The Fast and the Furriest by Andy Behrens Page A

anything else … I’m good.”
    His family stared at him. Izzy chewed her gum.
    “I tink it’s gway you’re jogging, Kev!” she said through the gum. “Looggin’ good!”
    Kevin stared at the ground, becoming even more self-conscious. “Thanks, Iz,” he said.
    Kevin wanted to take off, but his parents just … kept
… talking …
    “So have you really been jogging often, honey?” asked Maggie. She leaned across Howie to address her son.
    “Well …,” Kevin said, “yeah. I mean … it’s just jogging. You say it like you caught me shoplifting.”
    “Hey,” said Howie, pointing a finger at his son. “You know I had my first encounter with the police when I was jus—”
    Maggie swatted her husband’s arm again, this time with somewhat more force.
    “Wrong lesson, dear,” she said tersely. Then she turned back to Kevin.
    “No one’s saying it’s a bad thing, this jogging. It’s just not … um …” Maggie looked away. “It’s not really typical of you.”
    “How the heck would you even
know
what’s ‘typical’ of me?” asked Kevin.
    Cromwell whined again, then bumped Kevin’s leg with his nose.
    “Does anyone know what a typical day is for me?” demanded Kevin. His annoyance was rising. “Anyone? Any guesses?”
    Howie pulled the Tahoe to the curb.
    “Listen, Kev,” he began, “I mean … I think we got your schedule pretty well down: sleep, eat, TV, eat, TV, slee—”
    “See, that’s just what I mean!” Kevin huffed.
    But he recognized that he was going too far. He wasn’t prepared to disclose the training with Elka; not now. That might involve a discussion of the unspoken arrangement with Coach Z. And that was a conversation he didn’t want to have, ever. It was actually convenient to have everyone think that he was the same old Kevin Pugh, with couch potato tendencies but a newfound interest in fitness.
    “What
do
you mean, Kev?” asked his dad.
    “I just … well, okay, it’s true that there is some eating and some TV. But you think that’s, like, my whole life?”
    Before Howie could nod in response, Maggie delivered another small swat.
    “Well, it’s not,” continued Kevin. “I just don’t want you to think I’m completely inert. I move. I train.”
    “For football, yeah?” asked Howie.
    Not in a thousand lifetimes, no
, thought Kevin.
    “Well, sure,” he said. He stared at his father, unblinking.
    “He is eating all weird,” said Izzy, removing her gum. “That’s for sure.”
    “The boy was born eatin’ weird,” said Howie. “Had his first McRib before he even had baby teeth.”
    “No,” said Izzy, “I mean, like, he’s been eating good stuff—non–fast food stuff. And fewer snack cakes, too.”
    “Is that right, Kev?” asked Howie. “Really?” It was almost as if his son were being accused of witchcraft.
    “Yes, Dad.” Kevin shook his head and groaned. “Come on, Cromwell.”
    Kevin tugged at the dog’s leash, and the pair took a few quick steps.
    Howie lurched the SUV forward and leaned his head out the window.
    “Hey!” he yelled. “We’re tryin’ to talk to you, Kev. Come on … you say we don’t ask things, so here we are, asking.”
    Kevin stopped.
    “Yes, Dad, I have been eating a little differently.”
    “For football?” asked Howie.
    Heck no
, thought Kevin.
    “Right,” he said. Kevin then looked at Maggie. “You actually buy the food, Mom. You haven’t noticed that I’m not eating just chips and cream-filled snack cakes? At all? You really haven’t noticed?”
    She opened her mouth, but said nothing.
    “I eat bananas and apples and stuff lately—right in front of you! Like at the table, in full view of everyone. Izzy can confirm it.”
    “I think your, um … your weight loss initiative is lovely, Kevin,” said Maggie tentatively.
    “It’s not a
weight loss
initiative!” Kevin said.
    “It’s a football initiative,” said Howie, evidently satisfied. He honked the horn, which, of course, played the chorus