Fat Angie Read online

  It was a Monday. It was cold and damp, and by all accounts the heat was on the fritz in the Hornets’ Nest gymnasium. Fat Angie’s fingers ached, but the soreness of her somewhat lighter body fell by the wayside. She stood, shoulders back, eyes steady on the huddles of girls waiting to try out for the varsity team. She stood alone, basking in the glory that her gym shorts were not as tight. Her biceps were chiseled into a shape that popped when she flexed. Her chin failed to double so easily when she looked forward. Fat Angie may not have had a body worth promoting according to any number of fashion magazines on the market, but it was a healthier, stronger, and, quite honestly, ready-to-kick-ass-and-take-names body.

  With her sister’s photo in the back pocket of her shorts, carefully sealed in the plastic photo protector of her Velcro wallet, Fat Angie was bigger and badder than ever. Nothing could keep her from making the team.

  Well, almost nothing.

  In expensive high-top sneakers and name-brand socks, Stacy Ann Sloan stepped on the court. Stacy Ann had played JV basketball the year before, her freshman year. She had been a thing to watch. It was only natural for her to gun for a spot on the varsity squad. Until that moment, Fat Angie had blocked out the natural order of such things.

  Fat Angie’s palms were damp and clammy, and they left a noticeable streak of wet on her hair as she brushed it away from her face.

  Stacy Ann crossed the court toward Fat Angie, who nervously shifted her stance. It seemed to be the makings of a throw-down. In a battle of the good, the bad, and the fat, Stacy Ann seemed to have the upper hand. With beauty and athletic prowess in Stacy Ann’s favor, Fat Angie would seem to have no chance of outshining the star of the William Anders JV basketball team in gunning for one of those two coveted varsity spots.

  As Stacy Ann’s eyes zeroed in on those of Fat Angie, she said, “Get off my court, Fatso.”

  Fat Angie’s fingers fluttered at her side as if readying to reach for a weapon of mass destruction — the Swiss Roll squished in her shorts pocket. A weapon useless against the anorexic-in-training Stacy Ann, whose lips only touched romaine salads sprinkled with Craisins prepared by her Lexus-driving mother, a woman who most people thought was living well beyond her means. Though Fat Angie had never questioned why. Her mind was distracted by that for 4.7 seconds as she stared at the timer on her Casio calculator watch.

  “What?” asked Stacy Ann.

  Fat Angie was ripped back into reality by the shrillness of Stacy Ann’s question. A girl whose sweet tooth was soothed only by four extra packets of Splenda on her Cheerios and two twenty-ounce Diet Cokes per day.

  She was, by all standards of high-school girls, healthy.

  Coach Laden, who had been otherwise occupied in the equipment room, stepped on the court and blew her silver whistle with flair. “Line it up against the wall,” shouted Coach Laden. “Hustle!”

  The group of hopefuls fell in, but Stacy Ann and Fat Angie continued their stare-down at the three-point line. Fat Angie knew that Coach Laden did not tolerate dissension in the ranks. She was the law. The long, long, very toned arm of the law. Basketball was her life, her imprint to leave on the world. Laminated and duct-taped to her office door, a sign read:

  Coach Laden tugged at the basketball charm she always wore. A half of what is surely a whole basketball, Fat Angie thought.

  “Stacy Ann,” called Coach Laden.

  Stacy Ann clipped Fat Angie’s shoulder as she joined the team. Fat Angie stood there, as awkward as a cow in a stadium full of butchers. It was her versus the Army of Stacy Ann. Fat Angie felt her knees nearly buckle.

  “Angie,” said Coach Laden. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m trying out,” said Fat Angie.

  Coach Laden put her arm around Fat Angie and led her off the court. “You know you’re special,” she said.

  “Yes,” confirmed Fat Angie.

  Fat Angie kicked her eyes to the line of girls spectating from the edge of the basketball court.

  “You see, Angie, basketball is a gutsy sport. It requires agility, quickness —”

  “I’ve been practicing,” Fat Angie said. “I feel I can play basketball.”

  “I want you to understand,” Coach Laden said, “that you are special.”

  The word special resonated somewhere deep in her. Deeper than she could have fully realized, until she said, “If you say that I’m special one more time, I’ll scream.”

  Coach Laden, thrown off her well-meant play, lifted her arm off the Charmin-like shoulders of Fat Angie.

  “I tried to kill myself,” said Fat Angie. “So what — I should sit in my room and be special? I’m tired of being special, Coach Laden. Just give me a chance.”

  “I don’t want you to get hurt,” said Coach Laden. “I don’t want you . . . to be hurt anymore.”

  Fat Angie took a moment. A beat. That theater thing.

  Then she walked past the well-sculpted coach and stood at the end of the line of girls. Laden was taken aback by Fat Angie’s tenacity. This was evidenced by the coach’s subtle grin.

  Coach Laden stood center court. “We’ve got two spots and two spots only, so make these next two days count.”

  Fat Angie smiled to a girl beside her who, in turn, snarled.

  “OK,” Coach Laden said. “Rows of six. Hustle, don’t walk. Line drill.”

  The whistle blew and the girls ran between lines on the court. Bending and touching. Sprinting back and forth, gutting it out until they reached the other end of the court. When Fat Angie’s group ran, she finished last. Huffing-and-puffing last, but she did finish. Fat Angie was convinced that nothing short of having all appendages amputated could stop her.

  The squad of hopefuls went through drill after drill. Dribbling techniques, passing, and, of course, defense. Given Fat Angie’s girth along with her height, Coach Laden placed Fat Angie at post position, the position closest to the basketball hoop. In the middle of a play, Coach Laden called the Chicken Chat, a play designed by Laden with four possible executions depending on opposing team, score, and time on the clock.

  Stacy Ann drove right for the bucket. Fat Angie slid right and planted her sneakers to avoid a foul. Stacy Ann slammed her to the ground for two — plus one Fat Angie knockdown point.

  The whistle blew. Coach Laden marched into the circle of girls.

  “What was that?” Coach Laden asked Stacy Ann.

  “Come on, Coach,” said Stacy Ann. “She doesn’t belong out here. She can’t even block.”

  Coach Laden, not looking as lovely as she might, leaned in to Stacy Ann. “So you’re the coach now?”

  Stacy Ann half-laughed, crossing her arms in defiance to save face with the girls.

  “Did you play for the University of Tennessee? Do you have a national championship trophy encased for eternity?” asked Coach Laden. “I didn’t think so. Angie, get up.”

  Coach Laden stepped back from the girls. “Set it up. I got all night.”

  Fat Angie scrambled to her feet. Stacy Ann scowled at her as she moved back into position.

  From plays to basics, the girls practiced for hours. When Coach Laden whistled for a water break, Fat Angie stayed on the court. The girl was parched without a doubt, but she pulled the rack of basketballs onto the court and parked them near the free-throw line.

  Coach Laden took notice of this act. Just as her mouth opened to call Fat Angie in for water, Fat Angie began what otherwise would seem unbelievable to anyone — except her sister. From one ball to the next, she power-shot free throws, missing not one of eleven in a row. When she got the last ball, she spun around the ball caddie, dribbled outside to the three-point arc, then pounded toward the key. Stopping hard, jumping straight up, form fiercely flawless, she sunk a beautiful jump shot.

  She cheered, doing a dance best suited for the privacy of one’s bedroom.

  Fat Angie was not in her bedroom.

  When she noticed the squad of hopefuls and a very lovely Coach Laden watching, she stopped in a not-so
-flattering position. Regardless of her embarrassing dance, in that moment, Fat Angie was a dead ringer for her sister.

  Coach Laden blew her whistle. “Jump shots. Line it up.”

  And so began Fat Angie’s real bid for a place on the team.

  Stacy Ann stood three girls behind Fat Angie and managed to be audible enough when she said, “What is this? Equal rights for freaks with dead sisters now?”

  Fat Angie gritted her teeth. Coach Laden passed her the ball and blocked Fat Angie’s path. That action in no way phased Fat Angie’s forward motion as she dribbled, planted, and, with grace, nailed the jump shot.

  Coach Laden shouted, “Next,” watching Fat Angie jog to the back of the line.

  When practice ended, Coach Laden had the girls collect the renegade basketballs. Coach Laden scooped one up and, tossing it at Fat Angie, simultaneously shouted, “Think fast!”

  Again, fast responses were not Fat Angie’s specialty.

  The ball smashed into her nose.

  The girls laughed.

  This was not funny to Fat Angie.

  “Locker room. Now,” Coach Laden said to the girls.

  Blood oozed out. Drip-dropping onto the famous yellow Hornet symbol center court. Fat Angie hated blood.

  “Forward,” Coach Laden said, holding out a towel. “Let me see. Well, it isn’t broken.”

  Fat Angie stood awkwardly, feeling another “you’re special” speech was imminent.

  “You did good today,” said Coach Laden.

  “Thanks,” said Fat Angie, her voice muffled by the towel.

  “Your sister was really good at this game. I was surprised she turned down her scholarship,” said Coach Laden. “She really loved it. Every second.”

  Fat Angie continued to bleed.

  “Wanted to rid the world”— Fat Angie repositioned the towel —“of the tyranny of terrorism.”

  Coach Laden pulled the towel back and inspected the red puffiness that was Fat Angie’s nose.

  “Can you tell me why are you doing this, Angie?”

  Fat Angie searched the recesses of her mind to come up with a stellar answer.

  Fat Angie was short on stellar at that moment.

  She exhaled from her mouth.

  “This game . . . it’s very competitive,” said Coach Laden.

  “I wanna play,” said Fat Angie, removing the towel.

  “What does your mom think?”

  Fat Angie eased to the gym floor. Coach Laden followed.

  “Doesn’t it matter what I think?” said Fat Angie.

  Coach Laden stretched her back with her palms flat on the floor. “I just think it’s been a hard year. Don’t you?”

  Fat Angie crossed her legs, her sister’s HORNETS’ NEST T-shirt practically plastered to her wide wet torso.

  “If you didn’t know me or my sister — if you didn’t know anything — would you give me a chance?”

  “No.”

  This response stumped Fat Angie, who struggled to her feet. Her muscles tense and tired, she ambled toward the locker room.

  “Angie,” called Coach Laden. “See you tomorrow.”

  “But you just said —”

  “I just said I wouldn’t have given you a chance,” said Coach Laden. “Go. And wash that shirt.”

  Fat Angie had stopped short of the locker room, to say “thanks” or “super thanks,” when she saw Coach Laden standing at the basketball caddie. She clutched the half-basketball charm and kissed it before resting it on her chest. It was not a religious symbol — as far as Fat Angie knew — but it was something she had never seen the coach without.

  Coach Laden pushed the basketball caddie off the court and disappeared into the equipment room.

  Fat Angie wanted to belong somewhere, to mean something to someone. She had meant the world and the intergalactic beyond to her sister.

  “I was never alone when she was here. But, like, I’m in the room with other people now,” Fat Angie had said to her therapist. “People talking. Laughing. I dunno, I just . . . feel all weird.”

  “Do you try to talk with anyone in these scenarios?”

  “About what?” Fat Angie had asked.

  “About themselves.”

  “But they’ll lie. Everyone lies.”

  The therapist had made a note: Paranoia could be symptomatic of psychotic tendencies.

  But KC had not been like everyone else. By and large, she was what one might call a straight shooter.

  Through weeks of practicing with Jake, enduring the annoying ways of Wang, and consuming mass quantities of fresh fruit and leafy greens, Angie’s determination to make the team had an echo of something purple. A purple heart and a pair of eighteen-eyehole combat boots. Fat Angie thought and thought, the nostalgia of the moment almost overwhelming her —

  “Move it, Fatty,” said a Stacy Ann minion, shoving past Angie from the locker room.

  And just like that, Angie realized she had never been Fat Angie to KC. She had just been her. A smile erupted with no hesitation, and she knew what she had to do.

  Angie shivered. Her breath was shaped by the murky light streaming from the street and painting an outline of KC’s porch. No sooner had Angie knocked than the neighbor’s dog sparked from the darkness. His paws tore at the chain-link fence as he howled. The only thing holding him back was the rope tied to his collar tied to a tree.

  Angie did not like this dog.

  The dog most likely did not like Angie.

  Angie growled at the dog.

  The door opened. “Well, it’s the famous Angie,” said Esther, wiping paint from her hands.

  “Famous?” asked Angie.

  “Yeah, come on in. KC said you were trying out for the varsity basketball team. Trying makes you famous to me.”

  “Hey,” said a guy, kissing Esther. “Pizza’s coming.”

  Angie wrote a mental Post-it of what appeared to be a fifteen-year age difference, give or take a year or two.

  “Angie, this is Mike,” said Esther.

  “Hey,” he said, holding out his paint-smudged hand. “I knew your sister.”

  The past tense of the statement forced Angie into a polite halfhearted smile.

  “Great gal, her sister,” said Mike to Esther. “She’d rock this town on a Friday night the way they do football down in Texas.”

  “KC didn’t mention you had a sister,” said Esther. “She off to college?”

  “She’s in the air force. She’s fighting — in Iraq. Yup.”

  Mike, like everyone else in Dryfalls, knew that Angie’s sister was not fighting in the war. But unlike many people, he did not say a single word to the contrary. He simply smiled.

  “I’m not much for the war, but I support the troops,” said Esther.

  “Hey,” said KC, popping iBuds out of her ears as she stepped out of her bedroom.

  Mike immediately put distance between Esther and himself.

  “I’m gonna get back to painting,” Mike said. “Good to hear you’re trying to rock the board, Angie. Town needs a good run again.”

  “Angie just stopped in,” Esther said to KC.

  “Esther, I’m not blind.”

  “OK. I’m just the mom . . . who’s gonna let you paint your room Buzz Lightyear Blue and Rebel Raw Red,” Esther said, approaching KC. “Give her a break. She’s a sweet girl.”

  “Esther . . .”

  “And quit listening to Death Cab for Cutie,” Esther said. “It makes you too depressed.”

  “Relax, it’s retro night with Jewel. Nothing but slit-the-wrists tracks,” said KC.

  “Not funny,” Esther said. “Never funny, KC.”

  Esther had never taken a serious tone with KC. Clearly this was not a moot point.

  “OK,” KC said. “Don’t break a spring.”

  “Dinner will be here in half an hour.”

  “Mike’s idea?” KC said.

  “He’s nice,” Esther said.

  “He’s twelve.”

  “Only in d
og years.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m kinda sick of pizza,” KC said.

  Beat.

  “He didn’t call,” Esther said. “Do you want me to call him? ’Cause I will, honey.”

  “I don’t wanna get into it.”

  Esther nodded.

  Angie’s eyes circled the room in the hope of finding something interesting to land on. At that moment, it was a copy of Time magazine with Steve Jobs on the cover. He had died.

  That had not been what she wanted to land on.

  “Well, I’ll let’cha know when dinner gets here,” Esther said. “Good to see you again, Angie.”

  Angie stood, uncomfortably comfortable. A strange double mood she had mastered out of the necessity of avoiding confrontation.

  KC hung against the wall. “What are you doing here?”

  “Um . . .” Angie started counting in her head and finished out loud with eight, nine, and ten.

  She died 1000.2 deaths every second KC said nothing. What was there to say? To do? Clearly, the space wedged between them was thick.

  KC had peeled off the wall and was halfway to her bedroom when she looked over her shoulder. Angie was cemented in place.

  “Come on,” KC said.

  Angie followed four and a half steps behind KC to KC’s room. Something was different. Something she was not able to decipher in the brief time from entrance to KC saying, “What are you doing here?”

  KC fell back on her bed and reached for a graphic novel.

  Fat Angie dipped her head and bit the inside of her cheek.

  She had told her therapist, “I suck. I hate who I am.”

  The therapist had made a note: Cognitive dissonance.

  “Esther said you knew about tryouts,” said Fat Angie.

  “I was walking by.” KC flipped the page.

  “Oh. I thought maybe . . .” Fat Angie stretched her neck to one side. Then the other. “Maybe we could . . . hang out? See, my mom’s over at Wang’s therapist’s tonight. We could spy on her and, um . . . take some pictures for your Wall of Weird So Twisted.”

  “That’s a little dark,” said KC, still reading. “Even for the wall.”