Big Fat Disaster

by Beth Fehlbaum

  I nod. My eyes fill up again and I lower my head.

  “Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

  I’m trying so hard not to cry that it feels like my skull is going to come apart. A sob comes out as a snort, and she mistakes it for a giggle. I’ll take it.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “J-just the idea that talking about my problems is going to make it easier to…” I try to inhale but find it’s impossible. I’m in too much pain.

  “To what, Colby?”

  I can’t think of any other answer. “Breathe.”

  It’s lunchtime, but not for me. I’m not sure if it’s my nerves or the way my jeans are slowly grinding my body in half, but I can’t even think about eating. I slide into a chair near the food line exit and watch the endless stream of pizza, hamburgers, and nachos go by.

  I remember the last time we went to the movies as a family. Dad and I got nachos and split an extra-large tub of buttered popcorn. I’ve known girls whose fathers took them camping or taught them how to work on cars. Eating is what my dad and I did together. We’d stand at the kitchen counter and dig the Oreos out of a gallon of Cookies & Cream ice cream. Mom would fuss at us, “You don’t need that!” and we’d just laugh.

  But my favorite time with my dad—my favorite—was when he baked our birthday cakes. He makes the best cake icing in the world. He doesn’t even need a recipe. Rachel and Drew were never asked to help out, but from the time I could sit on the counter without falling off, I was in charge of handing my dad the ingredients for icing.

  A bag of powdered sugar, a half stick of butter, vanilla, a little milk…the smell of the mixer getting hot…and the big moment, when he pronounced the icing just right, popped the beaters out, and handed me one to lick. He took the other one, and we always agreed that it was the best icing he’d ever made. He slathered a thick layer onto the cake, used a decorator’s bag to pipe flowers and border, and there was always enough left over for us to have big, melt-in-your-mouth spoonfuls. Aunt Leah’s cake icing is nearly as good as Dad’s.

  It dawns on me: He didn’t make Rachel’s birthday cake in June. Even though he still ate a lot of junk food and kept his own snack stash in his desk drawer, he’d started yelling at me for eating the way we always had. He was cranky a lot of the time, and sometimes he even called me a pig. He’d snap, “Seriously, Colby! What are my supporters going to think when they see that one of my children has no self-control?”

  Self-control? Um, hello, Dad, but I think that cheating on Mom is a sign of sucky self-control. Guess you don’t have to worry about what your supporters think anymore, and of course you have Marcy, the only person in the whole wide world who lets you be you. Woohoo for you, Dad.

  Tina walks by with Kayley and Kara. There’s a tiny slice of pizza and a bottle of water on her tray. I wonder if it’s true: Did Kayley and Kara only decide Tina was cool enough to be a friend when she lost weight? I try to visualize Tina being as big as I am, but I can’t.

  Mom put me on my first diet when I was in second grade. She started pointing out women who were so big that you couldn’t tell if they were pregnant or just really fat. “You don’t want to be one of those, Colby.”

  She posted pictures of me on the fridge under alphabet letters spelling Before, and she’d post pics of tall, lean, athletic fashion models under After. I suppose she could have just put Rachel’s pictures under After, but maybe she thought that would be too weird…which goes to show that my mother may have a sense of what’s over the top, after all.

  Here’s the thing: My wrists are twice the size of Rachel’s. No matter how badly Mom wishes I could be a Rachel clone, God, in all His [cough-cough] wisdom, made me in the image of my college linebacker father. I hope He didn’t also make me a two-timing piece-of-shit thief who walks out on my family someday.

  “Helloooo…are you in there?” Anna waves her hand in front of my face. “I’ve been calling you and doing everything but standing on the table to get your attention. Are you going to join us or what?”

  I pop into awareness. “Oh, hey. Didn’t see you.”

  She puts her hands on her hips. “Obviously. Did you already eat?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Anna pulls me to my feet and drags me toward the round tables on the stage. She skitters up the steps and I follow slowly, just managing to lift one leg at a time in the jeans, which have not relaxed at all. She makes a beeline to some kids who, like Anna, dress all in black.

  “Sean, this is Colby,” Anna announces to a skinny guy with chin-length dirty blonde hair and a stubbly chin. He stabs a plastic spork into a chicken nugget and waves it at me. “And, Colby, this is Nikki.” A girl with bluish-black hair raises one black fingernail but doesn’t look up from texting.

  I’m adjusting my backpack straps so it won’t fall off the chair when I hear, “Ryan, this is Colby.”

  I look up to see my cousin placing his tray on the table. He blurts, “What’re you doing here?”

  I freeze. “Anna invited me—”

  He glares at her; she throws up her hands. “What’s that dirty look for?…You two know each other?”

  Ryan says nothing; just curls his lip into a sneer.

  Anna orders, “Sit down, Colby. Ryan: you, too.”

  But we don’t. Anna stands and puts a hand on each of our shoulders. “Hey. I don’t know what the deal is, but everybody’s welcome at the Nobodies’ table. Remember, Ryan? All your little football buddies treat you like shit now—but not the Nobodies! Aren’t you glad you’ve got friends who stick by you?” She playfully punches his upper arm, winks at him, and tries to get him to smile. He remains stone-faced.

  I announce, “Ryan and I are cousins.” I lower myself slowly to the chair and glance up at him. “So, are you going to eat or just stand there glaring at me?”

  Sean breaks out a Scottish brogue. “Aye, a spirited lass! I like a woman with fire in her belly and meat on her bones!” He addresses the texting girl. “Nikki, you could learn a thing or two from such a brave outspoken creature!” She nods but doesn’t look up.

  Ryan’s voice drips with sarcasm. “Oh, yeah. Colby’s real good at speaking up. Especially when it matters.”

  I slam my palm on the table. “How long are you going to stay pissed? I’m sorry about what happened on the Fourth of July! I never said I agreed with my dad or anyone else!”

  Ryan’s eyes light up; he puts his hands on the table, leans toward me, and says loudly, “Yeah, speaking of your dad—Mr. I’m All About Families—what’s the name of the woman he left your mom for? You found a picture of them making out, right?”

  A hush descends on the cafetorium, and Ryan straightens to his full height. He yells, “Come on, Colby, while you’re being so outspoken, tell us all about your dad stealing money from his campaign, and how his company ripped off people who trusted him. When’s the trial? How long do you think he’ll go to prison?” He pauses, and his mouth stretches into a smirk. He leans across the table and yells in my face: “You think if his cellmate rapes him but the guards aren’t around to hear him say ‘No,’ it’s still rape?”

  For the first time since I squeezed myself into jeans that are two sizes too small, getting out of a chair is no problem at all. I don’t feel the metal button jabbing my middle, and I’m barely aware of falling down the stage steps. The room explodes in a mixture of gasps and laughter. I don’t know how I pick myself up, but I do. The next thing I know, I’ve bolted out the front doors of the school and I’m running toward the towering steeple atop Piney Creek Baptist. I know that Sugar’s is a couple streets over from Church Row. The echo of laughter in my head is almost as loud as my heartbeat in my ears.

  I barely make it out of the long school driveway before I’m wheezing so badly that I slow to a stumbling walk. I keep the steeple in my sights and pray to God to pick me up and deliver me to Sugar’s, because I don’t think I can walk another step.

  It becomes clear pretty quickly that
God may answer Mom’s prayers for a place to live and fat girl clothes for me, but He’s not listening to mine.

  Chapter Twelve

  Turns out, that steeple on Church Row is so big and tall that it looks a lot closer to the high school than it is. By the time I reach Sugar’s, I’m blacking out from the heat. The last thing I remember after slamming through the front door is the shocked face of a woman I’ve never met. I don’t even feel myself hit the floor.

  A man’s voice: “Colby? Can you hear me?”

  I think I’m still in a heap at the bottom of the stage stairs, and I try to get up, but my arms and legs are bound. I hear the sound of hissing air, and something is sticky against my face.

  “Colby, it’s okay.” Mom’s voice is shaky.

  I sense wet and cold on my forehead, under my neck, and on my groin. The pain and tightness around my waist is gone. I open my eyes. There’s a guy in a dark blue uniform adjusting a valve on an oxygen tank.

  Mom hovers over me. She looks terrified. “You’re in an ambulance, honey. What happened? Why did you leave school?”

  I shake my head; pain shoots through my eyes and I can barely focus. The man says something to Mom, and she sits back.

  His face appears over mine. “Just breathe in deeply and slowly, sweetie. You’re dehydrated, and you may have heat exhaustion. We’re working on cooling you down, and the docs at the ER will get you rehydrated.”

  We stay in the emergency room for several hours until the doctors are satisfied that my body temperature is in a safe range and I finish a bag of I.V. fluids. When they find out that I haven’t eaten all day, they give me juice and crackers.

  Mom waits until the nurse walks out; then she pulls the privacy curtain closed. She holds up what’s left of my Hallister shirt and suffocating jeans. “The paramedics cut your clothes off, so I went to the store when you were asleep and bought new clothes.” She reaches for a bag and pulls out an oversized T-shirt and comfy-looking elastic-waist shorts. “I also bought a couple more pairs of jeans for you…in a much larger size.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I shakily sit up on the edge of the bed and start to slide off the hospital gown, but I don’t want Mom to see my body. I hate the face she always makes at my fat rolls and stretch marks. I pull the shorts on under the gown.

  “Are you ready to tell me why you left school in the middle of the day?”

  I shake my head slowly and immediately regret it; the pounding pain hasn’t quite gone away.

  “Okay, how about this one: Why didn’t you tell me that the jeans you were wearing were so tight?”

  I lower my head into my hands. Her question, combined with everything else that’s happened today, is more than I can take. I burst into tears. I try to talk but I can’t; all I can do is shake my head and bawl.

  Mom sits next to me and drapes her arm over my shoulders. “Aw, honey, I’m sorry. You could have told me they didn’t fit.”

  “Wh-what—c-could y-you h-have done? You t-told me that we don’t have any m-money. I didn’t think we could buy more clothes.”

  “But your jeans were dangerously tight, sweetie. Look at your skin…” Without waiting, Mom pulls the gown up and yanks down the shorts’ elastic waistband to reveal the deep red grooves and lines that still remain on my skin. There’s dried blood on some of my stretch marks.

  Embarrassment and shame wash over me. I push her hand away and mumble, “I-I’m sorry that I’m such a d-disappointment to you. I wish…you didn’t hate my body so much.” I sob, “I mean, I think I hate it enough for both of us.”

  The nurse sticks her head in to check on us. Mom waves her away. I duck my head again.

  Mom whispers, “Ssh! Ssh, Colby. Not so loud…Oh, honey, I don’t hate your body.” She takes my face in her hands and forces me to meet her eyes. “I just want you to be healthy, and, well, you know you’ll never get a boyfriend, looking like this, don’t you?” Her eyes fill with tears. “I wish I knew what to do to help you. I just want you to be happy.” She looks away.

  I touch her arm and plead, “C-could you just make me feel like you love me no matter what?…Please? Could you just…love me the way I am?”

  Mom closes her eyes and her mouth crumples. She whispers, “Of course,” but she’s not at all convincing.

  Leah, Ryan, and Drew are waiting on the Victorian’s front porch when we get home. Even in the semi-darkness, I can see that Leah looks pissed beyond belief.

  Ryan hangs back on the porch with his arms crossed tightly, but Drew skitters down the steps and throws her arms around me. “Oh, Colby! I’m so glad you’re okay!”

  I feel instantly guilty. “I’m sorry about not meeting you on the bus, Drew, I—”

  “That’s okay! Ryan sat next to me and I was fine.” She whispers, “He really is nice, Colby!”

  The dogs are covering my legs in wet kisses, and I bend over and ruffle their ears: anything to keep from looking at Ryan. I start to follow Mom and Drew back to our trailer when Leah calls, “Um, Sonya, could we speak to you and Colby, please?”

  Mom whispers something to Drew, and she takes off around the corner with Charley and Zeeke nipping playfully at her ankles.

  Leah grabs Ryan by the arm, yanks him forward to stand next to her, and bites off each word: “Ryan has something to say to you.” Ah, so she’s angry with him. Thank God it’s not me.

  I scrape my bottom teeth over my upper lip and stare at a knothole in the bottom porch step.

  Mom begins, “Does this have anything to do with why Colby left school? She won’t tell me—”

  Leah cuts her off. “Yes, it certainly does; doesn’t it, Ryan?” I force myself to look up. Leah’s eye to eye with Ryan, and they seem to be having a staring contest. Their scowls are mirror images of each other. “Tell Sonya what you did…now.”

  Finally, Ryan gives the same speech to my mother that he gave to everyone in the cafetorium, including the line about Dad possibly being raped and whether it’s rape if the guards don’t hear him say “No.” The thing is, even though Aunt Leah looks ready to pull his head off, he doesn’t sound sorry at all.

  Leah’s voice is shaking. “I am so incredibly sorry, Colby.” She shoots Ryan a look that could peel paint off walls. “I’m sorry that he hurt you. And, Ryan, I am incredibly disappointed that you would tell all those people about what Reese did.”

  Ryan blasts, “Wow, Mom, you sound just like Grandpa and Grandma being pissed at you for exposing Dad as the Grand Poobah of Assholes.”

  Leah looks like Ryan struck her, and I think he’s going to apologize, but instead he shrugs and says sarcastically, “Fine, Mom; you want an apology?” He turns to me and says sarcastically, “Colby, I’m sorry that you were so upset that you decided to go for a jog in hundred-degree weather and ended up in the hospital…Then again, that’s a choice you made, so I surely do hope that you can get two jobs to help your mom pay the medical bills.” He turns to go inside, but Mom lunges forward and grabs his arm. He knocks her hand away and starts through the front door.

  Mom shrieks, “Colby could have died today! Now, it was her choice to take off like that, but I hold you responsible for what you did. I want this to end, and I mean right now!” She stomps down the steps like she’s heading for our trailer, but stops, shakes her head, and turns back. Her voice is weary. “I’m sorry about what happened on the Fourth of July. Maybe we were wrong to tell you that you shouldn’t have reported your friend. Maybe…maybe, we’re even wrong about your dad; maybe he used to be a bad person. But I don’t think he is anymore. But it’s not for us to judge; ultimately, only God can judge—”

  Ryan blasts, “Jesus H. Christ, seriously?”

  Mom screeches, “Listen to me! Will somebody please listen to me for once?” She balls her fists and it’s pretty clear that she’s not just talking about Ryan interrupting her.

  “Ryan, please. Hear her out.” Leah seats herself on the top porch step and reaches for him. He hesitates; she repeats, “Please.” He shakes his head i
n disgust, but joins her.

  Mom raises her eyes to the evening sky, then closes them as if in prayer. She nods like she’s gotten an answer. “These last several weeks have shaken me to the foundation of my being. The life the girls and I knew is gone.” She snorts, and her shoulders sink. “Having everything ripped away…Reese’s selfishness…the way we’ve been tossed aside…” She locks eyes with Ryan. “If you wished suffering on us because of how you were treated, trust me: You’ve gotten what you wanted.”

  She moves to the steps, plops down on the second-to-the-last, and turns toward a rose peeking through the handrail. Head down, she cradles a blossom in both hands. Within a couple of minutes, it’s apparent from her sniffling that she’s crying.

  Leah crab-crawls down the steps, wraps her arms around my mom, and holds her tightly. Mom turns toward her, and Leah murmurs words I can’t hear.

  Ryan and I lock eyes over our moms embracing, and his expression softens. He hops over the handrail and joins me on the grass. He shrugs, chews his lip, and seems to choose his words carefully. “So…you going to be okay?”

  “Yeah. Just have to take it easy for a few days. No P.E. class. No midday prison breaks.” I circle my toe around a dead patch of grass.

  Ryan finds his own small circle of dead grass and does the same. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, my mom wants me to get counseling. She thinks I’m messed up ’cause I got the shit kicked out of me on the last day of school. The Fourth of July—all that crap everybody said—didn’t exactly help, either.”

  I sway a little, and he grabs my arm to steady me.

  “I—you may not believe me, but I am sorry. I don’t mean to be such an asshole.” His voice wavers. “Who knows, maybe I am fucked up, and somebody needs to fix me. Couldn’t hurt to try, right?”

  He’s still clutching my upper arm tightly; I shrug it away. “Mom thinks I need help, too. But…not for being shit-kicked.” I glance at my mother and whisper, “She wishes I was anyone but me.”