Good Luck, Fatty

out in front of me. As I pedal along behind him, I realize that this lovely boy, a boy I don’t deserve and one who has no business being interested in a tubbo like me in the first place, just may be the fairytale. My Prince Charming. The boy of this girl’s dreams.
    Tom leads us the back way around to Bob’s Lunch, the restaurant’s lot nothing more than a double-wide driveway rearing up to a defunct dance studio and a discount commercial bakery. We prop our bikes on either side of a wobbly tree and head around the corner for the entrance, Tom’s shopping bag tucked under his arm, our fingertips brushing incidentally as we walk.
    Tom holds the door and, once we’re comfortably inside, waits for me to select the seating (a good thing, since the booths here are too slender to accommodate my inflated jellyroll).
    I pull a chair away from the nearest table and plunk down gracelessly (note to self: in the future, aim for the comportment of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis or Kate Middleton, Duchess of Cambridge).
    Tom settles opposite me, and I track that shopping bag of his as if we’re playing our own little shell game, him the streetwise huckster and me the unsuspecting tourist willing to toss away five bucks on a battle of skill and wit. I can’t bend over to check (too obvious), but I’m almost certain he’s clamped the mysterious bag between his thigh and the chair. But where will it go next?
    “They’ve got good sweet potato fries here,” he tells me, skidding a menu over the tabletop. “I’ll split ‘em with you, if you want.”
    At least he doesn’t assume I’m a hog. “Sure,” I say. I scan the menu and suggest, “Oh...and the fried pickles. We could get those.” In addition to Milky Ways, which, I’m proud to say, I haven’t ingested since the quest for Buttercup (I gave the one from Marlowe’s to Denise), it’s highly likely I’m addicted to fried pickles. Thank God, I don’t come across them too often.
    He shrugs. “All right.”
    I look around and notice that we must’ve hit Bob’s Lunch during a lull; there’s not an employee in sight. Or a customer, for that matter. “Where is everyone?”
    “I dunno,” says Tom, following my gaze.
    We languish in silence for a minute or two before I cock my head and, once again, ask, “So…what’s in the bag?”
    There really isn’t a way to describe the look that comes over Tom’s face, but if I had to put words to it, I’d say it’s a regretful pity-smile with a twist of care and hope.
    I hear plastic rustling under the table, and then something begins tapping at my knee. “Take it,” Tom says.
    I grope along my thigh until my hand finds the bag, which I draw to my lap and struggle to unknot. Meanwhile, Tom’s foot jackrabbits off the pedestal between us so forcefully that the table rocks out of line with its row. I get the bag undone and peer inside, dumbfounded by what I see. “Uh…” I manage to say, my breath caught in my throat. “I…”
    “You don’t know yet, do you?” he asks sweetly, as if the baby I might be carrying could be his.
    I shake my head, clamp my lip under my teeth and let the tears go. My period is as disappeared as Buttercup.
    Tom’s eyes gloss over as if he may cry too. “You should find out,” he tells me, “for sure.”
    I coil the bag around the pregnancy test and clear the wetness from my cheeks with my fingertips. “I will,” I say. “Thank you.”
    Before anyone from Bob’s Lunch can make an appearance, we agree to a rain check and slip out into the dusky evening, our fingers intertwined and the heaviness of love in our hearts.
     

----
     
    I haven’t touched the scale or the pregnancy test, each holding its own brand of terror.
    “Anyone need the bathroom?” I call to Orv and Denise, who are nuzzled together on the couch, opposite the jerry-rigged window. “’Cause I’m gonna take a shower.” With only one bathroom in the house, it’s always polite to ask.
    “Go ahead,” shouts Orv, his tone giving me the impression he’s about to savor some alone time with Denise.
    My bedroom is only one door down from the bathroom, kitty-corner to Orv and Denise’s room. I make a quick check of the hallway before scuttling through with my pajamas, a towel, the scale, and the pregnancy test, all clutched in a heap at my chest.
    The lock on the bathroom door is busted (that little button on the handle just pops back out, no matter how many times you shove it in), so I snatch a jug of