The Jock and the Fat Chick (12 page)

“I’m shy. . . .” she explains, giggling.

“Fifteen minutes to midnight!” the voice shouts.

Feeling my way through foreign territory in the dark isn’t as fun as I thought. Missy’s parts are placed differently from Claire’s. I try locating her mouth, but end up making out with her shoulder. She shifts around to find me and clocks me in the chin with what I guess is her elbow, because it’s followed up with an award-winning head butt. Now I can see something: fireworks and stars. How can two highly athletic people be such klutzes? I manage to find her face and lean in for a kiss. It’s nice. Missy’s a good kisser. I vow no more thoughts of Claire.

FIRST THING FLOODING MY VISION WHEN I awake is horses. Posters everywhere—on the walls, the back of the door, the ceiling above my head.

I squeeze my eyes shut and knuckle them open, sleep-crust scraping the sensitive tear ducts. A heavy pulse slams my temples, and my head feels like someone lodged an ax in it and walked away. Why does my chin hurt? Oh yeah, I got clocked.

Missy’s asleep next to me. Her hair is matted to her head, and her eye makeup is smudged. She’s like a model in one of those glamour fashion shoots, where the girl is made to look like she’s strung out on heroin.

Oh boy.

Missy moans awake, and when she realizes one of her boobs is sticking out, she grabs the bed sheet, covering herself. I wonder why the sudden shy act. I mean, we did sleep
together.

“Hey,” she mumbles.

“Hey,” I say, and the inside of my mouth is a cross between sandpaper and that paste you were told not to eat in kindergarten. “Happy New Year. Where’s your bathroom?”

“The door across the hall.”

I climb out of bed, avoid looking at the condom on her nightstand, and pull on some clothes. The bathroom smells like puke, so I crack open a window. Cold January air engulfs the room as I take a long leak. I wash my hands before cupping them under the tap to swallow handful after handful of water. I keep doing it until the furry animal that died in my mouth disappears. I splash more water on my face and catch my reflection in the mirror.

I’m all pasty, puffy, and groggy. It’s like getting an eyeful of my forty-year-old self.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Yo, I gotta piss.”

Viktor. I go open it.

He stands there, every strand of hair in place. Bastard, I bet he’s not hung over, either.

“Hey, man,” he says.

I wince. Why must he shout?

Viktor throws a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to Missy’s door. “You popped your cherry last night?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, he just holds out his hand for a
high five. “Way to go.”

The idea Viktor thinks my first was with Missy makes my teeth clamp so tight, I’m about to chew a mouthful of Chiclets, but I return the high five because I’m an idiot.

“Welcome to the club,” he says. “Now outta my way, I gotta piss.”

He switches places with me and shuts the door. I turn around, and just as I’m about to head back to Missy’s room, what we did last night sinks in. I stop. Oh no, what have I done? Instead of letting the pain of rejection burn itself out, I’ve made things worse. I’ve tossed gasoline onto the fire. Maybe Missy will think what we did was a onetime thing? A romp in the hay?

I open the door.

And Missy’s face lights up when she sees me.

“Hi,” she says, now sitting on her bed in plaid pajamas.

And now I want to fall through the floor.

I go to reach for a thought to get me out of here, and all I get is the penalty buzzer.

“Hey . . . so, ah . . . I gotta go. Gotta feed my dog.”

Missy gazes longingly at me.

This isn’t awkward at all.

“Okay, so I’ll text you?” she asks.

“Um, yeah, sure,” I say, and when I take my phone off airplane mode, it buzzes to life with a message from Claire. She’d sent it just past midnight:
Are u there?

I make my way downstairs. Bodies everywhere. Kids asleep on the couch, in chairs, or sprawled on the living room floor. Sticking around the next day for the postparty replay is usually the best part. You get to hear who face-planted first, or who got duct-taped to the ceiling. Not this time. I’m the first one gone.

On the long, cold walk home, I’m hoping the fresh air clears my head. The crunch of snow underfoot sounds like it’s hooked up to a loudspeaker, with each step gnawing at my skull. Thirty minutes later I kick off my snow-slicked boots. Buddy’s sprawled on the living room floor. His eyes might be closed, but his wagging tail says he’s heard me. I crouch down beside him, my cheek pressed into the carpet, and he opens his eyes and paws at my nose.

“Hey, boy,” I say.

Thump-thump-thump.

We head to the backyard, and after I feed him, it’s back to bed.

I wake up hours later, my throat’s still dry. I’m one hurtin’ unit. I wander into the kitchen and grab a glass of water. As I drink I get a hit of Missy’s scent, a combination of perfume and sweat. It’s strong, as if she stood right beside me. I take a shower and make myself a large vanilla-peanut-butter-and-strawberry protein shake.

I turn on my computer to check my email and notice one from Claire.

Dear Kevin,

I’m emailing you because I’m scared to tell you to your face in case you don’t feel the same way. I now realize it was a huge mistake to make that deal. I wish I never did it, because I really like you. In fact, I more than like you. I’ve just denied it because I didn’t want to get hurt, but I can’t help it. You’re kind, you make me laugh, you’re hot, and my parents think you’re great. I was an idiot for turning down your Christmas gift. It was the most thoughtful and sweetest thing a guy has ever done. Anyway, I’m not sure if you feel the same way anymore, because I feel like you’ve been pushing me away, not because we’ve both been busy, but maybe because of what I did??? Anyway . . . I just thought you should know, and if you feel the same way and want to be a real couple, then I do too because I know we can make this work.

Love, Claire

Oh shit.

I start over from the beginning again. I seesaw from happy to sick, and then back again. “But Claire and I were FWBs,” I say aloud. She didn’t want to be exclusive. I should be ecstatic, over the moon by her confession, but instead, I wish I could wipe the past twenty-four hours from existence.

My phone vibrates with a new message. It’s Claire. She’s
probably wondering if I’ve seen her email yet. I read her text and my gut drops like being pushed into a pit of spikes.

Go to hell!!!

Oh shit, shit, shit.
I race over to Claire’s in Mom’s car. Every intersection I hit, the traffic light turns red. I wait, squeezing the steering wheel as her text flashes in my mind. I want to crawl out of my skin. She’s found out. But how? “Why did I turn my phone off? Oh yeah, she rejected me then sent me texts like, ‘miss you’ and ‘xoxo.’” Some guy in the car next to me smirks when he catches me yakking to myself. Like I care. I slam my fist on the dashboard. “I was hurt, dammit.”

There’s another vehicle parked in her driveway, some black, beat-up Jeep from the eighties that I don’t recognize. I get out and half jog to the front door. I ring the bell, and my heart won’t stop pounding. My mind keeps switching from
I did nothing wrong
to
I made the biggest mistake of my life.
I want to run, throw up, or do both. Seconds later the door swings open, triggering the motion sensor, but instead of it being Claire, or her folks, it’s Rat’s-Nest Girl.

What the hell?!!!

She takes one look at me and gives me the stink eye.

“Where’s Claire?” I demand, letting her know I’m not in the mood for any crap. What’s her problem, anyways?

The corner of her lip rises in a sneer. “She doesn’t want to see you.”

I crane my neck, but can’t see into the kitchen or living room. “Claire?” I shout.

No answer.

Rat’s-Nest Girl tries to close the door in my face, but I think fast and step inside. I call Claire’s name again, and this time she appears from the kitchen, her eyes pink from crying.

“Claire . . . ?”

Rat’s-Nest Girl rolls her eyes. “Just spare us the ‘What happened to you?’ bull, because I was at the party. I know what you did. Hell, EVERYONE knows you hooked up with that cheerleader. Practically heard you humping through the ceiling.”

Claire folds her arms over her chest and stares past me, like something’s happening across the street. “Tell him,” she says to Rat’s-Nest Girl, “I never should have sent that email, and I take back everything I wrote.”

Rat’s-Nest Girl turns to me. “You heard her, slut-boy.”

I have never in my life wanted to push a girl like I do now. I turn to Claire. “You’re the one who wanted to be fuck buddies and nothing more.”

When Rat’s-Nest Girl raises an eyebrow, I think, Huh, I guess she didn’t know about that part, did she. I go on, “You didn’t want to be with me, so what gives you the right to be mad for hooking up with someone else?”

She opens her mouth to speak when the door behind me
opens, triggering that stupid motion sensor.

It doesn’t take René long to figure out he’s walked into something pretty heavy.

“Well?” I ask.

Claire glances from me, to her dad, then me again, the words getting caught in her throat. “Just—just, get out, Kevin. Leave. I never want to see you again.”

René blanches for a second before his stance grows, like a Kodiak bear rising on hind legs. “What’s going on here?” he demands, and then asks Claire, “Did he hurt you?”

I take a step back.

She pauses. “Yes—no, it’s not like that, Dad.”

“Then what’s going on?”

Her eyes grow wide. What’ll she do? Tell him we slept together and I cheated on her even though I had permission to because we agreed we were fuck buddies? I’m positive he won’t take it well, and then he’d kill me.

“Just leave, Kevin,” she blurts.

I hold my hands up in a sign of surrender. “No problem. I’m gone. You won’t see me again.”

THE BELL RINGS AND I BACK MISSY AGAINST her locker and lean in for a hello-good-bye kiss before taking off. It blows my mind at how fast we became exclusive. One day I’m with Claire—sort of, I guess (I dunno, I’m not thinking about it anymore)—and the next I’m part of the school’s elite power couples: me and Missy, Viktor and Alyssa. When people see us coming, they step aside. I have to admit, it gives me a rush.

Missy’s cooler than I thought, too. She’s always up for stuff, like outdoor runs, pick-up basketball games, or tobogganing with me and the guys down Christie Hill. She also comes to all my games and practices, too. I told her she didn’t have to, but she says she likes it, and she gets bored at home or always having to go to the mall with Alyssa, who’s addicted to shopping. Missy’s energy reminds me of a cute chipmunk, the way she’s always bouncing around and
chatting.

It seems like everyone I know is pairing up too. Even Armpit’s managed to convince a girl, a sophomore named Olive, to go out with him. He’s told us that from now on, he wants to be called Leo, but the guys like giving him a hard time about it, so it’ll probably never happen. Whenever they spot him in the halls now, they purposely shout, “Arrrrmpiiit,” to embarrass him more. I’m like, whatever. If that’s what he wants to be called, it’s no sweat off my back.

Dino’s still single, though. Guess shaving his head hasn’t helped him.

With hockey season still going strong, Viktor and I return to Shreds, but just twice a week, because it’s not good to overtrain. I focus on cutting my abs again. Whenever Viktor or me start slacking, not putting in 100 percent, we remind each other about scouts and scholarships.

It’s almost February before I have a free Saturday, and Missy tells me her parents are out of town and I
must
come over to watch a movie. Her demand is supposed to sound cute, but sometimes her delivery comes out wrong and she sounds bossy instead. Case in point: I knock on her front door, and when she opens it, instead of saying, “hi,” and giving me a kiss, she just swings the door wide, walks away, and cries, “About time. I’m starrrrrving!”

I follow her to where she stands in front of the side-by-side refrigerator-freezer. The freezer half is open, and she
rifles through stuff, so I look in the refrigerator. I get excited by the possibilities—chicken, ground beef, greens, and fruit. “Want me to make something?” I ask.

She removes a frozen pepperoni pizza and shuts the door with the heel of her foot. “Nope. I want
this
.”

The box top is concave, like a bowling ball’s been dropped on it. I take a guess at the carbs count and empty calories, not to mention it’ll taste like cardboard. “Why don’t I make us a stir-fry?”

She wrinkles her nose, like she’s smelled garbage. “Yeah, um, hello, pizza?” she says, holding it up, like it’s the obvious choice.

I open the pantry. “How about tacos? I make a mean taco.”

Missy stares like she can’t figure me out. I’m a guy turning down frozen pizza over making dinner. It’s like I’m old or something.

“Trust me,” I say. “I’m a good cook.”

Her bottom lip juts out. “No. Pizza. Piiizza!” Her insistence reminds me of how I kept telling Claire I wanted meeeat. I must have been so annoying.

“Okay, okay,” I say. “But I’m whipping up a side dish.”

After I make chicken stir-fry (my so-called side dish) and Missy cooks, or rather heats, we carry everything to the coffee table to watch a kung-fu movie.

During the flick Missy inhales the pizza while I mow
down on my meal. She won’t even try a bite of what I made. I want her to taste how good it is—the crisp veggies, the chicken, the sauce. I’m impressed with it and want to share the experience, but she doesn’t care. I guess I
am
old.

“Veggies are gross,” she says.

“You had them on your pizza.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Yours weren’t smothered in cheese, tomato sauce, and bread.”

Two hours later, end credits roll and Missy leaps off the couch. She spins around with hands out, martial-arts style, eager to fight. Since I’m a warm-blooded guy, I indulge her. I get up and raise my hands. She begins with a few silly, light taps, and I easily block them. Missy’s all giggles as she tries to get me, but after a minute she grows quiet. We circle each other. Her kung-fu hands now form into fists, and her playful chops resemble boxing punches with the odd “Hai-ya!” thrown in. The more I dodge her obvious attempts (she always looks where she’ll strike), the more frustrated she gets. Her eyes narrow in an all-out war. Missy surprise attacks, rounding her shoulders to tackle me football-style, right in the bread basket, in an attempt to throw me to the floor. I give in and pretend the 110-pound girl is getting the best of me. We roll around for a bit, which is hot, and when she climbs on top and tries for the umpteenth time to pin
me, she draws her lips back, uttering what she thinks is a manly man’s “grr.” Instead, an image of a little Chihuahua pup pops into my head, which makes me laugh. Girls just can’t pull off the “I kill you” look; it doesn’t suit them. Missy stiffens at my schoolgirl tittering, and she slaps me in the shoulder.

“Dooooon’t!” she whines. “Shut uuuuup!”

That makes me laugh even harder, and I need to roll her off, so I can turn onto my side to suck in more air.

Another playful slap helps me get it under control.

“Okay, okay.” I hold up my arms. “I give in.” I go to sit up, and she leaps, throwing all her body weight at me. Her knees crash-land in the middle of my chest, driving the air from my lungs.

“Yes!” she cries, and clasps her hands high above her, like she’s just won the MMA title. I play weakling and let her gloat. When she bends forward for a kiss, I make it a slow, lingering smooch to say playtime is over. We keep kissing, and her body relaxes on top of mine as we make out and head for second base. Right when we’re about to get it on, Missy stands and grabs my hand, indicating we should go upstairs, because she must have total darkness. I gave up a while ago asking if we can do it anywhere else but her room. Or if I could at least have a little light—a candle, or cracking the door open a smidge if the bathroom light is on—but each time she looks at me like I’ve asked her to run naked down
the street.

“Why?” I protest in the dark. “You have nothing to hide.” I search for the general location of her head, so I can kiss her lips instead of her nose. “Do you know how many girls would kill to have what you have? You’re tall, lean, muscular—”

“Yeah, no waist, no chest.”

“Huh.”

There’s a short pause before she comes back with “What’s ‘huh’ supposed to mean?” Her tone has a slight edge, and I picture her head to one side.

“Nothing,” I say. “It’s just kinda funny, that’s all.”

“What do you mean ‘kinda funny’?”

Now I’m glad I can’t see her. “No one’s happy with what they’ve got. You know how people with curly hair always want to have straight hair, and people with straight hair want curly hair? Funny like that. You’ve got a great bod,” I add.

“Ew. I don’t want curly hair.”

To change the subject I narrow down the location of her lips and kiss her before rolling her body so she’s on top. Missy sits up, straddling me. The Missy in my head who moves in the dark is different from the one in the light. This one’s softer, curvier. Pillowy. I reach to touch the curve of her thighs, and just as I slide my hands toward her nice round butt, she leans back, and my palms accidentally graze
her hip bones.

My fantasy fades.

Missy climbs off me when she discovers my boner’s gone. “It’s okay,” she says. “It happens.”

I mumble an apology and try to ramp up my imagination again, starting with a sweet set of breas— Wait, what am I doing? I roll away from her. Everything about this is wrong.

“Hey, snuggle me,” she says, and sticks out her butt, so it touches mine in a playful attempt to spoon her.

I roll over and she tucks in close. I throw my arm across her shoulder and pull her tight, my hand in a fist.

She deserves better.

When I wake the next morning, the room’s quiet except for the occasional hush of a passing car on the street. I stare at the ceiling and at the big brown horse nuzzling its colt against a backdrop of snowcapped mountains. The light streaming through her sheer pink curtains casts the room in the color of upset-stomach medication. I turn to face Missy and look at her—I mean, really look at her—lying there so pretty and peaceful. I break into a sweat and throw the tangled covers off me. What the hell am I doing here? I mean, I like Missy. She’s nice, and we share some laughs, plus, the wrestling–kung-fu last night was fun, but I don’t really like her. I mean, I
do
like her, just not in a girlfriend kind of way. I place a hand over my eyes and squeeze my
temples. Missy should be with someone who adores her the way I use to adore . . .

Stop it. She’s gone. Get over it.

I roll onto my side and sigh. I’m in this bed because I can be, not because I want to be.

Missy mumbles awake.

“Missy?”

She groans and reaches for her T-shirt. After putting it on I turn around. “Can I talk to you about something?”

She flops face-first into the pillow. “Let me guess,” she mumbles into the foam. “You’re not into me and you want to break up with me—”

Wait. How could she know? This might be easier than I thought.

“—and it’s because you’re gay.”

“Whoa! What?”

Face still buried, she continues, “You’re breaking up with me because you want to tell me you’re gay.”

I blink, once, twice, three times. “I’m not gay. Why would you say that?”

She faces me and shrugs. “Because of what happened last night with the”—she points at my crotch—“and also because Alyssa said that Viktor said that he didn’t think you were into girls and that maybe you’re just going out with me to prove him wrong.”

“I’m not gay!” I repeat.

She rolls onto her back. “Okay, fine, you’re not gay. What’d you want to talk about?”

Oh god. If I break up with her now, she’ll think it’s because I’m gay. I’m screwed. How the hell did the conversation end up here? You asshole, Viktor.
He’s
the one who pushed Missy onto
me
.

I think fast and say, “I—I just wanted to ask where you saw yourself in the future. You know, after graduation?”

“College, obviously, why?”

“Oh yeah? Which one?” I ignore the loud voice in my head screaming,
You coward! College? Why the hell am I talking to her about college?

“I dunno, maybe state, but I also want to go to NYU or SFU.”

“Me too, right? I mean, not NYU or SFU, but I’ve been thinking, since we’ll be going to different schools, maybe we should keep things light between us—you know, not get too serious. Let’s face it, long-distance relationships never work.”

Alert the press, the award for supreme, lying asshole, jerk, dickwad goes to me, Kevin Conners. Again the voice screams:
Why are you making Claire’s deal with her? You want to break up, not continue dating!
My skin crawls. Why the hell am I doing this?

Missy sits up. Deep pillow lines mark her cheeks, like scars. “So, you’re saying you want to sleep with other girls?”

“No. No, not at all. I just don’t want our hearts to get broken, you know?”
You spineless coward. Grow a set already.

“Oh,” she says. “But I’ve had a crush on you for a long time, so I guess my heart’s already done for.”

No-no-no-no-no. I’ve made everything worse. I bite back the panic. “I’ve gotta go,” I say.

“No, stay.”

“I—I can’t. I have to feed my dog.”

I reach for my crumpled jeans on the floor.

“Okay, text me?”

Sure, how’s:
I don’t want to go out with you and it’s not because I’m gay, ’cause I’m not. It’s all just a huge mistake. Sorry, I’m a jerk.

“Sure. I’ll text you.”

I get home, kick off my shoes, and text Missy that I’m taking a nap; that way I can have some time to think. I carry Buddy outside, where we hang for a bit. I was so close to breaking up with her. Ugh. Friggin’ Viktor. Who does he think he is?
He’s
the one who’s been telling me to “go for it” with Missy. What, just because I didn’t snap to it when he said so months ago, it means I’m gay? I want to punch his lights out, but more than that, I want to punch my own lights out for getting myself into this mess. I never wanted to be with Missy in the first place. If I hadn’t slept with her, I’d still be with Claire.

I carry Buddy inside and reach for a can in the cupboard to replenish his food bowl. Mom comes strolling into the
kitchen in her housecoat, with a book sticking out of one pocket. She hums a tune.

“Why are you so happy,” I grumble, reaching for a can opener.

“Oh, it’s Sunday and you’re cooking supper. It’s always a good day.”

I frown. Who does she think I am? A lackey? A servant? Her personal chef? “What if I don’t want to cook?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Okay . . . well, it’s up to you. There’s always frozen dinners.”

I slam the drawer shut, startling Mom and Buddy. “Can’t you do more than open a package and push a few buttons on the microwave?”

Her other eyebrow rises to meet the first. “Excuse me? What’s with the sudden attitude?”

I grunt, frustrated. Now I’m just making
everything
worse. “Nothing. Forget it. Sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

The way her happy face hardens reminds me of last year’s blowout when we argued about her smoking again, and I don’t want to go there.

“Is there something you want to get off your chest?” she asks.

Why am I constantly falling down rabbit holes and making things worse? “No.” I shake my head. “No, sorry.” I make a beeline for my room. I already hate myself enough for one day.

On Monday at lunch, I search for Viktor in the cafeteria, hoping to run into his smug mug, but remember him saying something about going to the dentist. Missy and Alyssa wave at me, so I wander over. They’re laughing about something so hilarious, Missy spit-takes her soda, spraying it across the table.

“What?” I ask, smiling even though I don’t want to. Fake it until you make it, right? Mom and I didn’t speak to each other for the rest of yesterday, and I ended up having a protein drink for dinner and it tasted like garbage. I sit down and pull one of three protein bars from my bag for lunch. “What’s so funny?”