Good Luck, Fatty

people? “I’m not really used to compliments,” I say. “Sorry.”
    “Yeah, I figured. That explains why…”
    I feel like I’m on one of those reality TV shows, where the friends and family of some disturbed soul (a bulimic, or a meth head, or an exercise freak, or a cutter) pop out of a closet to “intervene” in their shitty lives. “Why I let so many trolls screw me, you mean?”
    Tom winces. “You’re better than that.”
    “How would you know?”
    “I’m not trying to be an asshole,” he says, shaking his head, “but somebody has to…”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “What if somebody wanted to ask you out?”
    I shimmy to the edge of the sofa, preparing for a speedy getaway. “What if?”
    “You’re not very approachable.”
    Gee, really? “That’s the point.”
    “I like you,” he says bluntly.
    Every muscle in my body freezes. I think I might like him too. I can’t afford to like him. “Oh.”
    “Do you want to go out?”
    Just like that? He’s proposing a boyfriend/girlfriend situation?
    Just.
    Like.
    That.
    Suddenly I want to puke. “Um…” My leg starts doing this jumpy, twitchy move that’s totally out of control.
    “It’s no big deal,” he says.
    To him, maybe. I’d figured I’d breeze through the rest of high school getting screwed every couple of days, sucking down Milky Ways (already a shattered dream), and avoiding all possible scenarios that would expose my heart.
    I shrug. “I didn’t think… I mean, don’t you want…?”
    He squeezes up next to me, pushes his face to within inches of mine. “I want to know if you’ll go out with me,” he murmurs. And then he kisses me, for the second time.
    With all the screwing I’ve done, you’d think a simple kiss—the soft, wet meeting of lips and tongues—would be inconsequential. Pedestrian. Mundane. Instead, it’s monumental. Erotic. So exhilarating I have no choice but to reciprocate. “Yes,” I agree between breaths and (is this really happening?) more kissing.
    Tom moves his hands over my hips, and I cringe. A smidgen more upward motion and he’ll be wallowing in blubber. I coax one of his hands toward my boob and the other toward the crease of my thigh, territories that have got their fair share of mileage.
    But he resists. “Not yet,” he says, pulling his hands and lips away. “There’s plenty of time.”
    I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Tom Cantwell likes me. A lot, apparently. And not just for a screw.
    Dear God, what have I done?  
     

----
     
    I’ve spent years ignoring bullies, a skill I’ve honed to a prickly point. But every now and then, a vicious verbal barb or a purposeful kick to the back of my ankle (accompanied by a rash of giggles and an insincere “sorry”) cracks its way through my hard candy-shell.
    Today is one of those days.
    I whip around in the hall following a blatant shove of my shoulder, by what felt like a feminine hand. “What the…?”
    It is a girl. Sort of. A quasi-butch chick, androgynously named Dana. Her hair is gelled and spiky, but she sports a pink headband with a poufy fake flower pushed off to one side. Her face reminds me of Abraham Lincoln.
    “Problem?” she says in a menacing tone. I stare at her, debating whether a confrontation is worth the trouble. She crosses her arms over her flat chest and takes a cowboy stance, creating a human median that divides the flow of students on their way to their third-period classes. “Huh?” she demands.
    A face peeks over Dana’s shoulder. It’s one of her best buds, Melissa (a.k.a. Brent Flynn’s girlfriend).
    “Keep your hands to yourself,” I say flatly.
    Dana cracks her knuckles, as if we’re in our own little version of West Side Story. I can’t help laughing. “Something funny?” she says.
    I face forward again, take a step. “Comical, actually.”
    “We know what you’re doing,” Melissa’s quivery squeak of a voice says from Dana’s side, “and you better stop.”
    This is the closest anyone has ever come to outing me. Like I said, the rumors about my sexual “openness” have been floating around for a while, and they’ve been roundly dismissed (by the girls at school, at least). The boys, of course, know better. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” As soon as I say the words, I realize I should’ve kept my big yap shut.
    I start to walk away, but Dana grabs my backpack and stops me. “You want to be left alone?” she asks. I’m sure she’s being