jerk.

  “Sure. I’ll text you.”

  I get home, kick off my shoes, and text Missy that I’m taking a nap; that way I can have some time to think. I carry Buddy outside, where we hang for a bit. I was so close to breaking up with her. Ugh. Friggin’ Viktor. Who does he think he is? He’s the one who’s been telling me to “go for it” with Missy. What, just because I didn’t snap to it when he said so months ago, it means I’m gay? I want to punch his lights out, but more than that, I want to punch my own lights out for getting myself into this mess. I never wanted to be with Missy in the first place. If I hadn’t slept with her, I’d still be with Claire.

  I carry Buddy inside and reach for a can in the cupboard to replenish his food bowl. Mom comes strolling into the kitchen in her housecoat, with a book sticking out of one pocket. She hums a tune.

  “Why are you so happy,” I grumble, reaching for a can opener.

  “Oh, it’s Sunday and you’re cooking supper. It’s always a good day.”

  I frown. Who does she think I am? A lackey? A servant? Her personal chef? “What if I don’t want to cook?”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Okay . . . well, it’s up to you. There’s always frozen dinners.”

  I slam the drawer shut, startling Mom and Buddy. “Can’t you do more than open a package and push a few buttons on the microwave?”

  Her other eyebrow rises to meet the first. “Excuse me? What’s with the sudden attitude?”

  I grunt, frustrated. Now I’m just making everything worse. “Nothing. Forget it. Sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

  The way her happy face hardens reminds me of last year’s blowout when we argued about her smoking again, and I don’t want to go there.

  “Is there something you want to get off your chest?” she asks.

  Why am I constantly falling down rabbit holes and making things worse? “No.” I shake my head. “No, sorry.” I make a beeline for my room. I already hate myself enough for one day.

  On Monday at lunch, I search for Viktor in the cafeteria, hoping to run into his smug mug, but remember him saying something about going to the dentist. Missy and Alyssa wave at me, so I wander over. They’re laughing about something so hilarious, Missy spit-takes her soda, spraying it across the table.

  “What?” I ask, smiling even though I don’t want to. Fake it until you make it, right? Mom and I didn’t speak to each other for the rest of yesterday, and I ended up having a protein drink for dinner and it tasted like garbage. I sit down and pull one of three protein bars from my bag for lunch. “What’s so funny?”

  Alyssa gestures with a head nod. “Check out the blob patrol at table two.”

  I shoulder-check. It’s Ruby, Tiara, and Zoë. They’re sitting, minding their own business, with books open and pink highlighters in hand.

  “God, shoot me if I ever get like that,” she adds.

  Missy chuckles and whacks me in the shoulder. “You have permission to staple my mouth shut if I get that fat.”

  I put down my vanilla-banana-cinnamon-cheesecake protein bar, because I’ve lost my appetite. I remember when Ruby had to serve Missy and Alyssa at the Fry Palace and how they laughed then, too.

  Alyssa cocks her head to one side, as if she were observing zoo animals behind glass. “If you stapled their mouths shut and fed them water through a tube, how long do you think they’d survive on their fat?”

  Missy is quick to reply. “At least three years. No, a decade . . . no, a millennium!”

  They laugh identical high-pitched cackles, a piercing sound that drills straight into my brain.

  Missy nudges me with the right side of her body, inviting me into their game. “What do you think, Kevin?”

  What do I think? I think it’d be nice for once to eat my lunch in peace.

  “I think you two should shut it.”

  They stop laughing. Their stunned expressions morph into bitch faces.

  Oh boy.

  Alyssa hisses. “Excuse me? Don’t tell me to shut up.”

  “Yeah,” Missy adds. “We were just joking. What’s your problem?”

  “Can you not find something else to talk about? How would you like it if people sat around saying mean things about you?”

  Alyssa’s upper lip pulls taut to form an ugly sneer. I take back what I thought about girls not pulling off a homicidal look. I wonder if Viktor has seen this face. “What are you, the bully police?”

  “No, but for once maybe I don’t want to listen to people hate on other people.”

  Missy lowers her eyes while Alyssa rolls hers. “Whatever,” she says, then with a dismissive wave, Alyssa stands up. “I’m out of here.” She turns to Missy. “Have fun with Mr. Killjoy.”

  She leaves, making her way to the opposite side of the cafeteria to talk with some guy twirling a drumstick.

  I turn to Missy. “Why would you say those things about Ruby, Zoë, and Tiara?” I purposely use their names instead of saying “them” or “those girls.” “I thought you were better than that.”

  Missy glances at them, then away. She picks at a deep table scratch with her thumb. “I didn’t mean to. I couldn’t help it. Alyssa started it, and I just got sucked in.”

  I’m about to say, So, if she said jump, you’d jump? when I stop. Missy may have never heard me make a joke about overweight people, but I have, right along with the guys. I’m just as guilty. I believe “hypocrite” is the word.

  She sniffs. “Maybe we shouldn’t have said that stuff, but you didn’t have to yell at me and my best friend. I thought you were supposed to be my boyfriend?”

  At the word “boyfriend,” I stare at her thumb, flicking at the table groove.

  “You know,” she says, “I don’t think I’m feeling it between you and me anymore.”

  I nod. “Yeah, me neither.” Saying this aloud feels like slipping off a concrete-filled backpack. Immediate relief.

  Surprised, Missy blinks a few times. I think she expected me to act crushed. She pushes her chair back from the table and rises. “All right, fine. It’s over.” Her tone sharpens as she gives me a laundry list of demands. “Don’t talk to me. Don’t text me. Don’t even look at me.”

  “Missy?” I ask.

  She shoots me a death stare. “What did I just say?”

  “You are a really smart, pretty, and fun person, and you deserve a guy way better than me.”

  I anticipate her next words to be something like, “Yeah, I know,” or “You jerk,” or how about the classic, “Go to hell!,” but instead she bows her head and mumbles, “Thanks. I’m really not that mean, you know?”

  I never realized until now just how much we had in common. I nod, sympathizing with her. “Yeah, I know.”

  With nothing left to say, she gives me a small “see ya around” wave and leaves.

  Even though I’m not hungry, I choke down my protein bars, because I’ll be working out later. My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Viktor.

  What did u say 2 my grlfnd? I got like 16 messages from her

  Told her 2 shut up. She was being catty.

  She said you yelled at her and she thought you were going to hit her

  What? I can’t believe she said that. What’s worse, I can’t believe Viktor believes her. I text: That’s bullshit.

  Well, she said you threw one of your protein bars at her.

  Not true!

  You calling her a liar?

  Hell yeah

  That makes you an asshole

  I text him the truth about what happened, but he sends me a reply saying if he sees me, he’ll punch me in the face. Fine, bring it on. Screw him. I’m not afraid to fight the guy. He deserves to be punched for spreading rumors about me when I didn’t follow Mr. King of the Schoo
l’s orders.

  I get home and kick off my boots, sending them flying across the hallway. Chunks of snow splatter on the floor, but I don’t care. All I want is to put this day behind me.

  Buddy hears me and awakes with a start. He takes one look at my angry face and cowers, as if he’s done something wrong.

  The sight nearly breaks me into a million bits.

  I sink to my knees. “Hey, Buddy . . . I’m sorry, boy.” I crawl toward him, and he lets me hold him. After a moment he settles into the carpet and sighs. I lie down opposite and stare into his big brown eyes, eyes that have grown duller over the years. He’s been my best bud since I was nine, and I know one day soon he’s going to die. Tears brim in the corners of my eyes and spill down my cheeks. I kiss him on the head. I don’t want him to go. He’s the only one who loves me for who I am and doesn’t judge me. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stop the waterworks. Buddy extends a paw, as if to say, Hey, it’s okay, and I shake hands with him. “When did life get so shitty?” I blurt, my voice cracking. “Why can’t I be a kid again, huh? Why can’t we all get a do-over?”

  We lie in silence, watching dust motes float in the slanted afternoon light. The room slowly grows dark, and we do this sad thing until the very last minute before I have to drag my butt to hockey. Since I’ve left zero time to make something for dinner, I grab a bottle of water, a power gel, and two energy bars to snarf down along the way.

  I wait at the bus stop, shouldering my twenty-pound gear bag. My breath comes out thick, like smoke. I lean on my hockey stick and rock from side to side, the snow and rock salt crunching underfoot. I down a watermelon gel and choke on the thin syrup-like texture and imitation flavor. When the bus finally arrives, I board and take a seat near the back doors. I don’t have much time, so I tear into my dinner—a triple-chocolate, peanut, mixed-berry bar. A whitish film coats the top of it, and when I take a bite, it’s dry and tasteless, like it’s sat in a warehouse for a few years. Disgusting. I wish I had something else to eat—veggies, roast beef—anything but this. I catch my reflection in the window. My jaw sawing and my eyes red from crying.