Skinny by Donna Cooner Page B

from the table and heads up the stairs, calling back, “I’ll just get my tennis shoes.”
    Rat and I go outside and wait for her on the front steps. I want to go upstairs and get my iPod. Music blaring in my ears is the only thing I can think of that would make this any better, but the idea of climbing up the stairs is too much trouble. If that’s too hard, how am I supposed to run around the block?
    “The whole neighborhood’s going to love this. They’ll probably feel the vibrations in the ground and think it’s some kind of earthquake. Hope you don’t break the concrete,” Skinny says.
    “I don’t want to do this,” I say.
    “The first day of school is only a few months away,” Rat says. “And then you can try out for the musical. And go to the Fall Ball.”
    And Jackson will finally see me again, I think, but I don’t say anything to Rat about Jackson. I’m not sure why.
    “That seems like a long way away,” I say. “Besides, what do you know about balls and musicals?”
    “Nothing,” he says, “but I know a lot about you.” He gives me one of his rare Rat smiles, his straight white teeth flashing suddenly in his usually serious face.
    I glare back at him. It’s already blazing hot. I can feel the sweat rolling down the side of my neck and I’m sitting still. Even Rat is sweating, his forehead beaded with moisture. He stands up suddenly, pulls up the hem of his T-shirt, and wipes his brow off, revealing a tight six-pack of muscles across his stomach. My breath catches in my throat.
    He notices me staring. “What?” he asks.
    “Have you been working out?” I ask, still staring at his ripped abs.
    “Brazilian jujitsu. It’s a martial art based on ground fighting. Derived from the Japanese martial art of Kodokan judo in the early twentieth century, it favors leverage over brute strength.” He pats his still-exposed stomach with one hand, and I feel my throat go dry. “Great for your core muscles.”
    Obviously.
    “How?” I stammer.
    “Over four centuries ago in northern India, Buddhist monks developed a form of fighting that allowed them to subdue opponents without killing them. Eventually it made its way to Japan, where it was improved upon and called jujitsu.”
    “No, I mean . . .” How did you get to look like that without me knowing? I stop myself from saying that last part — just barely — and try to cover up my confusion. “How did it get to Brazil?”
    “Oh that.” Rat drops his shirt back down over his stomach, and I let my breath out, not realizing I’d been holding it. He continues enthusiastically, “In the early nineteen hundreds, Japanese judo master Mitsuyo Maeda came to stay with Brazil’s Gastão Gracie. Gracie helped Maeda with business in Brazil and Maeda taught Gracie’s family judo.”
    “Okay. Okay. Got it.” I hold my hands up, stopping him from continuing. This is the Rat I know. He will go on for hours if I let him. He stops the informative lecture, but adds one last thing.
    “You should try it.”
    “He’s seen your stomach. He knows you could never do anything like that,” Skinny says.
    I’m mortified at the comparison between my bare stomach and his. “I think this is plenty for me right now,” I say, pointing to my sneakers.
    “All right, but if you change your mind, you can always go with me to my lessons.” He sits back down beside me on the step.
    In a few minutes, Briella’s back, wearing some black Nike shorts and a sleeveless pink tank top. She bends her leg back and reaches down to grab an ankle, stretching it up behind her at an impossible angle.
    Rat watches her with his mouth partly open. “You should stretch,” he mumbles in my direction.
    Seriously? Give me a break.
    “Hello,” I yell, waving my hand in front of his face. “Remember me? The patient?”
    “What?” he asks, blinking back at me.
    “Fat girls don’t run,” Skinny says.
    “Okay. Let’s go.” Briella takes a few prancing, effortless steps forward and