Fat kid rules the world by K. L. Going Page A

sits in the audience, then finally makes his way on stage. His hands are empty and he has ketchup stains on his shirt. No hamburger. I almost leap over the drum set and squash him. I think about my newfound knowledge and am confident I could squash Curt with little effort. But Curt’s oblivious to my power. He grins at Ollie, then at me.
    “Great, man. This is great,” he says in a rush. “You sound great.”
    I haven’t actually hit the drums yet.
    Ollie claps Curt on the shoulder and grins. It’s a weird grin because I can tell he’s trying not to do it. He looks like he wants to be mad, but isn’t.
    “Insane freak,” Ollie says. “What the hell are you up to? Troy can’t play the drums, you know….”
    I’ve been trying to say this ever since I met Curt, but now I’m insulted. Curt just shrugs.
    “Hey,” he says, hopping twice, “teach him that cool rim thing….”

30.
    QUESTIONS ON THE AGENDA:
What is Curt thinking?! Why is he pretending I am going to be a drummer in his band? How do I get out of this without ruining my life? Can I pretend to play a gig? What is Curt thinking?!
    I sit on stage, a massive silhouette, playing rhythms as they’re dictated to me. I think,
Why am I doing this
? and flail miserably. I’ve crossed a line somewhere and can’t figure out how that happened. Without meaning to I’ve overstepped that yellow line, only this time my body is flying through the air and the F train’s coming.

    Curt sits backward on a wooden chair while Ollie reminds me to keep the bass drum going while I add the other drum parts. We’ve been working on the same patterns for the last hour and I’m tired. My arms ache and my legs hurt. I want to go home. I keep thinking about the middle part of my day. The part where I felt assertive and slightly less bloated, not the part where I almost got killed. My mind wanders and I lose the beat.
    “No, man,” Ollie says. “You’d have it if you’d concentrate.”
    I shake my head. “I don’t think—” I start, but Curt interrupts.
    “Don’t try so hard,” he tells me. “You’re just starting, so don’t worry about what you sound like.”
    It’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.
Who was worried about that
? I’m worried about looking like the Goodyear Drummer. I’m worried about potentially eternal humiliation. I’m worried about being manipulated into something I absolutely, positively, no-way-in-hell can do. My stomach growls loudly.
    “I can’t concentrate,” I mutter. “I have to get home. Dad’s going to freak.”
    Ollie and Curt exchange glances—horrible, sarcastic, we-knew-it-all-along glances. Skinny-people-in-cahoots glances.
I hate them
. I dig my fat heels into the floor.
    “I’ve got to go home,” I say, firmly. “This has been fun and all, but there’s no way I’m playing a gig. I can’t play in front of people. I hyperventilate. I can’t … do it. I know I’ve said this before, but this time I
mean it
.”
    It’s the most assertive speech I’ve ever made, which would be gratifying except for the fact that Ollie looks at Curt and Curt looks at Ollie and they both pretend to be clueless. They’re playing the we-can’t-see-that-you’re-fat card and I
hate
that.
    Curt stares intently at a loose floorboard while Ollie studies the graffiti on the wall.

    “Fine,” I say, turning to Curt. “Ignore me all you want, but I’m still not doing it. Trust me, it’s for the best. Find another drummer. Find
anyone else.” Someone normal
, I think.
Someone skinny
. I plead with him in my brain.
Listen to me. Just this once, listen to me
….
    Curt and Ollie glance at each other, then Curt nods.
    “Okay,” he says at last. I wait for more, then pause, confused.
    “Okay?”
    Curt shrugs. “Yup. Okay.” He gets up and slides his chair back in place. Ollie unknots his long legs.
    “You still owe Smack Metal Puppets a gig,” he says to Curt, “for today’s lesson. Saturday night …”
    Curt nods.