Chapter 9

i eat the potatoes and wish they had more butter, same with the beans. The roast beef is cold and tasteless without the gravy, but compared to the sacrifices of others, I have nothing to complain about.

Ollie appears, tray in hand. “Hey, Greg. Is it cool if I join you?”

“Absolutely.” After what he’s told me, there’s no way I’m letting him renege on his promise to his grandfather.

Oliver chews his lunch slowly and steadily. Between bites he cracks me up with fat kid jokes and stories about his home life.

As I watch him, I can’t help but feel like I owe him something. Maybe it’s my guilt for potentially using Kyle and Stephen, but regardless of the reason, I blurt out, “Hey, you want to train with me?”

Ollie sets down his fork. “Did I miss something?” He looks skeptically at me. “I’m not interested in losing this man-bulk here. It’s taken me sixteen years to get this.” He pats his belly. I guarantee he’s pushing 365.

“Maybe not, but I’d like the company.” I want to say something about how his grandfather would want this, but that might be going too far.

Ollie looks at his plate. “Let me think about it, all right?”

“Sure. We’ll be in the weight room after the late buses.”

Oliver nods and I wonder if he’ll show. Shit, I wonder what I’ll do if he does. We’d have to let him in on what we’re filming. It’s not like he’s just going to sit there while we run off to film the screams going on within the practice gym. Shit, I didn’t think this through.

Ollie burps. “Awesome. More room.”

• • •

I hope I’ve achieved my goal weight, but I hope just as much that Ollie will show. In spite of what it may mean to have him here.

Q is ready, reading over his workout notes, sweat drenched. “What do you think?” he asks.

“About what? How awful you smell?”

He frowns. “Really? I’m sure you realize what a cesspool you make of yourself. This,” he pops his shirt, “smells like a man.”

I laugh and parrot “like a man” until I feel light-headed and have to sit. Q frowns and waits. “I’m sorry. That was just funny shit. You work out already or something?” I ask.

Quinn’s eyes are furtive for a moment. “I missed my morning run, so I hit a little something, here.”

I know Quinn goes from here to his dad’s, so that means one thing. “You work out twice a day?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Uh, well, you’re not fat.”

Q tosses his book down. “It’s not only about losing weight. Strength and staying fit are equally important.”

He sounds like he’s getting ready to teach a spin class or some shit. “Are you telling me I have to keep this up forever?”

“Yes.” Quinn claps once. “All right, your weight, that’s why we’re here. What’s it gonna be?”

It takes me a moment to come out of my fear of the future, but I hedge a guess. “329.”

“So you’re feeling confident? Good. Let’s get you up on that scale.”

I strip to my underwear and T-shirt and give Q the phone. I stop, though, because it’s so quiet. In spite of the soundproofing for the gym, it’s always obvious the bros are practicing. Their voices are everywhere. Not today. “The bros?”

“Scrimmage,” Q says.

Quinn starts recording, does his intro like I do with the journals and then I take a deep breath and get on the scale. 324.

“Hell, yeah!” I scream and high-five Q, and as I do the locker room door opens. I suddenly feel like I’m naked. I hop off and cross my arms over my moobs. Q stays cool and steadies the phone at whoever’s walking in. He’s learning.

“I heard screaming, so I had to come.” Ollie’s all smiles. “What’s all this yelling about?”

I uncross my arms. “324. That’s what.”

“No shit? That is awesome.” He pounds fists with me and then puts his out for Q, who looks at me.

“Did I miss something?”

Ollie lets his arm drop, and his face follows suit.

“Yeah, I was about to tell you. I invited Ollie to be my training partner. Figured he’d be good to have on board.”

“Having him on board means a lot of things, G.”

“I know that, but I think it’s worth it.”

Ollie puts up his hands. “Hey, if this isn’t going to work, no worries. I thought maybe Greg had talked to you first.”

Quinn shakes his head and aims the phone at Ollie, but not before looking at me and mouthing, Shit. He hits record and speaks to Ollie. “So you wanna train?”

“I guess. I mean, we’ll see.”

“No. Give me a real answer. Commit or don’t.” Quinn sounds just like his dad, and he’d kick my ass on the spot if I said so. “Look at Dun, there. Almost thirty pounds in less than a month. You want that?”

It’s such an unfair question, and on film, nonetheless. But as much as I want Q to put the phone down and give Oliver some space, I want Ollie to answer. I want him to say yes.

Ollie looks at me and I nod. He nods back. “Hell yeah, I do.”

Quinn pounds fists. “Welcome aboard.”

“So what’s first? We running?”

Quinn shakes his head. “Let’s see where we stand. Get on that scale.”

Oliver looks at it and sighs. “I hate those things, but okay.”

He strips down and seems less embarrassed than I do. In fact, he seems to look better as well. He’s more “husky” than fat. He’s probably athletic and about to whoop my ass. Great.

He steps on and the digits pop: 372.

“Quinn, you’ve got your work cut out for you,” Oliver says and steps down.

Quinn smiles. “Not me. The two of you.”

And like that, Ollie and me are a team, and unlike the shitsticks that make up the bros, I think we’re good. At least we’re not under the thumb of some deranged ass and his henchmen. Which I guess we’ll talk to Oliver about next time. Because there will be a next time. I can tell.

• • •

I go through the motions of dinner with my parents, offering brief answers to their questions and asking none of my own. The chicken is bland and the vegetables are just thawed out from a bag. I realize Mom’s trying and I appreciate that. But still, the cafeteria food tastes better than this. I might need to buy her a cookbook.

I head back to my room and settle in front of my computer, feeling like a cat must when they find that perfect perch. Ollie worked hard and we had a good time. Quinn seemed pleased, too. Asking Ollie to come on board was a good call.

And my mind’s more clear on what I need to do with the lax bros piece. I want it to be good to go if Kyle and Stephen decide to talk. Yeah, I’m moving in the right directions.

I pull up the lax bros and watch the hazing all over again. I make sure to amplify the whacks of the sticks cracking across the kids’ backs. I have a tight shot of blood trickling down one kid’s side. I throw in slow-motion footage of the “pain game” and kids crumbling to the ground. Then I speed it up with what they did to Kyle and, of course, the punch. I score it, too, with their stupid chant. It builds like a crescendo in the background until it’s the only sound. It ends with a still shot of Alva’s face, contorted and crazy.

I sit back and stare at the screen. It lacks something, a finality. Possibly that’s Kyle and Stephen. Possibly it’s something else. Maybe I’ll see if Ella has footage of Alva. Would he open up to her?

My mind puts it all together, but I know the difference between fantasy and reality, so I turn my attention to my trailer.

It’s the shit. Yeah, I’m biased, but whatever, it’s true. I’ve got this awesome mash-up of these scenes I’ve pulled from YouTube and elsewhere. It’s a mix of beautiful images and ugly ones. Like bodybuilders and supermodels followed by flabby shits like me and the homeless. I keep the theme going with scenes from tropical beaches and star-filled nights, then split to animals dying in a drought and scenes of war and dead bodies. I finish with images of our school, those I’ve captured on my phone, of the hot girls, the studs, the goths, the wallflowers, the jocks, the nerds, the metrosexuals, the homosexuals, the poor, the rich, the obese. All of it is scored with “Immigrant Song,” but not the Zeppelin version, the one Trent Reznor did for the movie about the girl and the tattoo.

I finish with a brief interview of me stating that “I know where I belong, but I’m trying for something new,” and slide in snippets of my workouts with Quinn and digits from the scale. It’s ballsy. And it scares me as much as it excites me. Someone’s going to say, “Oh my God, you really do weigh like a ton.” Someone like Taleana. But to hell with her. I want to make this statement. And if this gets me into film school, what an awesome statement that will be.

On Twitter, there’s a stream of conversations under #thebestdirector comparing David Lynch to the Coen brothers. That’s like comparing Monty Python and the Holy Grail to The Exorcist. All right, that’s a bit of a stretch, and probably why I shouldn’t chime in on the subject. However, I have a message.

It’s from Ella. Greg, can we get together? Just wanted to review my trailer with you. I can bring my laptop to school. Let me know. K?

Ella’s a saint for being willing to chat with me about her work after how awkward I was last time. I’ll be better. I’ll control myself. I reply, Of course we can! Tomorrow, after school?

I send the message and shower, and when I return she’s replied: Perfect.