Holding Up the Universe (10 page)

I lie on my bed—not the same bed I spent twenty-four hours a day on, back when I couldn't leave the house, but a new one we bought after I lost some weight. I pull out my headphones and find the song “All Right Now.” I know it from season one, episode six of
Supernatural.
It's at the very end of the episode, when Dean tells Sam he wishes he could have lived a normal life.

A normal life is what I've wanted for as long as I can remember. It's what I tried to create in my mind, from my bed. When Dean-across-the-street learned to skateboard, I learned with him, and we would race each other for hours. When Dean and Sam played baseball in the yard, I played too, and when they built a potato cannon in the driveway, I helped spray-paint it and shoot potatoes over the roof. The four of us hung out in their tree house, and whenever Castiel's big brothers left him behind, I took him for ice cream and told him stories. Afterward, I would go back to my house and eat dinner at the dining room table with my dad
and
my mom, because, of course, it was all imagined, which meant I could make it anything I wanted it to be. Just like I could make me anything I wanted to be, including a regular-size girl.

I turn the song up loud enough that it feels like it's in me, running through my veins just like blood. As angry as I was today, I don't remember feeling anxious. No heart palpitations, no nervous sweats. The cafeteria didn't spin. My head didn't feel like it was being squeezed by two enormous hands. My lungs breathed normally, evenly, all on their own.

The Damsels application lies next to me. Under
What trait or asset do you possess that you could bring to our team that we might not find in other candidates?
I wrote,
I'm big, eye-catching, and can dance like the wind.
Nowhere on the application does it ask for my weight.

I watch as George attacks the comforter and think,
Yes. All right now. That's me. Nothing will ever be okay again, not in the same way, but I'm getting used to it. Maybe I will get that normal life after all.

I sit at my computer for a long time, trying to figure out what to say. I can bullshit my way through school essays, but I'm not a writer. This has never been a big deal until this exact moment.

Here's the thing. For all their faults, my parents are good people. Okay, Mom more so than Dad. They've taught my brothers and me to be good people too, and even though we may not always act that way, it's still inside us, inside me. Enough so, at least, that I don't want some innocent girl getting shamed and humiliated because of my jackass friends.

And what if they do something worse than the rodeo calls for?

What if they try to kiss her?

What if they try to cop a feel?

In my mind, I run through every worst-case scenario, and all of them end with this girl crying her heart out.

I rest my head on the desk. I feel like crying my own heart out right now.

Finally, I'm like:

To hell with it.

I lift my head and just start writing.

I'm not a shitty person, but I'm about to do a shitty thing. And you will hate me, and some other people will hate me, but I'm going to do it anyway to protect you and also myself…

Iris Engelbrecht decides to join me in the cafeteria. For some reason—maybe it's our combined size—she walks five steps behind me.

“You still back there, Iris?”

“I'm here.”

She can make even those two words sound miserable and defeated. She is the Eeyore of Martin Van Buren High. And she talks about weight
a lot.
I definitely am not interested in becoming the Official Spokesperson for Fat Girls, which is exactly what Iris seems to think I am, along with Badass Fat Girl with Attitude. This is ten times worse than the Sassy Fat Girl or the Fat Girl Best Friend. This is a role that comes with a lot of expectations, and the last thing I want is to feel responsible for helping someone else maneuver high school.

I'm heading over to where Bailey Bishop sits with Jayvee De Castro at a table by the window, when I spy Dave Kaminski, white head covered by a black beanie. Iris tugs on my sleeve. “I want to get out of here.”

I turn around and start walking in the opposite direction, poor Iris bumping along behind. And I run smack into one of Dave Kaminski's friends, one of the guys from the bleachers. He's tall, long-limbed, and lanky, with gold-brown skin and this dark brown hair that explodes in all directions like the sun.

Before I can get out of his way, he goes, “Sorry.” And there's something serious and troubled in his eyes, like he just lost his best friend.

“No, I'm sorry.” And I step to the side so I can go around him. But then he's stepping to the same side. So I step to the other side, and so does he, and I'm thinking how ridiculous we must look when I hear Dave Kaminski somewhere over my right shoulder going, “HOLY SHIT, IT'S
ON
!”

For a second, I think this boy is going to pass out right in front of me. He says again, “I'm sorry.” And then he throws himself on me and holds on like his life depends on it.

I'm so surprised, I can't even move. Instead my mind goes spinning back in time to a family vacation when I was nine. My mom and dad and cousins and aunts and me at the beach in North Carolina. It was a hot day, and we were all swimming. I had this pink-and-yellow checked bathing suit I loved. I was treading water in the shallows and a jellyfish attached itself to my leg while I was swimming. I mean, the little monster wouldn't let me go and they had to carry me out of there and
pry it off,
and I thought I was going to die.

Well, this little monster is holding on just as hard, and at first I can't do anything but stand there. It's like the world goes blank and still, and so do I. Everything just

s

l

o

w

s

d

o

w

n.

And stops.

Just stops.

For the first time in a really long time, I feel panicked. Chest clenching. Breath coming too fast. Palms damp. Neck hot.

And then something snaps me back into reality—maybe the sound of shouting and clapping and booing. Or is it mooing? Whatever, I'm suddenly back in the school cafeteria with this boy draped on me like a sweater, arms wrapped around me tight.

“No.”

I recognize my own voice, but I sound far away, like I'm on the other side of the school, over by the library.

It's clear that this is some kind of horrible game. Hug the Fat Girl or Velcro Yourself to the Fat Girl. This is worse than being banned from the playground, and I'm suddenly so mad I'm shaking. My whole body goes hot, which I'm sure he must notice, seeing as how he's as attached to me as my arms and legs.

I think,
I didn't lose three hundred pounds and give up pizza and Oreos just to be shamed in my school cafeteria by this jackass.

“NOOOOO!” It comes out like a roar.

For someone so lanky, he's strong, and I summon all the strength I have to peel him off like a Band-Aid.

And then I punch him in the mouth.