Big Fat Disaster

by Beth Fehlbaum

  “It’s gone,” I say. “There’s no evidence.”

  She furrows her brow. “Huh?” She turns to the mirror and closely examines her face.

  “Nothing.” I turn toward the door to go, but stop and pivot back. “I’m not going to ask you anymore. I know why you won’t tell me that Kara made that page.”

  Tina’s face is ghostly white, and beads of sweat on her forehead are visible in her reflection in the mirror. She closes her eyes. “I can’t do this with you right now.”

  I take a step toward her. “It’s because if you tell the truth, you’ll lose Kara as a friend, and you’d rather keep things the way they are than be alone again. Right?”

  She shrugs. Then nods.

  I move to the wall by the sinks and lean against it. “Can I ask you something else?”

  Tina places her forearms on the edge of the sink and bends until she’s practically folded in half. “Why not?” Her voice is rough, like she has sandpaper in her throat.

  “Is this how you did it? How you lost eighty pounds? You know…throwing up?”

  She nods. “Not at first. And…I don’t do it very often. Well…I try not to do it more than once a day. It’s just…I…I can’t gain it back. I can’t go back to being like—” She catches herself, stops.

  “Like me.” I step forward. “You can say it. You don’t want to be like me. A big fat disaster.”

  Tina straightens and turns to me. The sunlight through the high horizontal windows perfectly captures the shadows under her eyes. She swallows and grimaces in pain; clutches her throat. “Right,” she says hoarsely. “I can’t do that.”

  Michael paces behind my empty spot at Kayley and Kara’s table. He’s got my backpack over his shoulder. Abercrombie and Bitch are nowhere to be seen. He sees me approaching, and his eyes flash. “I demand a copy of your schedule. I have no idea where to dump your stuff, and I can’t be waiting around all the time just because you’ve got some kind of bullshit girl drama going on.”

  I say nothing; just turn on my heel and head for Mr. Van Horn’s room.

  Michael easily catches up. “So? You’re going to give me your schedule, right? If I have to do this, it shouldn’t be an inconvenience. There’s probably some kind of rule against—”

  I root my feet to the floor, but Michael keeps moving. It takes him a second to notice that I’m not beside him. He stomps back to me. “Seriously? What is this, some kind of conspiracy to make me late to every class?”

  “Why’d you beat the snot out of Ryan on the last day of school?” It’s like somebody else is saying it, even though I know it’s me.

  His jaw drops, but he quickly recovers. “Wh-who told you I did that? Did Ryan tell you that? Because if he did—”

  “If—what? What can you do to him now?”

  Michael’s mouth is moving, but no sound is coming out.

  I feel my bravery waning, and I stare at the logo on his shirt. “Why’d you do it? And, besides that, why did you have to post the video of the whole thing on YouTube? I mean, wasn’t it enough to just beat him up? Why’d you have to try to let everybody else in the world watch, too?”

  Michael allows my backpack to slide down his arm to the floor. “Know what?” He bends down to me, and all I can see is his finger in my face. “Get fucked, Colby. I don’t have to put up with this shit.” He whirls on his heel and walks away, still babbling. “I don’t have to put up with this. There are rules against this shit. There are laws against making me be a slave for a fat ass bitch. I’m sure there are…”

  The second I walk through the door, Mr. Van Horn hands me a copy of The Scarlet Letter with a list of make-up assignments tucked inside it. “The class is through Chapter 6,” he says. “You’ll need to read and catch up. You should be able to complete today’s assignment even without reading, though. If you need it, take a week to get your make-up assignments to me.” He turns away and starts writing notes on the board, abruptly stops, and puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry about Ryan. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

  I nod and move to my desk. Fredrick calls from his seat a few rows over, “Where’s your helper? Why isn’t he carrying your stuff?”

  “He quit.” I unzip my backpack and pull out my binder. I’m reading over the list of assignments when I look up to find Fredrick standing next to me.

  He places his palms flat on my desk and leans into me. “What you mean, ‘he quit’? He can’t quit!”

  I frown and whisper, “You need to take that up with him, because he told me to get fucked and walked away.”

  Fredrick’s eyes are huge. He straightens, takes a step back, and swipes the air at some imaginary target. “He don’t get to quit! Ma-a-a-a-a-n, he don’t get to quit. My granny finds out ’bout that stuff and, m-a-a-a-a-a-a-n!”

  “Take your seat, Fredrick,” Mr. Van Horn calls. “We’re getting started.”

  Fredrick saunters back to his seat. He swipes the air again and shakes his head. “I’ll—I’ll talk to him.” He nods, reassuring himself. “I’ll talk to him about this. He don’t get to quit. He don’t. It ain’t all about him. Nope.”

  Mr. Van Horn observes dryly, “Good to know you’re a problem-solver, Fredrick.”

  He circles to the front of his desk, leans against it, and crosses his arms. “We know that at this point in The Scarlet Letter, Hester Prynne is an outcast. She lives among others in her community, but they have little to do with her other than to treat her like a social pariah. She is struggling to raise her daughter, Pearl, who refuses to conform to the expectations of her mother and what the society of that era defines as normal behavior. Meanwhile, Hester has decided that she will stay in the village where her sin took place, and try to purge her soul.

  “Jonathan Edwards was a famous Puritan minister in the 1700s. When he was nineteen, he created a list of Resolutions to live by. Not the same type of New Year’s resolutions that we tend to make today, like paying off bills or working out more. His Resolutions were about living a life to please God with regard to relationships, how people treated their bodies, their attitude toward life, and so on.” He pulls the projector screen down, moves behind his desk, and taps a few keys on his computer. Within seconds, a list appears.

  Mr. Van Horn moves to stand beside the projector screen and points to the list. “These are some of Jonathan Edwards’s Resolutions for Young People. He considered the list a ‘life code,’ and it’s something that a person in Hester Prynne’s situation—or any young Puritan of the time—might very well have tried to live by. This is only a partial list; there are seventy Resolutions in total. Once a week, Jonathan reviewed all seventy to see how he was doing.

  “Your mission is to study this partial list, choose one of the Resolutions, and pay special attention to keeping it over the next week. One week from today, you will report on your progress in keeping the Resolution you chose. I’ll give you fifteen minutes to free-write in your journals about why you think your Resolution will help your life. Be ready to share which you chose and why. Ready?…Go.”

  I begin reading:

  Resolved, never to DO, BE, or SUFFER any thing in soul or body, less or more, but what tends to the glory of God.

  Resolved, never to lose one moment of TIME, but to improve it in the most profitable way I possibly can.

  Resolved, to maintain the strictest temperance in eating and drinking.

  Resolved, to live with all my might while I do live.

  Resolved, never to do any thing, which I should be afraid to do if it were the last hour of my life.

  Resolved, to think much on all occasions of my own dying, and of the common circumstances which attend death.

  Bingo! I don’t need to read any further.

  Mr. Van Horn calls time and starts asking people to share their Resolutions, whether they raise their hands or not. I’m relieved when I’m not asked to share my choice: To think much on all occasions of my own dying. Stepping in front of a speeding truck didn’t turn
out the way I wanted it to, so I need to figure out a for-sure way to off myself.

  Then again, maybe I don’t have to do it. I mean, I’m making it through this first day back, and my teachers are being pretty nice. Maybe I can make up with Anna and have a spot at the Nobodies table again. Maybe all this Ryan stuff will fade away, and it won’t matter so much that he was trying to save me, not the other way around.

  “Colby?”

  I snap back into awareness.

  Mr. Van Horn taps my desk. He’s standing right next to me, and I just noticed something: He smells really good. “What do you think of Becca’s Resolution?”

  “Um…”

  “You weren’t listening, were you?” He flips through a couple of blank pages in my journal. “And, you didn’t write anything during free-write time, did you?”

  I shake my head and feel my face burning.

  “I know it’s difficult, but try to pay attention and participate, okay? You missed out on a week of study, and we’re not just talking about the Resolutions right now; I’m also connecting them to the novel.” He taps on my desk again. “Can you try to tune in for me?” He gives my shoulder a little squeeze and moves on.

  From behind me, I hear whispers, and someone giggles. It may not have anything to do with me, but suddenly I’m uber-aware of my size, and my double chin is sticky against my neck. In my mind, I see Mom’s disappointed look. I try to replace it with the way she was this morning when she kissed me and said that she sees me differently now. As long as she doesn’t find out the truth, I can do this. I can keep this secret for as long as I need to.

  I feel a little hopeful then, and I tune back in to the discussion. Maybe I’ll change my Resolution to the one about eating right. Wonder how much weight I could lose in a week? I could eat barely anything. Then Mom will be really proud.

  It could happen.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I’m heading to P.E. class, and I hear clop-clopping footsteps approaching quickly from behind me. Boots.

  Becca appears at my side. Doesn’t say anything; just clop-clops next to me. I give her a sideways glance. She’s got her chin tucked into the top of her notebook, staring straight ahead.

  I walk a little faster, and she does the same. We’re rounding the corner to go out the double doors to the gym when she reaches out and grabs my right arm. “Colby—stop. I need to talk to you about what happened the other day.”

  I shake her off. “We’re going to be late, and even though I can’t dress out, I don’t want to be—”

  She moves to block the doors and rapidly shakes her head. “No. This is important. I’ve got to tell you something about my best friend.”

  I snap, “Look, I’m really happy for you that you have a best friend. How nice for you to feel so safe and have someone to trust. Now move out of the way, or I’m moving you.”

  Becca says loudly, “It’s not about life skills class, Colby. It’s about when you tried to kill yourself.”

  “What?” I look around to see if anyone else heard. I lean in close and whisper, “What are you talking about? I didn’t try to kill myself. Ryan was…Look, I saved him. I mean, I tried to save him. Didn’t you hear the story?”

  She purses her lips and shakes her head slowly. “Stop lying, Colby. You and I both know that you tried to kill yourself. Now, about my best friend—”

  The tardy bell rings and I sigh heavily. FML. “Seriously, Becca? You think I give a shit about your best friend? What does she have to do with me trying to kill myself? I mean, that didn’t even happen, so…”

  Her mouth falls open. “How can you say that? How can you lie about Ryan? If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t still have a—”

  “Stop it!” The urge to spit on her is almost more than I can stand. I take a deep breath in, blow it out, and hold up a hand in surrender. “I’m going to go park my fat ass on the bleachers and watch the rest of you run around and sweat. Nice talking to you.”

  She doesn’t move. Instead, she locks her eyes on mine. “I saw you in the street.”

  My heart drops through the soles of my feet; I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest. I try to speak, but no sound comes out.

  Becca clutches her notebook so tightly that her knuckles are nearly white. “My grandpa owns the white house on the hill. We were cleaning it that day, getting it ready for new tenants. I saw you through the window. You were sitting on the front steps. You ran out in front of a car, but it didn’t hit you. The driver turned around and yelled at you.”

  My throat is tightening, and I feel like I’m going to pass out. Becca moves away from the doors to a bench on the opposite wall. “Do you want to sit?” she asks. “You’re really white.”

  I shake my head. My feet are cemented to that place in the hallway. I try to swallow, but I can’t.

  Becca continues, her voice barely above a whisper. “You disappeared for a while…maybe thirty minutes; maybe longer. My mother and I were about to leave. She picked up her purse and stopped to rub a smudge off the window, when she saw you in the street. You were like this.” She places her notebook on her lap and spreads her arms like Jesus on the cross.

  I hear a noise—like a puppy whining—then I realize it’s coming from me. I stumble backward but am stopped by the gym doors.

  “I threw open the front door to yell at you just as Ryan came running around the corner for all he’s worth.” Becca’s eyes fill with tears. “I’ve never seen anyone run that fast. That truck was bearing down on you, and he didn’t even hesitate. He slammed into you, and then the truck…” She closes her eyes, and her mouth is a straight line. Her face crumples, and she bends at the waist until her upper body is resting on her notebook. Her shoulders shake like she’s sobbing, but there is no sound.

  I’m standing in the hallway watching Becca cry over my cousin, but a video zooms through my head: Ryan’s bloodied blue eyes are staring at me. His head is stuck at a right angle to his neck.

  Becca’s voice draws me back. “I—I couldn’t move. I’ve never seen anyone get killed. My mama ran outside. Suddenly, there were people everywhere. Your little sister was wandering around looking for you. Mama took her by the hand, and they found you knocked clear of the road, just off the top of the hill. Mama put her purse under your head.”

  I gasp; realize that I’ve been holding my breath.

  Becca runs her hands over her face to wipe away the tears. She looks me so deep in the eyes, it’s like she can see my soul. “Ever since that day, I’ve been hearing about what a hero you are. I went to Ryan’s memorial service, thinking you would let people know who the hero really was.”

  Her words are harsh, but her voice is soft. She uses her index finger to trace the edges of a photo in her clear plastic binder cover. She holds it up for me to see a girl who looks very much like her, but with long, straight hair. She’s wearing a shiny pink fringed western shirt, white cowboy hat, and a Rodeo Princess sash.

  Becca chokes out, “This is my cousin, Kimmie Schuler. Jared Moore raped her, then sent out photos and videos of…” She loses control of herself and can’t seem to catch her breath.

  I step to her, put my hand on her shoulder, and say softly, “I’m sorry about your—”

  She shakes her head rapidly; holds up a finger for me to wait. It seems like it takes a long time, but it’s probably not even a minute later when she sobs, “Your cousin, Ryan, is the only person who had the guts to turn him in to the police!”

  I struggle for an answer. “I’m really sorry that that happened to Kimmie, Becca…but me telling the truth about Ryan’s death isn’t going to do anything to bring him back.” I turn toward the gym doors.

  She blasts, “Nobody else took up for Kimmie, but Ryan did! If it weren’t for him—”

  I whirl on her and plead, “You made your point, okay? Now just drop it!”

  She shakes her head rapidly. “I can’t leave it alone. Ryan didn’t kill himself, and it’s not fair to his mama for everybody to think he did.”<
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  My voice is squeaky-high. “Are you going to tell what you saw?”

  Becca covers Kimmie’s photo with her palm and looks up at me. “That depends. Are you going to tell the truth?”

  “I…You don’t understand, Becca. If you…Everyone will hate me if they know it’s my fault that Ryan died!”

  Becca stands and squares her shoulders. “Kimmie is my best friend in the world. She blames herself for what happened to her, and that’s wrong. All summer, she was in and out of the hospital—the kind for people who are in so much pain that they don’t even want to live anymore. The only thing that’s giving her hope is the fact that Jared Moore is locked up and he’s going to be tried for what he did to her. If it weren’t for Ryan, Jared would have gotten away with it.”

  She comes so close to me that I can see the flecks of gold in her green eyes. Her voice is flat, and she’s a far cry from the girl who wouldn’t meet my eyes the first day of school. “Ryan is the only reason that rotten piece of shit is in jail. I’m giving you until 5:00 P.M. tomorrow to set the record straight.” She gives me a long, hard look. “Do the right thing, Colby, or I will. I owe it to Ryan.”

  She moves around me into the gym. I practically fall onto the bench and stare at the doors until the end-of-the-day bell rings.

  The bus drops Drew and me off at Sugar’s. Drew gets right to work on her homework at a table in the dining room. I grab a handful of broken cookies from the sample box on the counter and cram them in my mouth, then go to the kitchen and look around for other stuff to eat. Mom’s running the mixer with her back to me, and Leah’s in her office with the door closed. There’s a fire truck–shaped chocolate cake cooling on the rack and a fresh bowl of bright red cake icing next to it. I fill a four-cup measure with it, fluff the remaining icing with the spatula to try to hide the fact that I stole roughly half of it, and slip into the bathroom. I lock the door, lower the lid on the toilet, and sit down—then realize that I forgot a spoon. Shit.