I reach for her arm. “Do they have choir? You signed me up for choir, right?”
Mom keeps her eyes on her phone. “They do have choir, but you’re taking life skills. It’s like a health class; I figured you could apply what you learn to lose weight.”
I kick a table leg, and Drew’s orange juice spills.
“Hey! Clean that up right now!” Mom pulls a bunch of paper towels off the roll and shoves them at me.
I knock her hand away. “Why didn’t you ask me what I want? I’m fifteen years old! You had no right!…You think I don’t know how to eat?”
Mom snaps, “Oh, you know how to eat, all right!” She leans against the counter and folds her arms tightly across her chest. “I’m your mother, and I can’t keep watching you destroy yourself. I don’t know when you’re doing it or why, but it’s got to stop! Are you doing this to get back at me?”
I kick the table leg again, and the milk in Drew’s cereal sloshes over the edge. “You? Why do you think that everything is about you? Just say it, Mom: You’re ashamed of me. I’m not tall, blonde, and thin. I take after Dad, and you hate me as much as you hate him!”
“Hate you? I could never hate you, Colby. I don’t hate your father. I hate what he’s done to us, and I hate what you’re doing to yourself. You have such a pretty face; if you’d just lose weight, you could—”
“Stop it, Mom!”
“You could be so much more, but you…” She takes in a deep breath and blows it out. Her voice cracks. “If you’d just push away from the table!…Or…maybe you need counseling…maybe we all do. It’s just…I don’t even have health insurance anymore. I can’t pay for a therapist.”
I spy a knife on the counter and nearly grab it. Images scroll through my mind at lightning speed: cutting and carving the fat from my body and throwing it at my mom. As if she reads my mind, Mom moves between me and the knife, puts her hands on her hips, and stares me down. “I think you need help, Colby. Maybe the school counselor can work with you.”
I pull my backpack over one shoulder and head for the door. “I don’t need some counselor telling me what to eat. I get to learn all about that in my only elective!”
Drew whines, “I’m having a hard time. Can I go to counseling, too?”
I picture Drew’s face covered in a bloody chunk of my fat, too. “You’re perfect just the way you are, Drew. You’re not a big fat disaster.”
Mom pleads, “Colby, I’m doing the best I can.”
My voice drips with sarcasm. “Yeah, and what a great job you’re doing.” I slam open the front door and stomp across the porch. My foot breaks through the second step. I yank my foot clear and scream so hard that my voice gives out.
The school bus stops at the end of Leah’s driveway. Ryan, Drew, and I get on. I can barely climb the steps in my super-tight jeans. I keep my head down because I know what I look like when I’ve been crying: Genetically Doomed × Hideous × 1,000.
If Ryan notices, he doesn’t say a word. He stares at his phone and smirks.
The bus driver says, “Morning,” and we’re enveloped in the universal bus smell of diesel and rubber. A girl points at Drew and me. “Who’s that, Ryan?”
He glances at me and shrugs as he falls into a seat behind the driver.
I can tell that Drew wants to latch on to me like a spider monkey, but she’s trying not to be obvious about it. We choose a seat near the front, and I’m a plank of wood sliding against it. I want to unbutton my jeans so I can breathe, but I’m afraid the zipper will open and I’ll have no way to refasten it. It’s not like I can stretch out in the bus aisle with a coat hanger! I snort aloud at the thought, and Drew gives me a worried look.
We lurch to a stop in front of the trailer with the fighting cage in the front yard. There are red plastic cups and beer cans scattered under the tilting bleachers. The driver honks twice, and three Latino kids tumble out the front door and race each other up the driveway. They step up into the bus and I lock eyes with the tallest of the three. It’s José, the boy who said, “Cállate, puta gorda!” in Sugar’s. I looked up the phrase online. It means “Shut up, you fat whore!”
He looks to his right at Ryan and calls out, “Pendejo!” then he leans over to me and whispers, “Putaaaaaaaa.” He bumps his eyebrows up and down, comes in like he’s going to kiss me, then pulls back, throws his arms up in horror, and exclaims, “Agh!”
Drew buries her face against my upper arm. I want to tell her that it’s okay, but I’m afraid that if I open my mouth, it’ll be obvious that I’m freaking out, too.
One country road looks like another and it all blends together: barbed wire separating the road from cows and horses in pastures. Old houses with cars on blocks in the front yards. Parents with little kids waiting at the end of long dirt roads.
Several people open the bus windows and the cool air, heavy with wet grass and manure, replaces the stuffiness. A farmer on a tractor waves at us to pass him; then the countryside fades into the tiny town. We pull up to a huge white brick home with gargoyle statues on either side of wrought iron gates. The bus driver honks a few times. Finally, Michael Taylor trudges down the driveway. His nearly-white blonde hair is sticking up all over his head, and he looks like he just rolled out of bed. His eyes are so heavy-lidded, I’m surprised he’s able to find his way onto the bus.
Ryan stares straight ahead as Michael fakes like he’s going to topple onto him. He wobbles down the aisle and he’s greeted like a rock star. His friends reach out to high-five him, and Michael laughs and pantomimes taking a drag off a joint.
Our last stop before reaching school is Tina’s house. She’s wearing a tight-fitting top, skinny jeans, and wedge heels. She strides onto the bus; a few people whistle. Tina smiles and makes eye contact with me as she passes my seat. If she remembers me from the garage sale, she gives no indication.
One girl stands. “Oh, my Gawd, girl! Where did the rest of you go?” Several people rise to gawk at her. “What did you do with the old Tina?”
Tina laughs. “I killed her.”
“Y’all sit down,” the bus driver snaps. She frowns in the visor mirror, and when she catches my eye, I look away.
Drew tries to be brave, but her eyes fill with tears as we walk into the building. “You’re not just going to leave me the second we get inside, are you? You’ll help me find my classroom, right?” She holds my hand so tightly that the sweat is making our palms slide.
I twist my hand away, wipe my palm on my jeans, and take her hand again. “Yes, I’ll walk you to your room.” We step just inside the building and I look side to side. “Elementary is this way.” We start to the right.
“Colby, stop!” Drew plants her feet and won’t move. “I need to ask you something…come here.”
I bend to her and she whispers, “Are…they going to be mean to me, too?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The kids here—they’re so mean to Ryan, and that boy on the bus scared me when he made those kissy sounds. He doesn’t even know you. Which makes me think…do people here know about what Daddy did?” Her voice is cracking, and she’s on the verge of losing control.
There’s a bench by the office. I lower myself awkwardly onto it and pull Drew down next to me. I whisper, “Nobody here at school—except Ryan—knows about Dad, okay?…And…the reason they’re mean to Ryan is that when he told on one of his friends for doing something bad, the friend got into big trouble.”
Her eyebrows furrow. “But…if he did something bad, shouldn’t he be in trouble?”
I glance at the clock in the hallway. “Drew, this isn’t the time. We’re going to be late.”
Drew’s shoulders are rocking as she fights to keep from sobbing.
I narrow my eyes. “Are you seriously worrying about this or something?”
Her chin quivers and she nods her head.
A lady in a black suit approaches us. “Is everything all right?”
Drew tightens her grip on my wrist. I
tell the lady, “We’re fine. She’s just a little nervous because it’s her first day. We’re new here.”
The lady bends down and places her hand on Drew’s shoulder. “Oh, are you Drew Denton? I’ve heard all about you.”
Drew bursts into tears. “You said nobody knew, Colby!”
The lady gives me a quizzical look and I shrug. “She means…I told her that nobody would know how nervous she is. That’s…what she’s talking about.” I force myself to laugh. I sound stupid.
The lady slides onto the bench next to Drew and puts her arm around her. “Aw, honey, I just meant that I figured out who you are because I met your mama when she enrolled you in school. I’m Mrs. Foster, the elementary assistant principal. You look just like your mother, too!” She glances at me. “And who is this with you?”
Drew sniffles, “M-my sister, C-Colby. She’s in tenth grade.”
Mrs. Foster looks surprised. “You’re sisters? Well, I never would have guessed.”
Drew automatically swings her hair side to side. “I look like my mamma and she looks like my…I m-mean—uh—never mind…him.” She glances at me. I nod at her; her lower lip quivers.
“Let’s let Big Sister go on to her class, and I’ll take you to Mrs. Thurston’s second grade classroom, okay, hon?” Mrs. Foster stands and offers her hand to Drew.
I push myself up off the bench and adjust my shirt so it’s not as tight on my stomach. I’d hoped that my jeans would be loosening by now, but they’re just as binding as the moment I wrenched them onto my body. “Going to be okay now, Drew?”
She looks at her feet and nods.
“I’ll meet you on the bus this afternoon. Save me a seat, okay?”
She says nothing; just nods as Mrs. Foster leads her toward the elementary wing.
I head for the high school hallway and approach a tall, pretty girl with long brown hair who is laughing and talking with a shorter girl whose pointy nose and buck teeth make her appear rat-like. “Um, hi, could you tell me where I can pick up my schedule?”
The shorter girl’s eyes lock on the Hallister logo on my chest. She nudges the taller girl and cuts her eyes back to it. “Are you new?”
“Yeah. My mom enrolled me, but I don’t have my schedule. Could you—”
The tall girl cuts me off. “What’s your shirt say? Hallister?” She giggles and they exchange knowing glances. “Never heard of Hallister. Where’d you get a shirt like that?”
I grimace at the white block letters embroidered across my breasts. “It’s the name of a store.”
The girls laugh. The shorter of the two arches an eyebrow. “So, you got it at the Hallister store?”
My face burns, but I hope they don’t notice. I shrug.
“Um, that’s Hollister, New Girl. I think you got ripped off.” The bell rings, and they’re laughing so hard that they’re bumping into other people as they ooze down the hall.
“Kayley and Kara are bitches. Don’t let them bother you,” someone behind me says. I turn to find a girl with copper hair and heavy dark brows. I can’t tell if her lipstick is blue or black, but it makes her skin appear shockingly white. She talks fast. “I like your shirt. Purple’s a nice color—it’s not my color; I like to wear black, as you can see, but anyway, what’s your name?”
I try to swallow past the lump in my throat. “I’m Colby. And…thanks.” I swipe at a tear as it trickles down my cheek.
“I’m Anna. Your schedule should be in the counselor’s office. I’ll show you where it is.” She takes my upper arm. “Really: don’t worry about them. They think they’re better than everybody. I call them Abercrombie and Bitch.”
We round a corner and run into a line outside the counselor’s office.
Anna says, “Whoa, this is going to take a while. Think you’ll be okay? I don’t want to leave you, but I also can’t be late to class.”
“Sure.” I hope I sound more confident than I feel.
“Chances are, we’ll have a few classes together. If not, look for me at lunch. I’ll save you a seat.”
“How do you know we’ll have the same lunch period?”
Anna gives me a funny look. “Are you kidding? This school is tiny. The entire high school eats lunch at the same time. I’m not hard to find. My buds and I eat on the stage.”
“…You have a stage in your cafeteria?”
She snorts. “Cafetorium, thank you very much. It’s a cafeteria and auditorium all in one. We’re small-town country. The school’s got all twelve grades in it; our school library and public library are one and the same…I’m surprised we don’t come to school on farm tractors. People around here treat Walmart like it’s the mall.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Do you ever feel like you’re missing out?”
Anna gives me a head-tilt. “If you don’t know what you’ve never had, how can you miss it?”
Chapter Eleven
I’m way late to my first class, biology, because it takes me a while to figure out that it’s in a portable building. I enter through a door in the back of the room and grimace at the first three faces I see: Fredrick, José, and Michael. Kara, the rat-faced girl who made fun of my shirt, and Tina notice me, too. Tina leans across the aisle to talk to another girl. There’s no sign of a teacher. I breathe a shallow sigh of relief. The pain from my tight jeans radiates all the way up to my ribs.
I hope Tina’s not telling that girl about my clothes. I kick myself for not realizing that I might be going to school with the person who used to own these! Rage bubbles fill my chest. I hate my life! I hate my dad for not giving us any money! I hate my mom for hating my body! I…hate.
Somebody near the front of the room has shoulder-length copper hair. I’m relieved that it’s Anna, and there’s an empty seat at her table. She smiles when she sees me. “Hey, are you okay?”
I’m scowling so hard that my face hurts, and I try to relax it. “Oh, yeah. Just, you know, first day, being new.” I show her my schedule and we compare classes.
“Oh, cool! We have Fun Math together!”
I’m skeptical. “Fun Math? Every math class I’ve ever taken was the exact opposite of fun. I suck at math.”
“Oh, they don’t mean ‘Fun,’ like, ‘Oh, boy!’—They mean ‘Fun’ as in, short for ‘Fundamentals of Math.’ I suck at math, too. Some people call that class ‘Math for Dummies.’”
Kara hisses, “Hey, Hallister!” and explodes in giggles. I glance back and see Tina step over to Kara’s table. Anna springs out of her chair and stomps back to the two of them. I don’t know what she’s saying, but her body language isn’t friendly. She’s returning to our table when Kara calls out, “Bitch!”
Without looking back, Anna shoots her the bird and slides into her chair.
“Is that ladylike behavior?” A woman who looks to be at least eighty stands directly in front of our table. Her wrinkly face is coated in powder. She’s wearing a bright pink floral print blouse, turquoise scarf, and what I’m pretty sure is a curly blonde wig, since it’s sitting crookedly atop her head. She blinks behind her thick glasses and frowns at Anna.
Anna jabs a thumb over her shoulder. “But, Miss, she—!”
The teacher ignores her and moves to stand in front of her desk. Her voice is crackly, and she speaks slowly. “I’m Mrs. Mary Clay. Please check your schedules. If it says ‘biology,’ then you’re in the right place. Anybody in the wrong place?” She blinks a few times, waiting, before consulting her attendance roster.
“I recognize a lot of these names. I taught your parents, and in some cases, I taught your grandparents. You know what that tells me?”
Nobody answers, and she continues. “Tells me that you can’t get away with much, because I already know which of you do the right thing and which are rotten to the core. So don’t try anything. I may be old, but I’m sharp as a tack.”
She moves slowly to her desk, creaks into the chair, and announces, “Michael Taylor, come up here right now.”
Michael doesn’t budge fr
om his seat in the back row. “What’d I do?”
Mrs. Clay narrows her eyes behind her thick lenses and locks a gaze on him that must act like a tractor beam, because he saunters up and stands before her desk. She reaches over to a vase of roses, plucks a petal, and pops it in her mouth. She chews slowly, seeming to take pleasure in the class’s reaction, which ranges from stunned silence to “Ew!”
Michael shifts his weight from one foot to the other and says impatiently, “What? What do you want?”
Mrs. Clay swallows loudly and crooks her finger, pulling Michael closer with that invisible tractor beam of hers. I swear, everybody in that room leans forward, trying to hear what she says.
“Let me tell you something, Mr. Taylor. I taught your daddy, and he was a spoiled piece of fruit: a toxic, entitled young man. Well…at that time…a real whiz-bang of a turd. For some reason…”—she plucks another petal and studies it—“I get the impression that you’re following in his footsteps. Am I…incorrect in that assumption, Mr. Taylor?” She sticks out her tongue and places the petal on it, pulls her tongue in, and chews slowly while watching him.
Michael takes a step back and flails his arms. “You are batshit crazy, old lady, and everybody knows it. My dad told me you were nuts when he had you a million years ago.” He starts back to his seat.
“Stop right there, Michael,” Mrs. Clay’s voice crackles like burning wood. “You’ve just confirmed my suspicions.”
Michael freezes and mouths, “Fuck.” He slowly turns and faces her. “So? What are you going to do about it?”
Mrs. Clay works her way out of her chair, shuffles to the desk directly in front of her own, and taps a frosty pink fingernail on it. “This is your assigned seat, Mr. Taylor. You shall be my research project this year: nature versus nurture. I hypothesize that, given intense intervention, you might not in fact be confirmed to be of the species Taylorous assholious. Despite all indications thus far to the contrary, of course.”
Big Fat Disaster Page 11
