The Fat Boy Chronicles

by Diane Lang

  Friday, 2–2

  When I got to second period today there was a sign on the door saying we had to go to a different room. Mr. L’s room had been broken into last night. I peeked through the window and the whole room was yellow. Someone had sprayed a fire extinguisher all over, and things were turned over. You probably know more about this than I do. But it was a big mess. We went to a room on the H–hall. When we walked in, Mr. L was sitting at the teacher’s desk, slumped over and just slowly flipping the pages in his teacher’s edition. He looked really hurt—his eyes were red and even after the bell rang, he wouldn’t look up at us. After a few minutes, he called roll and told us to answer the Chapter Review questions. When he was sitting there, I could look at him without his noticing, and I saw him as a person, not a teacher. That was the first time I ever pictured a teacher as a kid like me, having good days and bad days, sitting in class, worrying about grades, and even getting picked on.

  Finally, Billy Dryden asked what happened to the room. It took Mr. L a minute to react, but then he told us that whoever it was broke out the window and crawled through. He said that they threw a chair into the TV and pushed everything off his desk. The fire extinguisher was sprayed over everything like I thought.

  All of a sudden Whitney remembered the aquarium. “Oh, no, what about the goldfish?” she asked. Mr. L looked over at her and rubbed his forehead. I knew what he was going to say when he did that. “The fish are dead. I had to throw them out this morning. They sprayed down in the tank, knowing it would kill them.” As bad as it was about his room, when he said the fish were dead, we all felt even worse. Every day, we would take turns feeding them. There were three, two orange and one mixed with white, and they would squirm at the top waiting to be fed. If I ever had a bad morning, sometimes I would watch the fish and my mind would go blank. I could forget about Nate and Whitney and all the rest and just pretend I was swimming around in there like Goldy and her two buddies.

  One day, Mr. L caught me daydreaming and when he called on me, I had no clue what he’d asked me. So, instead of saying I wasn’t listening, I said yes. Turns out he asked if I had ever been to New York and after I answered yes, he asked when. I said, “When what?” He said, “When did you go to New York?” and I said, “I never have, sir.” Of course, everybody laughed and I didn’t know why until later. I felt real stupid but probably deserved it this time. What I’m really saying is that I am going to miss the goldfish. I think Mr. L is too.

  Monday, 2–5

  We got our four–week grades and you’ll be glad, I hope, to hear that I have 4 A’s and 2 B’s. I’m glad I’m in health class and not PE this time. It’s a pretty cheesy class, but at least I don’t have to dress out. I’m really excited that I don’t have to take PE anymore for the rest of the year. Maybe for the rest of my life! And I lost three more pounds! Yay! That’s almost thirty pounds of fat gone.

  I think I can bring up my history and science grades but it will take some extra work. Dad says he’ll buy me a season pass to Kings Island if I get all A’s. That would be too sweet. They have the best cotton candy in Cincinnati there. And the rides are the scariest. I remember one time when I had way too many corn dogs and then got on the Wheelie. It goes up and around like a ferris wheel but it tilts up for most of the ride. Boy did I feel bad. I didn’t throw up but I’m surprised I didn’t. I thought that ride would never end. A kid from youth group was in the little car with me, and he was worried more than I was that I would get sick. He kept saying, “Don’t you hurl on me, Winterpock. I’ll have to go home if I smell like puke.” His concern about my stomach pain was comforting. Not.

  Anyway, this school is a little harder than my other one, but my teachers are good so that makes up for it. Even Mr. L in math is not as boring anymore. Maybe I’m just used to him now. It’s still hard though for me to stay awake on Mondays when he has the overhead on and it’s dark all period. Kids ask me for help at lunch now because they know I can do math pretty well. We have a couple of seniors in algebra—Robb Thuman and Adam Jones. Robb seems to be trying, but Adam doesn’t work very hard. He misses lots of days and Mr. L tells him that he might not graduate if he doesn’t get to work. I heard Adam say that if he could graduate, he’d join the army and never come back to Cincy. He just wants to get as far from here as possible which probably means as far from home as he can. It’s awful that someone feels that way about home. I try to help him when he asks me questions during class. He always wants to copy my homework, but I never let him. It won’t help him on tests anyway. I see him in my lunch period when he’s not skipping and going to White Castle. He keeps getting ISS when he gets caught, which is most of the time. You’d think he’d learn but I guess that goes with everything else in his life.

  Tuesday, 2–6

  Band class is the only good thing about school, except English. I’ve been playing the sax for about four years. Not non–stop though, ha ha. My sister hates it when I practice in my room. Mom thinks I’m really good at it. My band teacher suggested I go out for marching band next year. I’d really like to. The uniforms are cool, and our band has won several state awards.

  My favorite music is jazz. I can listen to it for hours, especially if I’m bummed. That’s why I was so glad I made the jazz band. It takes up a lot of time, but I don’t care. Jazz band is really cool, and even though I know a few of the kids laugh at me, we get along because we all love playing. I know the band respects me because I can really hit some great notes on the sax, but outside of band, some of the same kids act like they don’t see me. I just don’t get it—most of them are as geeky as I am. Only there’s one difference—none of them are fat.

  Guess that ruins my chances of ever getting in a rock band, which I would really like to do. I mean, can you imagine an overweight Eminem or Michael Jackson? But Jack Black’s not exactly skinny, so maybe there’s hope. With all the snow lately, I’m working out inside more.

  Wednesday, 2–7

  Please Don’t Read This Page

  Today in science Whitney was late to class and she had to sit in the seat behind me. I could hear her cursing under her breath after she sat down. I think she got a detention. A few minutes later she touched my shoulder and asked to look at my worksheet answers. She said she wanted to make sure hers were right since she knew I was making an A. I handed it to her, and then turned back around. I heard her scribbling, so I looked back and she was writing all my answers down. She had nothing! I told her not to copy my paper, but she wouldn’t give it back. About then, Mr. M. called on me to answer a question. I told him I didn’t have my worksheet, since I didn’t want to rat out Whitney. He looked at me funny and said he was surprised. I hated lying to Mr. M, but I thought it might help Whitney be nice to me. When Mr. M turned around to write our new definition words on the board, I reached back to get my paper and Whitney had her cheeks all puffed out big. Nate was laughing at her and looking at me. Then she saw me and blew out air real loud. Even though I had let her borrow my paper and then lied for her, she still made fun of how big I am. I don’t care if we get in trouble if you accidentally read this. Well, actually I do, but I thought someone needed to know how Whitney is. She’s not the perfect little student all her teachers think she is, especially when Nate’s around.

  Sunday, 2–11

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  This weekend I spent the night at Paul’s. It was a total disaster. No, we didn’t do any spying on the murder suspect. Paul hasn’t mentioned that for weeks; he’s been pretty bummed ever since his girlfriend ditched him. All he does is talk about his girlfriend, and how she screwed him over. My parents were reluctant to let me go at first, but then gave in. They want me to have a social life, even though they worry about Paul and his parents. It wasn’t too bad at first—his parents have moved permanently upstairs with his uncle. They only come down in the basement to get stuff out of boxes and the refrigerator. I guess the fighting got so bad, Paul’s uncle took pity on him, and let Mr. and Mrs. Grove sleep up
stairs in one of the spare bedrooms. So his parents pretty much left Paul and me alone. We ate pizza and watched TV for a while, and then Paul wanted us to sneak out to a party. I got scared and didn’t want to go. Paul said his parents and uncle were drinking and would eventually pass out for the night. Then we could sneak out. Paul kept running to the top of the basement stairs, opening the door and checking. When all the adults were finally out of it, he begged me to go with him. “It’s just a few blocks away—it’s not like we have to steal my uncle’s car or anything.” I told him my parents wouldn’t want me to go, and I didn’t want to break their trust in me. Paul said what they don’t know won’t hurt them, and then practically started crying. “Please, Jimmy, you’re my best friend. We won’t stay long. I promise.”

  I finally gave in. My heart was beating really hard as we slipped and slid on the icy street, but Paul was laughing. He took a joint out of his pocket. After a few hits, he asked me if I wanted some. I said, “No way. I don’t think you should smoke that stuff either.”

  “It makes me feel sooo good,” he said. “Like I don’t live in my uncle’s basement with screwed–up parents who hate me.”

  We walked a few blocks and then cut through a couple of yards before we came to a street lined with cars on both sides. We could hear music blasting and loud voices. The party was at a kid’s house who’s in my sister’s class, and for a split second, I was worried that she might be there. But I should have given my sister more credit. The parents must have been gone somewhere, because there were kids all over the house carrying six–packs and vodka bottles. Almost everyone there was smoking cigarettes or pot. A few kids were sniffing something through straws. I think they were doing cocaine. The bedroom doors were closed and Paul warned me not to open them because kids were having sex.

  Paul introduced me to some of his friends, and they were cool. One kid made a comment about my weight, and some of the others laughed, but they weren’t mean about it. Someone offered me a beer, but I didn’t take it. I stood around and watched, trying not to let anyone see how shocked I was. I had heard kids at school talking about parties and getting high, but I didn’t know it was this bad. Then I saw Whitney. She was drunk out of her mind. She saw me too. She came over and actually talked to me. She was nice at first, probably because she was drunk. Then one of our football players came over. “Hey, you trying to hit on her?” he asked me. He turned to Whitney. “This fat kid’s trying to make out with you. You want me to rip his head off?”

  “I was just talking to her,” I said. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

  “You’re weird, man. Who invited you?”

  “I invited him,” Whitney lied. She licked her lips real slow and eyed me up and down.

  “I want to see who has bigger breasts, me or you. C’mon, Jimmy, let’s see.” Then she yelled for everyone to come over and vote. A crowd gathered around us and Whitney pulled her tee shirt over her head. All the guys cheered because she didn’t have a bra on. I couldn’t stop staring at her. I mean, here she was drunk and exposed in front of a bunch of idiots who didn’t know how smart she was. They didn’t know she was saving for a telescope. I don’t think Whitney would have done that sober. She finally pulled her shirt back down, and then the jocks started yelling, “Jimmy! Jimmy! Jimmy! Shirt off! Shirt off!”

  When I refused to take it off, a group of jocks surrounded me and pulled it up. Everyone was laughing and yelling that I had the biggest tits. Even Paul. I didn’t want anyone to see me crying, so I ran outside and walked back to Paul’s house.

  His parents were still passed out when I got there, so I went downstairs and lay on my bed and cried. Then I prayed. I prayed that my parents would still trust me. I prayed for forgiveness. And I prayed for Paul. I prayed for Paul’s parents to get better. I prayed that Paul would be the same carefree kid he was when I first met him.

  My prayers didn’t work very well. I woke up to a bunch of yelling and screaming. When I checked my watch, it was quarter till three. It took me a minute for my eyes to adjust and then I saw Paul wasn’t in his bed yet. Then I heard Paul’s voice. “I hate you! You have no right to yell at me. Where do you think I get it from? My alcoholic parents, that’s who.” The screaming got louder, and I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. Should I pretend to be asleep or go up and help Paul?

  I finally decided to go upstairs. I don’t know where his mom was but Paul’s dad had his hands around Paul’s shirt collar, banging his head into the wall. “Stop it!” I yelled. “You’re going to hurt him.”

  Mr. Grove dropped Paul and stared at me. His eyes were red and angry. I thought he might grab me next, but instead he started laughing.

  He turned to Paul. “Now you’ve got your fat friend taking up for you.” It didn’t hurt my feelings, because people pick on me all the time, though it seemed strange coming from an adult.

  Paul was sitting against the wall bawling his eyes out, so I sat next to him. He kept saying he was sorry about what happened at the party and we shouldn’t have gone. I was glad Paul was okay and that his dad didn’t beat him up too much. But then I was scared. Scared of the rumors that would go around about me at school. Scared that my sister would find out and tell my parents. But then I forgot about me and I told Paul that things would be okay. But I knew better.

  The next morning, my dad picked me up and took me to church. I was pretty quiet all day, and when we got home, he asked me if something bad had happened at Paul’s. My conscience got the better of me, and I told him about going to the party. I didn’t tell him about Whitney and what the kids said to me and why I left the party early, because I didn’t want him to worry. I just told him the basics. He was really cool about it. He said he knows I only went to the party because of Paul, and he’s glad I tried to help him. Now I’m not allowed to go to Paul’s house anymore, but Paul can come over any time he wants. I’m lucky to have such a cool dad.

  Monday, 2–12

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  No one mentioned the party to me at school, though I heard a few kids snickering behind my back. That could be the normal everyday snickering though. And when I think about it, no one would say anything about me to my sister, because even an idiot would know that would make her mad. I can hardly look at Whitney in science class. After seeing her drunk, she doesn’t seem pretty to me any more. Come to think of it, she was really nasty that night. She smelled like smoke, and her hair was stringy and messed up. I bet she’s hurting inside just like Paul; otherwise, she wouldn’t get so drunk. She reminds me of the way Sable was at youth camp last summer, not the drunk part but the hurting part.

  I don’t have excuses like other kids with addictions—my parents would do anything for me. That makes me more determined than ever to stick to my diet. Not that it’s a real diet, I just have to watch my choices and portions. I’m amazed that it really works—that and the running and the Total Gym workouts. I actually lost five more pounds this week. I can feel a difference in my body and the way my clothes fit. I’ve lost close to thirty–five pounds—only twenty-five more to go!

  Not that it’s been easy. I mean, I hate feeling hungry, and my body craves candy and Big Macs. I have to deal with it if I ever want to get all the fat off. I keep falling off my diet, and then I hate myself. Then that makes me want to go on an eating binge. It’s a vicious cycle. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it. Then I think of Paul and his parents. And I think of my own mom and dad, and I don’t wonder any more.

  Tuesday, 2–13

  Here’s a poem I wrote about pollution. I never thought poetry was very cool until this year. I used to think poetry was all about flowers and shepherds running through the fields and only girls like it. I didn’t realize it could be about anything, and you don’t have to use capital letters or punctuation if you don’t want to. I like what you said about how in poetry one word can mean a whole paragraph. If you count the meaning behind the words in my poem, this should equal at least three pages.

  Pollution />
  Looking over man’s sin against nature,

  A lone warrior stands at the edge of a cliff.

  The sun obscured by stark, ugly monoliths,

  He watches the world turn into a concrete killing field.

  Between the cracks of decayed gravity,

  He falls away from the planet.

  Thursday, 2–15

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  I used to like Valentine’s Day, because of all the candy and cookies teachers gave out in elementary and middle school. Now it seems kinda cheesy. You can buy single carnations at school and then send them to someone. Some of the girls got a bunch. Even some of the guys got carnations. I don’t have a girlfriend, so I didn’t send any. I thought about sending one to Sable, but then she’d have to tell who sent it and it probably would embarrass her.

  I’ve put back on a few of the pounds I lost. Ever since the party, I’ve been really depressed. Spencer doesn’t come around any more and has even started hanging out with Nate. Allen thinks Spencer’s a real jerk and that I should say something to him. It won’t change things—Spencer doesn’t want to be seen anymore with a fat geek with “man–boobs.” It gets harder and harder to go to school. Kids still laugh at me all the time and call me names to my face. They have to notice I’ve lost weight. Are they just getting in their last digs before I’m skinnier than them? Except for Allen, Sable and Paul, everyone treats me like I have leprosy. I asked Mr. M if Allen and I could eat lunch in his classroom, because it’s too noisy in the lunchroom. He said it would be okay, as long as we brown bag it. That helps in some ways, but in other ways it makes us feel even more apart. Allen encourages me to stick to my diet, even though he eats junk food all the time. “You’re more disciplined than me,” he said. “So you have a chance at losing the weight. I’m doomed to be fat.”