The kids pile into the room, and to my surprise, four guys take seats along the back row. They’re jocks; I can tell because they glance around before giving me a “we recognize you” look. I nod and can’t help but smirk. I wonder if Coach put them through the fitness and diet log assignment and this is their extra credit? It’s like staring at my younger self.
Mrs. A appears like a burst of sunshine and introduces Claire and me, talking us up like we’re celebrities. She tells the class to sit back and enjoy the show. We get to work. I’m nervous at first, with everyone watching, but just like hockey, I focus and the crowd disappears.
Claire and I get chopping, starting with the peppers, mushrooms, and garlic. We sync our cuts on the wooden cutting boards, making semiautomatic-machine-gun, tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat sounds. If this were a cooking show, the camera would zoom in for a close-up. From the corner of my eye, I notice Claire smiling; maybe she’s thinking the same thing?
“Frying pan’s coming your way,” she says.
“Sending you the flour.”
“Got the oil?”
“Passing it over.”
It’s just like old times, the way we flow. I move on to the meats, prepping them for different thicknesses, according to cooking times. Claire gets going on the dough for the two pizzas. As we work, Mrs. A talks to the class about the kinds of dishes they’ll be making. Something catches my eye in the reflexive surface of the stove’s glass countertop. It’s Claire, and she’s looking at me. This time when I turn to face her, she doesn’t turn away, but rather smiles all shy-like.
I smile back.
The ceiling in the classroom is higher than my kitchen, which means Claire has more room to play. She tosses the dough up, and all eyes lock on her, even Mrs. A’s, as Claire catches and tosses again. The dough spins, spins, spins, and I’m sure one or two kids hope she’ll miss or punch a hole through it, but there’s no way it’ll happen. My heart can’t help itself—it thumpity-smashes. This is the amazing Claire Riel. On her final throw, as all eyes glance up, Claire looks right at me and gives me this amazing smile. She’s in her element, grinning wide, back teeth showing and everything.
In that moment it becomes evidently clear: I want her back.
Once the oil in the frying pan heats, I toss in the meats to sear in their juices. Awesome aromas fill the room and while it cooks, I roll up my sleeves and grate cheese.
I have to know if she thinks the same way.
I put some power and speed into grating so it’s done fast. Yeah, I’m a show-off, but why not? It’s all about getting these guys excited about cooking.
I glance at Claire, who stretches the dough onto the large, round pizza pans.
I get an idea.
As I move behind her to grab a towel, I drag my fingertips across her back. At first she moves aside because she thinks she’s crowding me, but I raise an eyebrow to say I kinda meant it. She gives me a “did you do that on purpose?” look. I smile.
Is she game?
She ladles the sauce while I finish cooking the meats. As she moves on to arranging the cheese and veggies, she lifts her foot and glides it up the back of my calf. I have to cough to stifle my moan as I arrange the meats on top of one pizza and act like nothing’s happening.
Claire pops our creations into the oven, and the niners are invited to ask questions. One kid wants to know something about something—I don’t know what because as Claire answers, our hands reunite under the counter. At first it’s our pinky fingers, lightly touching and saying hi. Then our ring fingers get reacquainted before index, pointers, and thumbs jump into the action. Whatever Claire’s saying shifts from serious to happy, as I try my hardest to control the expression on my face.
Game on, lady.
A few more questions, a quick lecture from Mrs. A, and soon the pizzas are cooked. We pull them from the oven, and Claire divvies the slices. Twenty hungry hands grab pieces, including Mrs. A’s, as everyone returns to their seats to eat.
The dish towel I’m holding happens to slip from my hand.
“Oh no,” I say loud enough for Claire to hear. “I dropped my towel. Whatever shall I do?”
Her eyes grow big, and I take my sweet time crouching down to pick it up, but I don’t grab it; instead, I hover near her calf. I know it’s driving her nuts because she breaks out laughing.
She crouches too and knowing we only have a few seconds out of eyeshot in the mirror, I raise my hands to frame her face. She lays her hands on mine, and we stare at each other.
I whisper, “I’ve missed you.”
She nods. “I’ve missed you, too . . . do-over?”
Sparks, chills, goose bumps, and all that good stuff shoot through my body in a sweet, sweet rush. I answer with a kiss.
The bell rings, and I shoulder my backpack, hurrying to gym class and feeling ten feet tall. I weave around kids, bags, and books. Lockers slam, running shoes squeak, multitudes of conversations meld into a steady rumble highlighted by peals of too-loud laughter. The postlunch air stinks of burgers, sandwiches, and French fries mixed with perfume, deodorant, and cigarette smoke. Inside the boys’ locker room, more shouting as guys volley jabs and insults. I must be buzzing off the walls, because when I toss my bag onto the wooden bench before an open locker, Viktor shoots me a funny look. I peel off my T-shirt and get a tiny whiff of Claire’s shampoo. I can’t stop grinning.
“Yo, Kev, you high or something?”
All conversations stop as Leo and Dino stare at me. Even the geeks poke their heads out from the next row of lockers for a peek.
People just can’t get enough of gossip, can they?
In my boxer-briefs I grab a plastic chair and drag it across the concrete floor to the center of the room. I stand on it and raise my hands just like Coach. “Hey! Listen up. I’ve got something to say.”
When the guys gather around, Leo shouts, “What, you need new tighty-whities?”
Everyone laughs.
“Leo, you wish you could fill these tighty-whities.” I snap the elastic band on my underwear, and a chorus of “oohs” fill the room. I get serious. “Look. There are rumors going around about me, that I like fat chicks, that I’m a chubby chaser, that I’m into BBW.”
Guys stop laughing as adrenaline floods my system, making my heart race. It’s now or never. I take a breath and go for it. I start by giving them Coach’s dreaded finger. “I want to get something straight,” I say, making it clear that I’ll kick the crap out of anyone who opens his mouth before I finish. “I love big, beautiful, curvy, voluptuous, sexy, Rubenesque women who know what they want. And I don’t give a shit what any of you think.”
It gets so quiet we hear a kid, late for class, running down the hallway.
Dino gives me an “amen,” surprising me.
“And I am in love with Claire Riel. And if you don’t like it, you can suck my big one.” I grab my crotch just to make sure they know what I’m talking about. “And that’s all I’ve got to say.”
The guys start clapping and cheering, and I get a couple of thumps on lockers from the back row, an “all right, man,” and even a wolf whistle. Leo tries to snap my ass with his towel, but I dodge him.
“Look at you,” Viktor says as I head back to the bench and continue changing. “Telling it like it is. Holy shit, who is this chick?”
“Her name’s Claire, not ‘chick.’”
I guess I strike just the right chord of “don’t ever say that word again,” because Viktor holds up his hands, like he’s surrendering.
And that was it. No one razzes me during class. It’s just business as usual.
When gym’s over, I text Claire to meet me at my locker. The second I see her it’s thumpity-smash time. How did I get so lucky? I take her hand and kiss the back of it, and together we take our first walk down the hallway as an official couple. Some kids stare, some don’t. Fingers fly across phones, but I don’t care. I’m with an amazing person. They should be so lucky.
Farther down, I spot Claire’s cousin,
Rat’s-Nest Girl, leaning against the lockers. She and her spacey-punk friends stare at us, taking in the front-page news. It’s hard to read the reaction on her face.
In a hushed voice I ask Claire, “What’s your cousin’s name?”
She tells me.
As we walk by I say, “Hey, Erin, ’sup?”
She nods. “Hey, Kev, Claire.”
Viktor comes around the corner and sees us. I can tell he’s doing his best to play it cool. He saunters over, shoving his hands into his pockets, but leaves his thumbs exposed so they point to his package.
“Hey, Viktor,” I say, and he low-fives me. “This is Claire.” I turn to Claire. “Claire, Viktor.”
“Hi,” she says.
“Hey,” he says back.
Fourth period bell rings.
I turn to her, and we give each other one hell of a kiss good-bye.
“See you after school?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I smile and watch her walk away.
I catch Viktor watching too, so I punch him in the arm.
“Ow, man!” he says, rubbing the spot where I hit him. “What gives?”
“Dude. Stop touching her with your eyes.”
Fully aware he’s busted, he asks, “She got any friends?”
I stand, gob open, and snort, “Yeah, like I’d unleash you on them.”
We start wrestling, hip-checking each other against the lockers and struggling to see who can pull a jersey first.
BACK AD
DISCOVER
your next favorite read
MEET
new authors to love
WIN
free books
SHARE
infographics, playlists, quizzes, and more
WATCH
the latest videos
TUNE IN
to Tea Time with Team Epic Reads
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo credit Kim Yanick
NICOLE WINTERS was: Born into a literary family. Could write before speaking. Spent childhood in sunshiny green meadows devouring highbrow literary works.
Untrue! More like she was told that C average, learning disabled students couldn’t possibly grow up to be writers.
Nicole proved them wrong.
English B.A. from the University of Toronto. Loves cats, horror films, globe hopping, and home-baked cookies. Has even been spotted wearing a sundress.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
COPYRIGHT
THE JOCK AND THE FAT CHICK. Text copyright © 2015 by Nicole Winters. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © September 2015 ISBN 9780062418418
ISBN 978-0-06-241841-8
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON M4W 1A8, Canada
www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com
The Jock and the Fat Chick Page 17