Chapter 2

mom’s at the stove when i come in, humming to herself, chicken frying in the pan. “Hey, honey, how was your day?” she asks in her singsong, teacher voice. It takes her a while to come down from her “preschool high,” as my dad likes to call it, to her mother/wife self.

“Fine.” I sniff the air. “Chicken and bacon?”

“The bacon’s for the double-stuffed potatoes. Good nose.”

I’ve had a good nose all my life. And a good tongue. And the combo has given me a not-so-good body. Mom still kind of thinks of me as her taste-tester for all the cookies and cakes and casserole dishes. I feel heavier as I picture the meal. All that work today with Q reduced to nothing.

I head up to my room and climb out of my sweaty clothes. Really, my more than regular sweaty clothes. I am one swampy fuck. So much so that I’ll wear an undershirt under my T-shirt just so it acts like a sponge. I usually put deodorant on before I go to bed, regular roll-on shit, and then a full body spray with more roll-on in the morning. After my showers. One in the afternoon and one in the morning.

I toss my clothes in the hamper, turn on the water, and step on the scale. When Q and I started this shit I was 352. The digits pop: 337. That’s a five-pound loss since the workout, which I know is mostly water weight, but still, it’s moving in the right direction.

I reach in to test the water and catch myself in the mirror. I’ve got moobs and folds and shit sagging every which way, so I turn away and stand under the water and don’t give a shit how hot it is. Maybe the scalding will shed a pound or two?

After I dry off and dress, I crack open my MacBook and log onto my iCloud account. I find the day’s films and click on the first one, the hallway at school this morning:

“Hey, check her. Over there.”

“Which one?”

“That slut with the ponytail.”

“Which one?”

“The one in the boots with that long-ass face. Watch this.”

“Hey, sweetie? You want to go horseback riding? Yeah? What size saddle do you wear? No, no. I meant wear. Imma ride you.”

The kid neighs and the girl flashes red. She bolts down the hall, and the kid returns to his friend. They both crack up, can barely breathe they’re laughing so hard. I think they’re football players, but could be just regular douches. I file the clip in the “Everyday BS” folder. I’ve got a few hundred clips like that I keep meaning to do something with, but don’t, because I get hung up on the ones like the next.

“Hey, Dun the Ton, how’s it hanging today?”

“Hey, Todd.”

My voice sounds like a girl’s.

“No, for real, Moby.”

“Funny.”

“You should do porn with Tracey whatever. That real fat chick. I’d pay to watch that shit. Or I’d, like, dare people to eat a bunch and try not to puke when they see your bumping and grinding.”

The asshole clings to me and laughs and pats my shoulder like we’re good friends and then he’s on his way. It’s amazing he’s not one of the bros. Then again, after what I saw today, maybe they handpick who they can abuse?

I file the encounter under: “Me, myself, and I.” This is the kind of evidence I tried to use back in middle school but got nowhere with. There was my first film, the one about the cafeteria food and how it wasn’t healthy. Principal Nelson pointed out how I ate the meals every day, sometimes two helpings. He felt I’d “failed to present all the facts.” Basically he thought I provoked kids into calling me “Dough Boy” and “Fattie Toucan” and the one name that’s stuck, “Dun the Ton.”

Inspiration came in the form of documentaries. I was searching for answers that relieved me of responsibility and found Super Size Me and Food, Inc. The answer was as obvious as the grease stain on my favorite shirt. It wasn’t how much I was eating, but what I was eating that’d turned me into the largest kid in class.

I started by investigating after school, checking the trash for the boxes the food had come in. Most of it was this generic label, and the first ingredient for everything was high fructose corn syrup. I recorded this, as well as the meals that were created from that crap for an entire week. I spliced footage together from the documentaries discussing the problems with processed foods alongside what we were served. And then I made a mistake.

Interviewing should be left to the professionals. Somehow the head lunch lady agreed to meet with me—I think she thought I was creating an homage to her cooking. After we sat down, I just ripped into the details I’d found and explained what the documentaries had taught me. She started to answer, all flustered and confused, and then she realized I was recording.

I’d placed my phone off to the side, like no big deal, but she shut right up and told me to leave. Next day I’m sitting with Principal Nelson and he demands to see what I did. I said no, not because I was trying to be a piece of shit, the film just wasn’t ready.

He shut his door and sat across from me and said the kind of line I’ve come to expect whenever dealing with administrators. “If you ever let this film see the light of day, I will make sure you regret ever coming up with the idea.”

Fuck that. What was he going to do? Suspend me? That would have been a welcome vacation from all the shitheads at school. I went ahead with the film, tied it up with some vomit gifs, and created my YouTube account.

A week later, after thousands of views and a lot of questions about the school in the comments, I sat across from Nelson, with my parents this time, and that’s when he suspended me for violating the school’s code of conduct regarding electronic devices. My parents didn’t even argue.

While I was out, he let it be known that the film was a giant lie, that I’d made up the facts because I was sick of being overweight. He asked kids to be nicer to me. When I returned, of course they did just the opposite, and that’s when Nelson told me I’d brought this on myself.

He was partially right, but back then I couldn’t pinpoint which part and what that meant. The picture is much clearer now.

My workout’s next and the thumbnail for the incident is after. I have a folder labeled “Workouts” and put today’s in with the rest. Even though I’m filming them for the documentary, Q said it’s good I have them, so I can see the change and check my form. I don’t think I could be tortured into watching these, though. Me on a screen just isn’t pretty.

I create another folder, “Lax Bros,” and move the file from the practice gym into it. I don’t want to watch it again. Once is enough. But will there really be more tomorrow?

I’d put my money on it. If there’s anything I’m sure of, it’s that weight is hard to lose, and kids are ruthless. Especially the bros, with their tournament less than two months away. The one that turns the town into a weeklong pep rally, everyone into even more fanatical douches, and the bros into demigods. All because of the money.

Teams travel with their families from all over the state to play. They rent all the hotel rooms, eat all the restaurant food, and buy tickets, for the day or for the weekend. And then there’s the merch. Shirts and bumper stickers and lanyards, even phone cases, all with the list of teams, the year, and team logos. It’s all gone by the end, and we have cash coming out of our ears. At least Coach Mallory, the assistant coach, who also runs the booster club, spreads the wealth. The “Mallory Media Center,” aka the tech wing, is a testament to that. Or possibly that’s because of his son, Max, the war hero. Either way, after what I’ve seen, I don’t know if it’s worth the cost.

I check Facebook and Twitter. Not much is happening, but I tweet about my results for my workout today. That’s something else Q told me to do. That way it’s not just the two of us who know. Others can chime in. But since I don’t follow kids from school, just famous filmmakers and reviewers, no one responds.

“Greg! Dinner!”

Mom’s voice cuts through me. I used to love that call, but now I feel as nervous as I do walking into the locker room. Food was always my friend, until it became my enemy.

I head downstairs and Dad’s home, filling drinks. “Hey, buddy. Water? Milk? What’s the diet these days?”

It’s an innocent question, but I feel like telling him to fuck off. “Water. Thanks.”

“You got it.” He fills my glass from the pitcher and sits. I follow his lead.

“So how was school?”

There’s not even a moment’s hesitation where I think that I could possibly talk to him about what I witnessed today. “Fine. Same old. You know?”

“Do I?” Dad rubs his eyes. “I’m telling you, there’s not much difference between school and work. Sit down for eight hours and hope you don’t pass out from boredom.”

Which is exactly why I want to go to film school, leave this town, and never look back.

Mom walks in with the platters of food. I eye them. Dad eyes them and asks, “How was your workout today? Quinn still cracking the whip?”

I wince at his choice of words. “Yeah. I’ll be sore tomorrow, that’s for sure.”

“Well, take a day off if you need to. How many potatoes?” Mom holds out the platter and her eyes glitter. If I were casting her in a movie, she’d always be wearing an apron.

“One’s fine,” I say, and sip my water.

“One? You’re a growing boy. At least two.” She plunks one down and spears another with her fork.

“He said one.” Dad’s voice is steady, but the tone is challenging.

“Frank, I heard him, but really? He’s working out like a madman; he’ll get sick.”

“He won’t, and you know why he’s busting his ass in the gym. It’s not so he can eat more of your potatoes.”

Mom’s face flushes red, and I see the tears beginning to well. This is how it goes.

“Excuse me for wanting to be a good mother.” She sets the platter down and retreats to the kitchen.

Dad sighs. “Sorry, bud. She doesn’t get it.”

“I know. Thanks.”

He stands and goes to her and starts his soothing talk. I stare at the potato on my plate. I could easily eat three of these. With butter. And sour cream. And bacon. And cheese. My stomach growls so hard I put my hands to it. The squish of my flab reminds me why one is enough.

I tried my first diet when I was ten. My doctor couldn’t believe my BMI: 43. Now it’s 50. Back then I just stared at the multicolored chart with Mom and was as clueless as she. Dad read the plan my pediatrician provided and set forth with it. I did well, eating shit like carrot sticks and mayo-less turkey sandwiches on multigrain bread for lunch and tiny servings of vegetables and meat for dinner. But I was always hungry. And Mom would make me rewards every Friday, chocolate chip cookies or muffins or whatever I wanted. We’d eat them together before Dad got home from work. When the diet stalled, Dad was confused. When I started gaining weight, Dad gave up on that one, but asked for another.

And so it’s been on again, off again like that for the past six years. Mom ends up in tears when I won’t eat, and Dad has to remind her that it’s not about her, and I feel so damn gross and guilty. Why can’t I just eat like normal people? You know, regular sizes, not second and third helpings? It’s not because I hate myself, as one of the therapists I’ve seen suggested. I’m just hungry. Or food just tastes so good. Or something like that.

Mom returns with a tissue to her eye. “I’m sorry, sweetie. You know how it is for me. Eat whatever you like. Okay?”

I nod and shoot Dad a look. “All right. Thanks.”

I eat my dinner of chicken—skinless—and potato—just one, bacon picked out—and try not to stare at the platters. When I’m finished, I want more, but just drink water. It helps, but nothing can take the place of food, not even my films.

I head back to my room, do some math, and spend the rest of my night online reading movie critique blogs and watching previews of indie films and some YouTube suggestions.

I feel like texting Q because the Internet just isn’t taking my mind off this afternoon. But we don’t really have that kind of relationship. I don’t see much of him during the day because he’s off all over the place. Even though he’s in ridiculous shape, he’s not a jock, doesn’t play any sports. And he’s not a nerd or artsy or any of that shit. He sure as hell isn’t a stoner or goth or gay. He’s really a drifter, just bouncing around groups. But for some reason he always connects with me. It’s weird, I guess, but we’ve been friends forever. From before I was fat, even. And that, right there, is enough for me.

I’m sore all over and know I should stretch. But first, because I have to, because I won’t be able to sleep if I don’t, I pull up the scene from today. I watch it again. In slow-mo. I zoom in on the boys, trying to recognize any of them. I don’t, only Alva and his little peon, Gilbey.

I lose count of how many times I watch it. Each time is as bad. In fact, I feel worse. I get Quinn’s point. I bet these kids just want to play lacrosse, have fun, fit in, not get abused. But what do I know? It’s not like I ever played a sport. Maybe this is just part of the deal?

Then I remember the other scene. I didn’t file that. I pull it up, and the zoom on their backs is the most revealing. The blood. I let the film roll and the car is moving and the boys are sprinting. Alva is at the bottom of the hill, watching the boys run up, and that’s when he looks over. But it’s not toward the parking lot. No, he’s looking back at the gym.

I rewind and slow it down and zoom in even more. In the doorway, standing just outside watching the lax bros, is Callaghan, our principal, their coach. Alva looks at him and Callaghan nods. Then Alva takes off up the hill.

I rewind and play again and zoom even closer. Callaghan’s face is more clear, the lines deeper, more accurate. He is smiling a weird, twisted smile. Or maybe I feel that way because I never see him show his teeth.

But there’s more. There was something else in the doorway. I pan down. It’s white and red, and it takes me a moment to realize what I’m staring at. It’s a bloody towel.

I click the scene back a notch and now the image takes on a meaningful picture. Callaghan is holding a bloody towel and smiling and nodding his approval to Alva.

He knows.