Chapter 3

i pace in the living room the next morning until I see Quinn’s car roll up. I yell “good-bye,” to my parents and fly out the front door. Seated next to Q, I launch. “Callaghan knows. He fucking knows what the lax bros are doing.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Did you have some weird-ass dream or something?” Quinn shoots me a glance but then concentrates on the road. He hasn’t had his license that long, and because of his workouts he’s always so damn out of it in the morning. I’ve suggested coffee but he told me his dad won’t allow it. Not natural or some shit.

“No. I have it on film. Yesterday when we were leaving and the bros were sprinting, Callaghan was there. He had a bloody towel and was doing this whole thing with Alva. . . .”

“Slow down. What was he doing?”

“Just pull over.”

Q slides against a curb and I take out my phone. I show him the recording, even though it’s more difficult to see than it was on my computer. He nods after the second time. “I don’t know, Dun. I mean, yeah, it’s a bloody towel, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Bullshit! You know it does.”

“Easy, G. Just chill for a second. Take a deep breath.”

I do. Q’s good, and like with our workouts, I listen.

“All right. Now I know Callaghan’s an evil son of a bitch, and it would be awesome to pin all this shit on him, but that there,” he says, pointing at my phone, “doesn’t prove shit. That towel could have come from anywhere. You follow?”

“But,” I say, even though I know where he’s coming from.

“No. Don’t. Let me finish.” He waits for me to breathe again. “I know I was all about jumping the gun yesterday and you talked me out of it. Well, here we are in reverse. Like you said, one piece isn’t anything. More? Hell, yeah. And I’m all for getting it. We’re on the same page. But this isn’t it.”

He’s right. I know he is. I thought the same thing while I stewed all night. In spite of how many times I failed with Principal Nelson and then again with Callaghan, this urge takes over me. This desire to share what I’ve found, what I captured on film. I can’t help it.

“All right. I hear you. Maybe we’ll catch them after school again?”

“That’s the plan,” Q says, but he’s busy reading a text, not really paying attention.

“Who’s that?” I ask, trying to remain just curious, nothing more.

Quinn smiles. “Nobody. Just this girl.”

“Who?”

“You don’t know her.”

I sneer at him, even though he’s probably right. I most likely don’t know her. But still, would it kill him to pretend it’s possible? “Right, right,” I mumble.

Quinn signals and pulls away from the curb. I just stay quiet and stare out the window, imagining how different the picture looks through Quinn’s eyes.

• • •

“How could you like that? It’s so fucking gay.”

“The book?”

“Yeah, the book. What did you think I was talking about?”

The kid doesn’t answer, just stares at the book in his hand and tosses it into his locker, slamming it shut and saying, “Whatever.”

“Not ‘whatever.’ What did you think I was talking about?”

I stop filming and move down the hall toward Mr. Blint’s. I guess I like the class, the Mechanics of Film, but it’s filled with a bunch of burnouts who really don’t give a shit and just want an A. Blint’s not one of our regular teachers. He’s here through some grant or something. Him and all the awesome technology that came along with it. The one Mallory found, I guess. Which is why everything is covered with our stupid Warrior mascot: a jacked-up, comic book–like Native American. Is that even PC? But without that cash, our school would suck. Blint has the only good computer lab, and I think the other teachers envy him. He keeps a low profile, but does provide good feedback for the handful of us who truly care.

“Dun the Ton. Dun the Ton. Dun the Ton,” I hear off to my side. It’s a group of bros, older ones. They probably were the ones beating the underclassmen yesterday. “That’s right, fat ass, keep moving.” I swallow it. More fuel for my workout, for my motivation to get out, no problem.

I head to the back. Kids are talking, clustered here and there. Taleana, by far the hottest girl in here, stops midsentence when I approach, and dramatically holds her breath until I’m past.

“I cannot stand the smell of fat,” she says, and her friend Gretchen laughs and laughs. More fuel.

The bell rings and Blint closes the door. He claps twice to get attention but does nothing more, even though a number of kids are still talking. “Today we are going to spend some time on trailers.”

“Like mobile homes?” some girl asks.

The room laughs.

“Not quite. As in for movies.”

“Previews?” someone else asks.

“Exactly!” Blint points with a touch of enthusiasm.

“Why didn’t you just say that?” the first girl asks.

Blint’s energy leaks out of him. “Because the technical term is trailer. You’ve had the term and its definition since the first day.”

It’s true. Blint gave us a long sheet of terms we’re supposed to know at any time. But it’s not like he quizzes us on them or anything. He just tosses them into his lectures. They’re not difficult though. I read much more challenging terminology online.

“Whatever,” the girl says.

Blint lets it pass and carries on. “Part of the requirement of your portfolio is a trailer. You all have the outline and due dates, so please do review them.”

Blint rambles on about trailers and their purpose and how they’ve changed in recent years. I zone out and think about how I’m going to tell Blint that my portfolio is going to be a documentary on my weight loss. He knows all about my past film mishaps—the ones from middle and high school—even uses them in other classes as examples. So I’m not sure how he’ll respond to what I have in mind. Because it’s not as if getting into trouble with Principal Nelson or Callaghan has slowed me down.

I’ve slipped some of my hallway footage onto the school’s website, once hijacked another kid’s presentation by changing the link in his PowerPoint to a video from my YouTube channel, and even slipped a looped clip of the cheerleaders puking in unison after a party onto the squad’s Facebook page. I pulled that last clip from Twitter, so it’s not as if I broke anyone’s privacy.

Finally he shuts up and passes out a worksheet to guide us through note-taking while we watch the three trailers he has cued up. We take notes and then form a giant circle to discuss. This and lectures are basically all the “teaching” we can expect from Blint. I don’t mind the lectures, but I hate the circle because I’m so exposed.

“So let’s discuss.” Blint perches on a stool just outside the circle.

No one says a word. Some kids text. Those with their backs to Blint close their eyes. Most don’t have anything written down on the handouts.

Blint taps a pen on his clipboard. “Adriana, your thoughts?”

Adriana Jones always acts surprised when Blint calls on her, which he does every single class. She’s a cheerleader, super popular and pretty damn smart, but in that teacher’s pet way, just regurgitating whatever has been said or the teacher wants to hear. I doubt she’s recently had a unique thought.

She spits her ideas and, again, I zone out.

Blint thanks her and calls on a few more pets and looks at the clock. He’s about to tell us to “pack it up,” but Ella Jenner speaks up.

“You know, Mr. Blint, I’ve been sitting here thinking about trailers and, well, they’re a bunch of bullshit.”

The room gasps. The stoners wake up. Texting halts, and even Taleana sits up.

Ella Jenner. Transferred here at the end of eighth grade. I don’t know much about her except that she’s quirky, just doing her own thing. I never see her hanging with any clique, but what do I know? She could be übercool, more awesome than any of us. Or just on the fringe.

“Let’s refrain from such language, please.” Blint ruffles a bit but that’s all.

“Sorry.” Ella just stares at her desk. “Here’s the thing. Trailers are like candy. They’re all exciting and interesting but ultimately empty.”

I take note. She’s just combined my two favorite subjects, candy and film. Ella’s done this a few times now, been so spot on I feel as if I could talk to her because she’d actually know what the hell I’m talking about. But there’s more to talking than just exchanging words, and that makes me nervous.

“How so?” Blint asks.

Ella is now thrumming her leg and picking at her nail. “There’s no context. Really, we have no idea where these one liners or bits of action are coming from. It’s complete shi . . . I mean ridiculousness. I could take the worst movie imaginable and find thirty seconds of good material and make you think it’s awesome. It’s lying. That’s all trailers do.”

Blint nods and we all follow him. “Are you suggesting there should be no trailers?”

“No, just ones that are honest and genuine. That’s all I want.”

The room’s attention tracks between these two and then Blint says, “Well, let us apply what Ella has said to your trailers. Don’t fake out the audience; be straightforward.”

I can’t help but stare at Ella. She catches me and I turn away. When I peek back, she’s still watching, and I’m afraid of what she’s thinking.

The bell rings and I head to lunch. It is my least favorite part of school next to PE. Fat kids can’t eat. At least we’re not supposed to. It’s perfectly fine for the stocky football or lacrosse player or freakishly tall basketball player to gorge on three lunches, but heaven forbid if a fat kid has a cookie. The insults. I stopped filming those. It’s enough to live them once; I don’t need to see them a second time.

I get in line and my phone buzzes with a text. I know it’s Quinn, he’s the only friend I have.

Get the chicken salad. Ask for the dressing on the side. Water and an apple.

K.

I follow his instructions and scurry to my table. Too much time out in the open is no good.

I sit alone because Quinn’s . . . somewhere. Freshman year, a couple of guys sat with me for about a week. We talked and shit and I thought I’d made some friends, but then one by one they drifted to other tables. I came up with reasons for why it was okay that I ate alone: I had time to study. I didn’t really need company. Other people sat alone.

I bite into my salad and drink my water and pray for the half hour to be over.

“Hey, mind if I join you?”

I don’t recognize the voice, but wait for the insult, something like, Of course you don’t, fat ass!

It doesn’t come. I look up. The beaming face is familiar—Oliver Leonard, resident fat kid, like me. I shrug.

“Thanks, Greg. Man, am I hungry.”

He sits and I look at his tray. It’s covered. Not an inch of plastic remains. He’s taken one of everything it seems, except for the salad. Burgers, fries, pudding, three chocolate milks.

Oliver dives in with abandon. I shake away from my stare and notice kids pointing and laughing. A lot of them are bros, and I think to say something to Oliver, but I know how happy he is right now and I don’t want to spoil that. Not for him, not for me.

I eat my salad and ignore the squeals.

• • •

The late buses have all gone home and I’m headed toward the locker room. I have to wait until now, biding my time at Blint’s computer lab, because I can’t work out with other people around. It’s too embarrassing. Not that anyone uses the shitty gym reserved for nonathletes. But still.

Quinn’s already changed. We slap hands and he reviews the workout while I get my gear on. I so appreciate that he keeps his head to his notebook/workout log/food journal/whatever, and he never looks at me when I change. My belly sags and my shirt is drenched and the cuts from earlier, from the hall and from Taleana, come back. I swallow them again.

“We’re gonna hit some body-weight stuff today, step-ups, push-ups, sit-ups. Then I’m thinking some light dumbbell and kettlebell work. I’ve got a real nice finisher for you.”

He’s talking an entirely different language, but I’m slowly catching on. He kills me with heavy weights one day, and the next some body work and conditioning and then back to the weights.

“And we’ll keep an ear out. You know?”

I’ve finished changing and am panting less than I usually do. “Absolutely.” I grab my water bottle and phone and we head off to the gym.

We go through the ritual. Q gets me on film, indicates what day we’re at, and then he gets the number from between my feet: 340. When he talks about our goals for the day and beyond, I feel like it’s someone else he’s describing, because imagining me at 225 pounds is impossible. I haven’t been that small since eighth grade.

“Ready, G?”

I smile but don’t mean it. “Of course.”

“Let’s do it!”

An hour later I’m on the floor writhing around like a clubbed baby seal. Well, maybe an adult-size seal. Holy shit, Quinn wasn’t kidding me with the finisher being a killer. I don’t think I can get up, and whoever this “Tabata” motherfucker is, he better pray I never meet his ass. He literally invented four minutes of hell.

“You all right, Dun?”

I wave and nod.

“Damn. Let me know when you feel right again. I’ll record that so we have a benchmark for next time. See if you improved.”

Next time? Oh hell no.

Whap!

“Fuck!”

Whap!

“Ahh, shit!”

Whap!

I open my eyes and Q’s already handing me the phone. His eyes dance, but he bends over and helps me up. Shit, I forgot all about the lax bros, that’s how bad this workout was.

Whap!

Another scream.

Quinn looks at me and I know his question. “Yeah, sounds like it.” As much as I want to move, I can’t. I sit.

“What are you doing?”

“Give me a second.”

Whap!

“Get your fat ass up, Dun! We have to record this.”

Quinn typically doesn’t make any fat comments to me. I’m a little pissed. “We don’t have to do anything. I’ll take care of it.”

“Not sitting there you won’t.” Quinn’s jaw is tight and he’s bouncing on his toes. I get that he doesn’t like what’s going on, but it feels like there’s more to it.

I use his energy to get up, but hold onto the “fat ass” comment.

We creep into the gym just like yesterday, because, again, the main door is locked. No way that’s an accident.

Whap!

I record. Alva has his upperclassmen under the light, armed with lacrosse balls on one side of the gym. The underclassmen stand in a line on the other, in the shadows. Alva turns to the row of juniors and seniors and raises five fingers.

The selected marksman fires his ball. It wails an underclassman, who lets out a muffled scream. But I’m confused, because the sound of the ball striking him was loud, metallic. I squint and notice he’s wearing a helmet and shoulder pads.

“This drill is perfect for game-time contact. You never know where that elbow or stick is going to come from. That’s why you’re in the dark. You need to be prepared, and be able to take the hit.” Alva addresses the younger group and another kid rotates into the center.

Quinn and I both step back. “Shit, that was just a drill.”

“Looks that way.” Quinn seems as disappointed as me. Which is kind of messed up. We should be happy the kids aren’t getting hurt.

“Maybe it was just yesterday, a one-time thing?”

Quinn shakes his head. “Maybe, but I doubt it.”

Whap!

“Yeah. Looks like we’re going to have to keep up the detective work. And in the meantime, you’ll just keep whooping my ass down here.” I laugh. So does Quinn.

“It’s really you kicking your own ass. I’m just watching.”

I think about that and his fat-ass comment. He’s right, I guess, I’m doing all of the work. But what does he see?

• • •

Mom prepares another awesome meal that I only eat a small portion of. Dad talks about work while mom pouts, and all I want to do is head up to my room, shower, and go to bed. I am so exhausted from today’s workout that tweaking my documentary holds little interest. There’s a first.

Probably because this one’s personal. Ever since middle school I’ve focused on them. Whoever that happens to be. But this one’s different. I know I need a piece like this if I truly want to go to film school—something brave, something self-revelatory. It serves two needs. I have to get to a healthy weight, and if I can succeed, then I’ll have the kind of transformation people want to watch.

Instead of working I read a few articles, tweet my weight change, and log out. Then I go to Facebook.

I search for Alva. He comes up, but his page is locked down. Makes sense; he’s smart enough for security. I search for his partner in crime, Gilbey. His page is wide open.

I pore over his wall, searching for any mention of what happened yesterday. Nothing. He’s just got links to stupid YouTube clips and one-line back and forth conversations with other guys from the team about girls at the school and lacrosse. Why would there be anything else? The bros are too solid of a unit to make mistakes like that. It seems like Callaghan’s not at practice much, and I’ve yet to see Mallory. So the bros must police themselves, which means there will have to be more evidence.

I move today’s workout to the folder and pull up the files I shot from the hall. I remember the douches chanting “Dun the Ton.” But I don’t remember the next.

It’s my belly and by feet trudging down the hall. Shit, I must have forgotten to turn it off, and then it must have gotten wedged half in, half out of my pocket. Lockers slam and kids yell to one another. I’m wobbling along and the motion is making me nauseous. I stop at the water fountain and the phone dips lower, picks up sneakers and a conversation, audible just over my slurping. I crank the volume.

“Yeah, I think my rib’s broken. At least cracked.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“Hell, no!”

“You know what will happen if we do.”

“Yeah. I remember what he said, but still.”

“Still, nothing! I only told you so you could watch my back. If you’re gonna be a bitch about it. . . .”

“No. No. Sorry. I won’t say shit.”

“Come on, before Alva pops up. If he gives me a rib shot, I swear I’ll fall apart.”

The bell rings. I finish my drink, oblivious to the conversation that just occurred and a moment later the recording ends, but not before I catch where I was going. The computer lab. The end of the day. I was down in the freshman wing.

No one’s face is visible, but their voices are clear. I could track them down.

What am I thinking? These kids, freshmen or not, they won’t talk to me. Especially not about that. They’re bros. Unless someone I know is willing to talk to them first. I file the clip under “Lax Bros” and try to still my mind so I can sleep.