Good Luck, Fatty

shoulder as he mumbles a string of sounds that aren’t adding up to words. I try tugging his arm, but he feels like a marble statue. “Come on,” I tell him, yanking with both hands (and getting him to budge, however slightly). “We’ve gotta go inside.” Well, not so much we, but he. (If he doesn’t quit drinking and catch some z’s—his eyes are baggy and painfully bloodshot—I fear we’ll be phoning an ambulance.)
    He mutters another round of unintelligible nonsense, and I sling him over my shoulder (not like I’m carrying him; like I’m wearing him as a coat). As we stumble up the back steps, Orv shoots me a concerned look that I’m in no position to return.
    “Excuse me,” I say to Aunt Paulina, my father and I almost running her down as she exits the bathroom. “He’s not feeling well.” I give her a disappointed frown and keep us shuffling along, the alcohol on my father’s breath (and seeping out his nose? ears? eyeballs?) smelling both sweet and sickly.
    Finally we reach my bedroom (where else am I going to stash a middle-aged lush?), where I practically hurl him onto the bed. “Geez, Dad,” I say to the side of his face, which is coated in a splash of drool. “I think you’ve got a problem.” I mean, if he behaves this way at a simple backyard wedding, who knows what he’s been up to in those lawless (or so I imagine) third world villages.
    I almost can’t believe my eyes when Duncan’s lips start vibrating with the influx and outflow of sleep (he’s snoring?!).  I shake my head, peel my threadbare quilt from the edge of the bed and tuck it around him, turning him into a burrito. Why do people look so harmless when they’re passed out? I hate myself a little for doing it, but I lean in and give him a soft peck on the forehead.
    That’s when I hear a blood-curdling scream, followed by a chorus of raised voices.
    I can’t get outside fast enough, literally, due to the way my shoes are skidding across the kitchen floor as I run. But when I do make it out, the first thing I notice is Denise’s mother crumpled on the ground, her plum-colored taffeta dress shoved up almost to her waist (thank God, she wore a slip!) as she buries her face in her hands and bawls uncontrollably.
    What the…?
    The next thing out of place, which I’m surprised I can see at all given the ongoing commotion, is Denise’s brother, Max, flat on his back on the lawn, a stunned look wrinkled into his brow, his lip bloodied, split and swollen.
    I head for Denise, who is bent over at her mother’s side, speaking in hushed tones. But before I reach her, a familiar voice shouts, “Bobbi!”
    It’s Tom, and he sounds desperate. Pained. I swivel back toward the house—and the sound of his voice—and that’s when I register something irrational. Sickening. A sight that makes my stomach clench.
    Behind Denise’s raggedy old ficus, Orv has Tom pinned to the side of Gramp’s house, Orv’s muscular forearm (he’s a lot burlier than a toothpick factory worker ought to be) clamped across Tom’s shoulder.
    I blink a couple of times, confused but also fearful of letting my gaze meet Tom’s.
    “Go back inside, Bobbi!” Orv barks when he sees me noticing him.
    I can’t move.
    “It wasn’t my fault!” Tom cries in a frustrated, pleading tone. “You should’ve heard… He called you…”
    “Shut up,” Orv tells Tom, leaning even harder into him.
    All I can do is cry.

 
     
    chapter 16
     
    I SPENT Orv and Denise’s wedding night holed up in my room (once I got Duncan out of there, of course, which was harder than you’d expect).
    When Denise tried to talk to me through the door, I pretended to be sleeping, because, honestly, I didn’t know at whom I was maddest: Tom for punching out Denise’s brother and ruining the wedding? Me for inviting Tom in the first place? Orv for roughing Tom up, since Tom probably didn’t deserve it? Max for saying whatever he’d said to send Tom off the deep end? Or maybe Duncan for pulling me away from the party and starting this whole ugly ball rolling?
     

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    I’ve been awake for at least an hour, staring into space, unable to will myself out of bed. Right now, I’m not sure I like anybody. And I’m even less sure anybody likes me.
    “Bobbi?” Denise’s voice says once again at the door.
    I moan as if I’m trying to wake up. “Yeah?” I mumble after a few moments.
    “You coming out?”
    “I don’t know,” I say.
    Denise says, “I made