The Jock and the Fat Chick (3 page)

The second she’s finished, the two stoners want Claire’s attention. One of them holds up a glob of pasta all stuck together at one end.

Claire turns to me. “Turn the fish over and add another ladle of broth to the risotto,” she instructs, and I hop to it, like it was an order from Coach. Whatever she’s making, it smells good.

“Oh my god,” Rat’s-Nest Girl says to her partner. “You added too much chili powder. It’s gross. Claire,” she pleads. “Help. Now.”

Claire glances at the door, like she’s calculating her chances at getting caught. She goes for it, hurrying across the room. She tastes, pauses, then adds a tablespoon of what I think is sugar and a squeeze of lemon. “Stir,” she says, and jogs back to our station.

“Thank you!” Rat’s-Nest Girl shouts.

“My pleasure,” she replies, and takes the wooden spoon from my hand. Have I overstirred? Meh, it doesn’t matter. I’m happy to step back and make room for the Jedi master.

When Mrs. A returns I can’t help but picture her in the parking lot, puffing on a smoke. I chuckle. Wait till I tell the guys. Whoa, wait. I can’t do that. They’ll want to know how I know, and when they find out it’s because I failed an easy gym assignment and have to take dom tech for extra credit, it’ll be wolves-on-a-bunny time. Everyone knows cooking and sewing classes are for girls, and trust me, you don’t want to be in the locker room and have the guys razz you for your ladylike qualities.

“Ten more minutes,” Mrs. A announces.

Claire tastes the rice. “Okay, remove the halibut and cut it into small bits.”

I use tongs to pick up the fish and half of it breaks and falls back into the pan. Guess I should have used the spatula. Anyway, I place both pieces onto the wooden cutting board, and from the drawer, I grab a big-ass knife, confident I’ve got this. If she wants small bits, I’ll give her small bits. I start chopping the fish, attacking it from all different angles.

Claire gasps and I stop. Now what?

She steps closer, examining my work. “Ew. Cut with the meat’s natural grain, Hacky McHackster.”

“Natural grain?”

She takes the knife from my hand and uses the blade’s tip, showing me how to do it. “See how it flakes apart?”

Mrs. A wanders over as Claire flakes. I stand back.

“Claire,” Mrs. A says, and I detect a hint of irritation
in her voice. I guess it’s possible to upset her. “You’re being graded as partners. You need to give Kevin a chance to participate.”

Claire sets down the knife and swivels the handle so it points toward me. “Sorry.”

Even though I haven’t done much other than stir and hack, I step to my teammate’s defense. “I’ve been helping,” I say.

“Oh?” Mrs. A replies. “And what are we making today, Kevin?”

I tell her, “Rice and fish,” and say it without hesitating, so it sounds like I know what we’re doing.

Claire bows her head and slumps. “Wild mushroom and halibut risotto,” she mumbles, and I hear a penalty buzzer in my head go
ERRRNNNNTT!
Game over.

Mrs. A smiles to say she’s made her point about sharing the workload. She walks off to inspect another group.

Things turn quiet and serious. Claire adds another glob of butter to the rice, or whatever she calls it, and I continue “flaking.”

“Listen,” she murmurs in a voice so low I have to bend to hear. “I’m just going to come out and say it. The reason Mrs. A put you with me is because I’m good at this and, well, . . . you’re a lost cause.”

My spine straightens.

“You’re not the first guy forced to take this class and
think it was easy, and Mrs. A always sticks the temps with me, and I have to take it without complaining, so I can maintain my A. It’s not fair, because it makes my job ten times harder.”

I stand there like a giant dummy too stumped for words.

She sighs. “But at least you’re nice and not a jerk about it.”

It takes a second for what she’s saying to sink in. She’s basically calling me a charity case.

“So, I want to propose a deal.”

I raise an eyebrow, letting her know I’m listening, but I’m not sure where she’s going with this.

“I tell you what to do and say around Mrs. A, and that way I keep my A and you can pass this class.”

I consider Claire’s offer. On the one hand, I don’t like her calling me a dumb jock. On the other, she’s amazingly good at cooking and needs to keep her grades high, which means if I do what she says, I’ll pass too. I’ve got nothing to lose, so I nod.

“Okay,” I say.

She gives me this big warm smile, like I’ve made her day. “Good.” She motions to the fish. “Keep flaking.”

I respond with a “Yes, Coach,” as a lighthearted way of sealing our deal.

When I’m done flaking, Claire adds the fish to the thick rice mixture and then stirs, making my mouth water. It
looks and smells incredible. There must be a million grams of carbs in there. If I ate all that, I’d slip into a carb coma.

Claire pulls a large wooden spoon from the drawer and then offers it to me. “Want to taste?”

She’s surprised when I shake my head, like I have no clue what I’ve turned down.

“Ugh,” she says. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those carb-counting gym rats.”

I make a face. “I hate the term ‘gym rat’; it makes me sound greasy.”

“True.” Claire sizes me up and then adds, “And you’re definitely not greasy.”

Hey, did she just check me out?

“Okay, how’s ‘don’t tell me you’re one of those carb-counting fitness bunnies’?”

I grunt, amused.

“I bet you work out twice a day,” she goes on, stirring the risotto, “and you eat nothing but skinless chicken and steamed broccoli.”

I shrug.

She bobs her head, like she’s confirming something. “Yeah, you look like a guy who denies himself pleasure. . . .”

An unexpected rush of heat spreads across my face. “Well, if you want six-pack abs, there’s got to be sacrifices.”

Claire glances at my stomach, and even though she can’t see anything under my shirt and apron, she turns her gaze
away and smiles, big.

That was definitely a check-me-out move. For a second, I imagine what it’d be like to kiss her. If I had one ounce of Viktor’s nerve, I’d ask her to show me just what kind of pleasure she thinks I’m denying myself, but I don’t. If I’ve read her signals wrong and she isn’t playing, we’re talking disaster of epic proportions. But she is, I’m sure of it . . . I think. Claire scoops up a spoonful of her dish and then brings it to her mouth before closing her eyes. She tastes and “mmms,” and this blissful expression lights up her face. She has to be messing with me. Food can’t be that good.

“Tell Mrs. A we’re done,” she says, pulling another spoon from the drawer. She coats it before handing it to me. “And when she asks if you tasted it, say yes and you suggested more pepper.”

“Okay, Coach.”

“And remember, it’s risotto. An Italian dish.”

I nod one last time and call Mrs. A over.

“Wild mushroom and halibut risotto,” I announce, still not sure what we made. Mrs. A grabs a clean spoon. She tastes it and also closes her eyes. Now I want to know what all the fuss is about.

“Scrumptious,” Mrs. A says. “What do you think, Kevin?”

I deliver my big line. “It’s great, but I said we should add more pepper.”

Her face grows serious as she considers my point. She nods, accepting my suggestion. “Ladies,” she addresses the class. “Come try the risotto.”

The next thing I know, dozens of spoons dip into the pan and scrape along the bottom to scoop up samples. Lots of “mmms” fill the room. From where I’m standing, high on the platform towering over everyone, I’m like a fly on the wall, listening in on secret girl stuff. I do the guy thing and picture a sleepover: girls braiding one another’s hair before the big downy-filled pillow fight breaks out.

I stare at the wild, buttery, mushroom risotto and fish. I’m guessing one decent bite is roughly eighty calories? Ah heck, I can work that off by breathing. I scoop up a spoonful and try it. Multiple flavors fill my mouth. It tastes creamy even though she didn’t add cream to it. It’s good, so good I want to tell everyone to back off because the rest is mine.

I go in for seconds, even thirds. This extra credit class might just work out better than I thought.

As long as the guys don’t find out about my new girlie skills.

I’M AT SHREDS. THE LAST REP, ON THE LAST set, bench-pressing 165, which at this moment feels more like 400 pounds. I exhale and give it all I got as I raise the bar level with its cradle. Viktor stands behind me for the spot. Hands at the ready, fingers grazing the bar in case I fail and he can stop the weight from smashing into my chest. Focus, embrace the pain.

“Push it, push it, push it!” he yells. “Come on, man!
Do! It!
”

I reach deep, suck in a gulp of air, and tap into my last ounce of reserves. I exhale again and grunt like I’m crapping out a baby. The bar moves five final inches before Viktor’s got my back and guides it into the cradle.

I sit up and drag my towel across my face. That. Was. Brutal. I joke to myself, blaming the three tablespoons of wild mushroom and halibut risotto and all those simple
carbs hijacking my blood sugar and causing a preworkout crash. It’s untrue, I know, but it gets me thinking about Claire, and I smile.

I wipe the bench down, so Viktor can have a turn, but he’s too busy staring into one of the mirror-covered walls. He’s checking out some girl using the lats pull-down machine. It’s not the amount she’s lifting he’s focusing on, but her form. The lats machine, when done right, makes your chest and butt stick out, and when girls do it, it superemphasizes their curves.

I swat Viktor with my towel to snap him out of it. He lies down on the bench, puts on his game face, and reaches for the weights. I stand behind him for the spot. Of all the guys, Viktor’s the only one I can count on to push me to my physical limits. It’s because we’re both focused on hockey scholarships—me to Michigan State and Viktor to whomever will take him so he can be a coach or a teacher. Of course, both of us would love to play pro but agree that’s a one-in-a-million long shot, and backup plans are essential.

Viktor’s facial muscles tense as I count reps.

“Breathe,” I say. “Or you’ll get ’roids.” He exhales the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

I met Viktor four years ago at hockey camp when he moved from Baltimore. We bonded after discovering both our dads split—mine never came back, his for another woman. We could relate to having single moms and being
the man of the house. When high school started we continued hanging out. Viktor rose through the ranks fast. He’s this intense-eyed, square-jawed blond Russian with a dangerous smile, and he took me along on his ride to popular town. I didn’t mind. In junior high I was a science and math geek who was good at hockey. Now I got a whole new life.

I push him to fight one last rep before we call it a day. It’s been a good session. I can tell by the postworkout shower. When I can’t raise a palmful of shampoo over my head to wash my hair because my lats, traps, and tris won’t let me, I’ve done something right. I bend my head to meet my hand because all of me hurts, bad. I finish, towel off, and change into street clothes. It takes Viktor longer to get dressed, because his phone buzzes nonstop. Each time he reads his messages, he smiles before texting back.

I give him a “’Sup?”

“Alyssa,” he says, but he emphasizes each syllable so it sounds like “A-lysss-sa.” Leave it to Viktor to work his way to the new girl. I’m surprised it took him this long.

“She’s at the mall and wants us to meet up with her and Missy.”

I shake my head. “Count me out.”

“What? Missy has the hots for you.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

Viktor cocks his head to one side. “You into dudes or something? Because it’s fine if you are . . . I’m just sayin’.”

I lob my wet towel at him. He dodges it.

“Come on. You gotta come. You know how girls are. They travel in packs, and I can’t get to Alyssa if you’re not there to help thin the herd.”

I soak my words in sarcasm. “Oh, well, in that case, I
really
want to go now. Why don’t you call Dino—he’ll do it.”

Viktor scrunches up his face. “There won’t be any pink-haired, cat-eye glasses–wearing chicks there.”

“Then call Armpit.”

“No way! You know what he’s like around girls.” Viktor’s jaw goes slack in a “duh” expression. It’s an unfortunate but accurate depiction. I wonder if that’s me when I’m around Claire.

“Come on, Kev. I’ll spring for protein shakes.”

Now he’s got my attention. “Extra large with a booster?”

He sighs. “Yes. Extra large with a booster, pig.”

I laugh.

Viktor parks his car, and we cut across the lot toward the Center Town Mall. When we don’t see the girls right away, we head for Juice Extreme. I’m about to order my usual Protein Master, but remember what Coach said about eating more vegetables. I scan the menu and end up getting something called the Veg Blast—beets, cucumbers, spinach, garlic, ginger, carrots, celery, and kale—and adding an extra vitamin C boost. It doesn’t sound great, but I’m sick
of powdered drinks. There’s only so much you can do with mocha, chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, and peanut butter flavors. Yesterday, my meal tasted like banana and vanilla cake batter. Great once in a while, but gross three times a day.

The employee starts shoving half a dozen vegetables through an industrial-sized juicer, which grinds and fills my cup with muddy, greenish brown–looking liquid. When it reaches the brim, he powers off the machine, and the motor whirls to a stop. He snaps a plastic lid onto my drink and hands it over.

Viktor points and laughs. “Where’re your socks with sandals?”

“Yeah, you’re just jealous. I happen to have a more sophisticated palate than you.”

He keeps laughing, and a hint of glee fills his eyes as he waits for me to insert my straw and take a sip. I put on my best poker face, so no matter how it goes down, he can’t get the better of me. Liquid resembling dirt and warm front lawn hits the back of my throat. It’s awful, like spit-take awful, but I don’t flinch. I remind myself that food is nothing more than fuel, and this is premium gas.

Viktor spots Alyssa and Missy in line at the Fry Palace across the food court. We head over, and I stop midstep when I recognize the girl behind the counter. She’s the anime T-shirt girl—Zoë’s friend on the running track—who
had asked Claire for help; I believe it was with the spaghetti meal. In her spud-colored Fry Palace dress shirt and her hair smushed under her hairnet, she quickly sizes Viktor and me up. I can tell she knows who we are because she looks at me, then away, fast, acting like we don’t know each other or go to the same school. Her name tag reads “Ruby.”

Viktor comes up behind Alyssa and Missy and rests his hands on their shoulders, so they turn around.

Alyssa’s face lights up, and she flicks her long, straight black hair to one side, so she can run her hand down the length of Viktor’s arm, from shoulder to wrist. Missy smiles at me, big, and I nod back before pretending there’s someone I know across the food court. I don’t want her to do the same arm-thing to me.

Ruby slides a tray containing two colas and two large cups of chunky-cut fries toward the girls.

Viktor stares at the tray. In a playful voice he says, “What? Come on, those cups are barely full. . . .”

Ninety-five percent of the time Viktor is the coolest guy I know, but there are moments like this when he thinks he’s charming, but he’s not. He sounds, I dunno, smug? What he also doesn’t know is that the difference between Ruby working here and me working alongside her is that my mom insists I concentrate on my grades and not work. I need to get a scholarship.

Ruby walks back to the fry bin with their order.

Viktor adds, “Pretend you’re packing them for yourself.” The girls giggle.

I raise my drink up to my mouth and mumble, “You better hope she doesn’t spit in those.”

Viktor shoots me a challenging look that would normally have us trading shots and horsing around, but he keeps his mouth shut, probably because of A-lysss-sa.

We grab a table for four in front of Al’s Sports Outlet. Viktor and Alyssa yap about school and gossip about other kids. She picks at her fries, grabbing one to wave around before setting it down again. Missy eats like she’s in a contest, shoving food in her mouth with the heel of her hand.

“I have a high metabolism,” she says, gazing up at me, like she’s reading my mind.

I feign interest by grunting. I don’t want to be a jerk, but I also don’t want to lead her on. It’s like walking a tightrope.

She continues, “My dad says I eat like a long-haul trucker. I can have two burgers, large fries, an apple pie, and a shake every day and still not gain an ounce.” She shoves five fries into her mouth to prove it. Wow. I’ve never met a girl with a bottomless gut just like mine. Impressive. I remember eating like that—anything and everything—but now that I’ve got my diet straightened out, Coach is on my case.

“That’s because you’re a bitch,” Alyssa jokes, and they start laughing.

Viktor takes one of Alyssa’s fries and eats it as he stares
into her eyes. She falls for his charms, dropping her gaze and acting all shy. Man, how does he know when to do that?

Missy offers her fry cup to me.

“Want one?” Her eyes widen in hopes that I do.

I point to my drink and swirl it around, as if to say,
No thanks, I’m happy with this.
I suck back the rest, finishing it. The garlic, ginger, and other veggies start to kick in, giving me a boost of warmth and energy. I like it. I wonder how many calories were in this; maybe two hundred? I’ll have to eat something else when I get home. The thought of a sickly sweet vanilla-strawberry protein bar actually turns my stomach.

Missy finishes her fries, wipes her hands on her paper napkin, then tucks her hair behind both ears. She leans forward, so her torso rests against the edge of the table. She stares, smiling.

I purse my lips tight and smile back. She’s nice, but why does she have to like me?

“So?” she says.

“So,” I echo back.

She grabs a clean napkin and starts creasing it, flipping it over and making folds. When she’s done she presents a paper crane.

“Cool.”

“Thanks.” She motions to my empty cup. “That looks gross.”

I nod. “I find eau du front lawn to be an acquired taste.”

She laughs, and it gets weirdly quiet between us, the same way it does before people make out. I lean back in my seat and stare at all the shoes in Al’s display window. I try to think of a random thing to say, but my mind goes blank. Every second of silence feels like I’m giving Missy the signal that I like her. My knee hammers. I should never have agreed to this. Coming here was a bad idea. Ugh, Alyssa’s barely touched her fries. She’s stalling.

What I’m about to do next is rotten, especially when Viktor asked for help, but if I stay a second longer, I’m going to bolt, screaming. Besides, he doesn’t need me. I reach for my pocket, faking like I got a text and pull out my phone. I pretend to read a message, one so important I rise from my chair.

Viktor glances up, and I hand him a few small bills for the protein drink. I know he said he was buying, but I feel sorta guilty. “Yo, can’t stay. I gotta split. That’s for the drink.”

He stares at the money, then me. “What?” he says, and I can tell he’s caught off guard. So much for him playing it cool. “Where are you going, man?”

I hold up my phone and play the one card he can’t argue with. “My mom needs me.” Yeah, it’s a lie, and before he thinks of a comeback, I walk backward, waving bye-bye as I head for the exit. Maybe this’ll be enough of a hint to him
and Missy that I’m not interested? Also, Viktor can deal. He’s always dishing advice on how to get girls to me and the guys. Besides, it’s not like I’ve left Alyssa and Missy with Armpit.

The second I’m outside I remember I left my sweaty gym clothes in his car. I shrug it off. It’s only a two-mile walk to my place, and I can run that no probs if I had to.

I trudge along Main Street, and an unseasonably icy, whistling wind smacks me in the face, so I zip up my jacket. I shove my hands into my pockets just as my phone vibrates. I pull it out. It’s a text from Viktor.

Dude!

I stop in front of a restaurant to text back
Sorry, dude
and then press send as the door to a fancy dining place opens and a dozen people spill onto the sidewalk. They box me between them and the restaurant’s window. Since I’m stuck and I can’t go around without walking onto the street, I make myself useful and hold the door, so the exit line hurries. They gather in a circle, chatting, oblivious to everything. Before I let go of the handle, I glance inside the restaurant and what I see causes a happy jolt through my body. It’s Coach Claire. Beside her is some chef guy with a head of wild hair, and they’re talking to a round table of diners. The chef guy slides his arm around Claire and kisses her on the head. What? The guy’s old enough to be her dad. Someone at the table says something hilarious, because everyone cracks up laughing. Claire squeezes the chef guy’s
arm, and I notice how similar their smiles are. That has to be her dad. Huh, no wonder the girl can cook—her old man’s a chef.

By the time I get home, Mom’s awake. She’s parked on the living room couch, sipping coffee and watching TV with Buddy by her feet. The blue light from the screen bounces off her face, making her already pale skin and dark under-eye circles look even worse, like a vampire who sleeps in a deep freezer.

“Hey, Mom.”

She mutes the TV. “Hey, darlin’. How’s your day?”

“Good.” I sit on the armrest and reach down to pet Buddy. His tail thumps. I remember a time when the ol’ Budster was my number one running partner. Every day at 6:00 a.m. he’d jump on my bed, holding the leash in his mouth. Now he gets winded making it across the living room. Poor guy.

“Can you do me a favor tomorrow?” Mom asks. “Drop by the post office and mail those bills on the counter?”

I glance at the envelopes. “I can show you how to pay them online if you want.”

“No,” she says with chuckle, “I’m too old for that.”

I shake my head, letting her know what I think of her “I’m too old” routine. She should leave the house more, go on a few dates and have some fun. I wander to the fridge
for something to eat. After Claire’s amazing risotto, and the energy I got from the veggie drink, I want something that’s not a protein bar or gel. I open the door—ketchup, mustard, bread, a jar of olives (gross), and Mom’s diet cola.