Good Luck, Fatty

it’s hard to believe that Orv is only a few years older than me, or that his mother was Marie’s sister (Marie’s big sister and only sibling, who died in a car wreck when Orv was seven). “All right,” I say with a sigh.
    Orv runs his palms over his thighs, leaving grease smears on his jeans. “Everything okay, Bobbi-Jo?” he quietly asks.
    There is not one particular secret that has me on edge around Orv and Denise lately. It’s more like a combination of secrets (the screwing; the boyfriend; the potential bun in the oven) that’s added up to a clandestine life I’m afraid of exposing. “Sure,” I say. “Not a whole lot going on.”
    I check Orv’s eyes, but I can’t tell if he believes me. “Two o’clock,” he repeats. Then he goes back to hammering, and I pedal away.
     

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    When I get to Tom’s, I toss the Schwinn on his golf course-green lawn and parade up the steps, where I jab the bullfrog doorbell—which suddenly appears to be sneering at me—in the gut.
    No one answers right away, so I start rapping on the door, my heart jumping to my throat in anticipation of the showdown about to erupt between me and my first-ever boyfriend.I know about heart ache from the years I spent missing Marie and Duncan, but not the kind of heart break I feel coming now.
     I try the bell again (smartass frog!! take that!! and that!!), and finally the door creaks open on Wilma, looking drunk or hung-over or just plain sleep-deprived. “What?” she croaks, one of the old lady curlers she’s done up in dangling loosely about her shoulder.
    A wad of saliva clings to my throat. I gulp it down and ask, “Is Tom here?”
    Wilma is maybe all of thirty-five, but you’d never guess it by her tanned hide, clownish makeup, and persistent stupor. “What for?” she says, eyeing me suspiciously.
    Great. Now I’m going to have to explain this mess to Tom’s stepmother. Or lie. “He borrowed my calculator,” I say, surprising myself. “I need it back.”
    “Just a minute,” she mutters as she shuts the door in my face.
    One Mississippi…two Mississippi…
    …forty-four Mississippi…
    ...eighty-eight Mississippi…
    The door snaps back open and Wilma, appearing somehow brighter than a minute and a half ago, shoves one of those freebie bank calculators (it says Blue Ridge Savings right on the front) at me. “This it?”
    “Uh…” I shake my head.
    “Then we ain’t got it.”
    “What about Tom? Can’t I ask him?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    Why doesn’t she think so? “But I’ve got homework,” I say.
    “Hang on.” Again, the door shuts in my face.
    The next thing I know, Wilma’s bony arm darts outside and thrusts a crinkled ten-dollar bill into my hand. “That’s all I got.”
    “I don’t want money,” I complain, although I could put the windfall toward a pregnancy test. “I just wanna see Tom.” There. She’s made me say it. I hope she’s happy.
    “Tom?” she repeats, as if it’s the first time she’s hearing of him.
    I just stand there dumbfounded, the money softening in my sweaty palm.
    “Tommy ain’t allowed to date,” she tells me, “’til he’s eighteen.”
    I guess I’m not the only one fibbing, since Tom has had two other girlfriends before me. Then again, I can’t be sure if he’s lied to Wilma or she’s lying to me. “Okay…?” I say, confused by the conversation we’re having.
    Wilma squeezes out onto the porch, forcing my backside against the wrought iron railing. In the sunlight, she looks like a prisoner emerging from long-term isolation. “Listen, sweetheart,” she says, clapping a brittle hand over my shoulder, “Tommy’s not the boy for you. There must be plenty of other young men out there for you to work your charms on, if you get my meaning.” She shoots me a smirk that exposes her yellowed teeth and suggests she and I are not so dissimilar.
    “I just want to talk to Tom,” I say, holding strong against the tears that are pressing into my eyes.
    “Forget about it.”
    “Does he know you’re doing this?”
    She shakes her head in the way folks do when they find something pitiful. “You’re in over your head here, sweetheart,” she says, a bullet of spit nailing me in the neck. “And you ain’t gonna bring Tommy down with you. We’ll see to that.”
    I wouldn’t take this smackdown from another kid, but Wilma has me tongue-tied. “Fine,” I mumble as I navigate the steps cockeyed. Wilma crosses her arms over her floral