Good Luck, Fatty

repeats, “ I couldn’t stop shaking. ”
    As he describes the scene, it flickers through my mind like a snowy black-and-white home movie. Only I must be imagining, not remembering, since, if Tom is to be believed (which, of course, he is), then I was unconscious for a large portion of what transpired. “What made you think of that?” I ask, feeling an odd compulsion to apologize for events I only barely recall.
    He clears his throat and smiles at me, melting my heart. “Your birthday,” he says. “I was glad you’re still here.” A look of recognition dawns across his face. “Oh, yeah,” he says, stopping once again, this time laying the BMX in the grass and slinging his backpack off his shoulder. “I’ve got something for you.”
    I watch curiously as he fumbles with a stuck zipper, rearranges a stack of spiral notebooks and eventually comes out with something thin and flat, roughly square-shaped and covered in overlapping funny papers and Scotch tape. “Here,” he says, passing the item to me. “Happy Birthday.”
    The closest thing to a present I’ve ever gotten from a boy is one of those vending machine trinkets Brent Flynn slides my way after he screws me. This kind of gift feels much nicer. “Should I open it now?” I ask hesitantly.
    “Definitely,” says Tom. “I want to see what you think.”
    I ease a fingertip under a loose edge of the newsprint (it seems as if he’s wrapped the gift this way on purpose, for my opening pleasure), then drag the finger along until one whole side of the paper is gaping. The record basically falls into my hand. “Jesus Christ,” I can’t stop myself from saying, even though it’s probably an inappropriate reaction to such a thoughtful gesture. “Your mom’s song?”
    He beams proudly. “The one she sang to my dad, on his birthday,” he reminds me. “I thought maybe we could start a new tradition…or, well…continue their old one.”
    He plans to serenade me with a ditty about fat bottomed girls? Bring it on. “All right,” I say. “Why not?”
    He digs into his pocket and wiggles out a folded piece of notebook paper (the lyrics), which he unravels. “Don’t laugh,” he says, holding the paper up to his face. “I only had a day to rehearse.”
    I try but fail to suppress a giddy grin. “You have my word,” I say. To prove the point, I sweep an invisible cross over my heart.
    He shakes his head, as if even he disbelieves what he’s about to do. But he does it anyway. With a faltering voice and a gaze too self-conscious to meet mine, he stammers out one line and then another. Once he’s settled into a comfortable rhythm, he rolls right through the chorus.
    I’m impressed. And flattered. Not just by the song, which extols the virtues of big girls like me, but by Tom’s willingness to share something so personal. His singing voice, while a bit off-key, still has enough of a raspy twang to give me the shivers.
    The moment his lips stop moving, I break out in applause. “That was awesome!” I say. “I loved it!”
    He wrinkles his nose. “You sure?”
    This boy is getting a kiss right now. I hang my arms around his waist, tip my face up and gingerly press my mouth to his. His arms tense as they meet behind my bottom. After a while, I take a breath and say, “Positive.”
    “Huh?”
    “I’m positive,” I repeat. “You were great.” My eyebrows pull together. “You’re gonna do that again next year?” I ask. “And the year after that?”
    “That’s the idea.”
    He presses into me, and I feel the same tightness in his pants that cropped up last time we came across his mother’s record (what can I say? I guess all that singing about fat bottoms turns people on).
    Which reminds me…
    I bring my lips to his ear and tell him, “I used the test, by the way. It was negative.”
    His whole body relaxes, except that stiff zipper, which seems as if it has mated with my drawstring pants. Almost inaudibly he says, “Good.”
     

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    Gramp’s house has the aroma of cake when Tom and I arrive. Strawberry, if I’m not mistaken (which I’m quite sure I’m not, a lifetime of gluttony having fine tuned my nose like a piano virtuoso’s ear).
    I bomb into the kitchen, but Tom hesitates at the threshold behind me, one foot in and one foot out. When I notice he’s lagging, I call back, “Come on.”
    Gramp’s old ramshackle house isn’t much to look at (in fact, it’s better to avoid looking, lest you run across another