Fat Chance, Charlie Vega

by Crystal Maldonado

  My mom drops me off at school the next day because my car is still dead. She uses the drive as an opportunity to talk to me about my upcoming birthday and how she’d like to invite a few of her friends to the house, too. I’m a little annoyed, but to keep the peace I say it’s fine.

  She and I have been bickering a little here and there about my party. I wanted it to be super small, just a few friends and family eating good food in the backyard. She wants to make it bigger, better, flashier, and I’m kind of over it. I thought birthdays were supposed to be about the person celebrating the birthday, but I guess not.

  It’s a bummer I couldn’t catch a ride in today with Amelia so I could have avoided this conversation with my mom altogether. But she’s busy attending an all-day field trip with her public speaking class, which means I’m also on my own at school.

  It’s a weird feeling. Amelia and I have been friends for so long that most people expect to see the two of us together. We’re always Amelia-and-Charlie, like one word, a duo joined at the hip. We do so much together, from getting lunch to walking to class, that Amelia feels more like an extension of me than another person entirely. Or rather, I often feel like an extension of her rather than my own person.

  I wouldn’t say I live in Amelia’s shadow, but her life often feels a lot bigger than mine. When I’m on my own, it’s like I’m a little exposed. And…without anyone to sit with at lunch.

  So, in bio, when we break into groups to complete a study packet for our upcoming test, I use it as an opportunity to connect with my pal Benjamin, who said yes to coming to my birthday (yay!).

  “As excited as I am to dive into mitosis and meiosis, before we do, I was wondering if you could do me a favor,” I say.

  Benjamin shoots me a look. “What kind of favor?”

  “Well, you know my bestie, Amelia?”

  “I know of her, yes,” Benjamin says, and I almost laugh. He knows of her? Benjamin is probably one of the only people in the whole school not completely enthralled with her.

  “Well, sadly, she’s not here today, so there goes my lunch buddy. I’m not super thrilled about the idea of sitting at a table all alone, so I was wondering—”

  Benjamin holds up a hand to stop me. “Charlie, my friends and I decompress during lunch. We don’t talk much.”

  “What do you think I’m going to do? Quiz you on mitosis?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t like that, though.”

  “I wouldn’t, either. I just need a place to sit. Please don’t make me be a complete loser.” He looks at me for a moment, considering the offer. I pout as pathetically as possible. “Please? You won’t even know I’m there!”

  He breaks into a small smile. “All right.”

  “I won’t bug you at all. I’m just a warm body.” I hold out a pinky to him. “Promise!”

  Benjamin glances around, looking a little embarrassed at what he’s about to do, and then locks pinkies with me. “We sit on the east side of the cafeteria. You’ll find us. Now, can we get to this study guide, please?”

  A few periods later, I’m pleased to be walking into the lunch room with a plan, without having to worry about where I’ll sit or who I’ll sit with.

  Honestly, I probably should be having lunch with Kira, Liz, Jessica, Maddy, John, and Khalil—all people who have graciously agreed to attend my birthday in a few weeks. (Through a stroke of luck, Tyler already had plans that night.) I should be trying to be friendly with them, get to know them a little better, show them I’m a person, too.

  But, like Benjamin, sometimes I just want a little quiet. So I find him and his friends, we give each other a polite nod, and then I sit wordlessly and pull out my phone to start reading a book.

  Before I can settle into it, another lunch tray clunks down across from mine. I look up as Brian sits down.

  “Hi,” I say, surprised.

  “Hey,” he replies. “How’s the car?”

  “Deader than ever.”

  “Well, if someone would take me up on my offer…”

  I wave my hand dismissively. “I know, I know. I was going to! I had no way of getting in contact with you,” I say. “And I didn’t work yesterday.”

  “Instagram? Snapchat? Twitter? Hell, even Facebook?” Brian rattles all the ways I technically could have reached out. I can’t help that I’m too shy to do so.

  “I meant I couldn’t text.”

  “Oh. In that case.” He reaches for my unlocked phone. “Do you mind?” I shake my head, and he taps the screen a few times, concentrating. I hear his own phone vibrate in his pocket as he hands mine back to me. “There you go.”

  I look at the screen and realize he’s texted himself. His name, as he’s programmed it in, says Brian and there’s the little flexing arm emoji after it. I laugh.

  “What?” he asks.

  But I don’t respond. Instead, I write a message and hit send.

  Hey. If the offer still stands, do you have time to help me fix my car?

  Brian pulls out his phone and smiles when he sees the text. Then he writes back, Of course. Tonight?

  Yes, I write. Tonight.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Brian and his mom are supposed to show up at my house at 5 p.m. At 4:30, I start looking out the window every few minutes to see if they’re outside. I selfishly hope fixing my car won’t take too long because I don’t want my mom to come home while Brian and his mom are here. She’s not a fan of unexpected visitors. And I’m not really a fan of her right now, so yeah.

  Brian’s car pulls into the driveway at exactly 5 p.m., which I appreciate, because I couldn’t have handled any more time obsessively looking out the window. Plus, 5 p.m. should leave us enough time to get this done before the sun goes down. (At least I hope.)

  I meet them outside. “Hi, Brian. Hi, Mrs. Park.”

  “You don’t have to call me Mrs. Park,” she says. “Maura is just fine.”

  I nod and smile. Before they arrived, I texted Brian to ask what I should call her, and he told me she’d prefer Maura over Mrs. Park, but I didn’t want to seem presumptuous. (Technically, she and her wife are both Mrs. Park, which I think is pretty lovely and sweet.) I just struggle to call adults by their first names. I still call Amelia’s parents Mr. and Mrs. Jones and it’s been literal years.

  “Okay, Maura. Thank you both for coming. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem. Do you have the battery?” Brian asks.

  “Yes! Let me grab it,” I say.

  “I’ll help,” he offers, following me as I walk toward the garage. I let us inside and go to grab the battery, but Brian’s quicker.

  “I can carry it,” I say.

  “I know. But do you want to?” He holds it out toward me. I wrinkle my nose in response. “Thought so.”

  We walk back to where Maura is standing beside my car, sleeves rolled up and hair pulled back. A toolbox is open at her feet and I can see that it’s meticulously organized.

  “Charlie, would you mind popping the hood of your car for me?” she asks.

  “Yes! I’m super good at that now.” I grab the lever that pops the hood, then see Maura motioning for me to come to the front of the car.

  “Come here, dear,” she says. “I’ll show you how to get it open from here. Just in case you ever need to.”

  I join Brian and his mom at the front of my car. She explains that you need to stick your hand under the hood, palm up, and feel around for a latch to pull to fully release the hood. Once the hood is open, she shows me how to prop it up and lays an oil-stained towel over the front of the car.

  “To protect it from battery acid that could drip,” she explains.

  Then Maura bends over the front of the car, talking about things like negative vs. positive ground, bolts and wrenches, and I’m trying to listen but I feel like it’s all going over my head. I’m nodding but secretly thinking, Oh, God, what? Brian’s watching intently but silently, too, so at least that makes me feel a little bit bett
er.

  Maura easily lifts the old battery out of the car, points to the place where it sat and says it’s in good shape, then immediately gets to work installing the new one.

  It’s all over in a matter of minutes. She instructs me to try starting my car, and when I do, it turns on, first try. I’m amazed.

  It must be clear on my face because Brian says, “She’s good, huh?”

  “Umm, she might be my actual fairy godmother. Of cars, of course.”

  Brian nods. “Right, of course.”

  Maura gives me an amused smile. “Now, if you want, I can get rid of this battery for you, Charlie. It should be recycled, not just thrown away.”

  “It won’t be too much trouble?” I ask.

  “Not at all,” she says.

  “Seriously, no problem,” Brian echoes.

  “It’s so cool that you guys know how to do this stuff.”

  Brian points at his mom. “It’s all her.”

  “Tig could learn if he wanted to,” she says.

  “Ma,” Brian says, shooting her a look that I recognize well. It says: Mother, we’ve discussed this a million times, and you can’t be cool? To me, he says, “Childhood nickname,” and I grin.

  “What’s it mean?” I ask.

  “A story for another time,” he replies, turning a little pink.

  “Sorry.” Maura gives Brian an apologetic shrug and does her best to reroute the conversation. “Like I said, he could learn. But he says it’s boring.”

  He looks down sheepishly. “Not boring, just…not…fun?”

  I try to rescue him. “Well, I can’t tell you enough how much I appreciate all of your help! In fact, do you both mind waiting here a minute? I have to go get something from the house.” Before either of them can reply, I run inside, grab a plate from the counter, and race back. I push the plate toward Brian. “Here.”

  He looks down, then grins when he realizes what’s on the plate beneath the clear plastic wrap. “Cookies?”

  “Chocolate chip. With bacon.”

  Brian’s eyes go wide. “With bacon?!”

  “Yeah! At the work party, you said, ‘Nobody ever puts savory things in cookies.’ So I looked this recipe up,” I say, my cheeks getting a little hot. “I tried it and it’s not half bad, you know.”

  “This is incredible,” Brian says. Then he looks at his mom. “Bacon cookies, Ma.”

  Maura just laughs, shaking her head. “That’s very sweet of you, Charlie.”

  It’s then that I see my mom’s car pulling down the street. Way to ruin a moment, Mom.

  “They’re just a small thank-you, to both of you,” I say, looking from Brian to Maura and trying to ignore the fact that my mom has slowed her car to a crawl as she nears the house. I can see her squinting at us, trying to figure out who I’m with.

  “That’s so thoughtful of you, Charlie,” Maura says. “Thank

  you.”

  Then I hear my mom kill the engine of her car and she gets out, slamming the door shut behind her. We all look over at her, but she doesn’t smile.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say.

  She ignores the greeting. “What’s going on?”

  “My friend Brian and his mom offered to help me with my car. Remember?”

  “Hi, I’m Maura.” Brian’s mom sticks her hand out to shake my mom’s. My mom shakes it, then plasters on a smile.

  “Jeanne. Nice to meet you,” she says.

  “Likewise,” Maura says.

  “This is Brian, Mom.” I motion toward him.

  Her eyes flick over Brian, head to toe. Then she forces a smile at him, too, and sticks out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you as well, Mrs. Vega,” Brian says. “I hope it’s all right that we’re here.”

  “Absolutely. I was just surprised is all. My darling Charlie forgot to tell me we’d be having company.” She reaches over and pats my shoulder.

  I give her a thin-lipped smile. “Sorry, Mom. We were just wrapping up.” Then I turn toward Brian and Maura. “Thank you both again for all of your help. My car is as good as new.”

  “You’re more than welcome, Charlie. And if you run into any more car trouble, you just give us a holler, okay?” Maura says.

  I know she means it. “I will.”

  “Thanks for the cookies, kid,” Brian says, trying to make me smile. It works.

  “See you soon,” I say as they start to get into their car.

  “And don’t forget to return the plate,” Mom adds.

  “I won’t. I promise,” Brian calls before shutting the door.

  I wave to them both as they pull out of the driveway. Once they’re out of sight, I whip toward her. “‘Don’t forget to return the plate’?”

  She sniffs. “What? It’s a good plate.”

  “I doubt he’s going to keep our plate, Mom. It’s not that serious.”

  “I was just reminding him!”

  I roll my eyes and start walking toward the house. “Okay.”

  Mom is following me inside as I open the door. “You should’ve told me we were going to have company.”

  “I’m sorry, but the plans were last-minute. I made them at school.” I push the door open and walk toward the kitchen. “And I did tell you it would probably happen when we picked up the battery. What’s the big deal?”

  “I would have neatened up the house,” Mom says.

  “They didn’t come inside.”

  “But what if they had?”

  I feel like she’s just picking a fight with me, and I’m not in the mood to argue. “I don’t know, Mom. I guess they would’ve seen that we’re not perfect.” I walk to the counter and start washing the handful of dishes I used.

  “I’m not looking for an attitude.” When she’s in a mood like this, I know I can’t say anything right, so I don’t respond. “Who’s the boy?”

  “A friend, Mom. Brian. Like I said.”

  “Brian,” she repeats, watching me wash the dishes. “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” A pause. “Did you really need to bake him cookies, Charlie? Honestly. Now it’s messy in here and I don’t have time to clean it.”

  “I’m cleaning it right now,” I say. “That was always the plan, Mom.”

  “But you know I hate it when you bake.” She says that as if I bake constantly, which I don’t, and she’s acting like the kitchen is a disaster, which it’s clearly not. But she’s probably grumpy because, like me, she loves chocolate chip cookies. And the leftover cookies don’t have bacon—just classic, delicious semisweet chocolate chips.

  I turn to her. “There are a few cookies left over. I put them in a container over there. Help yourself.”

  “You know I can’t,” she snaps.

  “Oh, yeah,” I say. “I forgot.”

  She starts to sift through the mail I brought in and put on the counter, but I catch her glancing over at the container every so often. So when I finish drying the dishes and putting them away, I open the container, grab a cookie, and unapologetically pop it in my mouth.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It’s not as if my parents are meeting my girlfriend for the first time, but out of solidarity, I’m still nervous about the upcoming dinner at Amelia’s house.

  I’ve gotta be strong, though, so all week long whenever Amelia asks if everything’s going to be all right, I emphatically tell her yes and give her a play-by-play of how the night will unfold. The scenario is different every time, but it always ends with everyone skipping and holding hands, because the visual of her girlfriend holding hands with her parents grosses Amelia out and makes her laugh.

  And then, before we know it, the night is here. Amelia and Kira swing by my house to pick me up so we can review the game plan.

  I’m surprised when I climb into the backseat of Amelia’s car and see what Kira is wearing. At school, she’s normally pretty casual—hair pulled back in a bun, a T-shirt, leggings, sneakers, that type of thing—so it’s hard not to notice
that her long hair is expertly curled and she’s wearing a dress.

  “Is it too much?” Kira asks, and I realize I must have looked her up and down. I hate when I do that.

  “Not at all! You look so pretty.”

  “Thanks,” she says, touching her hair.

  “You do,” Amelia says, looking at her meaningfully for a moment. Then it’s back to business. She starts to back her car out of my driveway and we head toward her house. “So let’s talk game plan.”

  “We’ll keep things casual, and I’ll swoop in if a moment starts to feel awkward,” I say. “Mostly, we will steer the conversation toward school and how great we’re all doing academically, which your parents will be pleased about.”

  “And I can chime in with several mentions of track for your former track star mom—or sports, which your former football star dad will enjoy,” Kira says.

  “Above all, we’ll work together to keep the mood light,” Kira and I say in unison.

  Then we all giggle.

  “Okay, fine, so I’ve drilled this into your heads over the last week,” Amelia says. “I just want to make sure all goes well!”

  “It will. I don’t know what Amelia has told you about her parents, Kira, but they are actual angels,” I say. “Like, literally the sweetest people you will ever meet.”

  “That’s certainly not the impression I’ve gotten from Amelia!”

  “Charlie is exaggerating,” Amelia interjects.

  I shake my head. “I’m not! Amelia and Tess are the apples of their parents’ eyes. They can do no wrong. And I know they’ll like you, Kira.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying,” Kira says. “Parents love me.”

  “We’ll find out, won’t we?” Amelia says as we pull up to her house.

  Kira doesn’t seem fazed. “I love a good challenge.”

  The three of us get out of the car and head inside, where Tess is sitting on the couch watching TV. She looks exactly like Amelia did just a few years ago. At ten, Tess is shorter than Amelia, of course, but they look so much alike it’s not even funny: same dark skin, same lovely eyes, same gorgeous hair. The only difference is that Tess tends to wear her hair pulled back in two pigtail puffs, which I hope she won’t grow out of—but I know in my heart that the days are numbered.