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

“Right. Saturday.”
    They’re moving on as if nothing happened while I sit like a wart on the nose of the drum set. Ollie turns to me.
    “If you change your mind …,” he says. I blink rapidly, then stutter my response.
    “I … no, I mean, I won’t.” It seems like the right thing to say after an assertive speech, but now I’m not so sure. I stand up really slowly. Suddenly, I don’t want to leave.

31.
    I THINK I’VE MADE a huge mistake. A Fat Kid-sized mistake. I don’t know it yet, but actually, I’ve made two of them.
    I arrive home exhausted, hungry, and sweating and all I want to do is eat. Then I see my father waiting in the kitchen. He stands by the sink, so stiff he’s a two-by-four. Dayle’s standing there, too, but he smiles smugly and disappears when he sees me.

    “School called,” Dad says.
    “They did?” I’d forgotten all about school. My father nods and indicates a kitchen chair.
    “Sit down,” he orders. I sit facing the kitchen table and he turns on the overhead light. The rest of the house is dim, so the light seems too bright. I place my sweaty hands flat against the tabletop, gripping the edge. Dad wastes no time.
    “Where were you today?” he asks.
    I puff. “I went to Curt’s house to practice, then to this place called The Dump.”
    “Did you use drugs?”
    “No …”
    Dad leans forward. His breath smells like stale coffee.
    “Did Curt use drugs?”
    I shake my head and my cheeks flap. “No,” I say, imagining the torture that will come if I withhold information. “Curt wasn’t even there at first. When I went to his house only his stepfather was home.”
    I wait for Dad to ask if Curt’s stepfather used drugs, but he doesn’t. “What did you do there?” he barks.
    The stress of the day is too much. FAT KID CRACKS UNDER PRESSURE . I start from the beginning, spilling every last humiliating detail.
    “Curt’s stepfather was a real creep, and I almost got killed, and I know I shouldn’t’ve been there but we were supposed to practice and I thought Curt would be home, you know, like he was last week, except he wasn’t, and his stepfather was drunk and he kept saying he was going to kill Curt if he stole any more bologna and he thought I knew where Curt was so he got really mad, and then I ran and I thought he would follow me but he didn’t, and then I got to my locker and I was going to go back to class, honest, but Curt was there andhe said he thought I could’ve taken his stepfather … you know, in a fight or something, and then he said we needed to practice, so we went to this place called The Dump—”
    Dad puts his fingers on his temples and closes his eyes.
    “Enough … enough!” He has to say it twice before I finally shut up. He looks like he might go insane, and finally he abandons his military stance and slumps down at the kitchen table. The Disappointed Dysfunctional Parent sign flashes wildly above his head and he looks up at me with tired eyes.
    “Curt’s stepfather threatened you?” he asks.
    I pause, surprised. “Yes,” I say at last. My father’s jaw tightens.
    “And he threatened Curt?” he asks.
    I nod slowly.
    “And Curt said you could’ve defended yourself?”
    I mean to look contrite, but grin sheepishly. Dad makes a pained wheezing sound.
    “And you’ve skipped school before to practice with Curt?” he asks.
    I nod again. “Just once,” I offer. “Just once to listen to CDs. Well, er … we sort of had to practice this week because Curt agreed to play some gigs with this band if the drummer would give me lessons. But it’s over, Dad. Don’t worry. It’s
sooo
over.”
    Dad is quiet for a long time and I start to feel really guilty. When he finally says something, his voice is low and tired. “Troy,” he says at last. “What didn’t I give you? Haven’t I been a good father? What didn’t I …?” He can’t finish the sentence.
    I shut my eyes.
    “Dad,” I whisper, “it’s really over. I swear. I told