Good Luck, Fatty

“I guess you heard—”
    “About your dad?”
    “Yeah, well…about him,” I agree, thrown a little off track, “and…about the accident.”
    “He had an accident?”
    My eyebrows pull together. “Huh?”
    “I thought he won the race.”
    “He did,” I say, confused. “What was the question again?”
    “You said he had an accident,” Tom reminds me.
    “Oh, no,” I say. “That was me. Justin White and Malcolm Gates started some trouble, then Brent Flynn sort of put a stop to it. But after that I was all flustered, and I saw Buttercup, and my bike got stuck in a rut or something and flipped—”
    “But you’re okay?” Tom interrupts, concern rising in his voice. “Right? You sound okay.”
    “It wasn’t that bad,” I downplay. “Although I’ll be needing a new helmet.” I chuckle lightly, but he doesn’t join in.
    “You saw Buttercup?” he wants to know.
    What is it about that cat that makes me happier than anything else can? “Uh-huh,” I say, my eyes involuntarily welling. “Orv and Denise are letting me—or, well, us—keep him.”
    Tom’s grin is practically visible through the phone. “That’s cool.”
    “ I think so.” I dab at the corners of my eyes with my fingertips. “Hey, what happened to you anyway? You disappeared after the first mile.”
    With a sigh, he says, “Long story.”
    “I’m not doin’ anything.”
    “Actually, it’s a short story.”
    I joke, “So you’re a liar?”
    “Not usually.”
    “Go ahead,” I prompt, my curiosity piqued.
    “Remember about my leg?” he says.
    As a matter of fact, I do. “The hairline fracture?”
    “That’s the one.”
    “What’d you do?” I ask, my calf aching in sympathy.
    “I don’t know,” he says. “It just started acting up and…and I couldn’t do it anymore. I had to stop. Walk it off.”
    “You didn’t finish the race?” I say, surprised.
    He hesitates as if he’s ashamed to admit it. “Nah,” he says. “There was no way… My dad had to pick me up.”
    “That stinks.”
    “Eh, it’s no big deal.”
    “So we’re both losers?” I propose, trying to lighten the mood.
    “Definitely not. We just have bad luck.”
    I sense something sappy coming. “I feel pretty lucky,” I say, because it’s true.
    “You’re the best,” he tells me, and even though he doesn’t say it, I’m sure he loves me.
    And I love him too. “No, you are,” I say, and we both know what I mean.
     

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    The oddest thing happened two days after the Yo-Yo: I got my period. Of course, when it crashed Geometry, it didn’t offer to explain why it had gone MIA or where it had been holed up for the past four or five months.
    And I didn’t bother asking.
    But I did bother inhaling every sugary, greasy, ridiculously-bad-for-me morsel to cross my path in the next few days, negating a full four pounds of my weight loss.
    I also bothered (mostly due to a raging case of erratic hormones, I’d like to think) to concoct a revenge scheme against Justin White, Malcolm Gates, Evan Richter, Corey Benson, and anyone else I thought might’ve had a hand in destroying the Royale, that involved a velociraptor, a bikini wax, and a pair of needle-nose pliers (not necessarily in that order).
    Then came the crying. Over everything. And nothing. Waterworks that would turn Niagara Falls green with envy. Sixteen years worth of upset and frustration, disappointment and shame, spilling like a tipsy barfly’s piña colada five minutes before closing time.
    When all was said and done, I felt new, clean, empty; the way a junkie does (or so I imagine) after a good, old-fashioned detox.
     

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    I storm up Tom’s steps with energy and determination (not to mention a string of snarky, rehearsed comebacks for any degrading remarks Wilma might toss my way).
    Ding-dong! goes the frog when I punch it.
    The door cracks open on a surprised Tom. “What’re you doing here?” he asks, squinting into the sunlight. He glances around, then throws the door open. “Come on in.”
    “No, thank you,” I say. I hand him the envelope, which he turns over in his hands, looking confused.
    “What’s this?”
    I smile. “Open it and find out.”
    Tentatively he rips through the seal and withdraws the note card, which features two interlocked hearts (a leftover invitation from Orv and Denise’s wedding that, lucky for me, was blank inside and could be easily repurposed). “Tonight?” Tom says with a glint in his eye.
    I nod. “That’s