Fat Boy vs. the Cheerleaders

by Geoff Herbach

  “Well, they’re yours.”

  Then Gore said really quietly, almost a whisper, “Your band can practice in our ballroom if you need to. I still think you’re kind of a jerk though, even if I like you for no apparent reason.”

  “I wouldn’t like you if I were her,” RC III said to me.

  “I don’t like you,” Gore said to RC III.

  He smiled really big. “Come on. Yes, you do. You like me.”

  “Okay,” Gore said. “I like you, but I don’t want to because you’re one of them.”

  “Are you racist?” I whispered.

  “No, you dick,” Gore shot back. “Robert is an athlete.”

  “She’s an activity-ist,” RC III said. “Prejudiced based on how a person spends his free time.”

  “Sports are dumb,” Gore nodded. “And they attract bad people.”

  RC III was totally like…I think the word is tickled. He giggled like a little girl. Gore smiled back at him, sort of giggled too. They’d just worked one shift alone together, but Gore and RC III were clearly buddies. Talk about an odd couple.

  Just then, a couple big families came cruising into the shop. “Do you have any gluten-free donuts?” a super skinny woman in sunglasses asked.

  Gore smiled and said, “No, but we make all our products with extra, extra care.”

  “Oh,” the woman said. “Good.”

  Right before close, Gore gave me her home phone number, said to call if we decided to use her house.

  “I really appreciate it,” I said.

  “Thanks for the dandelions,” she said quietly.

  I called Camille before Dante locked up. Of course, she was a little skeptical about organizing a band practice at Gore’s house. “I don’t know. Will anyone go over there?” she asked.

  CHAPTER 13

  I was planning to go directly home so I could eat something healthy and fast (no donuts for my third straight day of work!) and then do my grandpa’s workout. But RC III was waiting for me when I left the shop. He sat drinking a chocolate milk out on the picnic table under Dante’s canopy.

  “Dude, you want to see what the cheerleaders are doing?”

  “Where?”

  “Up at school. Bet they’re there again.”

  “You saw them?

  “Heard them. Yesterday. About this time.”

  Man, I wanted to go home. I was so sticky and gross and I wanted to work out. But I felt sort of honored that RC III was taking an interest in my business. Know what I mean?

  “What are they doing?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I just heard the music, man. Let’s go check it out. I’ll give you a ride home after.”

  Five minutes later, we (both of us sticky) rolled into the MLAHS parking lot in RC III’s black Honda. Sure enough, Kailey’s Buick was out there in the lot. Janessa’s SUV. A bunch of other cars were out there too. Just seeing those cars sent a shock of fear through me.

  “Let’s go in,” RC III said.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t want to—I don’t need to know what’s up.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I…I don’t want them to see me spying,” I said.

  “We’ll just walk back through the commons, head to the locker room. I can say I’m picking up some laundry from my locker if anyone asks. You know you want to see this.”

  “Okay,” I whispered.

  I don’t know why I was so freaked out by the notion that Kailey, Janessa, and Emily Yu might see me poking around. But I was. Terrified.

  I followed RC III through the doors. My heart blasted. We entered the commons. The cheerleaders weren’t in there. But then there was this thumping bass blasting through the gym doors and RC III just walked right over and opened a door right up, looked right in. I looked in under his arm and there they were, the dance team in short shorts and tiny T-shirts. And they were all humping and bumping to this…like, club music.

  “What is this, the stripper team?” RC III asked.

  “What? What?” I said. I jammed my head under his armpit for a better view.

  Janessa, while she spun, saw us in the door. She stopped and waved at RC III. Then this tight-skirted, giant-haired, big-boobed blonde lady I’d never seen before barked, “What do you boys think you are doing?” She had this thick Southern accent.

  “Nothing, ma’am. Just heard the music,” RC III replied.

  “This is a closed practice, young man,” she said.

  Kailey smiled at RC III. Then she saw me and her smile faded fast.

  Emily mouthed “Chunk?” in this really ugly way that made me boil.

  I pushed past RC III and said, “Hi, ladies!”

  “Get your big butt right back out that door,” the blonde-haired woman cried. She ran toward us and her body just bounced in this awesome way, sir. Like beautiful. Like I can visualize it in slow motion.

  RC III grabbed the back of my donut shirt and pulled me through into the commons. The door slammed in our faces.

  “Who the hell was that woman?” I asked.

  “Their coach,” RC III said.

  “Wow. She’s…she’s pretty hot,” I said.

  “Don’t think with your groin, man. She’s your enemy.”

  “Okay, but she’s the hottest mom I’ve ever seen.”

  “I bet she’s expensive.”

  His statement confused me because I was all lit up by her in a weird way. “What?” I whispered, “You think she’s a prostitute?”

  “Dude.” RC III spoke slowly to me like I’m an idiot, which I am. “She’s the cheerleader’s new coach and she’s probably the reason the school can’t afford your band.”

  “Oh,” I said. The truth of the matter dawned on me. “The school replaced Shaver with her.”

  RC III nodded. “Yeah, man. Seems like it.”

  “She’s…she’s beautiful.”

  “Dude! You’re a horndog! She’s the enemy!”

  A minute later, we were back in RC III’s car. He pulled out of the lot. I thought about Big Boobs. The buzz I got from her began to wear off. “That woman replaced Shaver, but I thought I loved her,” I whispered.

  “Candy,” RC III said. “She’s a glazed donut, dude.”

  “She’s the enemy,” I said. “She took band.”

  “Don’t let them fool you,” RC III nodded.

  “She’s the enemy,” I repeated. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Same thing that’s wrong with most people,” RC III said.

  “I want all the donuts in my mouth no matter how bad they are for me.”

  We drove for a while in silence. Then RC III said, “I don’t know about this concert thing you guys want to do. Takes too much planning. Seems like you should be more aggressive anyway. You should get in the cheerleaders’ faces a little more. Make more of a public display. Disrupt their shit a little.”

  “Really? How?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Just think about it.”

  We got to my house. “Okay. But we need to raise some cash for camp.”

  “Whatever you think, dude. See you tomorrow,” RC III said. Then he fist-bumped me and I felt pretty damn cool, sir. RC III is far more awesome than Justin Cornell.

  Grandpa was waiting for me at the door, already wearing his compaction shorts. (Yes, RC III saw him.) “Look at you, fancy pants. Getting dropped off by the school quarterback in his fancy-pants car.”

  “I think it’s a Honda Civic.”

  “It’s a fancy-pants Civic.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Time for the circuit of hell.”

  And while Grandpa killed me with the burpees and crap, I thought it might be nice to have some club music thumping to help me keep my energy up. I thought, Wish that big-boobed blonde lady were barking at me. Wish Kailey were
here dancing—

  I have problems, sir. I think cheerleaders are hot. Even mom-aged cheerleaders who bark like wild dogs. I’m a glazed donut addict.

  When we finished, Dad was home, sitting at the dinner table, although there was no dinner yet made.

  “What are you two up to?” he asked.

  Sweat soaked my donut shirt and my stretchy pants. (I hadn’t changed.) “Nothing,” I said.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “You’re doing something.”

  I need something to drink, Mr. Rodriguez. I’m sorry. I don’t want to be a pain in the ass.

  Unsweetened iced tea or a glass of water. Nothing with sugar, okay?

  CHAPTER 14

  Thanks. That tea hit the spot.

  Okay. When he said, “Oh, no, you’re doing something,” I had to tell Dad something because I didn’t want him to know I was exercising, which I know doesn’t make any sense, except I was worried he’d want to join in. He’d stink up the joint. He’d start and do it for a couple days. Then he’d quit exercising. Then I’d quit and then we’d eat a thousand tacos. And I’d feel hopeless again, which for some reason I didn’t, even though some bad stuff was going on.

  Instead of telling Dad about Project Kill Chunk, I told him about the lack of band camp, about the pop machine. He was almost interested! Like, for twenty seconds, he listened! Dad’s opinion? “You need to write a letter to the editor,” he said. “People in town will be upset if they know what’s happening. Might get some support.”

  Then he ate a couple sandwiches. (Grandpa didn’t cook because our workout got in the way of his cooking schedule.) Then Dad watched Pawn Stars.

  I sat at the table after Dad left. Grandpa cleaned up around me. He asked, “What are you stewing on?”

  “Dad’s right, right? I should write a letter to the paper.”

  “Seems reasonable,” Grandpa said.

  “It does.”

  Generally, I think of Dad as being such a loser. I’d never pay attention to his advice. (Look what he’s done for us so far—chased Mom away, gotten us fat as hell, gotten us an old man to live in our house.) I could complain about bad government and notify the community about the upcoming concert too!

  So instead of watching TV, I went downstairs and sent a message to Ms. Feagan asking her for an example of a good letter to the editor. She sent me a few and wrote I believe I know what you’re upset about and I’m completely on your side, Gabe. Let me know if I can be of further assistance. That made me feel great! So I grabbed my laptop, stretched out on my bed, and wrote a letter, copying the kind of language that was in Ms. Feagan’s examples. I worked so hard on it. I tried to channel my inner Justin Cornell. I tried to sound so balanced and smart and true.

  Yeah, it’s in my email. So is Friesen’s response. Let me pull it up.

  June 11

  Dear Good People of Minnekota:

  Democracy does not function behind closed doors. Democracy only works in the full light of the day when all interested parties are deemed worthy of notification and participation. In the case of the school district’s recent repricing of vending machine items and the subsequent redistribution of vending machine profits, democracy failed.

  Without warning or discussion, the Minnekota Lake Area High School band lost its vending money, the money that funds summer programs. At the same time, Minnekota Lake Area High School cheerleading received said monies for the purposes of creating a new dance team. While I do not argue against the introduction of new programming at the school and would never say that cheerleading is anything but a wonderful and vital aspect of the student extracurricular community, I do argue with the behind-closed-doors process that resulted in this action and the subsequent alcohol-fueled arrest of Mr. Shaver, the band teacher.

  Changes affect real people (Mr. Shaver and the children).

  If changes are to be made, if resources are to be redistributed, as is often necessary, let the changes be brought before the stakeholders and let the community determine what is and what isn’t of value.

  For now, the band is fending for itself (hopefully) by doing a live concert during Spunk River Days, date and time TBA. Be there to support your hometown band like we support the football and basketball teams!

  Sincerely,

  Gabriel Johnson

  MLAHS Class of 2015

  It was about 8 p.m. when I finished and I rolled out of the bed and stretched and blinked. Then I carried my computer upstairs to show the letter to Dad and Grandpa.

  Dad was snoring in his chair. Grandpa sat at the kitchen table reading a Cooking Light magazine.

  “Hey, will you read this over for me? I have to send it in by midnight to get it in Thursday’s paper.”

  “Uh-huh. Yup,” Grandpa said.

  I put the computer in front of him. He stared at it for about five minutes, which seemed a little long. He blinked. Sniffed. Then said, “You’re a hell of a smart kid. That’s good. That’s just plain good, Chunk.”

  “All right,” I said. “Thanks, Grandpa!”

  “Doesn’t mean that jackass Friesen will print it. Man comes from a long line of pissants and assholes. Just be aware of that fact.”

  “He’ll print it. What’s he got to lose?” I said.

  “Kaus advertising bucks,” Grandpa said.

  “Oh.” I thought for a second. But weren’t papers required to print opinion letters? Wasn’t that their job? “Well, I tried to be respectful,” I said.

  “It’s a good letter, Gabe.”

  I went back downstairs, took a big breath, felt all proud and powerful and right and good. Then I fired the letter to BFriesen@LMJournal.com and that bastard wrote me back in like ten seconds! This is what he wrote:

  Chunk,

  Nice try. We have a representative democracy. We elect a school board, so it makes the important decisions for our community. The school board decided about the pop machine. I should know because I was at the meeting, so I was part of the situation over there. And I know Shaver is sad and in a pile of trouble now, but that is his own fault for not acting like an upstanding man. Sorry I can’t print your letter because you do not understand the nature of government. We should fire your teachers.

  Sincerely,

  Bob Friesen

  Okay, sir. You know who’s a total idiot?

  That’s right! Bob Friesen! He’s the publisher of the local newspaper and he doesn’t know anything about government! My teachers, especially Mr. March in eighth grade, taught me plenty about government. There’s an open meeting law in Minnesota that requires school boards to announce not only the time and place of the meeting but what’s going to be on the agenda so community members can make statements for or against what’s being voted on (took me ten seconds to verify on Google). They posted the meeting about defunding the fall play. Because of Ms. Feagan, everybody went to the meeting to tell them no!

  Friesen is a jerk. Representational democracy? Holy balls, I know what that is! I’m not stupid. Bob Friesen wouldn’t publish my letter because…because—

  Money.

  Yeah, he’s Kaus’s golf buddy too. At least, he used to be. Things are changing with the Kauses.

  Oh, balls, was I pissed.

  I ran upstairs and told Grandpa what happened.

  He nodded and smirked. “Yup,” he said.

  “Who do I report this to? Who can I complain to?”

  “Hell if I know. Ask your dad in the morning. He might have an idea.”

  “Damn,” I said.

  I trudged back downstairs and jumped on my bed and called Camille to tell her about this outrage!

  Her reaction wasn’t what I was expecting. She said, “You didn’t tell me you were going to write a letter, Chunk. I should be the one writing the letters.”

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “Well, I’m the smart o
ne. Everybody will think we’re just joking if you write letters.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “Oh, really?” I said.

  “Can I post on Facebook that we’re going to have a practice at Gore’s house tomorrow?” Camille asked.

  “Great,” I said. “Fine. You’d better do that so I don’t screw it up and tell people we’re practicing in the lake or something because I’m so dumb.”

  “Don’t be a sour apple,” Camille said.

  Is this stuff black iced tea, Mr. Rodriguez? I mean, caffeinated iced tea?

  I feel weird.

  Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my mouth is going really, really fast and I feel a little bit jumpy like maybe I just drank several coffees or Dews or whatever in a very short time. And I was so thirsty I think I’ve sucked down like four glasses of that iced tea and man. Look at my hand! My hand is waving around fast! Look at that sick speed! I think my heart’s beating too fast!

  CHAPTER 15

  I’m better. I’m okay. I wish I could go outside. Fresh air. I could use some fresh air.

  Okay.

  Camille posted an announcement on Facebook about practicing for this stupid Spunk River concert that wasn’t really scheduled and lots of people decided they would show up at Gore’s house, which surprised me and also clearly surprised Gore.

  I called her at her house from Dante’s the next morning because she didn’t work with me on Wednesday. I gave her the list of band peeps who were going to attend. She was excited and sort of pissed. “But I hate all those people and now they’re coming over?”

  “You volunteered,” I said.

  “I’ll grill some hamburgers,” she said. “Dad ordered like ten pounds of grass-fed beef. It’s tasty. Everyone will like it. Except for the vegetarians. Is anyone a vegetarian? I’m thinking about being a vegetarian.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll grill veggie burgers too. I made my own with dried mushrooms and black beans. They’re good.”

  “Sweet. Thanks,” I said.

  “Holy cow! I don’t like any of those people,” she said. Then she hung up.