****
My bike is in the garage, which is even more falling-down than the house. I jimmy the garage door a few inches off the cracked pavement and, with all of my two-hundred and twenty pounds, heave it toward the rafters. And, for once, it gives on the first try.
Riding a bike when you’re as fat as I am is part algebra, part circus act. A bit of math and a touch of magic. I cinch the straps of my backpack tighter, shimmy onto the undersized seat and kick off to a wobbly start. But in no time, I’m coasting along the weed-infested sidewalk, a cool breeze undercutting the tenacious North Carolina sun.
I don’t say this out loud, wouldn’t have the courage to let even Denise in on a dream so tender, but…
I want to be a cyclist. A competitor. The female Lance Armstrong.
When I reach the first crossroad on my route, Marigold Way, I stop at the sign and plant my feet in a patch of loose gravel, wait for the intersection to clear. Before it does, though, a shitty old beater car—a Dodge Dart, according to the once-proud insignia on its rear end—rolls up beside me, a cloud of pot smoke trailing out its open window.
I try not to look, but I can’t help it.
The guy in the passenger seat, a smartass freshman named Sydney Vale with goldfish-orange hair and giant, splotchy freckles, makes eye contact with me and bursts out laughing.
I snort softly to myself, peer deeper into the Dart, where I note Evan Richter slouching behind the wheel, his sunken squirrel eyes glassy and dazed. He screwed me three weeks ago, behind a dugout at the Little League field. Took all of five seconds.
The traffic on Marigold dies out, and the Dart glides away. As it goes, I spot Craig and Corey Benson, their twin black ‘fros unmistakable through the Dart’s rear window. They screwed me in the brush by the river over the summer, one after the other. Corey was better.
I put my feet to the pedals and pump, do the math on the Dart as I clear the intersection. Three out of four. I’ve been screwed by everyone but twerpy little Sydney Vale (mostly because I have a rule: no one younger than me). Otherwise, I could’ve been nailed by a hundred percent.
Around the corner from school, a scraggly stray cat I call Buttercup strides out from between two houses—much nicer houses than the hole where Orv, Denise, and I live—and starts trotting along behind my bike. By the way he hounds me, I figure the fleabag must have gotten it into his head he’s a dog.
“Shoo!” I holler over my shoulder. I flail my arm around to convince him to go, but he refuses to bug off. I wouldn’t mind the puny sucker so much, but he’s one of the main sources of material for the jerkwad bullies. And I’m sort of sick of being referred to as “The Pussy Whisperer.”
I pull over and drop my bike in the grass. I’m close enough to school now that the torment may begin at any moment, but, for now, no one seems to notice me.
I slip my backpack off, unzip one of its cavernous pockets and root around. Buttercup mews a few words of encouragement, nudges my hand deeper. Eventually I come up with a mostly melted Milky Way (the end of my stash) and a few errant corn nuts that escaped the last garbage dump.
“Good kitty,” I coo. I deposit the corn nuts on the sidewalk, and Buttercup gives them a perfunctory sniff. With my teeth, I rip through the candy wrapper and squeeze the gooey chocolate into my mouth.
I scratch Buttercup behind his ears and on the back of his neck. This is sad, I think. Pathetic even. As sick as it makes me to admit it, I love this doofus cat more than my parents love me.
You know what’s worse than being abandoned by your parents, though? Not being allowed to be ticked about it. Because when your parents jet off to dig wells in remote third world villages, eradicate malaria, and funnel medicine to AIDS babies, your hurt turns selfish and insignificant pretty quickly.