Fat Cat Read online

  "Besides," Amanda said, starting up her ancient yellow Mazda, "you can't just give up everything. Some of our advances are actually pretty important."

  "Like what?" I said.

  "Like running water, hello? Electricity? Soap? Are you just going to sit in the dark at night and rub yourself with dirt? And do you get to sleep in a bed anymore or do you have to sleep on the floor? Is carpeting allowed?"

  "This is good," I said, fishing for my notebook as Amanda pulled out of the parking lot. "I need to make a list. Keep going." I had approximately forty-seven hours until my next class with Mr. Fizer. We were supposed to use that time to do as much preliminary research as possible before turning in our formal research proposals. I had a lot of work to do.

  "Okay," Amanda said, getting into it now. "You said no car--but they had the wheel back then, right? Can't you improvise? Maybe you could ride your bike."

  "Right, and let Mr. Fizer catch me? 'I wasn't aware Homo erectus had the bicycle, Miss Locke.' Forget it--I'm going to have to walk everywhere."

  "Everywhere?" Amanda said. "What if it's dark out? Or it's like twenty miles away and it's raining and lightning outside? You can't put yourself in danger."

  "Okay, good point. Maybe I need to make a few safety exceptions."

  "Yeah, like your cell phone," she said. "I can see not talking on it in general, but you have to have it for emergencies, right?"

  "Right," I said, jotting that down. "Hold on." The ideas were really flowing now. The whole thing was a lot more complicated than I thought--issues of safety, practicality, unavoidable conveniences like showers--

  "So when does all this insanity begin?" Amanda asked. "This eating of leaves and berries and such?"

  "I don't know, Wednesday night. Maybe Thursday." Soap, shampoo, toothpaste--"I want to make sure Mr. Fizer approves my proposal first."

  "Great," Amanda said, "because Jordan and I were just talking about you last class."

  She said it in a really cheery, innocent voice, and normally that would have been a clue if I weren't so distracted. I knew she and Jordan had Creative Writing together while I was in Mr. Fizer's, so I didn't really think anything of it.

  "So ... what are you doing tomorrow night?" Amanda asked.

  Cell phone, darkness, weather--"Working my face off on this project. Why?" Refrigeration, soft bed, clothing, shoes--

  "I was just thinking you could take a break," she said. "You know, like for an hour or so. Maybe for dinner."

  Finally some innate sense of self-preservation kicked in and I noticed what was happening. Amanda's voice was about half an octave higher than normal--always a bad sign. The fact is my best friend is a really terrible liar. I put down my pen and gave her my full attention.

  "Okay, what's going on?"

  "Nothing," she said, a little too innocently. She squinted at the traffic ahead of her as if it were suddenly the most important thing in the world. "It's just that tomorrow's Jordan's and my anniversary."

  We'd only talked about it a dozen times in the past few days--she knew very well that I knew. "Yeah ... and?"

  "And so we're going out to dinner tomorrow night, and we thought you might want to come along."

  "Um, don't you think that would be a little weird?" I said. "Jordan would probably rather be alone with you on your anniversary. Just guessing."

  "Actually, it was Jordan's idea." Amanda glanced at me nervously. "Really. He likes you."

  "Yeah, I like him, too, but I still say you two should be alone."

  She made the left turn. "Oh, we will be--we're ditching you right after dinner. We just thought ..."

  Amanda glanced at me again and saw I wasn't buying it. She sighed and gave it up. "Okay, fine. Look, here's the thing. Jordan has this friend--"

  "No. Stop right there."

  Instead she just talked faster. "He said he's a really nice guy--he's on the swim team with him--and Jordan thinks the two of you will really hit it off--"

  "No," I said. "No, no, no."

  "Come on, Cat! Just this once?"

  Amanda has this delusion that guys might actually like me--that somebody out there is seriously wishing he knew some fat girl he could date. But rather than get into that debate again, I went with the easier excuse. "Have you not been listening? I have tons of work to do. This proposal is huge--it has to be perfect."

  "It will be! Come on, Kitty Cat, it's just for an hour or two--"

  "I can't," I said. "This whole semester is going to be a nightmare if I don't stay on top of it. I've got Fizer's, AP Calc, AP Chemistry--"

  "I know," Amanda said, "but that's why I worry about you. When are you ever going to have time to do anything but go to school, go to your job, and do homework?"

  "I'm very organized."

  "Yes, I think I know that," she said, "but there's this other matter you seem to keep forgetting about--it's called a social life." "I don't care about that."

  "That's what worries me," she said. "Don't you know how happy I am with Jordan?"

  "Yes, and I'm very happy for you. He's a great guy."

  "There are other great guys," she said, pulling up to the side of the hospital. "I'm sorry, but I have this fear that someday you're going to wake up a dried-out, bitter old hag with plenty of science awards but no personal life whatsoever. And you'll sit there at night and sob about how you've wasted your life."

  "Thank you," I said. "That's a really horrible story."

  "Good. I'm calling it 'She Didn't Listen to Her Friend.'"

  I thanked Amanda for the ride and got out. But she wasn't through with me yet. As I walked up the steps she rolled down the window and called out, "Will you at least think about it?"

  "No."

  "But how will our babies grow up next to each other if you don't ever go out on a date? Cat?"

  I waved to her over my shoulder and escaped.

  Amanda has this fantasy that we'll both go to the same college, we'll both meet our husbands there ("Jordan can apply for the position if he wants to," Amanda told me, "I'm not ruling him out"), and then we'll move to the same city, both have fabulous jobs--me as either a research scientist or a doctor if I decide to go that route, her as either a poet/novelist or an English professor--and we'll have at least two children apiece, and we'll all live happily ever after next door to each other, our kids playing together, our husbands taking turns barbecuing while Amanda and I sneak off to the kitchen to bake fabulous desserts and talk all night.

  There are definitely parts of that I like. It's fun to sit back and listen to Amanda spinning her tales about what our lives might be like in the future. I kind of like the person she imagines me to be. Except when the story involves me being a dried-up old hag.

  So I suppose it's not the worst thing in the world that she--and now Jordan, apparently--wants to find someone for me. But even if I wanted that, which I don't, they're both ignoring an obvious fact: there has never been a single guy who has ever liked me. I mean, there have been guys who have been nice to me--friend guys--but never, ever one who thought of me romantically.

  Maybe Amanda and Jordan have gotten so used to me, they just don't see me the way other people do anymore. I guess I should take that as a compliment. But I think it also doesn't occur to them that it's just easier for me not to ever go down that road and end up disappointed. Or worse, really hurt.

  Only one heartbreak per customer, thank you.

  4

  Before I headed down to the basement, I stopped by the hospital cafeteria and picked us up a few things. Everyone likes a little after-school treat.

  My mother's eyebrows lifted as I came in carrying my load. I told her the same thing I'd told Amanda: "You'll understand in a minute."

  But just then the phone rang and my mother had to take it, and her co-worker Nancy was already on another call, so I just handed them each a bag of Doritos and a few Rolos and settled down to my own snack and work.

  My mom is one of the pharmacists who work for the Poison Control Center--the pe
ople you call when you find out the kid you're babysitting just ate some dog food, or you're wondering if that rash might be because you sprayed self-tanning lotion on top of your acne cream, that sort of thing. They'll also tell you what to do if you've been bitten by a rattlesnake, stung by a scorpion, attacked by killer bees--apparently there are a lot of disasters out there. It's good to know you can call someone and scream, "Help! My face looks like a beach ball!" and a voice will calmly tell you what to do.

  Right then Nancy was calmly telling someone to immediately go to the hospital. My mom was calmly telling someone that no, despite what the caller had read on a website, rinsing her hair with grapefruit juice would not make it grow faster. Proving my mother's point that I should never automatically believe what I read on the Internet.

  As soon as they both hung up, we all relaxed. I went over and gave my mom a hug.

  "Hi, sweetie. How was school?"

  "Good." The phone rang again and my mother took it.

  "Cute outfit," Nancy said. "Is that new?"

  "Yeah."

  "Very slimming."

  "Thanks." Nancy and I both know there's no amount of black in the world to make me look slim, but it was nice of her to say.

  The phone rang nonstop for about the next half hour. I spent the time opening and sorting the mail and taking care of some of the filing.

  Finally there was a little lull in the phone calls. It's funny how disasters seem to come in waves.

  "So," Nancy said, "any first-day gossip to report?" "Nah, not really."

  "No stabbings or breakups or fashion crimes?" "Nope."

  "Who's in your classes?" my mom asked. "The usual."

  "Matt?" Nancy wanted to know.

  "Of course." It's one of the features of being on the AP/Honors track that you always end up taking classes with the same people. There are almost two thousand kids at my school, but I probably only know about thirty of them. And still hang out with only two.

  I helped myself to the last of my mother's chips.

  "I need to meet that boy someday," Nancy said. "I keep picturing him with horns and a hunchback."

  "Close," I said.

  "Cat, stop it," my mom said. "I don't know why you're so mean to him--you used to be such good friends." "Yeah, I'm the one who's mean." "He always seemed perfectly nice to me." "I'm sure he did."

  And then both phones rang, and we were all back to work.

  It's not the first time my mother's taken me to task for dissing Matt. I never told her what he did--Amanda's the only one who knows, and that's just because she was there. So it's hard for my mom to understand what changed. All she knows is suddenly Matt was out and Amanda was in, and it's been that way ever since. And believe me, I'm grateful--Amanda is a far better friend than Matt could ever be.

  I couldn't wait any longer. As soon as there was a break, I took out my picture and showed them. And I told them my idea.

  My mother and Nancy exchanged a glance.

  "What?" I said.

  "Are you sure?" my mother asked. "Maybe you should pick something easier."

  "What are you talking about?" I said. "It's a great project! I thought you'd be excited. And besides, it's too late--I already told Mr. Fizer this is what I'm doing. I'll start just as soon as he approves my proposal."

  "Well, we'll have to talk about it some more," she said.

  "No offense," Nancy said, "but I doubt you'll last a week."

  "Why?" I asked.

  "The body isn't meant to take that kind of abuse."

  "It's not abuse," I said. "It's the opposite. I'm going back to the way we're supposed to live."

  She pointed to my can of Diet Coke. "How many of those do you drink a day?"

  "I don't know, four or five."

  Nancy whistled.

  My mother shook her head. "That's going to be awfully hard, honey."

  "Why?"

  "I tried to give up coffee a few years ago," Nancy said. She lifted her mug in salute. "You see how well that stuck."

  "The withdrawal symptoms can be a little rough," my mom agreed.

  "Rough?" Nancy scoffed. "My husband finally threatened to move into a hotel if I didn't get in the car with him immediately and go to Starbucks. And I hate to say it, Cat, but it's going to be even worse for you."

  "How come?"

  "Those things are full of artificial sweeteners--that's a whole separate drug. People really have a hard time getting off it. Are you sure you're ready?"

  Yeah, now that they'd boosted my confidence like that?

  "I have to," I said, my mouth suddenly dry. "That's my project."

  "Well," Nancy said with a shrug, "guess all I can say is good luck."

  "We'll talk about it," my mother said. Then both phones rang at once. Thank goodness for other people's crises.

  And sure enough, when we got off work, my mother spent the whole ride home peppering me with questions just like Amanda had--what about this? What about that? And even though I didn't have all the answers yet, I knew once I finally sat down and started doing the research tonight, it would all fall into place.

  That was the plan, at least.

  Except instead it all fell apart.

  5

  It's funny how you can be so stupid and not realize it until you've already gone too far.

  Actually, not funny at all.

  I've now spent the last several hours researching this, and there's just no way around it: I have made a monumental mistake.

  Because what did Homo erectus eat? Was it tasty fruits and vegetables and nuts and berries?

  Um, no.

  They ate carrion. Also known as dead and putrefying flesh.

  That picture? It doesn't show the hominins defending their food from the hyenas, it shows them trying to steal it. Because apparently Homo erectus didn't quite have the whole hunting thing worked out. They mostly lived off of roots and tubers and other plants, and whatever leftover meat they could steal after the predators were done with it. Which usually meant by the time they got to it the meat was nice and ripe and maggoty.

  Oh, they ate fresh stuff, too--insects, baby birds they stole out of nests, the occasional rabbit they managed to trap and beat to death with a stick--but mostly they were just skulking around, trying to steal food from other, more successful creatures.

  And--AND!--they didn't have fire yet. No fire! Raw meat! Sweet! I'm going to die!

  "Well, you just have to quit," Amanda said when I called her.

  "I can't quit!"

  "So what are you going to do--start Dumpster-diving for leftover scraps? Come on, Cat--sometimes you just have to walk away."

  It wasn't the thought of rancid meat that was making me feel so sick to my stomach. I've never ever dropped a class, and I'm certainly not backing away from this one.

  "There has to be a way," I said.

  "Yeah, if you're willing to end up in the emergency room," Amanda said. "Face it--this isn't going to happen."

  "I have to do more research," I told her. "Bye."

  There has to be a way.

  Matt does not get to win by default.

  6

  "Whoa, haven't seen that in a while." Amanda pointed to the mass of hair I'd jumbled into a ponytail. Thanks to getting only four hours of sleep last night, I woke up too late to do the full blow-dry and straightening this morning.

  "Get used to it," I said. My voice was hoarse from lack of sleep. "Hominins didn't have product."

  "So you're still going through with it?"

  "I don't know," I said. "I still have to figure it out. Right now I don't even have a brain."

  "Here." Amanda handed me one of the two Diet Cokes she was holding. "Thought you might need it."

  "Bless you." I took a long, deep gulp of it. I needed all the caffeine I could get. My first class on Tuesdays is AP American History with Mr. Allen, the world's only living zombie teacher. Amanda managed to avoid him this year because he didn't fit into her schedule. Lucky.

  "So what are yo
u going to do?" Amanda asked. "If you can't figure it out?"

  "I don't know. Beg. Cry. Fail."

  The bell rang and we downed the last of our caffeine.

  "See you in English," Amanda said, then she gently took me by the shoulders, turned me around, and pushed me in the direction of Mr. Zombie's room. I sat in his class for over an hour, and I have no memory of a single thing he said. I think he was talking about toast.

  At least the class after that is always going to be good--Amanda and Jordan are in there. So is Matt, unfortunately, but there's nothing I can do about that.

  Amanda and Jordan were definitely the superstars in English today. Both of them have already been published--Amanda in some poetry journals and a contest in Seventeen, Jordan in a few snowboarding and swimming magazines--so our teacher, Ms. Sweeney, asked them to make short presentations about how they got published and what it's like.

  The thing I appreciate about both of them--actually, there are tons of things I appreciate about both of them, but we'll start with this one--is that neither Jordan nor Amanda is the least bit conceited about their accomplishments. I'm sure if Matt McKinney had been published in a national magazine, we'd never hear the end of it. But it took Ms. Sweeney more than a little coaxing to get the two of them to talk about their experiences, and then they were both incredibly humble about what had happened.

  Matt made this big show of going up to Jordan after class and giving him one of those fist-bumping handshakes guys use and telling him congratulations. He looked like he wanted to say something to Amanda, too, but she just froze him out. My girl always has my back.

  As we left class, Amanda signed to me, "See you in Sign Language."

  I nodded my fist, "Yes," and headed for Homeroom.

  I was halfway down the hall before I realized Matt was following me.

  "So," he said, "you ready with your proposal?"

  "No." Of course he had to rub it in. Knowing him, he probably finished his last night and still had time to read a book and watch TV. I tried to ignore him as I kept on weaving through the crowd.

  He stayed right with me. "Do you like the picture you chose?"