Fat kid rules the world (9 page)

He says it so confused I almost don’t understand. Then I look up.

“Wait. So what you’re saying …” I pause. “What you’re saying is … people aren’t really looking at me?”

Curt’s eyes flash and for the first time all day he stops moving. There’s something there that isn’t respect, and isn’t sympathy, but hints at everything I don’t yet know. He leans forward.

“
Exactly
.”

FAT KID CONTEMPLATES QUANTUM PHYSICS.

If the universe is, in fact, curved when before we thought it was flat …

I consider what’s just been said. If Curt’s observation is true, then it’s possible, though not probable, that people are not always looking at me when I think they’re looking at me
.

Matter begins to bend unpredictably.

If people are not always looking at me, then the eye rays that make me bloat to the size of a blue whale whenever I’m in public are perhaps more diluted than I think they are
.

Time speeds up as the rate of expanding particles increases.

Perhaps I am merely a sperm whale after all
.

The scientific community has been shaken. Truly shaken.

I FOLLOW CURT BLINDLY,
not watching where we’re going. I don’t care. The world has changed. I’m a born-again fat kid ready to drape myself in a choir robe and sing the “Hallelujah” chorus.

We arrive at our destination—the place called The Dump—just after two o’clock. Curt lets us in the rickety, old back door and I burst in ready for anything. It’s empty and smells like dust. Most of the furniture is broken or newly repaired, but there’s a huge stage up front with a drum set, two guitars, and a microphone stand on it.

“Whose instruments are those? Is that your guitar? Who’re we waiting for?”

I’m trying not to be annoying, but finally, Curt sits at the bar and puts his head down. Just as I get excited, he gets tired.

“I’m hungry,” he moans. “My stomach hurts.” His voice is low and it’s almost like he isn’t saying it to me. I shift in my chair, noticing he looks a little pale.

“You got any money?” he asks. His cheek is squished against the wood, so the words come out mashed.

“I’ve got a five,” I say. Curt perks up, watches me closely. He doesn’t say a word, but his eyes light up.

“McDonald’s?” I ask at last.

Curt shrugs. “Yup. Okay.” He’s nonchalant, but says it very quickly. “What do you want?” he asks. I answer without thinking.

“Quarter Pounder with cheese.”

I can see Curt calculating in his mind. A Quarter Pounder with cheese is almost three dollars.

“Make that a hamburger,” I say. “Just a plain hamburger.”

Curt smiles and tells me he’ll be right back. I grin, believing him.

Poor Oblivious Fat Kid
.

HOURS HAVE PASSED.
World civilizations have risen and collapsed. Seasons have changed. Government regimes have been deposed. No Curt. No hamburger.

I’m just about to get up and leave when the creaky door ekes open and an awkward scarecrow of a guy with a purple Mohawk walks through. I stand stiffly and huff when he sees me, as if I’m guilty of sitting where I don’t belong. The guy stops walking and looks confused. He looks around the room as if there’s
got
to be someone else here. He has one eyebrow pierced with a safety pin and a thousand tattoos on each arm. His black T-shirt reads
WHITE NOISE
. He looks vaguely familiar, and I realize he’s the drummer for Smack Metal Puppets. Ollie Oliver.

“I’m looking for Curt,” he says at last. His voice cracks as if it only just recently changed, but he’s older than me, so I figure that’s just the way he talks. I release a puff of air, and try not to say anything stupid.

“He went … for McDonald’s.”

Stupid
. I cringe. I sound like Chris Farley in
Tommy Boy
. Ollie studies me, summing me up. His mouth moves to one side, then the other.

“Well … I’m supposed to meet some drummer here for lessons.”

“Uh, yeah. That’s probably me,” I say. “Except Curt didn’t say anything about …”

He circles me in long, measured strides. He’s got a pointy face and a large beak of a nose and he leans back at the hips when he walks.

“No offense,” he says, voice rising, “but how old are you?”

It wasn’t the question I was expecting.

“Seventeen,” I say. “I graduate this year.”

Ollie runs his fingers over his scalp and scowls. He plays with one of his rings—a golden skull and crossbones. Scowls again.

“And you’ve played drums before?”

I nod, then pause. “In junior high,” I offer. My stomach jiggles. “Until seventh grade …”

He squints and I wait for him to laugh. He doesn’t laugh.

“You’re kidding. Please tell me you’re kidding.”

I shake my head.

“That fucker.” He punches his palm with his fist and I panic.

“Listen, you don’t have to … I mean, I don’t really …”

Ollie raises one tattooed hand. Dragons loop around his fingers. “A deal’s a deal,” he says, breathing long and deep. “I should’ve known, is all. It’s my own damn fault. Curt said he’d found a drummer who just needed a few lessons to get ready for next month’s gig. I assumed … Ah,
hell
.”

His voice drops on “hell.”

“Well,” he says, “do you want to play the drums, or what?”

I nod stupidly. So far, as near as I can tell, Ollie Oliver is disconcertingly … nice. Throws me off guard.

He leads me on stage and I stand behind the drum set pretending I’m actually going to have a lesson. It’s surreal, as if I’ve drifted out of my life and can’t get back in. I look around thinking,
Where am I? Where’s Curt? What’s happening
? I’m nervous and sweaty and it takes me a long time to sit down. I keep imagining how my butt will spill over the sides of the little drum stool. Ollie informs me that the stool is called a throne and that makes it even worse. Sounds like a toilet. Makes me feel like there’s something obscene about sitting down.

Ollie’s patient, though. He waits while I reposition numerous times. He drags a chair across the old wooden floor then heaves it on stage and climbs up after it in an uncoordinated way. He sits down beside me and his long legs stretch a mile in front of him.

“So, you’re the drummer,” he says, almost to himself. “Hmm,” he comments.

I silently agree. It’s as good a commentary on my predicament as anything I’ve heard yet.

“You like the drums?” Ollie asks at last.

It’s a crucial question, so I lie.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah.” Pause. “Curt and I are going to form this band, see—” Ollie cuts me off with the wave of one tattooed hand.

“Mmm. Curt told me all that,” he says. “Rage/Tectonic. Good name. He told me your first gig’s in five
weeks
.” His voice goes up on “weeks” and he chuckles. “Quick turnaround. Typical Curt.”

I think,
Where is Curt
? and stare at the door like a dog who has to go out.

“
Erm
,” I say.

Ollie agrees. “Got your work cut out for you, don’t ya? Of course, it’s totally doable,” he amends. “Five weeks is plenty of time and if anyone can do it, Curt can.”

I look at my shoe and Ollie sighs.

“Well,” he comments, astutely. “I meant,
you
can.” Silence stretches like taffy. “So, anyway … we might as well start at the beginning.”

Yes
, I think,
might as well

Ollie sighs again. “This,” he says at last, “is a drum set….”

Ollie starts explaining stuff about drums, telling me great details about the components of a drum set and how to take care of them. He talks about the history of rock and names the most respected drummers past and present. I imagine most of it is pretty interesting, but I wouldn’t know because I can’t comprehend a word he’s saying. I keep staring at the door thinking,
Where is Curt with my hamburger
?

He finally shows up just as Ollie starts “refreshing” me on basic rhythms. Curt skulks in like a kid sneaking home after a late-night joy ride. He slides through the creaky door, darts to the bar, cleans a
stray glass with his sleeve as if he’s been standing there for hours, sits in the audience, then finally makes his way on stage. His hands are empty and he has ketchup stains on his shirt. No hamburger. I almost leap over the drum set and squash him. I think about my newfound knowledge and am confident I could squash Curt with little effort. But Curt’s oblivious to my power. He grins at Ollie, then at me.

“Great, man. This is great,” he says in a rush. “You sound great.”

I haven’t actually hit the drums yet.

Ollie claps Curt on the shoulder and grins. It’s a weird grin because I can tell he’s trying not to do it. He looks like he wants to be mad, but isn’t.

“Insane freak,” Ollie says. “What the hell are you up to? Troy can’t play the drums, you know….”

I’ve been trying to say this ever since I met Curt, but now I’m insulted. Curt just shrugs.

“Hey,” he says, hopping twice, “teach him that cool rim thing….”

QUESTIONS ON THE AGENDA:
What is Curt thinking?! Why is he pretending I am going to be a drummer in his band? How do I get out of this without ruining my life? Can I pretend to play a gig? What is Curt thinking?!

I sit on stage, a massive silhouette, playing rhythms as they’re dictated to me. I think,
Why am I doing this
? and flail miserably. I’ve crossed a line somewhere and can’t figure out how that happened. Without meaning to I’ve overstepped that yellow line, only this time my body is flying through the air and the F train’s coming.

Curt sits backward on a wooden chair while Ollie reminds me to keep the bass drum going while I add the other drum parts. We’ve been working on the same patterns for the last hour and I’m tired. My arms ache and my legs hurt. I want to go home. I keep thinking about the middle part of my day. The part where I felt assertive and slightly less bloated, not the part where I almost got killed. My mind wanders and I lose the beat.

“No, man,” Ollie says. “You’d have it if you’d concentrate.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think—” I start, but Curt interrupts.

“Don’t try so hard,” he tells me. “You’re just starting, so don’t worry about what you sound like.”

It’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.
Who was worried about that
? I’m worried about looking like the Goodyear Drummer. I’m worried about potentially eternal humiliation. I’m worried about being manipulated into something I absolutely, positively, no-way-in-hell can do. My stomach growls loudly.

“I can’t concentrate,” I mutter. “I have to get home. Dad’s going to freak.”

Ollie and Curt exchange glances—horrible, sarcastic, we-knew-it-all-along glances. Skinny-people-in-cahoots glances.
I hate them
. I dig my fat heels into the floor.

“I’ve got to go home,” I say, firmly. “This has been fun and all, but there’s no way I’m playing a gig. I can’t play in front of people. I hyperventilate. I can’t … do it. I know I’ve said this before, but this time I
mean it
.”

It’s the most assertive speech I’ve ever made, which would be gratifying except for the fact that Ollie looks at Curt and Curt looks at Ollie and they both pretend to be clueless. They’re playing the we-can’t-see-that-you’re-fat card and I
hate
that.

Curt stares intently at a loose floorboard while Ollie studies the graffiti on the wall.

“Fine,” I say, turning to Curt. “Ignore me all you want, but I’m still not doing it. Trust me, it’s for the best. Find another drummer. Find
anyone else.” Someone normal
, I think.
Someone skinny
. I plead with him in my brain.
Listen to me. Just this once, listen to me
….

Curt and Ollie glance at each other, then Curt nods.

“Okay,” he says at last. I wait for more, then pause, confused.

“Okay?”

Curt shrugs. “Yup. Okay.” He gets up and slides his chair back in place. Ollie unknots his long legs.

“You still owe Smack Metal Puppets a gig,” he says to Curt, “for today’s lesson. Saturday night …”

Curt nods. “Right. Saturday.”

They’re moving on as if nothing happened while I sit like a wart on the nose of the drum set. Ollie turns to me.

“If you change your mind …,” he says. I blink rapidly, then stutter my response.

“I … no, I mean, I won’t.” It seems like the right thing to say after an assertive speech, but now I’m not so sure. I stand up really slowly. Suddenly, I don’t want to leave.

I THINK I’VE MADE
a huge mistake. A Fat Kid-sized mistake. I don’t know it yet, but actually, I’ve made two of them.

I arrive home exhausted, hungry, and sweating and all I want to do is eat. Then I see my father waiting in the kitchen. He stands by the sink, so stiff he’s a two-by-four. Dayle’s standing there, too, but he smiles smugly and disappears when he sees me.

“School called,” Dad says.

“They did?” I’d forgotten all about school. My father nods and indicates a kitchen chair.

“Sit down,” he orders. I sit facing the kitchen table and he turns on the overhead light. The rest of the house is dim, so the light seems too bright. I place my sweaty hands flat against the tabletop, gripping the edge. Dad wastes no time.

“Where were you today?” he asks.

I puff. “I went to Curt’s house to practice, then to this place called The Dump.”

“Did you use drugs?”

“No …”

Dad leans forward. His breath smells like stale coffee.

“Did Curt use drugs?”

I shake my head and my cheeks flap. “No,” I say, imagining the torture that will come if I withhold information. “Curt wasn’t even there at first. When I went to his house only his stepfather was home.”

I wait for Dad to ask if Curt’s stepfather used drugs, but he doesn’t. “What did you do there?” he barks.

The stress of the day is too much.
FAT KID CRACKS UNDER PRESSURE
. I start from the beginning, spilling every last humiliating detail.