Fat Chance, Charlie Vega Page 4

  Ms. Williams often leaves me little notes on my writing, too, asking questions, adding comments, and underlining and putting smiley faces next to her favorite lines. I love that.

  Today, though, we’re talking about The Catcher in the Rye. I don’t love that.

  “So now that we’ve finished the book, I want to hear your immediate takeaways. What did you all think?” Ms. Williams asks.

  I wait a second before raising my hand. She calls on me.

  “Honestly? I thought Holden was kind of a jerk,” I say. Ms. Williams smiles at that. “I felt he was incredibly judgmental about the world around him. He hardly gave anything a chance. And he felt like he was better than everyone. I understand he was depressed, and I want to be mindful of that, but it also sometimes felt like he was just a whiny white dude who hated people for trying to make their way in society.”

  At this, Chad, the Goody-Two-shoes who hates when race comes up, raises his hand. I know what’s coming.

  “I disagree with Charlie.” There are a few giggles, because honestly, Chad always disagrees with me. “I loved Holden. I found him incredibly sympathetic. And he’s right; it is stupid that most people try to blend in with society. I think he was relatable regardless of his skin color.”

  I try not to roll my eyes. Technically, like, US Census technical, I’m white, but I’m also Puerto Rican, and Chad’s always trying to invalidate my criticisms about race and race relations. But I don’t take the bait.

  “Holden takes a typical privileged perspective here. It’s not always possible or even safe for everyone to stand out—not when their identities are villainized, questioned, discriminated against, or attacked,” I say. “Some people need to conform rather than stand out.”

  “How can you say Holden is speaking from a place of privilege?” Chad’s face looks both annoyed and disgusted at what I’ve said. “He’s talking about embracing being an individual! That’s the least-privileged thing ever. He’s basically saying be you, whoever you are, and I agree with Holden. Anyone who chooses not to is just looking for an excuse and, yeah, is kind of a phony.”

  Before I can interject and run down the laundry list of ways in which Chad is wrong, Mrs. Williams swoops in. “Thank you, Charlie and Chad. Two fair and thoughtful perspectives. Let’s dig into this.”

  It’s an hour of literary bliss.

  As the bell rings, Ms. Williams reminds us to grab our notebooks from her desk on our way out of the classroom. When I reach for mine, she smiles at me.

  “I loved what you wrote about The House on Mango Street. I’m glad you could relate to Esperanza. She’s one of my favorites, too,” she says. “Keep up the great work.”

  I leave the class beaming.

  Outside, Amelia is waiting for me. Her first period is right next to mine, and she’s always the first out the door.

  “Why are you all smiley on this dreary day?”

  I shrug. “Just a great class.”

  “Nerrrd,” she teases.

  We start walking toward our next class. As we do, Cal passes us, surrounded by his flock of football bros. They take up more than half of the hallway—they’re all so big and muscular, I bet they could collectively pull an eighteen-wheeler without much effort. Most of the boys nod at or say hello to Amelia, and she offers polite smiles back. But Cal grins at both of us.

  “Hi, ladies! Looking beautiful today, as always!” he says.

  Amelia ignores him, but I smile big and take a step toward him instinctively. “Hi, Cal!”

  “Oh my gosh! Watch out!” Cal’s friend Tony shouts, dramatically putting an arm in front of Cal as if protecting him. Cal looks puzzled, and Tony stares at me, a smile spreading slowly across his lips. “Oh, sorry, man. Thought that was an elephant stampeding toward you.”

  You know how the movies always show moments where time seems to stop and everything goes in slow motion?

  This is kind of like that, only worse.

  Because it’s happening to me.

  I was just called an elephant in front of my crush, all of his popular friends, and my beautiful and perfect best friend.

  Some of the boys around Tony yell “Ohhhh!” and “Shit!” but most of them are just laughing, and so are a few randoms in the hall. I wish an asteroid would hit our school right now or, at the very least, that I could say something witty back, but I do something worse: I laugh, too.

  Cal frowns at Tony and says, “Come on, man,” at the same time that Amelia lunges toward him yelling, “What the fuck did you just say?!”

  I grab her arm and pull her back. “It’s fine,” I manage, even though my insides are trembling.

  “Let’s go,” Cal says, motioning with his chin toward the stairwell and signaling to his friends to get walking. He starts to move after them but then turns around. “Sorry,” he says, looking between me and Amelia. “See you in history?”

  I nod and say nothing.

  “Fuck that guy!” Amelia says, turning to me. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. It’s no big deal.” I ignore the water that’s welling in my eyes. The last thing I want to do is start crying in front of everyone.

  She shakes her head. “You’re not.”

  Through gritted teeth, I say, “I’m fine. Can we just drop it?”

  Amelia stares at me for a second and I can tell she wants to press, but she doesn’t. “Okay,” she says, relenting. “I get it.”

  Only she doesn’t. That’s the thing. She has no idea what this feels like.

  Still, I cling to the fact that Cal didn’t laugh at the joke. I guess that’s why I like him. Even though his friends make fun of me and he could easily join in, he doesn’t. He’s nice to me. Maybe that makes my standards too low, but I don’t care.

  “Babe, you want to go shopping later?” Amelia asks softly as we head into our next class. She knows that I like to shop to make myself feel better when things are bad.

  “No Sid today?” I ask. Because I’m still tense, it comes out snarkier than I intend.

  “He’s meeting up with his band. And I’d rather shop with you anyway,” she says calmly.

  “Okay. Fine. Yes,” I say. “That would be nice.”

  My insides are still jumbled, and I know that this is a moment I will probably remember, think of, and turn over in my brain again and again. But my hope is that we won’t ever talk about it. Pretend it’s fine and it will be.

  Even if I know that’s a lie.

  After school, I drive us to a nearby plaza with a few different stores. We go into Amelia’s favorite, and I look through the clothes with her, making idle chitchat about her ten-year-old sister, Tess (who annoys her, as sisters do, and keeps trying to steal from her closet).

  As I look through racks of clothes I can’t fit into, I try to stop the voice in my head that keeps replaying Tony’s comment over and over. When I fail, I give up pretending these clothes will fit and wander over to the accessories. At least I can wear a purse.

  The truth is that I’d need to be shopping at a plus-size store—or, at the very least, a store that carries a plus-size section—to buy anything. I haven’t ever really pointed this out to Amelia, and I like to think I’ve gotten pretty good at blending in during our shopping trips—here and there scoring a couple of straight-size items that run big, stocking up on so many accessories that I’m always buying something, even if it’s not clothes. It’s entirely possible that Amelia totally knows what’s up and is too polite to say anything, but I don’t necessarily live for the conversation that is Hey, I can’t shop here, can we go somewhere else?

  Amelia buys a few tops, I buy a pair of socks with little notebooks on them, and then we walk to the burger place across the way.

  “Don’t tell my mom about this,” I say once we sit down with our food.

  “Ugh. She’s so weird about eating,” Amelia says, pulling the pickles off her burger before taking a big bite. She chews for a moment before saying, “I know she lost all that weight or whatever, but she shouldn�
��t put her food issues on other people—especially not on you.”

  I nod but say nothing. Instead I think about how, when my mom was fat, she, my dad, and I used to come to this burger place all the time, especially when one of us had a bad day. My mom and I definitely don’t do that now. We barely even eat together anymore.

  “So, you know, while we’re here, I was hoping we could talk,” Amelia says.

  “Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

  “Seriously, Charlie. About earlier. Tony, he’s—”

  “Don’t.”

  “But—”

  “Please. I can’t.” My eyes plead with her: Just drop it. Don’t make me hear it again. Don’t make me say it again. Don’t make me think it again.

  She looks at me for a long time, then finally says, “I’m just sorry, then.”

  “Thanks.”

  After a few minutes of eating in silence, she speaks again. “If you’re sure you don’t want to talk about it…”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay. Then there’s something else. I could use your advice. About Sid.”

  I look at her and put my food down. I think it’s really sweet that Amelia sometimes comes to me for boy advice. And she always takes me seriously, even though I have no experience to back anything up—unless reading excessive amounts of romance books counts.

  “Of course,” I say. “What’s up?”

  “I think I’m in love,” Amelia says.

  I nearly choke on my food.

  “Really? You’re in love with Sid?” I hope the surprise shows on my face more than the disappointment. (Like I said before: Amelia is way too good for him.)

  A wistful smile overtakes her face. “Yeah. I am. He’s so sweet to me when we’re together. It’s like it’s just the two of us, you know? He trusts me and, like, isn’t even threatened by the other guys that come on to me, which is nice. And he makes me feel special without fawning over me. He’s just…amazing.”

  “And hot,” I add.

  “That helps.” She bites her lip. “But I’m not sure I should tell him I love him. I mean, we’ve only been dating for a few months. I want to, but I also think maybe I should wait for something special. Like our six-month anniversary. It’s on Valentine’s Day.”

  “That’s really cute.” It’s adorable, actually, but I still can’t stop the pang of envy in my gut. I push past it and say, “Honestly, Amelia, if you love him, I think you should be real with him. Who wouldn’t want to hear that their girlfriend loves them?”

  “But I feel like he should be the one to say something first.”

  “Says who?” I ask. “You can totally tell him you love him first.”

  “I know I can, it’s just—I don’t want to be seen as clingy or anything.” She plays with her fries. “You know what people say about girls who say they love the guy first. Dudes will ghost you or break up with you or whatever.”

  “Well, I think you have to be okay with him not saying it back right away. You have to feel good enough—strong enough—in your feelings that it’ll be okay if he needs more time.” I take her hand. “But he probably will say it right back, because how could he not love my beautiful, wonderful, amazing best friend?” She gives me a gentle smile, but I can tell I haven’t persuaded her. “Riiiight?” I prod.

  “Yeah, I mean. It’s just. There’s more, too.”

  “More than just telling him you love him?”

  She nods. “I think I’d also like to…” Amelia leans in closer to me. “You know. Sleep with him.”

  I can feel my eyes widen, though I don’t mean for them to. “Oh!”

  “It’s just that, in my head, I have it all planned out. It would be super romantic. Like, we go out to celebrate our anniversary, I finally tell him I love him, things feel really right, and then we just…have sex. It seems pretty perfect.”

  I’m nodding as she speaks, but my head is swirling—Amelia is ready to profess her love and lose her virginity and I can’t even fall in mutual like with a boy. It’s a selfish thought, I know, but it’s hard for me to deny the jealousy I’m feeling right now. I can’t even imagine having sex with someone. (I mean, I’m no prude, of course I can imagine it, but I can’t really picture me—clothes off—with another person with their clothes off.)

  “Yes, it sounds like it could be romantic,” I say tentatively.

  “But I also don’t want to build it up too much in my head or anything. I might be overthinking this. I don’t know. I don’t know!”

  She buries her head in her hands and sighs and I know that I’ve got to put my own stuff all the way aside to help. Plus, the hopeless romantic in me wants this to happen for her sake. “It honestly does sound pretty perfect, Amelia. I think if you feel ready—like, really ready, on both counts—then that’s what’s important. I don’t see a better day than your anniversary-slash-Valentine’s Day to share how you feel. It’s so perfect that it’s like, who even are you, the main character in a rom-com?”

  She laughs a little at the last part and looks up at me. “So I’m not overthinking it?”

  “Oh, you’re totally overthinking it. But you want this, right?” I ask. Amelia nods. “Okay, then. Love plus special date plus Valentine’s Day seems like a great reason to get naked.”

  She tosses a fry at me. “Damn, Charlie!”

  “I’m just saying!”

  “I hate you and I love you,” Amelia says, smiling.

  I smile back. “Hate you and love you, too.”

  Chapter Five

  “I like that it’s tropical.”

  It’s the only thing one of my classmates can think of to say when we’re critiquing my triptych in art class.

  As I recently learned, a triptych is a work of art made of three linked panels. I decided to do a beach scene, based on a photo from a trip my mom and I took awhile back. In the left panel, the day is sunny; in the middle panel, the sky looks a bit less blue; and in the right panel, I’ve got some dark clouds rolling in. I thought it was deep, but as I look at it now, I’m not so sure.

  Art class is probably my second favorite after English. I try really hard in this class, but I’m not naturally gifted. My mind is much better at visualizing my creations than my hands are at creating them. Thankfully, our teacher, Mr. Reed, is super nice and passionate about the subject and seems to recognize that you don’t need to be perfect at art to appreciate it. He’s also a tad on the dorky side, which I like. (Confession: I actually used to have a major crush on him in ninth grade.)

  But whenever we have to show off our art for critiques, I find myself wishing I had more talent.

  “Good,” Mr. Reed says, responding to the critique, even though we all know that what my classmate offered up is not quite the thoughtful response he’s looking for. “Anyone else?”

  No one budges.

  “Come on. Someone must have some thoughts, especially based on the things we’ve covered over the last few weeks.”

  “I like the difference between the left and right panels. It’s cool that the weather is different,” Amelia offers. “On one side, you have this beautiful beach, and on the other, it looks dark, maybe rainy. It could change the whole day, and the whole painting.”

  She looks at me and I nod with appreciation.

  “Excellent! Very good, Amelia. Charlie, why don’t you walk us through your thoughts?”

  “Sure. Well, Amelia was pretty spot-on; I was sort of trying to use each of the three panels to depict different moods, so if you viewed them separately you’d have a different feeling, but together they’d still work. I also kind of wanted to create this serene beach scene that is on the cusp of changing for the worst—which I realize now sounds depressing.”

  “No, no, it’s good,” Mr. Reed says. “It’s a great use of color, Charlie, and I appreciate the mood you’re conveying. For next time, let’s work a little on our shadows and ensure they’re coming from the same light source, okay? Otherwise, nice work! Now. Who wants to go next?”

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nbsp; I take that as my cue to remove my art from the easel we’re all crowded around, and as I’m bringing it back to my seat, I see Brian stand. Now that I’ve hung out with him at work, I notice him a lot more around school, and I’m curious to see his project. He puts his piece on display.

  Brian’s triptych is good. It’s more abstract than anything we’ve seen so far: it’s red and white and black, and the style is loose.

  I love it.

  “Before we have Brian say anything about the painting, let’s share some initial thoughts,” Mr. Reed says. “What do we think? How does this make us feel?”

  The first hand to shoot up belongs to Layla, one of our classmates. She’s part of a group of sophomore girls, including Bridget and Maria, who sit at Brian’s table. I’m realizing that Layla has the biggest crush on Brian, and I get it. I used to think he wasn’t much of a talker, but now I realize he only speaks when he has something to say. He waits until the perfect moment to deliver a punch line and then he’ll really get you. The guy’s hilarious, which explains why Layla and her friends spend most of the art period giggling. I can’t really judge them for getting the giggles around a boy they like.

  “With this painting, I feel like Brian is really baring his soul. I think the red reveals a bit of anger, maybe frustration. The clock—that’s representing the passage of time, like maybe he’s angry at how slowly time passes. The untied shoe…I think that’s kind of about feeling undone, and a little lost,” Layla says, looking thoughtful. She’s always measured and reflective in her critiques, often noticing things in each student’s art that might otherwise be missed. I can see exactly how she’s arrived at this analysis and would normally nod along in agreement, but because Brian and I have had a few conversations now about college and the pressure of school, I see this painting a little differently, which is part of what makes art so fun. There’s room for all interpretations.