Fat Chance, Charlie Vega Page 2

  And I’d never tell Amelia this, but here’s my secret and way-too-embarrassing-to-share hope: one day, he’ll realize it was me all along.

  Chapter Two

  “Psst.”

  The psst is not exactly soft. In fact, it’s kind of loud. It’s not at all an appropriate volume for the library, but whatever, I guess. It’s Cal.

  He smiles when I look over at him, revealing his dimples, and my heart catches in my throat. (It sometimes hurts my eyes how pretty he is.) For a minute, I think he’s calling for Amelia. But then I remember Amelia’s not here yet, which means that psst was for me.

  “Hi,” he whispers.

  “Hi,” I whisper back, unable to wipe what is definitely a goofy grin off my face.

  “Whatcha up to?” He’s sitting a table away.

  I definitely didn’t carefully choose my seat so I could steal glances at him. Nope.

  “Nothing. Reading.” I hold up my book. In class, we’re reading The Catcher in the Rye. I hate it. Holden Caulfield is not a sympathetic character to me, and I’m over the way he calls everyone a phony. “What about you?”

  “Trying to convince you to let me borrow your history notes.”

  For some reason, I giggle at that.

  “So?” he pushes. “Can I?”

  “Oh! Yeah, of course,” I say, letting go of my book (and not bookmarking my page), digging through my bag (and dropping some pens on the floor in the process), and pulling out my notebook.

  Cal, Amelia, and I are in the same history class, even though Cal is a year ahead of us. He almost never shows up to class…which is probably why he’s repeating junior history. He always asks to borrow my notes, and I always say yes.

  I turn to the correct page and hold the notebook out to him. He gets up from where he’s sitting so smoothly it’s like he’s practiced it. Confidence just comes naturally to him. What’s that like?

  When he reaches me, he leans down and scoops up my pens and holds them out to me.

  “You dropped these,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I say softly, trying to hide how badly my hands are shaking when I take them from him. In exchange, he swipes my notebook and his eyes scan the page.

  “So, all this, huh?” he asks.

  I glance at the meticulously highlighted notes. “Oh. Yeah, I sometimes go a little overboard.” I’m kind of embarrassed he noticed. “You don’t have to copy all of that. The highlighted stuff is what’s really important.”

  “It’s all highlighted.…” He chuckles and rubs his hand on the back of his neck, and I find myself wishing I were his hand. “So, like…let’s just say you were only going to focus on the really, really super-important parts. You know, the stuff Mrs. Patel would probably put on a test. What might those be?” He leans over me, holding my notebook, glancing at the paper and then at me. “Think you could help me figure that out?”

  And then he adds, “You’re just really good at this, Charlie.”

  “Oh, um, s-sure,” I stammer, feeling heat creep up my neck. He’s so close to me now. “She spent most of class time talking about the Boston Tea Party. Here.” I point to that section in the notes. “‘No taxation without representation.’ That was really what she lectured on, so…probably that.”

  “So focus on this,” he says, pointing his finger where I’m pointing so that our hands are touching. “And I can ignore all this other stuff?”

  That’s absolutely not what I’m saying, but his hand by my hand has me nearly breaking out in a full-on sweat. “Yes.” I look at him. “More or less.”

  His gaze meets mine and he smiles at me, dimples and all, letting the look linger a beat longer than it needs to. “Great. Really great. You’re the best, Charlie.”

  My neck and face get even hotter. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” I manage to say.

  He rises to his feet, motioning toward the notebook. “I’ll give these back to you in class, okay?”

  “Okay. No problem,” I say, and he takes the notebook and goes to sit back down at his table.

  Did we just…have a moment?

  Kind of felt like a moment.

  See? This is why my insides get all jumbled like a bunch of weird emojis strung together whenever he’s around. Screaming face, lady in the tub, hospital, screaming face, heart.

  I keep finding myself glancing over at him and smiling as he copies down the notes. I need to do something to stop looking so goofy, and I decide I’ll double-check my math homework—until I realize that my math homework, due next period, is in that notebook. Which Cal isn’t going to give back to me until after lunch.

  Well, shit.

  Amelia interrupts my panic by plopping in the seat next to me.

  “Mr. O’Donnell is an ass!” she says, not bothering to speak quietly. The librarian looks over and shushes us, but Amelia ignores her and shoves her biology test in my face. There’s a 68 at the top of it.

  “Oh, no,” I say, frowning. “I’m so sorry, Amelia. What happened?”

  “He’s a terrible teacher, that’s what happened. It’s all memorization, and I hate it!” She sighs, then shoves the test in her bag. “Whatever. I’ll do some stupid extra credit and be fine. Anyway. Hi. How are you?”

  “I’m great. Cal and I just kind of had a moment,” I whisper. I try to be nonchalant, but I’m sure I sound super excited. True, I don’t typically like for us to dwell on how pathetic my love life is, but could I really not share this with my best friend?!

  “Oh, yeah?” Amelia is humoring me. “What’d he want?”

  “To talk,” I say casually. Well. Kinda casually.

  “To talk, huh?” Amelia asks, and it bothers me a little that there’s a hint of skepticism in her voice—likely directed at Cal’s intentions, but still.

  “Yeah, to talk,” I repeat. Then I pause. “And to borrow my history notes.”

  She gives me a look. “Of course.” And that stings a bit. As if Cal couldn’t ever possibly talk to me unless he wants something. “Why do you even let him see your notes?”

  “I let you see my notes all the time.”

  “I’m your best friend! Cal is just a slacker. He doesn’t deserve your kindness.”

  I decide not to tell her about how our hands touched.

  “Yeah, well. He’s cute. And he seemed really appreciative this time.” I shrug. “But I just realized my math homework is in that notebook. And he’s not going to give it back to me until history class, so…”

  “So? Go over there and get it back!”

  I just blink at her. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” she asks.

  “I’m not good with confrontation.”

  “Not sure this counts as that, but fine. I’ll do it.” Without a second thought, Amelia waltzes right over to Cal, who looks up and shoots her that dazzling smile of his.

  “What can I do for you, boo?” Cal asks, eliciting an eye roll from Amelia.

  Did he really just call her boo? My stomach drops.

  “Not your boo. And I need Charlie’s notebook back. Her homework is in there.” She reaches for it. Cal uses the opportunity to slip his hand into hers.

  “Moving a little fast, aren’t we?” he asks with a grin.

  She yanks her hand away from his. “Ugh. Give it.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “I’ll consider not breaking your hand off and using your own middle finger to flip you the bird.”

  A smirk from Cal as he hands her the notebook. “You’re coming around to me.”

  “Not even a little,” Amelia says, walking back to our table. Cal watches her go.

  She plops the notebook down in front of me. “Thanks,” I say, a little more curtly than I intend. I try to push my irrational jealousy aside and focus on ripping my homework out. Amelia holds out a hand, a silent offer to return the rest of the notes to Cal.

  I sniff. “I can do it.” She shrugs, so I turn and walk over to him and smile. “Hey, Cal. Sorry about that,” I say, making my voice so
ft. “Here you go.”

  “Finally. Someone who treats me right,” Cal says flirtatiously.

  It makes me feel good, until I notice that he’s not actually looking at me; he’s still looking over at Amelia. I sigh, walk back to my seat, and wish I were her.

  Chapter Three

  Sometimes being at work is a nice retreat from my life.

  I don’t do anything particularly exciting—mostly filing, sorting mail, scheduling meetings, that kind of thing—but I actually find the work oddly soothing. There’s something rewarding about organizing, about anticipating others’ needs. The group of people I work with are great, too. It’s mostly women—even the big boss, Nancy—although many of the higher positions belong to men (of course).

  Even though sixteen-year-old-me is the baby by a lot, almost everyone treats me with respect and appreciates what I do. It’s nice. Here, I can just be good at my job, and not worry so much about whether I’m cute or pretty or thin or popular or any of those things I wish I didn’t worry about but do.

  Nancy—who launched this company on her own and made it a success—has even told me she sees potential in me, so she’s always trying to give me jobs with more responsibility. Whenever Sheryl is out, Nancy asks me to sit at her desk and answer phones. Nancy also knows I like to write, so sometimes she tasks me with writing projects, too. I can’t help but like her.

  I don’t like Sheryl, who’s always really snotty and makes passive-aggressive comments about me sitting at her desk when she’s not in, but it’s like, if you weren’t out so much, I wouldn’t be in your space.

  Then there’s Tish and Dora and Tammy, and they’re really, really sweet. They ask me about school and my home life and they think I’m cool even though I’m absolutely not. That’s nice, too.

  “Any big plans for the weekend?” Dora asks as I’m doing some filing. She asks me this every week. And every week, I make something up so that I sound more interesting than I am. I feel a little bad about it, but less bad than I’d feel admitting I mostly do nothing with no one.

  “Probably going to the movies with my friends,” I say.

  “Will that boy you like be there?” Dora thinks things with Cal have progressed into us hanging out. I may have implied that once, and now there’s no going back.

  “Yes! He’ll probably be there. It should be fun,” I lie. “What about you?”

  “I’m taking the boys go-kart racing.” Dora has seven-year-old twins who she says keep her on her toes.

  “You’re going go-kart racing?!”

  Dora laughs. “No, no. Not me. I’ll be watching from the sidelines. Just the boys. And my husband, of course. He’ll be riding.”

  For some reason, the idea of her husband go-karting with the kids while Dora watches from the sidelines makes me sad. She’s fat like me, and I can’t help but think that’s what makes her unwilling to ride. It sounds like something I’d do, hanging back because I’m too scared that the seat belt won’t buckle or something.

  “You should do it with them,” I say. “I think the boys would like that.”

  “Oh, no.” Dora laughs again. “I’m too old for that.” But she’s conveniently ignoring the fact that her husband is even older.

  “Charlie?” Nancy calls from her office.

  I hurry over. “Hi, Nance. What can I help you with?”

  “Dave needs some help preparing packages for a big shipment to St. Francis. Think you’re up for it?” she asks, with a look in her eye that shows she already knows I’ll say yes. Nancy, all of five feet tall, with piercing brown eyes and cinnamon-colored hair that’s been cut into a blunt bob, is as commanding and assured as she is kind and soft-spoken—a pretty badass combination, if you ask me.

  I smile at her. “Yeah, I think I could do that.” I’ve been asked to do this kind of thing before, so I walk back to the warehouse, where Dave is already waiting. Dave is nice, but sometimes he thinks he’s more important than he is. He’s Nancy’s son, so he kind of feels like he’s the boss of everyone, despite Nancy making it very clear that he’s not.

  “Hey, little lady,” Dave says.

  Oh, yeah. And he calls me little lady.

  “Hey, Dave. Your mom said you need help out here?” I like to remind him that we all know he’s related to Nancy.

  “Yes. Over there. I need you to help Brian pack and organize a few shipments,” Dave says, pointing at a young guy—who, apparently, I’m supposed to know is Brian—before disappearing into his office.

  As I get closer to Brian, I realize I do actually know him.

  He’s in my art class. He’s one of those people I’ve gone to school with for a while and know of but don’t really know. I had no idea he even worked here.

  But when you go to the same school in the same town with the same people in the same corner of Connecticut for your whole life, you tend to have at least some opinion about everybody. So if you asked me about Brian, I would probably say he’s quiet, nice, a little nerdy, and pretty cute (because hello, I’m not blind). He’s stocky, with a bit of a belly, and tall—like, maybe even a good six inches taller than me—which is never a bad thing.

  “Hi,” I say, adjusting my glasses. Being around boys tends to make me nervous, especially if they’re good-looking.

  Brian looks up from the paperwork he’s reading and smiles, and suddenly he’s even cuter. He’s got high cheekbones, his grin is a little crooked, and his dark eyes crinkle at the corners. My stomach does a little whirly-loop because I’m a hormonal teenager and this guy is looking right at me as if he’s known me forever and already thinks I’m great.

  “Hey,” he says, holding out a hand. “Charlie, right?”

  We shake hands. He has a nice handshake—firm, but he’s not squeezing my fingers to pulp like a lot of dudes do.

  “Yeah, hi. I think we both go to George Washington High,” I say, even though I know we do.

  “Yes! Same art class. I’m Brian Park.”

  “That’s a good name.”

  He laughs at that. “Is it?”

  “Yeah. Names are one of those things you have no control over, but they can change everything. Imagine being, like, Atticus Mortimer the Third? You’re rich, even if you’re not. That’s just how it is.”

  Thankfully, Brian’s nodding as I talk. “Okay, sure. Like, if you were named Clarence McConkey, maybe life’s not so great for you.”

  “Exactly! There’s nothing technically wrong with the name Clarence McConkey, but people probably have feelings about it. I mean…yikes.” I realize this conversation has probably gone on way longer than it should, but I spend a ton of time thinking about names. When you’re writing, you’re always trying to come up with the perfect names for your characters, and maybe I get a little carried away sometimes. Shrug emoji. “Anyway. Packages?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Packages. We’re grouping six small ones with each of these large ones. You take the small, I’ll take the big?”

  I’d normally want to argue about it. I’m no weakling just because I’m a girl, but the boxes are big, and I notice that Brian’s muscular arms could handle them with ease. He’s husky, you know? Like he could be a football player. He isn’t, but I’m just saying. He’s really not bad to look at.

  I smile and agree, and we get to work.

  “How long have you worked here?” I ask as we sort.

  “Just started this semester. I found the job through the guidance counselor at school. I like it so far. Pretty painless. What about you?”

  “I started in the fall. I like it, too. Everyone’s really nice.” As I talk, I shift boxes. “I just wish I had a clue what they actually make.”

  Brian laughs. “You neither? That makes me feel a little better. It’s stuff for hospitals, that’s all I know. I’m not out here trying to become a doctor, obviously.”

  “Same here. No thanks. I have a hard enough time thinking about how I’ll have to dissect a frog in bio.” I pretend to gag.

  “Who was it that decided disse
ction would be a useful skill to have? Cool, I have no idea how loans work and I’d love to learn more about that whole ‘401K’ thing, but yeah, let’s dig into this frog!”

  I laugh at that. He’s totally right, and I’m pleased with how easy our conversation is as we work. Before I know it, we’re done. I check my watch (an activity tracker that my mom bought for me so she can track my steps) and realize it’s almost time to go.

  “All set?” I ask.

  “All set. Man, that went way faster with your help,” Brian says, looking over at me. Then he chuckles. “Oh. You’ve got a little something.” He points at his forehead. I rub mine with my sleeve.

  “Did I get it?” I ask, feeling embarrassed.

  “You got it. Happens to me all the time,” Brian says. “It’s dirty back here. Sorry you had to help while wearing your nice clothes.”

  I feel a smile involuntarily tug at my lips. I like that he thinks my clothes are nice. “It’s no problem. Glad I could be helpful.” I turn to leave. “See you in…art class, right?” I pretend I’m not sure he’s in my art class even though I know he totally is.

  Brian smiles at me. “Yeah! I’ll definitely see you in art class, Charlie. Thanks again.”

  When I get home, my mom’s car is missing from the driveway. Small miracles. Inside, on the kitchen counter, there’s a note that just says Enjoy. It’s propped up on a meal-replacement shake, and suddenly my good mood dissipates.

  My mom swears by these shakes. They’re what got her thin, she says to anyone who’ll listen. She loves them so much that she’s become a consultant for the company, and now she sells them on Facebook as part of what’s definitely not a pyramid scheme (it’s a pyramid scheme).

  For a while now, she’s been trying to get me to drink them, too. She tells me if I just replace one meal a day with them, I can really start to see some results on my body—my unruly body that needs to be controlled, I guess—and I can finally start living. Like it’s impossible for me to live now in this body I have.