Big Guy (2 page)

She ignores me. Her forehead is creased in concentration as she struggles to stand. She weighs almost nothing and, despite my clumsiness, it isn't all that difficult to remove her pants, help her into the shower and lower her onto the chair.

In the shower, Aaliyah closes her eyes and turns her face into the spray. Water streams from her dark hair, over her shoulders and breasts. I look away again, embarrassed. My reflection stares back at me from the bathroom mirror: tall and dark but a solid eighty pounds past handsome. As always, my appearance shocks me. Disgusts me. Even after a year of getting steadily fatter, this still isn't how I see myself.

Aaliyah's voice startles me. “I haven't always been like this,” she says.

For a second I think she's reading my mind. Then it sinks in that she's talking about herself. I just nod. I mean, what am I supposed to say to that? Me neither? I sneak a sideways peek at her and realize she can't see me nodding anyway. Her eyes are closed.

I glance in the mirror again, remembering the photo I sent Ethan. My stomach twists a little.

I never wanted to lie to him. But what choice did I have?

I grab the shampoo and pour some on my hands, rub her thick wet hair between my fingers. I snag a tangle and Aaliyah jerks her head away.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

I've used too much shampoo and it takes me ages to rinse it all off. Neither of us talk. Finally I am drying her off and she sits, towel-wrapped, in her wheelchair.

When she finally looks at me, her eyes are dark and unreadable. It's like she just put on
a pair of sunglasses, like she's closed herself off, and if I look at her, I'm just going to see my own reflection.

“Get my clothes from the bedroom,” she says. “I need to get dressed.”

Her bedroom is painted blue, with ruffled bedsheets and brightly colored paintings on the walls. A photograph on the dresser catches my eye. It's a picture of a girl standing on the deck of a sailboat, one hand raised to catch the long dark hair blowing across her face. She's leaning back against a man who stands behind her, arms wrapped tightly round her waist. She is laughing, mouth slightly open, eyes crinkled. It's her. Aaliyah.

“They're on my bed,” she calls.

I pull my eyes away from the photograph and retrace my steps back down the hall. “Yeah. I found them.”

The whole time I'm helping her dress, I'm wondering what happened to her. Like, does she have some disease or illness or something? Or was she in some kind of accident? I flex my muscles slightly, bend my knees. It makes me feel weird, thinking
about it. To be honest, I can't get out of her apartment fast enough. I can't wait to get home and talk to Ethan.

So what if I sent an old photo. It's no big deal. It's still me, just a thinner version. And just thinking about him, I can feel the corners of my mouth twitching in a stupid happy grin.

Being in love is way better than any drug out there.

The rest of the day is all right, I guess. I help a couple of other residents get dressed, brush their teeth, whatever. They're all in their seventies and eighties. Old people. Some of them are kind of out of it. Some seem pretty okay and show me pictures of their grandkids. Some are grumpy as hell. Whatever. I help feed some old guy who complains a lot. I water plants. I even clean a freaking goldfish tank for one old lady.

At the end of the day, Francine catches me in the hall. She is wearing a peach-colored dress, too tight in the hips. It's one of those pastel colors nurses always wear in hospitals,
and she has on those white nurse shoes too. I figure maybe she wants people to think she really is a nurse.

“Derek. How was your first day?” She stands in front of me, blocking my path.

I shrug. “Fine.”

She tilts her head to one side, forehead creasing. “No questions?”

“No. No questions,” I say.

Outside, it is still raining hard. Four o'clock and already starting to get dark. This November it seems like the sun can hardly be bothered to come up at all. Like it takes too much effort for the sun to rise when it's just going to have to set again in a few hours, and no one is going to see it through the clouds anyway.

I drive home. Dad's not home, which is fine by me. I'm not in the mood for another talk about how I could get a girlfriend more easily if I'd just lose a few pounds, blah blah blah. I stand at the fridge and eat leftover pasta straight out of the plastic container.

Then, like I do practically every night, I head to the computer.

My dad hates this. He'd like me to be out playing football or hockey, even though all he does is sit on the couch and drink beer. Dad likes to give advice on things he's clueless about. “Time you had a relationship,” he said the other day. “It's not healthy, spending all your time on the computer.” Hah. He thinks he's the expert on relationships. Sure, he slapped me and Mom around, but he watches the
Dr. Phil
show religiously.

Jerk.

But I'm not stupid. I do actually realize that most people have relationships. You know, with real live people who they actually meet. It's just not so easy when you're living in a small town, you're seventeen and you're queer.

Not to mention fat.

Anyway, there are maybe four hundred students in my high school. If that ten percent figure people are always quoting is true, forty of them should be queer. Other than me, I only know one for sure, and that's Gabi, my best friend since first grade.

So Ethan and I may only talk online, but it's no less real for that. He lives out west and we've been talking, on and off, for a few months now. Some people might think that's kind of pathetic, you know, online dating, but it's actually been really intense. It's like this dance we've been doing, getting to know each other, kind of flirting I guess, but becoming friends too.

More than friends.

To tell you the truth, I'm pretty crazy about this guy. Did I already mention that?

I log on to msn and there's a message from Ethan.

hey derek. i'm at work— booorrrrrring.
boss keeps hanging around so can't
surf. might actually have to work if u
don't get home soon, lol

I grin. Ethan's working part-time as a research assistant, inputting data for one of his mother's professor friends. He's doing grade twelve too—he thinks I should go back and finish, but I'd had enough.

hey,
I type.
just got home.
how was first day?

I think for a minute. Then I type

definitely
weird
tell me more

I love this about Ethan—he's really interested in stuff. I mean, everyone would ask how your first day was, but it's just to be polite. Not Ethan. He really wants to know.

th boss francine is scary nurse-typ
with those scary white shoes, u no?
lol. and?
a lot of lipstick
ha ha. i mean what did u do?
i helped some lady have a shower
u didn't
did yeah that'd be weird

I feel a twinge of guilt talking about Aaliyah like this, but I push it aside. Another message pops up from Ethan.

derek—gtg

And he's gone. Just gotta go. Not
love ya
or
later babe
or even
L8R G8R
. Nothing remotely affectionate. Instantly my insides are tight and squirming and I'm wondering what's wrong. Maybe he was just in a hurry.
Maybe his boss walked in. And he messaged me to find out how my first day was. He wouldn't do that if he was about to dump me, right? If he was losing interest?

I hate this. I hate how one stupid little conversation that isn't even about anything can send me over the edge and turn me into a stupid fat seething mass of insecurity. Before Ethan, I was fine. Eternally single, maybe, but fine. I had friends. I wasn't on the edge of panic over a missing word.

The thing is, even though it's all online and it's only been a few months, it's already kind of hard to imagine my life without Ethan in it.

I'm still sitting there, staring at the screen, when another message pops up.

u still there?
yup, still here.

I rub my hands over my face, relieved and a bit embarrassed. God, I'm glad Ethan has no idea how pathetic I am. Has no idea how crazy in love with him I am.

my mom just phoned and guess what?

I shake my head. Here I am panicking and he was just talking to his mom.

ok what?
i have amazing news...

I'm grinning as I type.

u r such a tease. what news?
my sister ‘s getting married in february...
woo hoo
wait, this is good. th weddings in
kitchener. that's close to you rite?

I'm grinning so hard it hurts. I feel like my heart might explode.

hell yeah. like a half hr drive
we're gonna actually MIRL

Meet in real life. My fingers are flying over the keys.

brilliant. can't believe it
me neither

To actually be able to see Ethan, to meet him, to touch him and hold him and...

And my heart practically thuds to a halt in my chest as I remember.

That photo I sent him. That's who he thinks I am. That's who he wants to meet. Not me. Not this version of me.

I can't meet him.

I sit for a few minutes, just staring at the screen. A message pops up.

u still there?

I know what I need to say:

Ethan, I don't think that's a good idea.
In fact, I've been thinking maybe we
should just forget about the whole
thing—
but I can't.

I can't do it.

I can't bring myself to end it yet, even though I know I will have to.

I start typing.

yeah still here. just surprised. Wow
u sure? u wondering if I'm really a
creepy 40 yr old perv?

I wish that was what I was worrying about.

no I googled u months ago. found you
soccer team picture from 10th grade
remember?
uh huh. i look better now
can't wait to see u
and? wink wink
yeah that too

I am grinning again, playing around, almost forgetting for a moment that none
of this is going to happen. Then it hits me again like a wall of ice, hard and cold and inevitable. God.

I can't tell him not to come. I can't do it.

And I know I don't have a choice.

I stare at the computer for a few seconds, trying to find it in me to keep chatting and goofing around like everything is okay. Like nothing is wrong.

The front door opens and slams closed.

ethan?
I type, my fingers suddenly slow and awkward on the keyboard.
dad's home. ttyl

I grab my leather jacket off the back of my door, check that my car keys are in the pocket. Time to go.

Dad glares at me as I walk by. “Where are you going?”

“Out.”

He snorts, turns on the television and sits down on the couch. Conversation over. He's never been a big talker, but since Mom took off it's like he's forgotten how. Fine by me. When he does talk, it's usually just to give me a lecture.

Down at the bar—the only one in town—I see some of the guys I went to school with. Mason and Todd. We used to work together at the A & P.

“Hey hey,” Mason drawls, lifting one hand in a mock salute. His red hair is buzzed short, his large nose still red from a bad sunburn a few months back. “Come and join us, big guy.”

I shrug. “Yeah, okay.” Everyone's called me that since about sixth grade. I've always been tall. Since I got fat, though, I've started to hate that nickname. I slap some money down on the bar and carry a pint over to their table. Technically, I'm underage, but no one ever gets ID'd here.

Todd's girlfriend is with them. Carrie. She's tiny and sharp-featured. With her puffed-up hair and startled brown eyes she looks like one of those toy poodles.

She loops her arm through Todd's and smiles up at me. “Hey, Derek.”

Todd puts his beer down and looks at me, thick eyebrows raised. “So,” he says, “I hear you got a new job.”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

I shrug. “It's okay.”

“Okay? You give up a chance to bag groceries with us for a job that's just okay?” His skinny face is creased with laughter. “Come on. What do you have to do? Help people with Old-Timer's find the dining room?”

I nod, take a long drink of cold beer. “Yeah, basically.” I glance around and my eyes fall on the pool table. I dig in my pocket and come up with a dollar. “Who's up for a game?”

The evening passes in a blur of jukebox oldies, rounds of beer, games of pool won and lost. Thoughts are bouncing around in my head: Ethan. That photo I sent. His plan to visit. And that woman, Aaliyah—I keep thinking about her too, wondering what happened to her. I order another beer and push the thoughts aside. When we finally stagger out into the rain, it's past midnight. A river of brown water rushes along the gutter and I
swear aloud as I step in it, soaking my foot to the ankle as I fumble to find my car keys.

“You sure you're okay to drive?” Todd asks me.

“Fine,” I say.

Todd looks worried and glances at Carrie, who is clinging wetly to his arm. “I didn't realize you had your car, man. You had a lot to drink. I mean, you know, you don't usually...”

I sit down heavily in the driver's seat, start the car, flick on the wipers. “It's cool. I'm fine. Give you guys a ride if you want.”

Todd looks at me, brow furrowed. Then he looks back at Carrie. “No, we're good, we'll get a cab.” He waves. “All right, big guy. See you.”

I head straight down King Street, through downtown. Traffic is a snarled mess. Half the streetlights aren't working, and power seems to be out in some parts of town. I turn on the radio, sing along to an old Rolling Stones song, my voice loud and out of tune, joining Mick Jagger's as he belts out “Paint It Black
.”