Fat Chance, Charlie Vega

by Crystal Maldonado

  Once we’re inside, we can see that the RV is pretty big, but also…thirty people, like, really is a lot of people to fit in here. Some are sitting where they can, some are standing, and at the center of it all, there’s a table that’s covered with beautiful desserts and chips, as well as alcohol—so much alcohol—and classic red Solo cups.

  Most everyone who beat us here is already holding a cup, and some have dug into the snacks, too. As the last ones in, there’s nowhere for Brian and me to go, so we hover by the door.

  “Should we get something to eat?” Brian asks.

  “I don’t even know if we can make it over there,” I say, motioning around at the packed RV. “Are there even any regular drinks? Like, for us?”

  “Stay here. I’ll figure it out.” And then he’s gone, maneuvering between our colleagues-turned-boozehounds as he makes his way to the table of goodies. Once there, he grabs a heart-shaped plate and then looks at me as if to ask if there’s anything I want.

  Cupcakes! I mouth to him, and he gives me a thumbs-up, grabbing two and putting them on the plate. He snags a few other things, too, then surveys the drinks, shrugs, and comes back.

  “Mostly beer and wine over there,” he says, holding out the plate toward me so we can share. “There’s a bottle of Coke, but I wasn’t sure how I was actually going to balance two cups with the food. Here, I got a little of everything.”

  “You did great. Thank you!” I say, eternally grateful that I didn’t have to try to squeeze by everyone to get to the food. “What should we try first? Cookies?”

  “You go ahead. I only got those in case you liked them. Personally, I’d prefer a cookie with something savory inside. Why does no one ever put meat in cookies?”

  “Meat in cookies?” I ask, appalled. “Like hamburger?!”

  Brian laughs. “More like bacon.”

  I laugh, too. “Okay, Guy Fieri,” I tease, reaching for a cupcake. “Anyway, these are where it’s at. Dora’s baking is no joke. It sounds like you’re not a huge sweets person, but I highly recommend giving one a try.”

  “There’s room in my heart for the occasional cupcake.”

  I survey the one in my hand—chocolate cake with a perfectly sculpted mound of pink frosting, topped with a raspberry and nestled in a super-cute red cupcake liner—and consider how I’ll take a bite without making a huge mess. “The one problem with cupcakes, though, is that they’re so hard to eat.”

  “You don’t know the trick?”

  I give him a look. “There’s a trick to eating cupcakes?”

  He pushes the plate toward me. “If you don’t mind.” I take it from him and watch as he carefully removes the cupcake’s wrapper and then delicately breaks the bottom half of the cake off. He squishes the half cake on top of the frosting, effectively turning the cupcake into a cupcake sandwich.

  “Ta-da!” He takes a big bite for dramatic effect.

  I can’t help but laugh at how proud he is of himself. “Okay, that’s great and all, but total blasphemy.”

  Brian swallows hard. “Blasphemy?! I just showed you the perfect, mess-free way to consume a cupcake. Give the guy a little credit!”

  “Fine, fine. Points for creativity.”

  “Thank you,” he says, then finishes the cupcake with another big bite. “See? So clean. So easy. So delicious.”

  “It’s an impressive trick, but is it really the best way? I think not.” I hand him the plate back, and he takes it with an amused smile. “Now, pay attention. The best way to eat a cupcake starts the same way your trick does.” I remove the wrapper of my cupcake, followed by its cakey bottom. “But then…” I take a bite from the cakey bottom, and then another.

  Brian’s eyes go wide. “You just…eat the cake? With no frosting?”

  I nod, taking the last bite of the bottom and leaving the cake top and its frosting fully intact. “You have to suffer through the cake portion alone so you can get the real reward: a small bit of cake with mountains of frosting!” Now it’s my turn to take a dramatic bite from my cupcake, but it doesn’t go as well as I’d hoped: I can instantly feel the icing smear around my mouth, and Brian starts laughing so hard he nearly chokes.

  “Elegant!” he says between laughs, then reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a heart napkin, which he hands to me. “So classy!”

  I laugh, too, shielding my mouth with my hand and using the napkin to wipe my face, hoping I don’t accidentally smudge any highlighter and leave my face real shiny in one spot and totally matte in another. “Okay, so, definitely messier than your technique…”

  “But so good, though, I bet?” he asks.

  “So good,” I say, going in for another bite.

  “Ladies, gentlemen! May we have your attention for just another moment?” A voice bellows over the noise. Brian and I turn to see Gary standing with Nancy in the hallway nook just past the food table. “Before the festivities get too far underway, we would like to thank you all for humoring Nancy and me in our little celebration. I also want to say thank you to my beautiful wife, who I’ve had the honor of being with these last thirty years. It’s been wonderful celebrating these last thirty Valentine’s Days with you, honey, and I must say: you get hotter and hotter each year that goes by!” He grabs Nancy and kisses her big and I hear Dave let out a giant groan.

  “Enough, you two!” he yells, which only makes Gary dip Nancy into a kiss so hard that her hair nearly grazes the floor.

  I turn to Brian, mortified, and he’s shaking his head like this is the craziest thing he’s ever seen as the others whoop and holler and cheer Gary and Nancy on. How drunk are these people?! It’s, like, four-thirty in the afternoon!

  I motion toward the door and Brian nods, tossing our goody plate into the trash can and pushing the door open. We’re able to slip out completely unnoticed in the hullabaloo and we book it toward the office, unable to contain our laughter.

  “Who are those people and what have they done with our prim and proper colleagues?” I ask.

  “I don’t know and I don’t want to know!” he says, opening the door and letting me into the building. “What is it about Valentine’s Day that makes people so loopy? First everyone at school—now this!”

  I’m nodding along with him. “There is something about this holiday. I can’t say it’s my favorite, though. I mean, it’s great when you’re a kid—it’s so simple and innocent and everyone in your class gets some candy and a sweet little valentine. But then you get older and you’re lucky if you get anything at all.”

  “I feel like Valentine’s Day always kinda sucks for dudes, too,” Brian says. “You never get anything—there’s just this expectation that you’re going to deliver. It’s weird, man.”

  “Yeah, I agree. Although…” I let my voice trail off.

  “Although?”

  “Well…something kind of cool happened that’s making me think Valentine’s Day might not be so bad,” I say shyly.

  “Oh, yeah?” Brian asks, smirking. “Like what?”

  “I got invited to the dance on Friday.”

  “Oh. Wow!” Brian seems surprised, and I swallow my disappointment. He quickly adds, “Good for you, Charlie.”

  I try to push past it. “Thanks! I’m really excited.”

  “Who’s the lucky guy?” Brian asks.

  That makes me blush a bit. “You won’t believe it.”

  “Now you’ve definitely got to tell me.”

  “Well…” I hesitate. I started this conversation feeling so light and self-assured, certain Brian would be one person rooting for me. But my confidence has wavered, and I end up stammering. “I—I’m going with Cal, actually.”

  Brian’s face seems to fall. “Cal Carter?”

  “Yeah, that’d be the one. I’ve had a thing for him for a while, so…,” I say, my buzz fully wearing off at his lackluster reaction. Have I overestimated how friendly we are? “It’s wild, right?”

  “Yeah…that is wild.” The way Brian emphasizes the word is makes m
e regret sharing this news at all. I get it: gorgeous, popular Cal with me seems way off base, for probably dozens of reasons. Still, I feel my neck start to burn with shame, and suddenly the sugar from the cupcake I’ve eaten tastes sickly sweet in my mouth.

  “I mean, not that wild, though. He did ask me, after all,” I say, feeling defensive. “But I get it.”

  “Wait, Charlie—no,” Brian says. “That’s not at all what I meant.”

  “No, it’s fine. It’s weird.”

  “No, that’s not it. It’s just—I mean—Cal’s a…doorknob.”

  I give him a look. “What?”

  Brian shakes his head. “Never mind. I’m sorry. I’m excited for you. Really! I hope you have a great time.”

  “Yeah, I hope so, too,” I say. “But I’m going to head out. Night.”

  I don’t wait for him to say goodbye, and I walk back out of the office door. Though I can tell Brian feels bad for what he said, I don’t want to stick around. The last thing I need is more doubt. I’m already full of it.

  Chapter Ten

  If trying on your dress a million times is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.

  I just need to make sure that I look okay—good, even—if I’m going to pull off being Cal Carter’s date to the dance. I need to feel and act the part, so if that means slipping into my dress, turning on a little music, and modeling in the mirror, that’s fine, right? (And with Brian’s less-than-reassuring response to my news, I just need to remind myself that this is really happening.)

  But something about this Spice Girls song—yes, I’m totally listening to the “Lovesick” playlist I recommended to Amelia—gets me so hyped that eventually I’m not really trying on the dress so much as just straight-up singing and dancing in the mirror.

  Just as I’m belting out the chorus, the door to my room swings open, and there’s my mother.

  “Mom!” I grab my phone and fumble with it, trying to pause the music. “Don’t you knock?”

  She’s laughing when I finally get the song to stop playing. “I wanted to use your mirror and I didn’t think you’d mind a quick interruption to your concert. You know I prefer the lighting in here.” She motions at me. “What’s all this?”

  “Nothing. Just singing,” I say, but I know there’s really no way out of this one.

  “In a new dress?”

  I sigh. “Well.”

  “What?” she asks.

  I sigh again. “It’s for the dance.”

  “The dance,” she repeats. Then her face lights up. “The George Washington High School Annual Football Awards Ceremony?!”

  “That’d be the one,” I say.

  “Oh my God!” she exclaims. “But you?”

  I feel my jaw clench a little. “Really, Mom? ‘You?’”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Ugh, Charlie, that’s not what I meant,” she says. “I’m just surprised.”

  “Yeah, I can tell. But why?” I press.

  “It’s just that not everyone gets to go, so of course I’m surprised. Happy, but surprised.”

  “It’s so surprising that someone would want to go with me?”

  “You know what? Don’t start.” Mom puts up her hand as if to physically block any other words that might come out of my mouth. “Who are you going with?”

  That I definitely don’t want to share.

  Cal Carter is such a big name on the football team that even my mom knows who he is—and okay, fine, she may have overheard me talking about him to Amelia before, so she knows not only that he’s super popular and super cute but that I’m super into him.

  “Well?” she asks.

  There will be something a little satisfying about revealing it, though, right? For her to know that there are people out there who find me attractive just as I am? For her to have to eat her surprise? For her to have to acknowledge that I have been invited to this super-special dance?

  I stand up a little straighter before saying, “Cal Carter.”

  My mom starts laughing. “Oh my God, Charlie. Come on. Seriously, who are you going with?”

  My fists clench at my side. “God, Mom, I’m being serious!”

  “Okay, okay! Jeez,” Mom says. “I thought you were joking. But good for you!”

  “Yeah, good for me,” I spit out. “Do you want to use the mirror or not?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  I step aside to let her in front of it, but I cross my arms and stare at her the whole time she’s checking out her hair. She can, no doubt, see me in the mirror, but I don’t care.

  I watch as she takes in her appearance—her light brown eyes, which she delights in describing as hazel; her effortlessly straight ombré hair that goes from a chestnut brown to a soft blond; her skin so smooth it doesn’t even need a touch of BB cream. She uses a finger to tidy up the rosy lip stain she’s wearing and smooths her chin, a ritual she’s developed as an attempt to will away what she calls her double chin (which it hardly is). I feel like she’s doing all these things painstakingly slowly just to annoy me—especially as she turns to the left side, then the right, and adjusts the fitted wrap dress she’s wearing on her small frame. I try not to let the sight of her body make me feel any kind of way about my own, not when I was just having such a joyful time and feeling so good, but it’s hard.

  “All right, Miss Attitude. All set,” she says. “I’m going on a date, so I’ll leave you to your little performance.”

  “Fine,” I reply. “See ya.”

  She disappears from my room, shutting the door behind her, and I instantly turn the music back on in an attempt to resume my dance party. But when I look in the mirror and see my body reflected back at me, taking up at least twice the size of my mom’s, I can’t muster the enthusiasm. Not even the Spice Girls can save me.

  So I turn off the music, peel off the dress, and get in some pajamas instead.

  After the exchanges with my mom and Brian, I decide I’m not telling another living soul about the dance or about Cal or about anything, really.

  Thankfully, the topic doesn’t come up again with either of them, and there isn’t even any weirdness with Brian the next time I see him. We talk about a killer history test we both had to take, that time Brian actually went to math camp (!), and RuPaul’s Drag Race (which I’m obsessed with and trying to get him to watch), but not a word about the dance, for which I am grateful. I just want to stay positive about it.

  And I am. In fact, thinking about attending the dance with Cal makes me feel giddy and light. I spend a lot of time daydreaming about what it will be like. I imagine Cal in a suit, smiling at me, his beautiful golden hair mussed like he’s just rolled out of bed (My bed? Okay, Charlie, stop). I imagine all the slow songs we’ll dance to. I wonder whether we’ll kiss (and how many times and how great it’ll feel).

  These thoughts keep me floating toward the end of the week, closer and closer to Friday’s dance. Amelia’s support buoys me, too, and on Thursday, we use art class to work out the details of how she’ll help me get ready as we work on our pointillism pieces.

  “I still can’t believe you haven’t let me see you in your dress yet!”

  “It adds to the element of surprise,” I say.

  “I think it’s supposed to be a surprise for your date, not your best friend, but okay. I’m sure you’re stunning.” She points her paintbrush at me. “I’m at least still coming over to do your makeup and hair, right?”

  “Yes, please. I’m hopeless without you!”

  “No need to be a suck-up, lady.” Amelia’s brows furrow as she looks at her piece. She holds it up to show me. “My pointillist banana is looking a bit…expired.”

  I look down. My pointillist donut is looking similar, so I hold it up to show her. “Hard same. Probs shouldn’t have chosen food for this piece.” We laugh. “Anyway, what time will you be there?”

  “Right. The important stuff. My track meet gets out at five, and I’ll come straight to you. That should give us plenty of time to do hair, makeup, all
of it. You’ll barely need anything, anyway, because you’re so pretty on your own.”

  I roll my eyes at that, but secretly, I’m pleased. I like when she compliments me.

  We hear giggling from across the room, and Amelia and I turn to see what’s what. The girls who sit near Brian are all gazing at tiny pieces of paper and seem to be swooning. We don’t get a chance to question it because suddenly Brian’s at our table handing Amelia a similarly sized piece of paper.

  Amelia looks at it and grins. “‘You’re great. Happy Valentine’s Day,’” she reads aloud, then turns it so I can see. Great is spelled grate and there’s a cute doodle of some cheese being grated. It’s handmade, I assume by Brian, and totally adorable. With Valentine’s Day this weekend, Amelia’s already gotten plenty of valentines from admirers, but I can tell she likes this one. “This is so cute! Thanks, Brian!”

  “You’re welcome,” he says. Then he holds one out to me. “And last, but certainly not least. Happy almost Valentine’s Day, Charlie.”

  I look up at him. “For me?”

  “Of course. Someone recently told me that Valentine’s Day sucks as you get older because not everyone gets something. So I wanted to make sure everyone in this class, at least, would get something. That person especially.” He gestures for me to take it.

  My heart is thumping as I reach for the slip of paper, touched that he listened so openly to something I said and even turned it into action. I’m also just…floored that I’m receiving a valentine. A real valentine. From a real boy.

  The valentine Brian’s made for me has an intricate drawing of a typewriter, etched in ink and filled in with watercolor. It’s beautiful enough to be a piece of art you’d find in a hipster gift store, one so irresistible you don’t mind the hefty price tag. Beneath the drawing, in Brian’s handwriting, it says, Just my type. I turn it over delicately to find that on the back he’s written, To someone who makes my workday wonderful. Happy Valentine’s Day, Charlie.—Brian.

  “Wow. This is beautiful, Brian. And really sweet. I love it.”

  “I thought because you like writing, it might be fitting.”