notion of her clothes potentially shrinking in the dryer,
Carrie
discarded, and Wang’s voice muted, Fat Angie was led to her final thought. The longest thought. The one that held her steady without the need for counting numbers in her head or aloud.
Why had KC hidden her arm?
After school, Fat Angie sought out KC Romance. Concerned that she would miss her bus, Fat Angie set the timer on her Casio calculator watch, allotting enough time to do a Fat Angie–style sprint to the bus.
KC was not at her locker.
She was not in the bus line.
She was not by the vending machines, in the cafeteria, in the gymnasium, or at the giant Hornet statue in front of William Anders High School. Then, at some distance, Fat Angie spotted the long-legged KC stepping down a sidewalk. Fat Angie eyed her watch. She accounted for the time to catch up with KC, to resolve any miscommunication, and to still make her bus. Through this flurry of mathematical calculations, Fat Angie concluded that she could not do it all. And simply catching up to KC without any discussion would surely not improve the strained situation. But avoiding her altogether and hoping to patch it over with a text message could also leave her on the losing end. Fat Angie remembered KC had referred to herself as “old-school” and preferred handwritten notes. There was no time for such a labor-intensive effort.
Fat Angie went into a Fat Angie overload.
Too much, too much, too much!
Why were there so many alternatives? So many different outcomes to be considered?
Fat Angie’s watch beeped. She’d wasted too much time deliberating. It was, as the cliché went, now or never. Do or die. A girl against the grain — the metaphor seemed clear.
Fat Angie sprinted Fat Angie–style toward KC. Her backpack slapped against her back. The feeling was quite uncomfortable. In fact, it hurt like all hell. She tripped and fell arms-first onto the concrete with the grace of girls in horror films. The casualty: her right elbow.
It bled.
Fat Angie hated blood.
She once had told her therapist,
“It isn’t at all like on TV. When you bleed, it really is something.”
The therapist had made a note:
Obsession with notions of self-mutilation.
The injury on Fat Angie’s elbow was minor. She wiped it on her jeans. It stung.
Fat Angie still had KC in her sights as the beauty turned a corner. She ran once again. Backpack back-slapping her. “KC,” called Fat Angie.
Between the elliptical in gym and the run, Fat Angie was spent.
“Go away, Angie,” said KC.
“Wait,” said Fat Angie, catching up.
“You’re gonna miss your bus,” said KC.
“Already did,” Fat Angie said, winded. “See, I set the timer to estimate —”
“Angie,” said KC. “Stop.”
Fat Angie was perplexed. And still trying to catch her breath.
“When we — you and me at The Backstory,” said KC. “The way we talked. I just. I
wanted
things to be different here.”
“It’s Dryfalls,” said Fat Angie. “Everything’s different. We’d don’t even have an IHOP.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Um . . .” said Fat Angie. “I didn’t think so. It sounded a lot funnier in my head. Like when I told my therapist he reminded me of James Dean in
Giant.
Well, a cartoon version. A fatter, hair-receding version with an overbite. Actually, he doesn’t look like James Dean at all. Maybe that’s why that wasn’t so funny either.”
KC laughed. Not a big bursting laugh. More of that quick-breath kind.
Fat Angie smiled, and the left side of her mouth inched just a bit higher into an adorable dimple.
“What are you doing, Angie?” KC tugged at her messenger bag strap.
“I don’t know,” said Fat Angie. “I mean, I do. But I don’t.”
“Look, I gotta split,” said KC, heading down the sidewalk.
Fat Angie was in a classic Fat Angie scenario. The urge to purge the thoughts in her head were locked behind serious mood-controlling medications and her fear of rejection. She dropped her
Carrie
discarded, and Wang’s voice muted, Fat Angie was led to her final thought. The longest thought. The one that held her steady without the need for counting numbers in her head or aloud.
Why had KC hidden her arm?
After school, Fat Angie sought out KC Romance. Concerned that she would miss her bus, Fat Angie set the timer on her Casio calculator watch, allotting enough time to do a Fat Angie–style sprint to the bus.
KC was not at her locker.
She was not in the bus line.
She was not by the vending machines, in the cafeteria, in the gymnasium, or at the giant Hornet statue in front of William Anders High School. Then, at some distance, Fat Angie spotted the long-legged KC stepping down a sidewalk. Fat Angie eyed her watch. She accounted for the time to catch up with KC, to resolve any miscommunication, and to still make her bus. Through this flurry of mathematical calculations, Fat Angie concluded that she could not do it all. And simply catching up to KC without any discussion would surely not improve the strained situation. But avoiding her altogether and hoping to patch it over with a text message could also leave her on the losing end. Fat Angie remembered KC had referred to herself as “old-school” and preferred handwritten notes. There was no time for such a labor-intensive effort.
Fat Angie went into a Fat Angie overload.
Too much, too much, too much!
Why were there so many alternatives? So many different outcomes to be considered?
Fat Angie’s watch beeped. She’d wasted too much time deliberating. It was, as the cliché went, now or never. Do or die. A girl against the grain — the metaphor seemed clear.
Fat Angie sprinted Fat Angie–style toward KC. Her backpack slapped against her back. The feeling was quite uncomfortable. In fact, it hurt like all hell. She tripped and fell arms-first onto the concrete with the grace of girls in horror films. The casualty: her right elbow.
It bled.
Fat Angie hated blood.
She once had told her therapist,
“It isn’t at all like on TV. When you bleed, it really is something.”
The therapist had made a note:
Obsession with notions of self-mutilation.
The injury on Fat Angie’s elbow was minor. She wiped it on her jeans. It stung.
Fat Angie still had KC in her sights as the beauty turned a corner. She ran once again. Backpack back-slapping her. “KC,” called Fat Angie.
Between the elliptical in gym and the run, Fat Angie was spent.
“Go away, Angie,” said KC.
“Wait,” said Fat Angie, catching up.
“You’re gonna miss your bus,” said KC.
“Already did,” Fat Angie said, winded. “See, I set the timer to estimate —”
“Angie,” said KC. “Stop.”
Fat Angie was perplexed. And still trying to catch her breath.
“When we — you and me at The Backstory,” said KC. “The way we talked. I just. I
wanted
things to be different here.”
“It’s Dryfalls,” said Fat Angie. “Everything’s different. We’d don’t even have an IHOP.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Um . . .” said Fat Angie. “I didn’t think so. It sounded a lot funnier in my head. Like when I told my therapist he reminded me of James Dean in
Giant.
Well, a cartoon version. A fatter, hair-receding version with an overbite. Actually, he doesn’t look like James Dean at all. Maybe that’s why that wasn’t so funny either.”
KC laughed. Not a big bursting laugh. More of that quick-breath kind.
Fat Angie smiled, and the left side of her mouth inched just a bit higher into an adorable dimple.
“What are you doing, Angie?” KC tugged at her messenger bag strap.
“I don’t know,” said Fat Angie. “I mean, I do. But I don’t.”
“Look, I gotta split,” said KC, heading down the sidewalk.
Fat Angie was in a classic Fat Angie scenario. The urge to purge the thoughts in her head were locked behind serious mood-controlling medications and her fear of rejection. She dropped her
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