The Jock and the Fat Chick

For my friends

“Shine on you crazy diamond(s).”

—Pink Floyd

Big thanks to my agent, Marlene Stringer,

and to my editor, Catherine Wallace,

for bringing out the best in me.

I HAUL ASS ACROSS THE SCHOOL’S PLAYING field, the ball cupped in my lacrosse stick. One guy tries to block me, but I fake him out. I dodge left, pivot, and fire the ball over my shoulder. Viktor catches it, and I run along the outside line, getting into position. I glance back—I’m open!—and Viktor passes. I scoop the ball from the air and bolt, running full tilt, like a warrior wielding a spear. Two of our hockey buddies, Dino and Armpit, come right at me, teeth bared and out for blood. Seconds before we make contact, Viktor runs interference. Bodies collide and I leap over the pileup to lob the ball overhand and—
bam!
—into the net.

Yeahhhh!

Coach should know better than to put Viktor and me on the same team. We’ve been playing competitive hockey on the Huntsville Hurricanes for four years.

I jog back so we can high-five and perform a little victory
dance. Damn, we make this look good. Hockey scholarship, here I come.

Coach blasts his whistle. “All right, hit the showers and put your lacrosse sticks back in the gym,
neatly
. And, Kevin, my office before next period.”

I spit out my mouth guard and wipe my lips dry with the back of my hand. “Okay, Coach.”

Viktor gives me a “what’s up with that?” look, and I shrug. The four of us—Viktor, Armpit, Dino, and me—lead the class across the playing field. It’s a cool mid-October day, but we still peel off our sweaty T-shirts and tuck them into the backs of our shorts so they hang loose while we walk. Got to enjoy the last bit of warmth before the snow hits.

The twelfth-grade girls who have gym at the same time we do ended up running track. They’re assembled on the grass, bending and stretching, and looking hot and sweaty.

“Hey, Kev,” Viktor whispers.

I follow his line of sight to catch Missy looking away, pretending that she hadn’t just checked me out.

He runs his hands through his cropped blond hair. “You’ve totally gotta tap that.”

“Yeah, whatevs,” I say, which sounds like I’m playing it cool, but what I want to tell him is
No thanks, man, not interested.
Sure, Missy’s pretty, nice, and athletic, and a lot of guys would give their left nut to date a member of the Hurricane Squad, but cheerleaders don’t do it for me. Not that I’m in a
rush to tell Viktor.

My self-appointed wingman appears confused. “Why not? She’s been crushing on you for a while. She’s single now. Go for it.”

I shrug, and Armpit shoots me the stink eye. Armpit’s jealous because he clams up around girls and I don’t.

I look at Missy when her back is turned. While I do want to get laid by graduation, I think only a jerk would nail a girl he isn’t into just because he can.

Viktor still stares, waiting for an answer on why I’m not tapping the free keg. I think fast, deepening my voice to impersonate a sunbaked surfer. “Too twiggy for me, dude. My two-by-four would snap her in half.”

Laughter erupts, and I chuckle at my fake macho voice.

A bunch of girls hear us and look our way.

“Hey, boys,” comes a thick, husky voice that makes me think of sandpaper and syrup. Alyssa Ferrera. A transfer to Huntsville High in September. She’s your standard Viktor type: long-haired, leggy cheerleader. I notice the guys do the ol’ “chest puff, gut suck” as they walk by, shoulders swaying from side to side, too. Hilarious.

Alyssa smiles before doing splits, exuding a lot of confidence as she hits the ground. Dino half-trips.

We pass Alyssa, Missy, and the other girls, and one of them wolf whistles. Without turning around, Viktor sings, “Bye, ladies,” and he’s answered with giggles. When we’re out
of earshot, he swings his lacrosse stick, pretending it’s a golf club. “God. I love cheerleaders. So flexible.”

I guess he should know; he lost his virginity to a senior on the squad his freshman year.

We reach the end of the playing field, and before crossing the running track, we let five girls by. One of them is Zoë, who chats away like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Zoë and I had an English lit class once, and I loved how she talked to anyone—jock, nerd, show choir, hipster, stoner—anyone, anytime, about anything. Between eavesdropping on the whispered conversations she had with the girl next to her, and all the time I spent fantasizing about her amazing body, it was a miracle I passed English.

“Would you look at that?” Armpit murmurs from the corner of his mouth. “Holy heifers. Round up the herd, cowboy.”

Viktor chuckles. “It’s the pork patrol. Tubs on parade. Beep-beep-beep-beep,” he says, imitating a truck backing up.

I don’t respond or laugh because it’s not hilarious. It’s comments like these that make me not tell them about the girls I’ve liked over the years.

Huh. Dino’s laughing right along with the rest. Of course, he didn’t think it was funny last year, when he dated a girl with pink hair who wore old-lady cat-eye glasses. The guys razzed the hell out of him, and after the entire school
got wind of the weird jock-artsy couple, he couldn’t take the teasing and cracked from the pressure. He walked into the locker room and announced, “I dumped her ass,” and has been single ever since. Even though Dino’s type and my type are not the same, I just know I’d get the same shitty treatment if I ever tried to date Zoë or someone like her. And who needs to deal with that? High school is hard enough. No sense making it a living hell.

The guys pause, awaiting my joke while staring at Zoë and her friends. Most times I can get away without saying mean stuff, because the guys like trying to outdo each other in the ha-ha department, so I can just sit back and say nothing. Then there are times like this, when they want to be amused because I’m the funniest person they know. It’s humor that secures my place in this group. A lump forms in the back of my throat as I weigh the consequences of saying what I feel. I could either be the funny man and have this uncomfortable moment pass or annihilate the good-times vibe by pointing out how mean they are and risk them turning on me.

I come up short and hate myself.

“Imagine getting it on?” The lump morphs into a jagged rock, which scrapes its way down my throat. “She’d roll over and squish you. Death by suffocation.”

Viktor slaps me on the back. “Ha! Nice one!”

I’m a jerk.

After showering and changing I head to Coach Barker’s office and knock on his door. “You wanted to see me?” I ask.

He waves me in. “Take a seat, Kevin.”

I pull out a folding chair and it scrapes against the concrete floor. His gunmetal gray desk is clear except for a coffee cup and water bottle. Everything around him is a mess, though. Trophies belonging in the school’s display case sit on top of filing cabinets, a pile of purple-and-yellow team uniforms sit in one corner, and in the other, a massively tangled volleyball net.

“What the hell is this?” Coach asks, and slides a bunch of stapled papers across his desk, and I think fast, grabbing them before they fly off the table. The cover page reads, “Fitness and Diet Log by Kevin Conners,” and I slip into good student mode by adopting a more formal voice.

“You asked us to write down our schedule and record our meals and their nutritional content for thirty days,” I say.

He stares at me like I’m stupid, and I guess I am because I’m not sure what he’s getting at.

“Read me what you had for breakfast on September seventh.”

I flip to page seven. “Three Slam-Dunkin’ Triple-Chocolate Cheesecake protein bars: 540 calories, fat: 18 grams, carbohydrate: 75 grams, and protein: 60 grams.”

“Uh-huh. And what’d you have for lunch on the twentieth?”

“Three Cliff Straddling S’mores protein bars: calories: 580, fat: 24 grams, carbohydrate: 61 grams, and protein: 53 grams.”

He inhales a deep breath through his nose, pauses, and exhales. “And for dinner?”

“A double Eskimo Roll Peanut-Butter-and-Banana Power Bulk shake. Calories: 600, fat: 16 grams, carbohydrate: 86 grams, and protein: 30 grams.”

I scan the snack entries—midmorning, midafternoon, and postdinner—in case he wants me to read that, too. Maybe he’s quizzing me on this because I have the lowest body fat count of all the guys in class—probably the entire school—and he wants my secrets.

Coach squeezes his temples like he’s got a headache and runs his hands over the top of his balding head. “Christ, kid. I’m surprised your colon hasn’t lapsed and you’re not wearing a diaper.”

My jaw drops, practically dislocates. Did he just say he wonders why I’m not dropping a load in my pants? Are teachers allowed to say stuff like this?

He continues. “Be honest, is this what you’ve been eating and drinking?”

My shoulders tense, so when I shrug, the gesture’s stilted.

He frowns. “For how long?”

There’s something in his tone that kicks up my defenses, and if I’d known he’d get his jockeys twisted, I would have copied some random online body builder’s diet.

“Since September,” I lie, because he’d blow a gasket if he found out I’d done it all summer. My goal was to take my training to the next level to score a hockey scholarship. I went from 18 percent body fat to 9. The first day of gym, changing in the locker room, Dino took one look and said, “Shit, dude, you got mutated.”

Coach studies my face like he’s trying to peer into my brain. “You okay? I mean, physically? No . . . problems?”

I squirm in my seat. “No, Coach. I’m good.”

He points the dreaded finger at me, giving it a firm shake. “You need
real
food in your system. I don’t want you playing in the upcoming season malnourished. Your folks, don’t they cook?”

I stare at my cross-trainers, noticing a scuff in one toe. My dad ran off after I was born, but that’s none of Coach’s business.

“My mom thinks cooking is using a can opener and a microwave.”

Coach’s face bunches up like I’ve ripped off a nuclear-sized fart. “Kevin, I can’t pass you on this.” He shakes his head. The look of disappointment burns the back of my neck.

“But, Coach, I did what you wanted.”

“Protein bars, gels, and meal-replacement shakes aren’t real food. And since you don’t know what healthy athletes
should
be eating, we’ve got an even bigger problem.”

I jam my fists under my armpits. The A I get in gym is what keeps my GPA above a 3.5, so I can score a scholarship to Michigan State, hopefully on a full ride. It’s the closest school with a decent kinesiology program, so I can become a physiotherapist. Plus, they’ve got the best hockey team in the country. I’m about to cry foul when he raises his hand, blocking me.

“Now hold on, I’ve discussed your situation with Principal Bandell. We’ve agreed that you can make this up through extra credit in domestic tech.”

Domestic tech? “But, Coach, I can’t fit an entire other class into my schedule.”

“Simmer down, son. You’ll just do the four-week unit on cooking and nutrition. I don’t need you to learn how to sew, I need you to learn how to feed yourself.”

I sit there, stunned. I guess I don’t have much choice.

“Now on your Monday and Wednesday spares, Mrs. Anderson has agreed to let you into her class—”

Mrs. Anderson. I know that name from somewhere. . . .

“And if you pass to her satisfaction—”

It hits me—Mrs. A: tall and built like a World War II tank.

“—it’ll count as extra credit. Plus, you’ll learn how to
cook.” Coach nods, and I think he even half-winks at me. “Trust me when I say it’s a good skill to have. Ladies love a man who can cook.” To prove his point, he slaps his belly and gives it a little shake. I can’t help but picture Coach getting some. Great, now I’ll need to bleach my brain.

He waves me away. “Now get the hell out of here. Go eat a vegetable.”

I keep my game face as I leave, but inside I’m fuming. A month of extra credit? A ball of heat rises in my gut, and it’s like I could crush something. If the guys find out I have to take dom tech—a girlie course—I’m done for. They’ll pounce on me like wolves on a bunny. I shoulder my gym bag, my fingers gripping the canvas strap. Got to hit Shreds, Huntsville’s only decent gym, and blow off steam.

“So, what’d Coach want?”

I glance up. Great. Viktor.

“To tell me you suck,” I say, but it comes out louder than I meant it to. I block the punch coming my way because I know all his moves. We hip-check each other into the lockers, and I pull a jersey on him by yanking his shirt over his head to render him blind.

When I get home after hitting Shreds, I’m careful not to let the door slam. I don’t want to wake my mom. She works nights as a cleaner, so she sleeps until 8:00 p.m., sometimes 9:00.

When my dog, Buddy, a smooth fox terrier, sees me, he wags his tail. Yeah, Buddy’s a cheesy name, but I was a kid when I named him. Besides, he is my best bud. Buddy concentrates all his energy into hauling himself onto unsteady legs. I meet the old boy halfway, bending on one knee to pet him. “Hey, Buddy. How you doing, huh?” He licks my hand.

The Budster follows me into the kitchen, where Mom’s left dinner on the counter. I pick up the can of stew, rotating it in one hand until the words, “With
real
chunks of beef!,” become visible. I keep turning it to check out the nutrition facts label. Fifty percent of my daily sodium. Yeah, I’m not eating it. It’s no wonder Mom’s always tired if she’s having this along with her frozen dinners. Maybe she should do Coach’s thirty-day assignment. I think back to what he said about me wearing a diaper and frown. Teachers shouldn’t say personal stuff like that to kids. I fish a can opener from the drawer. If Coach doesn’t think what I eat is food, then why would athletes endorse it? I dump the stew into Buddy’s dish, just like I’ve done every day for the past couple of months. It’s the athletes who showed me how to get “swole.” I found a series of online videos by this megaripped dude who taught me how to fine-tune my body and turn it into a machine. He shared a ton of info on the nutritionally dense power formulas for pre-, during, and postworkouts, along with recovery day supplements. It worked; I got swole.

Anyway, the beef’s better for Buddy than dog food,
which I learned contains wheat, soy, by-products, and sawdust. Yeah, sawdust. It’s a good arrangement: Mom thinks I eat what she buys and I don’t hear Buddy complaining. Okay, so I don’t like deceiving her by feeding Buddy the food she puts out for me, but she can’t cook. She knows it, I know it.