The Fat Boy Chronicles (16 page)

I tell Paul all the time that drugs won't solve his problems with his parents. That they'll only make things worse. But Paul just laughs and calls me clueless. “If you had parents like mine, Winterpock, you'd do drugs too. It's not like I can't stop or I'm addicted or anything. I just like the way they make me feel.”

“How do they feel?” I asked.

“Sort of like happiness.” Then he started laughing so hard, I thought he was crying. Maybe he was.

Monday, 2–19

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Things have calmed down at school, especially since Allen and I don't go in the lunchroom anymore. Most of the time, we eat lunch in Mr. M's class unless he's not there; then we eat with Sable in the hall. I just go to my classes and go home. Even the picking on the bus isn't so bad, or maybe I'm just used to it. I did pass Spencer in the hall, but he kept his head down and acted like he didn't see me. I guess if you sink as low as I've sunk, there's nowhere else to go, so kids leave you alone. Coach Bronner did call me into his office after the locker room disaster and asked me a few questions about the soccer players. I told him it was just a joke and I fell for it. Then he asked if I thought my life was in danger. That really freaked me out. Especially with all the talk of dead Kimberly Taylor. I think her boyfriend played soccer.

“I don't think so,” I said. “The guys seem pretty nice, except for the picking.”

“Well, I sure wouldn't want to have to kick anyone off the team— we have a chance to go to state.”

“I don't think you'll have to do that, Coach.”

“If you keep losing weight like you have been, things will be better. But you know how some of these guys are.”

“My dad's helping with that,” I said. “We work out everyday.”

“Well, keep it up.” He pushed his chair back and stood over me. “Good luck, Jimmy.” He stuck his hand out and I shook it.

It felt pretty good that for once Coach saw me as Jimmy and not the fat kid in class.

Tuesday, 2–20

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I finally told my dad about the soccer players and what they did to me. He was upset at first, but then he told me to pray. He said to pray for Spencer, because he must feel pretty bad about what he did. Dad told me God would help me through the rest of the year and that I must focus on what's important, like family, my friends, and grades. “You need to be strong, Jimmy, and get on with your life. Focus on the things that matter and forget about the things that don't. You'll be fine, son.”

I'm taking Dad's advice. I'm focusing on my schoolwork and youth group. And Paul and Allen. And the Total Gym. And maybe Sable.

Thursday, 2–22

The poem we read in class was okay, but it's too old–fashioned. The poet spoke of riding through the woods and coming to a fork in the road. He chose the road less traveled and has been happy ever since. I get the meaning—it's better to take risks and try new things. But the poem made me think how different things are today. There aren't many peaceful roads any more. Most of our lives are spent on expressways and highways, speeding from one to place to another. Then if you go too slow, you run the risk of road rage with some driver yelling the “f” word and giving you the finger. You never have to think any more about which road to choose, because we have GPS and MapQuest telling us which roads to take. And drivers need to take the most traveled roads, since we have to find gas stations.

My parents said they remembered the poem from high school and they really liked it. The poem was more relevant back then, when there weren't so many cars on the road. I bet in twenty years the poem won't even be read in schools, which is a shame because the message is good. If more people followed the poem's theme, there wouldn't be such an oil crisis, and the government would stop ruining places like Florida and Alaska. I wonder though, if everyone took his advice and went down the road less traveled, wouldn't it become the road most traveled?

Saturday, 2–24

Hi, Mrs. Pope. I wrote another poem—I'm not really sure what it means—it just came to me.

Pot, cocaine, speed

Drunk, Lost, Isolated

iPods, Computers, Cell phones

No one to talk to

Parents working

Teachers stressed

It's just a matter of time

Guns, knives, bombs

Before we self–destruct

On the news today, they played a video that some girl recorded with her cell phone at her school. It showed one girl attacking another girl in the hallway. Our school bans the use of cell phones, but there are so many kids with them, it's impossible for teachers and administrators to do much about it. They'd have to bust 90% of the school. In the movies, robots rebel against humanity. But with the way kids treat one another, who needs Terminators? If you look at the halls, all you see are kids with iPods in their ears. Some parents—not mine—don't care if their kids play Wii twenty–four hours a day or sit around playing their iPods all the time. Teachers, like you, try to get their classes to discuss things, but everyone
just sits there, as if you asked them to recite the quadratic formula. It's not a reflection on you, it's just that kids aren't used to discussing things.

Monday, 2–26

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I'm worried about Paul; he's acting really manic lately. He's back in school and spends his time with the slacker kids. Paul's still smoking weed, not that his smoking makes me think less of him. I mean, lots of kids at our school have smoked it, but I'm worried he might have gotten into something more dangerous. Last week I saw him sitting on the ground between some cars in the parking lot. He was shaking but it wasn't because of the cold. I hope he hasn't jumped into any crazy drug that's going to kill him. He's one of the only friends I've got. There just isn't much I can do to help him, besides give him my time. I've never smoked or drank, so what do I know about what he's going through? He shouldn't be hanging with some of the people he's around. One of those kids, Ricky, went to jail for drinking and driving, and painkillers. He'd also gone to a gas station and stole gas. Paul's friendship with Ricky will only get him in trouble.

Wednesday, 2–28

My grandmother on my dad's side has really had a hard life. She lost her first husband, my grandfather, right after my dad was born. He died of lung cancer from working for years in the coal mines of West Virginia. After he died, my grandmother moved to Kentucky and lived with my great–grandparents. It was there that she met her second husband. He was really mean to my dad and believed in beating kids for little things, and my dad said he even hit my grandmother. So, she eventually left him and moved to Cincinnati, where she found a job working in a soap factory. She didn't make much money, but she provided for my dad. He did really well in school and got an academic scholarship to Ohio State. My grandmother always talks about how proud she is of my dad. She's had Alzheimer's for the past five years, and now she's gonna die but at least she always has a smile. She can't remember much, but she does remember loving my dad and me. Here's a poem I wrote about her:

Love

She remembers love

Loss

She remembers love

Stress

She remembers love

Divorce

She remembers love

Loneliness

She remembers love

Alzheimer's

She remembers love

Death

Love remembers her.

Saturday, 3–3

My sister asked me to go to the mall with her, since that's the only way Mom would let her use the car. I said I would go because I'm losing some weight, and my jeans are getting kinda baggy around the waist. I'm not into wearing oversized pants. It was still kind of depressing, because I really thought I could find some cool jeans at Abercrombie, but they were all too small, so back to Kohl's. My parents don't approve of spending too much on jeans but said I could buy one expensive pair if I really wanted them. They don't go for that status thing—they think it's shallow and a waste. But I don't think one pair of jeans will make me a follower. I just think they're cool, and would make me feel like, for once, I fit in. Get it? Fit in with the kids at school, because I can fit in a status–jean that fat kids can't wear.

This weight thing is really frustrating. Seems like I take two steps backward for every one forward. I give up all the food I love, get up at five to work out and run with my dad, lose a little weight,
then after a few days, I can't take the hunger pains any more, and chow down on a bag of chips. Or bribe my sister into sneaking me a Big Mac, or eat an entire bag of Oreos. It's amazing that I've lost any weight, especially with the zillions of fast food commercials on TV. And then my sister is constantly cooking pizzas and leaving the leftovers on the kitchen counter. I told her I'm on a diet but she doesn't care. I think she wants me to stay fat; that way she can feel superior. She is so into herself, it's sickening.

Monday, 3–5

I had to miss church on Sunday because of band rehearsal. I was in the school auditorium by eight and we practiced almost five hours, with only a few breaks. We played through all of the songs several times and did some last minute touch–ups. Then we pretended we were actually performing in front of an audience and did our show.

An hour later, we set up the chairs and stood backstage as parents and other audience members took their seats. My lip was numb from playing my sax for so long, but after the place filled up, I was full of excitement and took my chair in the front row with the rest of the sax players. Our first song was “The Judge.” We started off a little shaky, but after the first couple measures, we picked it up and played the song really cool. Our next several songs, “Milestones,” “Harlem Nocturne,” and “Low Rider,” went smoothly, except I fumbled a little on one of the sixteenth notes in “Harlem Nocturne.” Between songs, the kid in the chair next to me whispered, “Way to go, Winterpock,”
but I just ignored him and continued playing.

We concluded with “Won't You Come Home, Bill Bailey,” which was the best we had ever played it. After our last note, the audience gave us a standing ovation. We filed off the stage and walked back to the band room with kids patting one another on the back, telling one another, “Good job.” For once, no one seemed to notice my weight, and I felt part of the group. We stayed in the band room for a few minutes while Mr. Berry, our conductor, said how proud he was of us. Later I met up with my mom, dad, and sister, who all hugged me and told me how great the show was.

Then we went out for an early dinner at my favorite restaurant, Don Pablo's, to celebrate. I ordered the chimichangas as usual, followed by fried ice cream. Everything was great and we were all having a good time, until my dad got a call on his cell phone. He usually doesn't keep it on when we're out, but he did then. Something just made him.

“Hmmm, wonder what the Reverend wants,” he said as he looked at caller ID. He clicked it on and said, “Hello, Reverend. Are we in trouble for missing church today?” Dad listened for a few seconds and then he looked real sad. “Oh, no,” he said. “God help him. How's Paul?”

It seemed like an eternity before he hung up the phone. He gave me a serious look. “I have some bad news, Jimmy.” But I already knew that by his face.

“Did something happen to Paul?” I asked.

Dad put his hand on my shoulder. “It's Mr. Grove.” My dad choked on the words.

I didn't know what to say. I don't know when, if ever, I've seen my dad so torn up.

After taking a few deep breaths, he continued, “Mr. Grove killed himself. Paul found him in the basement after school. His dad hung himself.”

My heart wouldn't stop racing, and I punched the table. “That's where Paul slept,” I cried. “He hung himself in Paul's room.” His father was an asshole even in the way he died. I punched the table again, and then my dad put his arms around me, and we walked to the car.

Tuesday, 3–6

Sorry I wasn't in the best mood today—it's not just your class; it's all my classes. Ever since I heard about Paul's dad, I haven't been able to concentrate. Nothing makes sense to me any more, and nothing in school seems relevant to my life. What does the Missouri Compromise have to do with my life now? Why do I care about the Lincoln/Douglas debates, when life all around me is falling apart? Sorry, but I don't care about the Globe Theatre with its trap door, or the “light” women propositioning men in the pit. I've always heard that
Romeo and Juliet
was a good play, but I don't care about it now.

I tried to call Paul a few times, but all I get is the answering machine. His dad wouldn't ever let him have a cell phone, so there's no way I can reach him. I'm really bummed about Paul.

Wednesday, 3–7

I wasn't in school today because of the funeral. It was awful. Paul's eyes were all red and his mother kept her arm around him the whole time. I could tell he wished she would leave him alone, so he could run away and hide somewhere. Most of our congregation was there, even though Paul's parents stopped coming to church when Mr. Grove lost his job. My parents, sister and I sat right behind Paul and his mother. There were some other relatives sitting with them too—I recognized Paul's uncle and his grandmother, his dad's mom. They all looked sad, but no one was crying, except Paul. Paul's mom kept fidgeting, like she was bored and couldn't wait to leave. She looked older, like some people you see in an old folks' home. The ones with the sad faces.

The minister tried to say a few words, but what can you say about a mean guy like that? He talked about how there is a time for every season, like birth and death, and it's God's will, not ours, that determines our time. I think that was a backhanded way of saying that we shouldn't take our own lives. No one spoke on Mr. Grove's behalf, so the funeral was short. My dad was one of the pallbearers, and I could tell Paul was glad my dad helped his uncles carry the coffin out of the church. Paul was probably thinking, See, our family is not that screwed up. Mr. Winterpock wouldn't be friends with a group of freaks.