The Jock and the Fat Chick (10 page)

I NO LONGER HEAD DOWN THE EAST HALLWAY twice a week anymore. The cooking unit in dom tech is over, and they’ve moved on to baking and canning. Coach says the extra credit I did will keep my GPA in good standing, and there’s a great chance I’ll be considered by top colleges in the state. All this makes me happy, and a little bummed, too. Aside from gym, Mrs. A’s class was one of my favorites. Of course, I might have changed my mind if Claire was my chemistry lab partner.

Claire’s still obsessed with secret texting and meet ups. I think she’s in love with the idea of intrigue and covert operations. I like the way she lights up when she gives me a stealthy wink from across a crowded corridor, though. Or how every Thursday between first and second periods, we always manage to pass each other in the packed halls to casually brush hands without getting caught.

I tried waiting for her in the east hallway once, just before dom tech finished. I had this crazy idea that when the bell rang, she’d walk out, see me, and it’d be like a scene from a movie. The tension between us would unleash her hidden feelings. She’d rush into my arms and we’d make out. The camera would circle around, and what the hell, kids in the hall would break out cheering and clapping.

But as the second hand raced toward the twelve, my guts twisted, and a cold sweat dripped down my back. All I could picture was the artsy-wing doors opening and kids spilling out, wondering why the heck a jock was getting all cozy with a girl who wasn’t his match. Heads would implode, and I’d be sent on the same one-way ticket as Dino to ridiculous land for daring to disturb the status quo.

Even worse, what if in front of everyone Claire was to say she didn’t like me back the same way? It’d be an atomic one-two punch to the gut. Nope. No thanks, I won’t risk it. I’ll keep playing her games and just have to hope that maybe one day soon she’ll come around.

Viktor’s tried several times to set up a double date with him, Alyssa, Missy, and me, but luckily, we’re playing hockey most nights and weekends, so it can’t happen. We still sit at the cafeteria, though, but I always make sure there’s someone between Missy and me, like Dino or Armpit. Hopefully, Viktor will finally get the hint that I’m just not interested. Once or twice Missy will say something funny and I’ll laugh,
and she’ll turn and catch me looking before I can avert my gaze.

It’s also harder for me to see Claire with all the hockey, too. Plus, she’s working in her dad’s restaurant, helping with the extra December party bookings. We text a lot, and whenever we do meet up, I like to think it’s extra special. You know, absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that. She likes it when we’re all secret and meet up in empty locations. Like one time in dom tech, we made out behind the demo station. Or when we drove to this abandoned farmhouse she knows about, and we brought candles and music and slow-danced all night.

I feel like I can be myself whenever I’m around her. Of course, when she does get serious and brings up her future—how she’s worried, but also excited—it pains me a little, knowing I’m not included in her plans. I know, I agreed to the FWB deal, but still . . .

Hey, Kev. Want to come 4 dinner?

I wipe my hands on the dish towel before answering back.

Can’t. Cookin 4 Mom

What u making?

Pot roast.

Yum. Have fun loves

I stare at her “loves” sign off. She’s been doing this a lot
lately. Is she changing her mind about us just being friends? Is this her way of wanting more, of breaking our deal? I know what my answer would be. I set down the phone to shut off the stove and open the oven door. I’m into making Sunday dinners. My specialty is pot roast with roasted carrots, onions, whole cloves of garlic, and sweet potatoes. It’s nice sitting at the table to eat with Mom. Most kids would hate being around their folks any more than they have to, but I don’t spend a lot of time with her, and I know she works hard, squirreling away money to pay for college so I can have a life. I think my cooking’s helping her, too. She’s less pale and her cheeks have red in them. She even says she has more energy and might try giving up smoking again. I said “Cool” and left it at that.

I make a plate for each of us, and we sit. I pass her the gravy, and she pours it over her meat and potatoes.

“One of the foremen on the crew flirted with me on Friday,” she says, and shakes her head, like it’s something weird.

I twist open a jar of horseradish. I can’t get enough of it. “You should go for it.”

Mom rolls her eyes. “Noooo. I’m too old for such nonsense.”

“News alert: forty-one isn’t old, Mom.”

“At my age it’s different. Things get complicated.”

I think about my “relationship” arrangement with Claire.

“Hey, Mom? How come you never dated after Dad split?”

“I was too busy.”

“You could have made time. Single moms date.”

She grows quiet and stares at her plate. “Well, when your dad left he took what was left of my heart with him.” She pushes her plate away. “After that I was too busy raising you and working to think about anything else.”

I bet it was hell for her. I mean, it’s not like I was a brat or anything, but still. Right then, I vow that when I get a scholarship, graduate college, and find a decent job, I’ll start paying her back and help make her life better.

“Coach says scouts will start coming to games,” I say.

Mom perks up, even grabbing her fork again. “Great. You ready?”

“Yup,” I say, and my answer makes her smile. “Hey, so if the foreman guy asks you out, you should say yes. It’d be nice to see you have some fun. You deserve to be happy.”

She mumbles something resembling a “We’ll see” and shrugs. At least it’s not a no.

That night I lie in bed, tossing and turning with Buddy by my feet. I think about what Mom said about how Dad took off with her heart. I think about Claire leaving after graduation and roll onto my side to try to get comfortable, but return to my back again. It’s not that I don’t want Claire to go, I do. I just wish things between us weren’t so black and white and she’d consider other possibilities. We could
still be together when she leaves. We could make it work. We could video chat, and it’s not like she’ll be living there permanently.

I have to tell her how I feel, because if she walks out at the end of the school year and she doesn’t know how deeply I’ve fallen for her, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.

At our third game the vibe in the locker room heats up. College scouts have been sent videos of us playing—as a team and individually—so we know they’ll show, we just don’t know when. Tonight, we beat the Perry Cardinals 6–2. Viktor and I were on our game. Too bad there wasn’t anyone from the colleges to witness it.

On the Sunday before Christmas break, when both Claire and I are free, I text her.

Want to go skating?

Never skated be4.

Whaaa? You’ve never skated be4?

no . . .

Want to w me?

Always want to w u *giggle*

I laugh and text:
Pick you up in Mom’s car

Thought she was zzz?

Will leave note

Mom’s car is no hot rod, but it’s clean and it runs, and in ten minutes, I pull into Claire’s driveway just as she
closes the front door. When she turns around I stare, gob smacked, like one of those cartoon characters whose eyes have morphed into hearts. She’s wearing a red coat, tall black boots, and her hair hangs in two braids and is tied at the ends with two small furry pompoms. In the falling snow, she resembles a girl from a music video. Claire climbs into the car.

“Wow,” I say, and she kisses me, launching a series of shivers to race down my spine. Yeah, today’s definitely the day.

I drive us to the public arena in Innisville, because the one by my house is an athletic center and only rents ice time to sports clubs and organizations. Along the way Claire switches on the radio and tunes it to a commercial-free twenty-four-hour Christmas station. In a sweet voice she sings along with a holiday classic, moving in to snuggle next to me. I raise my arm to wrap around her, inviting her to tuck in closer, and her head nestles under my chin. She fits perfectly. When we come to a stop at the intersection, we watch the snow fall as we patiently wait for the traffic lights to change.

If I wasn’t driving, now would be the perfect time.

The light turns green and traffic moves again.

Inside the Innisville Arena it’s packed with parents and little kids. Canned pop hits thump over the loud speakers, and the cool air smells like fresh popcorn, hot chocolate,
and ice shavings. I scan the place to see if I know anyone, and I realize I do it not because someone might spot me, but because I want to know if there’s anyone I should say “’Sup” to. I don’t want to hide anymore or play secret covert games. I hand Claire my bag and tell her to grab a seat on the bench while I go rent her some skates, lucky size seven.

I return a few minutes later carrying a pair of pink ones.

Her head tilts. “So, if those are yours, then what am I going to wear?”

I chuckle and crouch on one knee and purposely take my time to unzip and slide off her sexy boots. Her toes curl tight as she tucks one foot behind the other, like it’s playing shy. I pry open one of the skates, loosening the laces and pulling the tongue back, so she can slip into it more easily.

“Ooh, I feel like Cinderella,” she says.

I raise a brow. “Does this mean I’m Prince Charming? ’Cause I gotta tell ya, I’m not into the whole tights thing.”

She chuckles and kisses me on the forehead.

Now,
I think,
give it to her now.

Instead, I lace her skates and put on my own. I take her hand and guide her along the rubber-matted floor toward the opening in the boards to the arena. I step onto the ice first, so I can turn and help her.

Claire glances down and back at me, seeming unsure about all this. I offer both my hands, and she grabs them. “Oh-my-god, oh-my-god, oh-my-god,” she says, delivering a
bone-crushing squeeze. She takes a careful step, tilts a bit, and then sets down her other foot.

“You’re okay,” I say. “You’re doing good. Just relax and I’ll pull you, all right?” I wait for her to nod before skating backward, taking things nice and easy, slow and steady. Claire cries with delight, then raises one foot, as if to take a step—a rookie mistake—and I stiffen my arms because I know what’ll come next. She’ll put her foot down, realize she can’t walk, and she’ll lose her balance. Just as predicted, she stiffens and gasps.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ve got you. How about you just hang on to me and I’ll pull you?”

She nods.

I glide backward, and a small breeze blows her hair. Claire’s lips part to form this amazing broad smile full of wonder. She glances at her feet, then all around, like she can’t believe she’s skating. I take her for a full lap of the rink, and when I get the sense she’s relaxing and getting into it, I slow to a stop.

She tightens her hold again. “Uh, what are you doing?”

“It’s okay. I’ve got you. Now I want you to push off with the tip of your skate.”

I loosen my hold but don’t let go. She squeezes her eyes closed, then opens them, looks unsure, and pushes off with the toe of one foot. She inches her way toward me.

I nod. “That’s it. Keep going.”

She pushes off with her foot again, only this time a little harder, and she glides for a bit.

Her eyes grow big. “I did it!”

Just then, four kids, hooting and hollering, speed skate right for us. At the last second they split up and go around. They give us a wide birth, but it’s enough to spook Claire, who latches on to me for dear life. I decide she needs a break and pull us to the center of the ring, where a couple of skaters practice their spins.

Now is the time. I lift her chin and kiss her. When I pull away and Claire opens her eyes, I’ve put both hands behind my back.

“Guess which one. Left hand or right?”

She gasps, “I love surprises,” and grabs the front of my jacket to keep her balance as she bites her bottom lip and stares at each of my shoulders, like a hint rests on top of one. She nods to my left.

I change what’s in my hands, so she’s choosen correctly, then open my palm to reveal a small velvet box.

Claire looks slightly dubious. “What is it?” she asks.

I shrug. “Just a little something.”

“That is so sweet.”

She removes her glove by nipping at the tip of her middle finger with her teeth and pulling slowly until it slips off. Once the glove is free, she tucks it into her pocket and picks up the box. I crouch down a little, so I get a good look at her
face when she opens it. I sold some of my too-small hockey equipment—like shin, shoulder, and elbow pads—to pay for it.

The hinges creak, and Claire glances at me, then down, and back again. Her loss for words has me feeling warm, but not like cozy warm; more like overheated from wearing too many layers. I
think
she likes it, but I can’t read her face. She must like it because she removes the thin gold bracelet from the box and holds it in front of her.

Her fingers slide over the chain, and when she speaks, her voice is just above a whisper. “Oh, Kevin.”

I smile because it sounds like she’s moved, but then she shakes her head.

“I can’t accept this.”

I stiffen. “Why not?”

“It’s pretty, but it’s a serious gift. I thought it was going to be something funny.”

Funny?

She presses her lips together. “I mean, what about our deal?”

“I don’t care about our deal anymore. I want to be a real couple.”

She sighs. “But we both know how this’ll end. No one who hooks up in high school stays together after graduation.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Kevin, please don’t.” She stares at the bracelet. “You know I’m right. It’s just not realistic.”

The arena’s lights dim as a massive disco ball lowers from the ceiling and begins to spin. A slow song replaces the thumping tin music, and spotlights reflect off the mirrored ball and cascade across the ice, like shooting stars. What could have been the best moment in my life is now a cruel joke. Most of the skaters head off the ice, leaving roughly two dozen couples who glide along, holding hands or locking arms. Everyone but us. We stand in the center ring, not skating.