SPENDING TIME WITH KIMI, having a story to investigate—all of that was good. What wasn't good was the way I'd huffed and puffed to keep up with her as she'd chased down McNulty.
Lots of times I'd come up with a plan for getting into shape—diet or exercise or both—but after a week or so, I'd stop. I'd tell myself that I'd start up again in a month, but that now just wasn't the right time.
But now was the right time. Kimi made it the right time. We'd be covering boys' football and girls' volleyball together, and other sports later in the year. What had Alyssa said—that I wasn't such a bad guy? I was almost certain Kimi didn't have a boyfriend, that she hung out in a group, not with one guy.
If I lost ten pounds a month, I'd be down to 170 by December. Maybe I'd even grow those couple of inches my dad has always promised me. Alyssa had been joking, but if I was five foot six and weighed 170, I might just ask Kimi to the Winter Ball. If I was five six and weighed 170, Kimi might just say yes.
I changed into a sweatshirt and sweatpants and drove to Green Lake. Mr. Johnson, my biology teacher, had said that fat people think they should lose weight and then start exercising. Johnson said that if a fat person got into shape, the weight would drop off naturally.
The last time I'd exercised was over a year ago when I'd signed up to play basketball at the community center. The league was supposed to be low-key, and I'm actually an okay basketball player. I can't rebound, but I can dribble with either hand and I can shoot lights out. Give me time to set my feet, and it's swish!
Most of the guys in the league didn't care about winning, but I was assigned to Larry Wolf's team, and Wolf hates to lose. "Give it your all," Wolf said to me before the first game. "We need you."
We played man-to-man defense, and I had to guard Craig Ruskin, a short kid with droopy eyes, a thick mop of hair, and sharp elbows. Ruskin scored six points early, but then seemed to stop trying. Late in the game I dropped in four long bombs of my own. We won 38–30 and Wolf was crazy with joy. "I didn't know you could shoot like that!" he said, slapping me on the back.
I felt pretty good about myself until we walked off the court and Ruskin sidled up next to me. "That's quite a secret weapon you've got," he said.
"What is?"
He nodded at my drenched shirt. "The way you sweat. All fat guys sweat, but you really sweat. Made me want to stay clear." He gave me a dumb smile. "No offense."
That ended by basketball career.
The path around Green Lake stretches nearly three miles. I've seen people running it for as long as I can remember: thin girls with long legs, hair pulled through the back of baseball caps, iPods strapped to their arms; muscular football players with powerful strides; lean soccer players with loping strides. But there were other people on the path besides athletes. Middle-aged men and women with paunchy stomachs. Dog-walkers, Rollerbladers, creaky old people, little kids on bikes.
I parked the Focus by the pitch-and-putt golf course and went to a post to stretch. Instantly I had the feeling that everyone was staring at me, thinking: What's that fat, weirdly white guy stretching for? But then an older man with gray hair stuck his leg on the post next to mine and nodded. I nodded back, feeling as if I belonged.
After a couple minutes, I started around the lake. I'd intended to walk, but seeing all the runners gave me the courage to jog. Everything went okay for a grand total of fifty yards. That's when I spotted Andrea Porter and Maddy Lee, both of whom were on the cross-country team. Maddy was tall and thin, with black hair and a long, silky stride. Andrea was a short blonde whose legs churned.
I panicked. If they saw me, they'd tell other kids, and then those other kids would tell other kids. You won't believe who was running Green Lake!
I turned off the path and headed down to the water where the men stand with their tackle boxes and their fishing poles. One grizzly-looking guy eyed me suspiciously. I tried to make conversation. "What do you catch?" I asked.
"Trout. You fish?"
"No."
"Hmm," he grunted, and turned away.
When I looked back to the path, Andrea and Maddy had passed; I could see their ponytails swinging in rhythm with their strides. I retraced my steps to the car and drove off.