Fat Angie

by e. E. Charlton-Trujillo

  Fat Angie continued to pummel him with the tray.

  Whack! Smack! Whack-whack!

  He threw up his arms, blocking his head.

  “You sent out that picture,” said Fat Angie. “Why?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t send anything.”

  She backed him against the wall, her eyes burning an imaginary hole in his skull.

  “Don’t lie!” she said.

  Her exclamation dialed down the general volume of the lunchroom.

  Jake stepped in behind her.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Wang said. “It was supposed to be a joke.”

  Fat Angie had eavesdropped on a conversation between her couldn’t-be-bothered mother and Wang’s court-appointed therapist, who had said, “There are so many layers to his trauma, Connie. His sense of abandonment from his birth family and your divorce has resulted in what we refer to as invisible angry teen syndrome (IATS). While not a formal medical diagnosis, IATS is a very real syndrome. They have done studies in Luxembourg on rats. It’s very new material but very promising.”

  “A joke?” Fat Angie said.

  Wang’s school tough-cool intensity fell away. “It was just . . . I didn’t think — I didn’t think,” said Wang.

  She nodded.

  “Nothing you ever did up until now made me hate you,” said Fat Angie. “Because I think you miss her too. That’s why you’re such an ass all the time. But I don’t care anymore.” She pushed in. “I hate you.”

  “Come on,” said Jake.

  Fat Angie had shot and scored from the three-point line, metaphorically speaking. Wang had shared with Angie over a video-game marathon of Donkey Kong that his birth father had said those three words to him before forcing his mother to send him away. In the heat of the moment, she had deliberately wounded Wang and she did not care.

  “Angie,” said Jake.

  Her eyes held to Wang’s as she stepped back.

  Wang hooked Jake by the arm. “You’re a fake, Jake. Whatever you’re doing with my sister, you’re worse than me.”

  Jake jerked his arm away.

  As Jake and Fat Angie walked to the cafeteria doors, kids laughed. Some hollered. Some even booed. The name-calling specifics were insignificant. And in that moment, Angie just did not care. That scared her.

  When the last bell rang, Fat Angie cut out through an emergency exit that did, in fact, sound. She ran as fast as she could and plowed into the girls’ locker room. Huffing, she pulled her sister’s HORNETS’ NEST T-shirt from the bottom of her backpack. It was carefully protected in an oversize Ziploc freezer bag. She gathered her clothes and changed in a stall. This action often made her feel much like Clark Kent changing from mere mortal to Superman. Today, however, she was feeling much less the super and more the Clark. Even with her sister’s shirt on.

  Her fingers hooked the latch when the locker room filled with laughter and girl gossip. She squatted with her feet planted on the toilet seat.

  “Who took my water bottle?” a girl whined.

  “Ask Keisha. She’s always five-finger-discounting my shit.”

  “Don’t make me get all brick on you, chicken legs,” said Keisha.

  “OK, OK. Best scandal of the year,” said Stacy Ann. “Head cheerleader Amber ‘Precious’ Pom-Pom Hiller knocked up by D-list woodshop junior DeMel Allen, or . . .”

  Stacy Ann paused. The tension must have swelled. Fat Angie’s foot slipped momentarily. She recovered quickly, bracing herself against the stall walls, but fumbled her clothes right into the toilet. The toilet that had not been flushed.

  “Man . . .” she whispered.

  “Or Fat Angie slitting her wrist and going lesbo?” asked Stacy Ann.

  One of Stacy Ann’s clan made a buzzer sound. “I’ll take Wacko Fatso Dyke for five hundred bonus points, please.”

  The girls laughed.

  “Cut it out,” said a girl. “She might make the team.”

  Fat Angie tried to fish her clothes out of the toilet without drawing attention to the only occupied stall.

  “Yeah, only because Coach Laden is a complete card-carrying dyke,” said Stacy Ann.

  That statement paused Fat Angie’s clothing retrieval. Coach Laden a lesbian? No way. She was so . . . lovely. But so was KC. That was when KC’s initials bore a hole into Fat Angie’s gut. What had she been thinking at lunch? KC was the only person to see Angie for who she was and not treat her like Kryptonite.

  Fat Angie’s shoe slipped. In less than a second, she slid, sneaker-first, into the toilet. The water splashed out the bowl sides and crept onto the yellow-and-blue-painted locker-room floor. The line of unflushed water trickled from the stall to the Mighty Hornets’ Nest emblem.

  Fat Angie flailed, trying to extract her foot. By the time she opened the stall door, she had a rapt audience. At this pivotal moment, with her clothes dripping from her hand, a flood of thoughts threatened to crack the dam of Fat Angie’s “ums.”

  It was a weak threat, however.

  “Um . . .” Fat Angie said, tugging at her water-spotted gym shorts.

  The girls laughed.

  “What a freak,” said one girl.

  “And I give you William Anders High’s Official Wacko Lesbo, Fat Angie,” said Stacy Ann. “Hand-washing your clothes now?”

  Fat Angie stuffed her clothes into her backpack. Her soaked sneaker squeaked against the floor and squished her sock between her toes.

  “Forget what I said earlier,” said a girl. “She’ll never make the team.”

  Fat Angie shoulder-slammed the locker-room door, stumbled up the stairs, and tossed her damp backpack in the stands. She marched onto the court, put her toe to the sideline, and ran lines. Back and forth she ran. Coach Laden emerged from her office and saw Fat Angie burning up the court — well, as much as she could. Her cheeks blazing red. Her shoes squeaking, slipping. Nothing stopped her. Full-court lines. Then she grabbed a ball off the caddie. She bounced it three times and jammed down the court. Her eyes focused on the target. Fat Angie hit the top of the key. What should have been a dramatic moment, like in a coming-of-age sports film, fell short. She slipped and fell back. The ball rolled away.

  Coach Laden had two feet on the court when Fat Angie smacked her palms against the floor and scrambled to her feet. She picked up the ball and zeroed in on the opposite end of the court. She bounced the ball with furiously focused intensity.

  Girls began to emerge from the locker room. Stacy Ann leaned in to one of them and said, “I’m shutting this down, now.” She stepped onto center court. Stacy Ann lowered her hips into guard position and waited for the robust, pee-smelling Fat Angie to make her move.

  Fat Angie ripped down the court. Stacy Ann’s steel look should have psyched out the fat girl. But Fat Angie kept her eyes on the target, and when Stacy Ann inevitably came between her and the basketball hoop, Fat Angie, huffing of course, pressed against Stacy Ann.

  “Give it up, freak,” Stacy Ann said, sliding and shifting with the determined Fat Angie.

  Fat Angie backed up. Stacy Ann straightened her defensive stance, indicating that Fat Angie was not a threat.

  That was a mistake.

  Full of rage, Fat Angie raced for the basket.

  Stacy Ann slid her long legs sideways and locked herself into position. Fat Angie let out a primitive scream as she stopped and jump-shot over Stacy Ann’s extended arms.

  The ball smacked the backboard and toilet-bowled before dropping in. Stacy Ann had been outshot by the Wacko Fatso Dyke formerly known only as Fat Angie.

  Fat Angie leaned on her knees and caught her breath.

  Coach Laden blew her whistle. All the other girls jogged onto the court. Stacy Ann glared as she walked past Fat Angie. The ball that had sealed the deal rolled to the edge of the court, where KC stood holding her phone in snapshot mode.

  “Let’s go, Angie,” said Coach Laden.

  The moment — time — froze between the girls. Fat Angie and KC exchanged
super-dramatic-longing looks. KC’s was laced with a harder, you-really-betrayed-me-so-I’m-not-revealing-my-heart look. At least, that was what Fat Angie chose to believe about their exchange.

  KC pocketed her cell and disappeared around the corner.

  Fat Angie dropped her head back, exhaled heavy breaths, and moved in with the rest of the girls.

  “Just a reminder, ladies,” said Coach Laden. “Varsity has two spots and the next hour and a half determines who walks out with them.”

  Fat Angie salivated at the yellow-and-blue jerseys with gentle white trim dangling from Coach Laden’s hand. She was perplexed by such a reaction without an association to food.

  “OK. Let’s warm up.” Coach Laden blew her whistle and the clock started.

  Coach Laden pushed the girls from drill to drill, testing agility, endurance, and hunger.

  Fat Angie repeated in her headache-wracked brain, “Don’t quit. Don’t ever quit.”

  Her sister had said, “Remember, you have to follow through. No matter what Mom or anyone says. The only thing in your way is you. And me. Ha!”

  “More, Angie. Let’s go,” said Coach Laden, startling her.

  And so Fat Angie did — go. Again, and again. Her muscles ached. Her legs shook when she did crosscourt defensive slides, but she pushed onward. Imagining her sister cheering her on.

  Stacy Ann unleashed the b-ball beast inside her. Her defense was impeccable.

  Fat Angie outshot every girl on the court but Stacy Ann.

  Coach Laden blew the whistle and the girls limped forward, barely standing. Two jerseys hung over Coach Laden’s broad shoulders.

  “Who thinks she is the best player out here?” asked Coach Laden.

  Fat Angie felt no need to chime in on that question. Two girls in the front raised their hands confidently. They had played quite well. Very well, as a matter of fact.

  “You two can leave,” said Coach Laden.

  Confused, the girls held their footing.

  “Seriously. Leave the court. You’re not team players.”

  One of the girls, clearly a box-dyed blond, said, “Come on, Stacy Ann.”

  Stacy Ann was not one to follow the sheep.

  “Stacy Ann?” said Coach Laden.

  “I’ll catch you later,” Stacy Ann said to the girl.

  “Chicken shit,” said one of them, as the two left the court.

  “Who out here thinks they would be great for JV this year?” said Coach Laden.

  A group of hands went up. That group did not include Stacy Ann or Fat Angie. Actually, Fat Angie very much wanted to throw her hand up, but her sister would not have. Her sister would not have quit.

  “You two think you’re varsity material?” Coach Laden asked, addressing Stacy Ann and Fat Angie.

  “I can play hard,” said Stacy Ann.

  Coach Laden’s attention veered to Fat Angie, who had her head unconfidently down. “Angie?”

  “Um . . .” Fat Angie said. “I can . . .”

  This was her moment. Everything she had been working for came down to whatever she would say next.

  Stacy Ann half-laughed.

  The tension swelled in Fat Angie’s head. The process of counting numbers as a coping device in no way felt accessible.

  “I can . . .” said Fat Angie.

  They were all waiting. Fat Angie was waiting. She closed her eyes, and in that quiet she could hear her sister’s voice.

  “I can follow through,” Fat Angie said, almost surprised the words were coming out of her mouth. “I won’t quit.”

  There they were. Stacy Ann and Fat Angie. Mortal enemies vying for a chance to play on the state-ranked team to beat.

  “That’s good,” said Coach Laden, handing Fat Angie a jersey. “Don’t ever quit.”

  Fat Angie stretched out her sweaty hand. A varsity jersey — a varsity jersey, freshman year! A varsity jersey freshman year like her sister. She was like her sister! She pressed the yellow-and-blue fabric against her chest. Then —

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” And Fat Angie did a little jump-in-place happy dance.

  Stacy Ann and the rest of the hopefuls stared at Coach Laden.

  “Um . . .” said Fat Angie, feeling the awkwardness in her behavior. “Yesss.”

  Coach Laden held out the other jersey for Stacy Ann and said, “You play on this team like you’re on a team or I’ll bench you all season.”

  Stacy Ann nodded.

  “The rest of you are JV,” said Coach Laden. “Meet with Coach Grates in his office. Good job, everyone.”

  The girls peeled off for the locker room. Stacy Ann glared at Fat Angie. “This doesn’t change anything, Fatso. You’ll bench it all season.”

  “You know what you are?” said Fat Angie.

  “Please, Fat Angie. Tell me. What am I?”

  Fat Angie’s face constricted as she pondered the question. She was not exactly sure but it was extremely unpleasant. That much was a fact.

  “You’re a freak,” said Stacy Ann, resuming her strut for the locker room.

  Fat Angie stood there. The court was empty.

  She held out the jersey and gulped.

  Forty-two. The number on the jersey was forty-two.

  It was her sister’s number. It was her sister’s jersey. Fat Angie poked her arms and head through and stood there awaiting some magical transformation.

  She was, of course, still Fat Angie. Fat Angie in a state-winning final-basket-at-the-buzzer jersey. And that had currency.

  Re-creating the winning state play, Fat Angie air-dribbled. Her eyes imagined defenders. She passed right, set a screen, pivoted, and pulled out — way out. The ball whipped back to her. She dribbled, whipped it left, eyed the clock, then — right hand in the air. The ball met her palm. Full stop. Straight up, and everything fell away — the defenders, the crowd.

  Release.

  Buzzer!

  Whoosh!

  “Forty-two,” the crowd had chanted. Over and over, her sister’s number had filled the gymnasium.

  Right then, there was no crowd. There was no state final. There was Fat Angie. Fat Angie in her sister’s jersey, which fit surprisingly better than she could have imagined.

  Fat Angie was number forty-two now.

  Fat Angie hunched over her sushi takeout. Every ounce of joy regarding her spot on the William Anders High School varsity squad was squashed by an obligatory dinner at the dining-room table with her couldn’t-be-bothered mother and Wang.

  Fat Angie squeezed the cloth napkin in her lap into a wrinkled ugly thing.

  Wang leaned back in his chair and smeared wasabi across his plate.

  Her mother poured a second glass of wine. An unusually large glass.

  The moment sucked the absolute life out of Fat Angie. She wanted to scream but knew it would be perceived as acting out.

  “Eat your sushi,” said her mother.

  Fat Angie did not like uncooked fish.

  Fat Angie did not like uncooked anything that should have been cooked.

  Fat Angie did like the noodles but her mother had portion-controlled her carbs to three-fourths of a cup.

  Wang sat forward, swirling noodles on his fork. He looked up for only a moment at his sullen sister, who was still wearing the smelly HORNETS’ NEST T-shirt.

  “I, um . . .” said Fat Angie. “I made the varsity team today.”

  Fat Angie clung to the jersey from beneath the table. Awaiting some reaction from her mother, who sipped her wine.

  “Mom . . .” Fat Angie said.

  “Did you call your therapist today?”

  “I made the varsity basketball team,” Fat Angie said. “I sent you a text.”

  “I’m not cold, Angie,” said her mother. “I know you think I am. I’m not particularly proud of how I handled last night. That’s not the point.”

  “What’s the point then?” Wang said, deadpan. He shook his head and slipped iBuds into his ears.

  Fat Angie held up the jersey. It was a showstopper of a
moment. That jersey had not been in their house since the day after the state finals. Wang fixed his eyes on the jersey. There seemed to have been the slightest break in Connie’s otherwise disconnected behavior. Fat Angie’s lips formed a smile that puffed up to beautiful cheeks.

  “I made the team,” Angie repeated. “I did it.”

  “Return it tomorrow,” her mother said.

  “What?”

  Her mother reached for her cell. “You got that out of pity. You need to learn to live in reality.”

  “Why are you — can’t you just — this is reality. I really mean I made it on my own,” Fat Angie said.

  Her mother tapped the number two on her phone. Otherwise known as speed dial to Fat Angie’s therapist.

  “I’m not going to let you manipulate me,” her mother said.

  “How am I —”

  “Hello, I need to speak to Dr. Conrad,” Connie said. “Well, then I need to leave a message for him. Yes, it is an emergency. Do people generally call after hours to discuss the mundane?”

  “You don’t share things with my mother,” Angie had said to the therapist. “She can’t really be bothered with the truth.”

  “Have you tried to communicate with her?”

  “I don’t have unlimited text messaging.”

  The therapist had made a note: Issues of abandonment from father’s stroke.

  Her mother hung up the phone. “Your therapist is going to call back on your cell, and when he does, don’t you eat through my money with your ‘ums.’”

  Fat Angie studied her mother splitting a piece of yellowtail with a few aggressive chopstick maneuvers. “I’m so tired of this, Angie. I don’t even know who you are.”

  “Can you cut her a little slack, Mom?” said Wang. “Or does that just crush your schedule?”

  “So the two of you are now joined by disliking me?”

  “You just want us to sit here and accept you not being around and Dad not being around and act like we’re . . . a fucking Rockwell picture or something,” Wang said. “Whatev. That’s jank.”

  Fat Angie watched the standoff between her mother and Wang intensify with an exchange of looks.

  “I brought you to this country to give you a better life and —”

  “You mean Dad brought me here. Then you wouldn’t let me go with him because you’re petty.”