Chapter 4

quinn’s car smells like perfume. An overpowering aroma.

“I know, it reeks in here. This girl, Heather, she wears too much.”

“You sure it’s not you? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Quinn doesn’t answer.

“Is Heather the same girl who texted you yesterday?”

Quinn drives. “Yeah, why?”

“Yesterday you said, ‘It’s just this girl. You don’t know her.’ So I figured it’s the same one, because today you’re using her name, and clearly someone’s been in your car.”

“We spent a long time in the car.”

I look out the window, envisioning this. Sounds nice. “Was she trying to punish you or something? You choke her with your one-eyed monster?”

We stop at a sign. “It’s not like that. Damn, Dun, you need a date.”

“No shit I need a date. But don’t change the subject. Who is this girl?”

Quinn opens his mouth, but I cut him off.

“And don’t tell me that I don’t know her.”

Q purses his lips.

“What?”

“You told me not to tell you that you don’t know her, so I’m not saying it.”

“You are a serious pain in the ass. Does she go to our school? Is she older? Younger? Your cousin?”

“Let’s see, yes, no, yes, no, no.”

I retrace the questions I asked. “That’s one too many.”

“I agreed with the whole pain-in-the-ass comment.”

We pull into the parking lot. “So that’s all I get?”

“For now.” Q shuts the car off.

I don’t like it, but I realize when he intends to stay tight-lipped. “Hey, I got more footage.”

“What do you mean? Nothing happened yesterday.”

“I know. It was in the hall. Doing my thing.” I don’t tell him it was an accident.

Quinn scrunches his forehead. “Yeah, and that shit is going to get your ass kicked one of these days.”

“Or make me famous.”

“Doubtful.”

“Anyway, I caught these two freshmen talking about Alva. One kid has a broken rib.”

“What do you mean? Did you like interview them or something?”

I tell him about the recording and Quinn stares through the windshield. “If we figure out who they are, we could follow them, maybe see if this is really hazing. Let me see it.”

“The video?”

“Yeah.”

I open the Lax Bros folder and select the right one.

Before it plays Quinn points at the screen. “You’ve already got a folder for them?”

“Detective work.”

The recording plays and Quinn asks, “Where was that?”

“Freshman wing.”

“All right. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

I cannot ask for more, and I know he will find them.

• • •

I’ve never had recurring nightmares, which is kind of surprising considering the amount of shit I’ve taken. In sixth grade, after the cafeteria film incident, I lost what friends I still had, except Quinn. Everyone plugged their noses and said, “Phew, what is that stench?” every time I walked by. I began using deodorant, but it was too late. They saw my weakness and the jokes started flying.

In seventh grade, we had those flip-top desks and mine would somehow get filled with food so when I’d open it, shit just spilled everywhere. No one sat with me at lunch. Even Quinn. In eighth grade, I didn’t get invited to any birthday parties and no one came to my graduation party. Quinn was on vacation. Throughout it all, the name calling ramped up and that’s when I started filming them. No one ever gave a shit about what I showed them, but I kept recording anyway. And even if no one cared, I did. It helped me remember.

Like in freshman year when my locker was decorated with farm animals. I kept track of who was always around when the pigs changed to cows and then donkeys and so on. No surprise it was often the bros, but there were regulars who weren’t on the team as well. And those same faces were around last year when Crisco and butter were duct-taped to my locker. Surprisingly, this year nothing’s occurred, but everyone’s off partying and hooking up, so maybe there’s less time to think about messing with the fat kid.

In spite of all of this, there’s been one constant that I cannot escape—the locker room. The smell alone is enough to make me break out in a sweat. I’ve tried everything from trips to the nurse’s office to fake doctor excuses to get out of class, but it’s never enough. I have to walk into that hell hole twice a week and stand in my corner and keep my eyes down while the jokes fly, laughs echo, and my body is on display.

Today is no different.

I move to the back, spin the dial, and take a deep breath. A kid nearby makes a fart sound with his mouth. Kids laugh. I take off my shirt. Someone says, “B cup. Maybe a C?” More laughter. I pull my T-shirt on and sit down. The bench groans and someone else says, “It’s tapping out.” More laughter. I face my locker, untie my shoes, and slide them off.

No one here is as big as me. Sure some of these kids are borderline, but most are max 150 pounds, with ropy muscles and flat stomachs. As much as I don’t want them to look at me, it’s difficult for me not to look at them, either. I’m envious of them, though, not repulsed.

I slide out of my jeans and have to stand in order to get my shorts on.

“His ass is eating his underwear. Dun, what part of you isn’t hungry?”

I don’t respond, I don’t turn around. I give them zero satisfaction in knowing I’m hurt.

I wait for the room to clear out and I wipe my eyes on my shirt before I join the class.

We’re playing floor hockey and it’s about as much fun as getting kicked in the shin. I’m stuck playing goalie because of my size, but have the reflexes of someone hopped up on bath salts. Kids score left and right, and when that’s not fun anymore they take moob shots or aim for my “gunt.”

I go into a zone, just disconnect. But as much as I try to stay in this state, little douche Gilbey keeps coming into focus. He elbows one kid, trips another, and talks trash the entire time. He’s not one of those followers who feels powerless without his leader. No, he assumes the role and is vicious. My PE teacher doesn’t do shit. He coaches football, and Gilbey and Alva are superstars there as well.

Gilbey flies up and takes a shot that clips my leg and instantly feels like a charley horse. Someone grabs the ball and the game continues, but Gilbey lingers. “Thought all your working out would have helped by now.”

I don’t say anything, because the words, like me, are cornered.

“Keep it up, Dun. Just remember, we’re watching your ass. Don’t mess with us, because we’ll fucking kill you. And everyone will think it was just an accident.” He boxes my ear and trots off.

Fortunately, after class most kids are concerned with getting cleaned up and not smelling like ass for next period. No one showers. So it’s fine that I saturate myself in Axe spray. Everyone else is. I still take my time, though, because milling around by the door before the bell rings just leaves me open for taunting. My corner clears out and I tie my shoes. The pressure from my stomach blows. I imagine it’s what balancing on one of those big-ass exercise balls must feel like for regular-size people.

“Yeah, we take it easy every so often. Keeps them on their toes. Don’t you remember JV?” Gilbey’s a series of lockers over, but his voice carries over the wall of metal. All of me cringes.

“So are we fucking them up today?”

I don’t recognize the voice.

“Not my call. You know?”

“Right. Alva.”

“Yeah, but he gets his orders, too.”

“What do you mean?”

I can hear Gilbey shuffling his feet. “Let’s just say the word comes from a higher authority.”

I stop breathing.

“What? You don’t mean like God or some shit?”

“No, you asshole. Mr . . . oh fuck, never mind. Just follow me and Alva. Got it? If you’re selected for next year, we’ll tell you.”

“Thanks, bro.”

“All right.”

The sound of them slapping hands echoes, followed by a muffled chest bump/back slap. The bell rings and they take off. I breathe. It doesn’t a psychic to imagine that shit’s about to hit the fan.

I get a text. Rice and sausage. Best bet for today.

I reply to Quinn, K. We have to talk later.

He doesn’t reply and I head down to the cafeteria. I get the rice and sausage with a water, and make my way to my table. Oliver is already there.

“Hey, I hope you don’t mind,” he says.

I scowl but sit down.

“Seriously, Dun, if you want me to go, I will.” He grips his tray.

As much as I know that’s a good move, I don’t want him to leave. I’m feeling screwed up from what just happened and would love to have someone to talk to and distract me.

“No, it’s cool. Stay.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Oliver looks relieved and examines my tray before diving into the mountain of his own. “You dieting?”

No other guys would have this conversation. Girls, sure. At least I think so. “Yeah.” I don’t really care to elaborate.

Oliver nods, his mouth full. He speaks around his food. “I tried that shit a dozen times. Woke up one night about a year ago literally eating my pillow. Haven’t stopped eating real food since.”

I’ve woken up with my hand in my mouth after dreaming about burgers. “Been there before.” I scoop up the sausage and rice. It’s not bad, but it’s not pizza, either.

“So what’s your goal? What you trying to get down to?”

Is he serious? We’re not sitting together two minutes and he’s asking that question? I shake my head.

“Sorry, keeping it a secret?”

I’m not, no. I tweet about it, but I guess no actual person besides Quinn knows. “No, just nervous.”

“What, of failing?”

Oliver’s as straight shooting as they come. It’s refreshing. “Yeah. Exactly.”

He nods and eats more pizza. I return to my rice.

“The way I look at it, it makes sense to fear failing, but it’s unavoidable, isn’t it? Unless you’re a cocky bastard.” He laughs, but I hear pain.

“What’s unavoidable? Failing or the fear?”

Oliver smiles. “Both, I guess. You ever really succeed at anything?”

I shake my head.

“Me neither.” He drinks. “And you’ve already admitted to being scared, so there you have it.”

I don’t know if I agree with him, but he does have a certain logic.

“All right, I’ll tell you my goal weight if you tell me why you’re sitting here.”

Oliver blinks, but continues watching me. He extends his hand. “Deal.”

I shake it.

“I’ve got this grandfather,” Ollie says, “he’s a fattie, like us. And he’s sick. Diabetes and high blood pressure and all sorts of shit with his kidneys and whatnot. He’s all about looking at his life and trying to find some meaning or something.”

I cannot believe he’s being this open, but I listen intently.

“Last weekend he asks me about school, the shit I put up with, the teasing and all, and then he asks about the lunchroom.” Oliver laughs again, another sorrowful sound. “He says to me, ‘Ollie, you can’t eat alone. That’s my problem. I got nobody, so I eat all the time. Food’s my friend. Now it’s killing me. I’m not telling you to quit eating. You gotta eat. But like drinking, just don’t do it alone.’”

The cafeteria’s loud as hell, but in spite of this, a certain calm washes over me. I know exactly what Oliver’s grandfather means.

I look up and Oliver’s waiting. I can tell he’s ready to book it if he needs to, if I make fun of him like everyone else does. No way. Not after that.

“225. That’s my goal.”

Oliver smiles. “Balls.”

“Exactly.”