Sneak Peek: The Jock and The Fat Chick

THE JOCK
AND
T H E FAT
CHICK
NICOLE WINTERS
JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 1 9/2/15 11:35 AM

The Jock and the Fat Chick
Text copyright © 2015 by Nicole Winters
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EPub Edition © 2015

ISBN 978-0-06-241841-8
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First Edition

For my friends
“Shine on you crazy diamond(s).”

—Pink Floyd
Big thanks to my agent, Marlene Stringer,

and to my editor, Catherine Wallace,
for bringing out the best in me.

C H A P T E R 1
I H AU L A S S AC ROS S T H E SC H O O L’ S P L AY I N G
field, the ball cupped in my lacrosse stick. One guy tries to
block me, but I fake him out. I dodge left, pivot, and fire
the ball over my shoulder. Viktor catches it, and I run along
the outside line, getting into position. I glance back—I’m
open!—and Viktor passes. I scoop the ball from the air and
bolt, running full tilt, like a warrior wielding a spear. Two
of our hockey buddies, Dino and Armpit, come right at me,
teeth bared and out for blood. Seconds before we make con-
tact, Viktor runs interference. Bodies collide and I leap over
the pileup to lob the ball overhand and—bam!—into the net.
Yeahhhh!
Coach should know better than to put Viktor and me on
the same team. We’ve been playing competitive hockey on
the Huntsville Hurricanes for four years.
I jog back so we can high-five and perform a little victory

2 NICOLE WINTERS
dance. Damn, we make this look good. Hockey scholarship,

here I come.
Coach blasts his whistle. “All right, hit the showers and
put your lacrosse sticks back in the gym, neatly. And, Kevin,
my office before next period.”
I spit out my mouth guard and wipe my lips dry with the
back of my hand. “Okay, Coach.”
Viktor gives me a “what’s up with that?” look, and I
shrug. The four of us—Viktor, Armpit, Dino, and me—lead
the class across the playing field. It’s a cool mid-October day,
but we still peel off our sweaty T-shirts and tuck them into
the backs of our shorts so they hang loose while we walk.
Got to enjoy the last bit of warmth before the snow hits.
The twelfth-grade girls who have gym at the same time
we do ended up running track. They’re assembled on the
grass, bending and stretching, and looking hot and sweaty.
“Hey, Kev,” Viktor whispers.
I follow his line of sight to catch Missy looking away,
pretending that she hadn’t just checked me out.
He runs his hands through his cropped blond hair.
“You’ve totally gotta tap that.”
“Yeah, whatevs,” I say, which sounds like I’m playing it
cool, but what I want to tell him is No thanks, man, not inter-
ested. Sure, Missy’s pretty, nice, and athletic, and a lot of guys
would give their left nut to date a member of the Hurricane
Squad, but cheerleaders don’t do it for me. Not that I’m in a

T H E J O C K A N D T H E FAT C H I C K 3
rush to tell Viktor.

My self-appointed wingman appears confused. “Why
not? She’s been crushing on you for a while. She’s single now.
Go for it.”
I shrug, and Armpit shoots me the stink eye. Armpit’s
jealous because he clams up around girls and I don’t.
I look at Missy when her back is turned. While I do want
to get laid by graduation, I think only a jerk would nail a girl
he isn’t into just because he can.
Viktor still stares, waiting for an answer on why I’m not
tapping the free keg. I think fast, deepening my voice to
impersonate a sunbaked surfer. “Too twiggy for me, dude.
My two-by-four would snap her in half.”
Laughter erupts, and I chuckle at my fake macho voice.
A bunch of girls hear us and look our way.
“Hey, boys,” comes a thick, husky voice that makes me
think of sandpaper and syrup. Alyssa Ferrera. A transfer to
Huntsville High in September. She’s your standard Viktor
type: long-haired, leggy cheerleader. I notice the guys do the
ol’ “chest puff, gut suck” as they walk by, shoulders swaying
from side to side, too. Hilarious.
Alyssa smiles before doing splits, exuding a lot of confi-
dence as she hits the ground. Dino half-trips.
We pass Alyssa, Missy, and the other girls, and one of
them wolf whistles. Without turning around, Viktor sings,
“Bye, ladies,” and he’s answered with giggles. When we’re out

4 NICOLE WINTERS
of earshot, he swings his lacrosse stick, pretending it’s a golf

club. “God. I love cheerleaders. So flexible.”
I guess he should know; he lost his virginity to a senior
on the squad his freshman year.
We reach the end of the playing field, and before cross-
ing the running track, we let five girls by. One of them is
Zoë, who chats away like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
Zoë and I had an English lit class once, and I loved how she
talked to anyone—jock, nerd, show choir, hipster, stoner—
anyone, anytime, about anything. Between eavesdropping
on the whispered conversations she had with the girl next to
her, and all the time I spent fantasizing about her amazing
body, it was a miracle I passed English.
“Would you look at that?” Armpit murmurs from the
corner of his mouth. “Holy heifers. Round up the herd, cow-
boy.”
Viktor chuckles. “It’s the pork patrol. Tubs on parade.
Beep-beep-beep-beep,” he says, imitating a truck backing
up.
I don’t respond or laugh because it’s not hilarious. It’s
comments like these that make me not tell them about the
girls I’ve liked over the years.
Huh. Dino’s laughing right along with the rest. Of
course, he didn’t think it was funny last year, when he dated
a girl with pink hair who wore old-lady cat-eye glasses. The
guys razzed the hell out of him, and after the entire school

got wind of the weird jock-artsy couple, he couldn’t take the

teasing and cracked from the pressure. He walked into the
locker room and announced, “I dumped her ass,” and has
been single ever since. Even though Dino’s type and my type
are not the same, I just know I’d get the same shitty treat-
ment if I ever tried to date Zoë or someone like her. And who
needs to deal with that? High school is hard enough. No
sense making it a living hell.
The guys pause, awaiting my joke while staring at Zoë
and her friends. Most times I can get away without say-
ing mean stuff, because the guys like trying to outdo each
other in the ha-ha department, so I can just sit back and say
nothing. Then there are times like this, when they want to
be amused because I’m the funniest person they know. It’s
humor that secures my place in this group. A lump forms in
the back of my throat as I weigh the consequences of saying
what I feel. I could either be the funny man and have this
uncomfortable moment pass or annihilate the good-times
vibe by pointing out how mean they are and risk them turn-
ing on me.
I come up short and hate myself.
“Imagine getting it on?” The lump morphs into a jagged
rock, which scrapes its way down my throat. “She’d roll over
and squish you. Death by suffocation.”
Viktor slaps me on the back. “Ha! Nice one!”
I’m a jerk.

6 NICOLE WINTERS
After showering and changing I head to Coach Barker’s

office and knock on his door. “You wanted to see me?” I ask.
He waves me in. “Take a seat, Kevin.”
I pull out a folding chair and it scrapes against the
concrete floor. His gunmetal gray desk is clear except for
a coffee cup and water bottle. Everything around him is a
mess, though. Trophies belonging in the school’s display
case sit on top of filing cabinets, a pile of purple-and-yellow
team uniforms sit in one corner, and in the other, a mas-
sively tangled volleyball net.
“What the hell is this?” Coach asks, and slides a bunch
of stapled papers across his desk, and I think fast, grabbing
them before they fly off the table. The cover page reads, “Fit-
ness and Diet Log by Kevin Conners,” and I slip into good
student mode by adopting a more formal voice.
“You asked us to write down our schedule and record
our meals and their nutritional content for thirty days,” I
say.
He stares at me like I’m stupid, and I guess I am because
I’m not sure what he’s getting at.
“Read me what you had for breakfast on September sev-
enth.”
I flip to page seven. “Three Slam-Dunkin’ Triple-Choc-
olate Cheesecake protein bars: 540 calories, fat: 18 grams,
carbohydrate: 75 grams, and protein: 60 grams.”

“Uh-huh. And what’d you have for lunch on the twen-

tieth?”
“Three Cliff Straddling S’mores protein bars: calories:
580, fat: 24 grams, carbohydrate: 61 grams, and protein: 53
grams.”
He inhales a deep breath through his nose, pauses, and
exhales. “And for dinner?”
“A double Eskimo Roll Peanut-Butter-and-Banana
Power Bulk shake. Calories: 600, fat: 16 grams, carbohy-
drate: 86 grams, and protein: 30 grams.”
I scan the snack entries—midmorning, midafternoon,
and postdinner—in case he wants me to read that, too.
Maybe he’s quizzing me on this because I have the lowest
body fat count of all the guys in class—probably the entire
school—and he wants my secrets.
Coach squeezes his temples like he’s got a headache and
runs his hands over the top of his balding head. “Christ, kid.
I’m surprised your colon hasn’t lapsed and you’re not wear-
ing a diaper.”
My jaw drops, practically dislocates. Did he just say
he wonders why I’m not dropping a load in my pants? Are
teachers allowed to say stuff like this?
He continues. “Be honest, is this what you’ve been eat-
ing and drinking?”
My shoulders tense, so when I shrug, the gesture’s stilted.
He frowns. “For how long?”

8 NICOLE WINTERS
There’s something in his tone that kicks up my defenses,

and if I’d known he’d get his jockeys twisted, I would have
copied some random online body builder’s diet.
“Since September,” I lie, because he’d blow a gasket if
he found out I’d done it all summer. My goal was to take
my training to the next level to score a hockey scholarship.
I went from 18 percent body fat to 9. The first day of gym,
changing in the locker room, Dino took one look and said,
“Shit, dude, you got mutated.”
Coach studies my face like he’s trying to peer into my
brain. “You okay? I mean, physically? No . . . problems?”
I squirm in my seat. “No, Coach. I’m good.”
He points the dreaded finger at me, giving it a firm
shake. “You need real food in your system. I don’t want you
playing in the upcoming season malnourished. Your folks,
don’t they cook?”
I stare at my cross-trainers, noticing a scuff in one toe.
My dad ran off after I was born, but that’s none of Coach’s
business.
“My mom thinks cooking is using a can opener and a
microwave.”
Coach’s face bunches up like I’ve ripped off a nuclear-
sized fart. “Kevin, I can’t pass you on this.” He shakes his
head. The look of disappointment burns the back of my
neck.
“But, Coach, I did what you wanted.”

“Protein bars, gels, and meal-replacement shakes aren’t

real food. And since you don’t know what healthy athletes
should be eating, we’ve got an even bigger problem.”
I jam my fists under my armpits. The A I get in gym is
what keeps my GPA above a 3.5, so I can score a scholarship
to Michigan State, hopefully on a full ride. It’s the closest
school with a decent kinesiology program, so I can become
a physiotherapist. Plus, they’ve got the best hockey team in
the country. I’m about to cry foul when he raises his hand,
blocking me.
“Now hold on, I’ve discussed your situation with Princi-
pal Bandell. We’ve agreed that you can make this up through
extra credit in domestic tech.”
Domestic tech? “But, Coach, I can’t fit an entire other
class into my schedule.”
“Simmer down, son. You’ll just do the four-week unit on
cooking and nutrition. I don’t need you to learn how to sew,
I need you to learn how to feed yourself.”
I sit there, stunned. I guess I don’t have much choice.
“Now on your Monday and Wednesday spares, Mrs.
Anderson has agreed to let you into her class—”
Mrs. Anderson. I know that name from somewhere. . . .
“And if you pass to her satisfaction—”
It hits me—Mrs. A: tall and built like a World War II
tank.
“—it’ll count as extra credit. Plus, you’ll learn how to

10 NICOLE WINTERS
cook.” Coach nods, and I think he even half-winks at me.

“Trust me when I say it’s a good skill to have. Ladies love a
man who can cook.” To prove his point, he slaps his belly
and gives it a little shake. I can’t help but picture Coach get-
ting some. Great, now I’ll need to bleach my brain.
He waves me away. “Now get the hell out of here. Go eat
a vegetable.”
I keep my game face as I leave, but inside I’m fuming. A
month of extra credit? A ball of heat rises in my gut, and it’s
like I could crush something. If the guys find out I have to
take dom tech—a girlie course—I’m done for. They’ll pounce
on me like wolves on a bunny. I shoulder my gym bag, my
fingers gripping the canvas strap. Got to hit Shreds, Hunts-
ville’s only decent gym, and blow off steam.
“So, what’d Coach want?”
I glance up. Great. Viktor.
“To tell me you suck,” I say, but it comes out louder than
I meant it to. I block the punch coming my way because I
know all his moves. We hip-check each other into the lock-
ers, and I pull a jersey on him by yanking his shirt over his
head to render him blind.
When I get home after hitting Shreds, I’m careful not to let
the door slam. I don’t want to wake my mom. She works
nights as a cleaner, so she sleeps until 8:00 p.m., sometimes
9:00.

When my dog, Buddy, a smooth fox terrier, sees me, he

wags his tail. Yeah, Buddy’s a cheesy name, but I was a kid
when I named him. Besides, he is my best bud. Buddy con-
centrates all his energy into hauling himself onto unsteady
legs. I meet the old boy halfway, bending on one knee to pet
him. “Hey, Buddy. How you doing, huh?” He licks my hand.
The Budster follows me into the kitchen, where Mom’s
left dinner on the counter. I pick up the can of stew, rotating
it in one hand until the words, “With real chunks of beef!,”
become visible. I keep turning it to check out the nutrition
facts label. Fifty percent of my daily sodium. Yeah, I’m not
eating it. It’s no wonder Mom’s always tired if she’s having
this along with her frozen dinners. Maybe she should do
Coach’s thirty-day assignment. I think back to what he said
about me wearing a diaper and frown. Teachers shouldn’t
say personal stuff like that to kids. I fish a can opener from
the drawer. If Coach doesn’t think what I eat is food, then
why would athletes endorse it? I dump the stew into Bud-
dy’s dish, just like I’ve done every day for the past couple of
months. It’s the athletes who showed me how to get “swole.”
I found a series of online videos by this megaripped dude
who taught me how to fine-tune my body and turn it into a
machine. He shared a ton of info on the nutritionally dense
power formulas for pre-, during, and postworkouts, along
with recovery day supplements. It worked; I got swole.
Anyway, the beef’s better for Buddy than dog food,

12 NICOLE WINTERS
which I learned contains wheat, soy, by-products, and saw-

dust. Yeah, sawdust. It’s a good arrangement: Mom thinks
I eat what she buys and I don’t hear Buddy complaining.
Okay, so I don’t like deceiving her by feeding Buddy the food
she puts out for me, but she can’t cook. She knows it, I know
it.
I grab a protein bar from my backpack and search the
dusty cupboards for something that isn’t too weird or gross
to eat. Let’s see . . . Spam, wiener sausages, and more chunky
stew.
Once it’s open, I turn the contents over and dump the
fish on top of my protein bar. Oily tuna juice drips into the
sink as I use my fingers to evenly spread the meat. There, I
think, this should make Coach happy. I ignore how it looks and
smells and sink my teeth into the moist fish, then press into
dense texture that resembles particleboard. I won’t lie—the
meaty tuna with a burst of mint-chocolate tastes disgust-
ing, but I push past it and gnaw my way through. Food is
nothing more than fuel. I continue munching, my jaw saw-
ing from side to side like a camel’s, but minus the white gob
of dangling spit. Before long, a slight pain flares in my mas-
seter muscles, but I push through it. I grab a clean bowl from
the cupboard and a spoon from the drawer to place into the
dish-drying rack.
See, I’m also a good son. I do dishes, too.

C H A P T E R 2
W E D N E S DAY: D O M T E C H DAY. I WA I T U N T I L
second bell, when Viktor and the guys have headed to their
classes, before I hurry past the cafeteria to the east hallway.
I keep my head down. I’ve never walked through the artsy-
fartsy wing before. I’m not even sure where I’m going. Up
ahead are four classrooms. A series of screaming cat sounds
tells me the first room is for music. Across from that a bunch
of kids wear paint-splattered white shirts, so that’s the art
room. The next class is empty, which means the last one on
my right should be it. I fight the urge to keep going and head
for the emergency exit that leads to the parking lot. If I do
that, my GPA will drop. I imagine Coach’s voice hollering,
“Suck it up, buttercup!” and shove my hands deep into my
jacket pockets. It hits me that I’m wearing something with
my last name plastered on the back. Good one. Too late to
run back to my locker, so I slip it off and bunch it up under
13

14 NICOLE WINTERS
my arm. “Scholarship,” I mumble, and step inside.

It might be the biggest room in the school, other than
the gym. There’s a bunch of stoves, sinks, blenders, and
other shiny, silver machine-things that I have no clue what
they’re for. No microwave though. At the front there’s this
extra-long counter on a platform riser, just like in science
class. Plus, there’s a long mirror hanging from the ceiling,
and angled downward so that from where I’m standing, I
can see two sinks and a stovetop. It reminds me of some-
thing from a cooking show.
There are all girls in here, and I scan the back of every-
one’s heads, hoping there’s no one who knows me and who’d
get off on telling the whole world I’m in this class. The quick
answer is no—not the hipsters, stoners, and the weird girl
in the space-punk clothes with the unwashed, matted rat’s
nest of tangled hair is a definite hell-no. Wait—I do recog-
nize someone. She was one of the girls with Zoë yesterday,
walking on the running track. I doubt by her anime fan
T-shirt she’s friends with anyone who knows me. Good.
When Mrs. A enters, I step aside. Good ol’ Mrs. A. At
six feet two she’s a smidgen taller than me, with a mass of
brown curly hair and a solid blocklike frame. She looks like
she could hold her own in a rugby scrum. She’s all right, I
guess. I hear she helps out with fund-raising bake sales for
various clubs.
Mrs. A turns to me. “Mr. Kevin Conners,” she says. “It’s

so nice of you to join us.”

Everyone turns to check me out. Thanks, Mrs. A—direct
a stadium spotlight on me, why don’t you? A few girls are
surprised to see a guy, some others giggle, and one of them
with glazed eyes snorts.
“All right, ladies, settle down. Kevin, take a seat.”
I grab one at the back, closest to the exit. The space-
punk girl with the rat’s-nest hair keeps staring at me after
everyone else has turned around. She gives me this pissy
face, like I’ve rained on her parade or something. What’s
with that? I finally have to give her a “what’s your problem?”
look until she minds her business. Mrs. A makes her way to
the front, carrying a stack of papers. “I have marked your
household budget assignments,” she says. She hands the
pile to someone in the first row, who searches for her paper
before passing along the rest.
“For the most part, everyone did well. You remembered
the recommended percentile expenditure on items like rent,
mortgage, transport, and retirement. One or two of you
need to review compound interest over twenty-five years, so
see me after class.”
Score one for missing that unit. The food diary was bad
enough.
“I hope everyone brought their three ingredients for
today’s assignment. We’re preparing a meal for two in under
forty-five minutes, and it needs to cost less than ten dollars

16 NICOLE WINTERS
per person, so don’t forget the math when you portion items
out. And I want to see receipts, so remember to turn those
in. Okay, team up with your partners.”
Everyone either heads for a workstation carrying a gro-
cery bag or they go to the industrial-sized fridge to grab
their food. Mrs. A is about to say something to me when
she’s interrupted by a girl in a black dress, who asks a ques-
tion.
My eyes wander to the girl’s long, shiny, wavy black hair,
then right to her full, round butt. I can’t help it. She has this
perfect shape, like the figure eight.
Wow. Who. Is. This?
“Since Christina’s moved away,” Mrs. A says to her, “I’d
like you to partner with Kevin, and you two can work at the
front.” Mrs. A points at me, and the girl turns around. I see
eyes so amazing it’s clear I need glasses. How did I miss see-
ing her a minute ago? Is she new at this school? She must be.
I play it cool and make my way between the rows of desks
toward the front. My hands, which hung natural-like at my
sides a second ago, grow all weird, morphing into some-
thing like goalie’s gloves. I shove them into the pockets of
my jeans. Ugh, this must be what Armpit’s like around girls.
My new partner steps onto the riser. She’s short, and her
head reaches my sternum. From the fridge, she pulls out
a canvas bag and sets it onto the teacher’s demonstration
desk. At least we scored the best setup.

“Hi, I’m Claire Riel,” she says, and doesn’t sound thrilled
to be working with the new guy.
I manage to muster a “hey” back, but because she’s
pretty, she robs me of my brain function, and it comes out
sounding like a caveman’s grunt.
Claire slips on a red apron plastered with white hearts.
She pulls the strings tight, tying it off, and the material
hugs her chest and hips. I tell myself to stop and not be that
guy who stares at the boobs, no matter how incredible they
might be, because it’ll come off as creepy. She hands me a
second apron, a blue one with tiny ladybugs and some frilly
stuff along the edges. I give her a look like she’s nuts.
“We have to,” she says, and sighs, like she knows how
unfortunate it is, and then adds, “or Mrs. A will deduct
points, and I can’t have that.”
“Oh.” I scan the room to see who might be looking
before I take the stupid-looking thing and put it on. I feel
ridiculous, and when I glance down, I get an eyeful of white
froufrou trim and two size-thirteen feet poking out from
underneath. I make a mental note to never wear shorts in
this class, because if I do, it’ll look like I’m wearing a skirt.
“So, uh, what’s on the menu?”
“Wild mushroom and halibut risotto.”
I recognize three of those words.
From nowhere she produces two mini-sized chopsticks,
and before I can ask what they’re for, she does some kind

18 NICOLE WINTERS
of magic ninja move where her shoulder-length hair is piled

high and held in place with two sticks. I stare in wonder; it
defies physics.
She grabs a pot and frying pan from beneath the coun-
ter and fills them with water. Once set onto the burners, she
cranks up the heat.
I notice a lot of kids with their heads down, reading reci-
pes in books or on the backs of packages.
“Is there a recipe?”
“Nope.”
I arch an eyebrow. Normally, I’m for winging it, but I
need to pass this class. Before saying anything, Claire hands
me a brown paper sack. “Do me a favor and brush these?”
Since I have nothing to do, I take the bag from her and
tip the contents onto the wooden cutting board. Funky
flesh-colored mushrooms with flat tops tumble out. They’re
nothing like the white ones on pizza.
“Weird,” I say.
“They’re oyster mushrooms, because they taste like oys-
ters.”
I make a face.
“You’ve never had oysters?” she asks, and sounds
shocked, like I’ve just told her I’ve never tried air.
I let her know I don’t eat slime.
She shrugs. “Your loss.”
Great. Why do the hot ones have to be weird? I guess it

could be worse; I could be stuck working with that space-

punk rat’s-nest girl.
I pick up a mushroom and turn on the tap to wash off
the dirt.
Claire gasps and grabs my hands, pulling them away
from the water. Her touch catches me off guard.
She slaps her palm over her heart. “Oh my god, that was
close.”
Huh? I eye her warily. “Ah, yeah. The world nearly ended
in a fireball.”
She rips a sheet of paper towel from the roll. “Here,” she
says, taking the mushroom from me, “let me show you.” She
turns the shroom over and points at its underside. I take
note of two things: countless black ridges and her pretty
hands—I admit, noticing a girl’s hand is weird. “The flavor
and aroma come from the spores, and when you rinse them
with water, you wash them away.” She turns the shroom over
and brushes the top of it in smooth, gentle strokes. My mind
can’t help but go to a dirty place. I make my brain change
the subject.
“So, are you new at this school?”
Her head tilts to one side. “No. Why?”
“I dunno. I’ve never seen you before, not in the halls,
dances, cafeteria . . .”
Claire hands me the wad of paper towel, so I can take
over the cleaning.

20 NICOLE WINTERS
“Yeah, I never eat in the cafeteria. It smells funny, like

botulism and budget cuts.”
I think she just cracked a fine joke that sailed over my
head. She adds, “I’ve seen you, though. In that assembly,
with the cheerleaders.”
I remember said assembly, a big rah-rah thing to get
more kids out for school spirit stuff, like cheerleading. The
girls asked Viktor to help with their demo, and he imme-
diately recruited me and the guys. He said all we needed to
do was to lift them onto our shoulders, and if our hands
touched a butt or two, well, it was just an occupational haz-
ard. Of course, I had to grunt like it was the best thing ever.
A thrill runs up my spine, making me stand a little
taller. Claire remembers me? Cool. I can’t believe we’ve never
had a class together. How’s that possible? Maybe we did and
I didn’t notice? No. I would have remembered her. I think of
something to keep the conversation going. “Have you ever
had Mr. Lane as a teacher?”
“OMG, yeah. He’s the worst!” Claire strokes an imagi-
nary beard before she claps once, loud and with authority.
“Sock-pulling-up time, ladies and gentleman.” A few kids
glance up to see who’d said that and smile.
Without thinking, I lightly whap Claire’s upper arm,
like we’re old friends swapping war stories. “So this one time
before school, my buddy threw a piece of cheese above Mr.
Lane’s desk, to see if it’d drop on his head during class, but

it just stuck to the ceiling.”

Claire lays a hand over her mouth, then lowers it to
unveil a big grin. “I thought that was a cheese slice!”
“Yeah, and it stayed up there the whole year!”
We crack up, and when the pot of water on the stove
boils, she reaches for a few cubes of something, along with a
bunch of herbs to toss in.
“I thought we could only use three ingredients?”
When Claire leans forward I get a whiff of her shampoo.
It’s fruity, like peaches.
“Herbs, spices, and oils don’t count,” she says, like it’s a
hot secret.
“Oh,” I say, and I think I’m supposed to be impressed.
I glance at the workstations and see a lot of spaghetti
packages. Easy enough: pasta, ground beef, and a can of
sauce. Even I could make it, but I wouldn’t. Carb overload. A
protein bar or power gel is ten times better.
Claire grabs another frying pan, and in this one she adds
a massive hunk of butter. As it melts, I can’t help but picture
my six-pack dissolving with it. A little fat I can handle, no
problem; hell, the body needs it, but a quarter cup of butter
has about forty-six grams of fat. The pan turns a shiny sil-
ver. Funny, I never noticed how good melted butter smelled
before. Claire adds half a cup of rice to it—more carbs—and
stirs it with a wooden spoon. Is she frying dried rice?
She catches me observing her. “You don’t cook, do you?”

22 NICOLE WINTERS
“How can you tell?”

“You look scared.”
“What? I’m not scared. . . .” My eyes shift quickly from
the pot to the pan, like the sight horrifies me.
I get a smile.
The water in the first frying pan boils, and she turns
down the heat. Using her fingers, she picks up the fish and
sets it in the center of the pan, so it becomes half covered in
water.
“You’re boiling fish?” I ask.
“Nooo, it’s called poaching.”
“‘Nooo, it’s called poaching,’” I mimic, but then realize
Claire doesn’t know my sense of humor.
She gets real quiet, then tilts her head to the side. “You
know . . . you should be nicer to the one who holds the rec-
ipe.”
I pretend to zip my lips shut. She’s funny, and clearly
isn’t afraid to tease me back.
Mrs. A clears her throat and announces that she needs
to make some photocopies and we have twenty minutes left.
The second she shuts the door behind her, Claire leans over
to say something, and without meaning to, my eyes land on
her chest—I’m not trying to be a perv, but I can’t help catch a
peek at her cleavage and her deep-red bra strap.
“You know she’s not going to the copier room, right?”
“Huh?” I say, like a Neanderthal. Red bras must do that

to me.
“Mrs. A. She’s not going to the photocopy room.”
“No?”
Claire shakes her head and then makes a V with two
fingers and brings them to her mouth, like she’s smoking a
cigarette. It’s obvious Claire has never held a smoke before.
In mock-shock I whisper “Noooo,” and pinch two fin-
gers, bringing them up to my mouth, like I understand that
Mrs. A has left to toke on a joint.
Claire laughs so hard she grabs on to my arm to steady
herself.
I glance at her hand squeezing my tricep. Could she be
flirting with me? I scan the room. To my horror, the messy-
haired, black makeup–eyed freak show glares at me like
something out of a scary Japanese film. What the hell is
Rat’s-Nest Girl’s problem, anyway? Shouldn’t she be burn-
ing or sacrificing something? Her beady-eyed gaze slaps me
back to reality and why I’m here—scholarship. I refocus on
our assignment. “So, what now?” I say, using my good stu-
dent voice.
Claire ladles a large spoonful of broth, containing herbs
and spices, and pours it over the rice and butter in a circular
motion.
“Stir,” she instructs. “But don’t overstir.”
I’m about to ask how one could possibly overstir when
the anime girl and her partner wave Claire over. She wipes

24 NICOLE WINTERS
her hands on her apron and then hurries down the platform.
For a second, I wonder if they’ve called her so they can make
a crack about me, but as they chat, no one laughs or glances
my way. Claire tastes their dish and reaches for an herb, I
think. She says something and points to something else—it
might be hot sauce—and gives it two shakes over the pot.
She instructs them to stir and then wipes her hands again.
The second she’s finished, the two stoners want Claire’s
attention. One of them holds up a glob of pasta all stuck
together at one end.
Claire turns to me. “Turn the fish over and add another
ladle of broth to the risotto,” she instructs, and I hop to it,
like it was an order from Coach. Whatever she’s making, it
smells good.
“Oh my god,” Rat’s-Nest Girl says to her partner. “You
added too much chili powder. It’s gross. Claire,” she pleads.
“Help. Now.”
Claire glances at the door, like she’s calculating her
chances at getting caught. She goes for it, hurrying across
the room. She tastes, pauses, then adds a tablespoon of what
I think is sugar and a squeeze of lemon. “Stir,” she says, and
jogs back to our station.
“Thank you!” Rat’s-Nest Girl shouts.
“My pleasure,” she replies, and takes the wooden spoon
from my hand. Have I overstirred? Meh, it doesn’t matter.
I’m happy to step back and make room for the Jedi master.

When Mrs. A returns I can’t help but picture her in the

parking lot, puffing on a smoke. I chuckle. Wait till I tell the
guys. Whoa, wait. I can’t do that. They’ll want to know how
I know, and when they find out it’s because I failed an easy
gym assignment and have to take dom tech for extra credit,
it’ll be wolves-on-a-bunny time. Everyone knows cooking
and sewing classes are for girls, and trust me, you don’t want
to be in the locker room and have the guys razz you for your
ladylike qualities.
“Ten more minutes,” Mrs. A announces.
Claire tastes the rice. “Okay, remove the halibut and cut
it into small bits.”
I use tongs to pick up the fish and half of it breaks and
falls back into the pan. Guess I should have used the spatula.
Anyway, I place both pieces onto the wooden cutting board,
and from the drawer, I grab a big-ass knife, confident I’ve
got this. If she wants small bits, I’ll give her small bits. I start
chopping the fish, attacking it from all different angles.
Claire gasps and I stop. Now what?
She steps closer, examining my work. “Ew. Cut with the
meat’s natural grain, Hacky McHackster.”
“Natural grain?”
She takes the knife from my hand and uses the blade’s
tip, showing me how to do it. “See how it flakes apart?”
Mrs. A wanders over as Claire flakes. I stand back.
“Claire,” Mrs. A says, and I detect a hint of irritation

26 NICOLE WINTERS
in her voice. I guess it’s possible to upset her. “You’re being

graded as partners. You need to give Kevin a chance to par-
ticipate.”
Claire sets down the knife and swivels the handle so it
points toward me. “Sorry.”
Even though I haven’t done much other than stir and
hack, I step to my teammate’s defense. “I’ve been helping,”
I say.
“Oh?” Mrs. A replies. “And what are we making today,
Kevin?”
I tell her, “Rice and fish,” and say it without hesitating,
so it sounds like I know what we’re doing.
Claire bows her head and slumps. “Wild mushroom and
halibut risotto,” she mumbles, and I hear a penalty buzzer
in my head go ERRRNNNNTT! Game over.
Mrs. A smiles to say she’s made her point about sharing
the workload. She walks off to inspect another group.
Things turn quiet and serious. Claire adds another glob
of butter to the rice, or whatever she calls it, and I continue
“flaking.”
“Listen,” she murmurs in a voice so low I have to bend to
hear. “I’m just going to come out and say it. The reason Mrs.
A put you with me is because I’m good at this and, well, . . .
you’re a lost cause.”
My spine straightens.
“You’re not the first guy forced to take this class and

think it was easy, and Mrs. A always sticks the temps with
me, and I have to take it without complaining, so I can
maintain my A. It’s not fair, because it makes my job ten
times harder.”
I stand there like a giant dummy too stumped for words.
She sighs. “But at least you’re nice and not a jerk about
it.”
It takes a second for what she’s saying to sink in. She’s
basically calling me a charity case.
“So, I want to propose a deal.”
I raise an eyebrow, letting her know I’m listening, but
I’m not sure where she’s going with this.
“I tell you what to do and say around Mrs. A, and that
way I keep my A and you can pass this class.”
I consider Claire’s offer. On the one hand, I don’t like
her calling me a dumb jock. On the other, she’s amazingly
good at cooking and needs to keep her grades high, which
means if I do what she says, I’ll pass too. I’ve got nothing to
lose, so I nod.
“Okay,” I say.
She gives me this big warm smile, like I’ve made her day.
“Good.” She motions to the fish. “Keep flaking.”
I respond with a “Yes, Coach,” as a lighthearted way of
sealing our deal.
When I’m done flaking, Claire adds the fish to the thick
rice mixture and then stirs, making my mouth water. It

28 NICOLE WINTERS
looks and smells incredible. There must be a million grams

of carbs in there. If I ate all that, I’d slip into a carb coma.
Claire pulls a large wooden spoon from the drawer and
then offers it to me. “Want to taste?”
She’s surprised when I shake my head, like I have no clue
what I’ve turned down.
“Ugh,” she says. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those carb-
counting gym rats.”
I make a face. “I hate the term ‘gym rat’; it makes me
sound greasy.”
“True.” Claire sizes me up and then adds, “And you’re
definitely not greasy.”
Hey, did she just check me out?
“Okay, how’s ‘don’t tell me you’re one of those carb-
counting fitness bunnies’?”
I grunt, amused.
“I bet you work out twice a day,” she goes on, stirring
the risotto, “and you eat nothing but skinless chicken and
steamed broccoli.”
I shrug.
She bobs her head, like she’s confirming something.
“Yeah, you look like a guy who denies himself pleasure. . . .”
An unexpected rush of heat spreads across my face.
“Well, if you want six-pack abs, there’s got to be sacrifices.”
Claire glances at my stomach, and even though she can’t
see anything under my shirt and apron, she turns her gaze

away and smiles, big.

That was definitely a check-me-out move. For a second,
I imagine what it’d be like to kiss her. If I had one ounce of
Viktor’s nerve, I’d ask her to show me just what kind of plea-
sure she thinks I’m denying myself, but I don’t. If I’ve read
her signals wrong and she isn’t playing, we’re talking disas-
ter of epic proportions. But she is, I’m sure of it . . . I think.
Claire scoops up a spoonful of her dish and then brings it to
her mouth before closing her eyes. She tastes and “mmms,”
and this blissful expression lights up her face. She has to be
messing with me. Food can’t be that good.
“Tell Mrs. A we’re done,” she says, pulling another spoon
from the drawer. She coats it before handing it to me. “And
when she asks if you tasted it, say yes and you suggested
more pepper.”
“Okay, Coach.”
“And remember, it’s risotto. An Italian dish.”
I nod one last time and call Mrs. A over.
“Wild mushroom and halibut risotto,” I announce, still
not sure what we made. Mrs. A grabs a clean spoon. She
tastes it and also closes her eyes. Now I want to know what
all the fuss is about.
“Scrumptious,” Mrs. A says. “What do you think,
Kevin?”
I deliver my big line. “It’s great, but I said we should add
more pepper.”

30 NICOLE WINTERS
Her face grows serious as she considers my point. She

nods, accepting my suggestion. “Ladies,” she addresses the
class. “Come try the risotto.”
The next thing I know, dozens of spoons dip into the
pan and scrape along the bottom to scoop up samples. Lots
of “mmms” fill the room. From where I’m standing, high
on the platform towering over everyone, I’m like a fly on the
wall, listening in on secret girl stuff. I do the guy thing and
picture a sleepover: girls braiding one another’s hair before
the big downy-filled pillow fight breaks out.
I stare at the wild, buttery, mushroom risotto and fish.
I’m guessing one decent bite is roughly eighty calories? Ah
heck, I can work that off by breathing. I scoop up a spoonful
and try it. Multiple flavors fill my mouth. It tastes creamy
even though she didn’t add cream to it. It’s good, so good
I want to tell everyone to back off because the rest is mine.
I go in for seconds, even thirds. This extra credit class
might just work out better than I thought.
As long as the guys don’t find out about my new girlie
skills.

C H A P T E R 3
I ’ M AT S H R E DS . T H E L A S T R E P, O N T H E L A S T
set, bench-pressing 165, which at this moment feels more
like 400 pounds. I exhale and give it all I got as I raise the bar
level with its cradle. Viktor stands behind me for the spot.
Hands at the ready, fingers grazing the bar in case I fail and
he can stop the weight from smashing into my chest. Focus,
embrace the pain.
“Push it, push it, push it!” he yells. “Come on, man! Do!
It!”
I reach deep, suck in a gulp of air, and tap into my last
ounce of reserves. I exhale again and grunt like I’m crapping
out a baby. The bar moves five final inches before Viktor’s
got my back and guides it into the cradle.
I sit up and drag my towel across my face. That. Was.
Brutal. I joke to myself, blaming the three tablespoons of
wild mushroom and halibut risotto and all those simple
31

32 NICOLE WINTERS
carbs hijacking my blood sugar and causing a preworkout

crash. It’s untrue, I know, but it gets me thinking about
Claire, and I smile.
I wipe the bench down, so Viktor can have a turn, but he’s
too busy staring into one of the mirror-covered walls. He’s
checking out some girl using the lats pull-down machine.
It’s not the amount she’s lifting he’s focusing on, but her
form. The lats machine, when done right, makes your chest
and butt stick out, and when girls do it, it superemphasizes
their curves.
I swat Viktor with my towel to snap him out of it. He
lies down on the bench, puts on his game face, and reaches
for the weights. I stand behind him for the spot. Of all the
guys, Viktor’s the only one I can count on to push me to my
physical limits. It’s because we’re both focused on hockey
scholarships—me to Michigan State and Viktor to whom-
ever will take him so he can be a coach or a teacher. Of
course, both of us would love to play pro but agree that’s a
one-in-a-million long shot, and backup plans are essential.
Viktor’s facial muscles tense as I count reps.
“Breathe,” I say. “Or you’ll get ’roids.” He exhales the
breath he didn’t know he was holding.
I met Viktor four years ago at hockey camp when he
moved from Baltimore. We bonded after discovering both
our dads split—mine never came back, his for another
woman. We could relate to having single moms and being

the man of the house. When high school started we contin-

ued hanging out. Viktor rose through the ranks fast. He’s
this intense-eyed, square-jawed blond Russian with a dan-
gerous smile, and he took me along on his ride to popular
town. I didn’t mind. In junior high I was a science and math
geek who was good at hockey. Now I got a whole new life.
I push him to fight one last rep before we call it a day. It’s
been a good session. I can tell by the postworkout shower.
When I can’t raise a palmful of shampoo over my head to
wash my hair because my lats, traps, and tris won’t let me,
I’ve done something right. I bend my head to meet my hand
because all of me hurts, bad. I finish, towel off, and change
into street clothes. It takes Viktor longer to get dressed,
because his phone buzzes nonstop. Each time he reads his
messages, he smiles before texting back.
I give him a “’Sup?”
“Alyssa,” he says, but he emphasizes each syllable so it
sounds like “A-lysss-sa.” Leave it to Viktor to work his way to
the new girl. I’m surprised it took him this long.
“She’s at the mall and wants us to meet up with her and
Missy.”
I shake my head. “Count me out.”
“What? Missy has the hots for you.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
Viktor cocks his head to one side. “You into dudes or
something? Because it’s fine if you are . . . I’m just sayin’.”

34 NICOLE WINTERS
I lob my wet towel at him. He dodges it.

“Come on. You gotta come. You know how girls are.
They travel in packs, and I can’t get to Alyssa if you’re not
there to help thin the herd.”
I soak my words in sarcasm. “Oh, well, in that case, I
really want to go now. Why don’t you call Dino—he’ll do it.”
Viktor scrunches up his face. “There won’t be any pink-
haired, cat-eye glasses–wearing chicks there.”
“Then call Armpit.”
“No way! You know what he’s like around girls.” Viktor’s
jaw goes slack in a “duh” expression. It’s an unfortunate but
accurate depiction. I wonder if that’s me when I’m around
Claire.
“Come on, Kev. I’ll spring for protein shakes.”
Now he’s got my attention. “Extra large with a booster?”
He sighs. “Yes. Extra large with a booster, pig.”
I laugh.
Viktor parks his car, and we cut across the lot toward the
Center Town Mall. When we don’t see the girls right away,
we head for Juice Extreme. I’m about to order my usual
Protein Master, but remember what Coach said about eat-
ing more vegetables. I scan the menu and end up getting
something called the Veg Blast—beets, cucumbers, spin-
ach, garlic, ginger, carrots, celery, and kale—and adding an
extra vitamin C boost. It doesn’t sound great, but I’m sick

of powdered drinks. There’s only so much you can do with

mocha, chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, and peanut butter
flavors. Yesterday, my meal tasted like banana and vanilla
cake batter. Great once in a while, but gross three times a
day.
The employee starts shoving half a dozen vegetables
through an industrial-sized juicer, which grinds and fills
my cup with muddy, greenish brown–looking liquid. When
it reaches the brim, he powers off the machine, and the
motor whirls to a stop. He snaps a plastic lid onto my drink
and hands it over.
Viktor points and laughs. “Where’re your socks with
sandals?”
“Yeah, you’re just jealous. I happen to have a more
sophisticated palate than you.”
He keeps laughing, and a hint of glee fills his eyes as
he waits for me to insert my straw and take a sip. I put on
my best poker face, so no matter how it goes down, he can’t
get the better of me. Liquid resembling dirt and warm front
lawn hits the back of my throat. It’s awful, like spit-take
awful, but I don’t flinch. I remind myself that food is noth-
ing more than fuel, and this is premium gas.
Viktor spots Alyssa and Missy in line at the Fry Palace
across the food court. We head over, and I stop midstep
when I recognize the girl behind the counter. She’s the
anime T-shirt girl—Zoë’s friend on the running track—who

36 NICOLE WINTERS
had asked Claire for help; I believe it was with the spaghetti
meal. In her spud-colored Fry Palace dress shirt and her hair
smushed under her hairnet, she quickly sizes Viktor and me
up. I can tell she knows who we are because she looks at me,
then away, fast, acting like we don’t know each other or go to
the same school. Her name tag reads “Ruby.”
Viktor comes up behind Alyssa and Missy and rests his
hands on their shoulders, so they turn around.
Alyssa’s face lights up, and she flicks her long, straight
black hair to one side, so she can run her hand down the
length of Viktor’s arm, from shoulder to wrist. Missy smiles
at me, big, and I nod back before pretending there’s someone
I know across the food court. I don’t want her to do the same
arm-thing to me.
Ruby slides a tray containing two colas and two large
cups of chunky-cut fries toward the girls.
Viktor stares at the tray. In a playful voice he says,
“What? Come on, those cups are barely full. . . .”
Ninety-five percent of the time Viktor is the coolest guy
I know, but there are moments like this when he thinks he’s
charming, but he’s not. He sounds, I dunno, smug? What
he also doesn’t know is that the difference between Ruby
working here and me working alongside her is that my mom
insists I concentrate on my grades and not work. I need to
get a scholarship.
Ruby walks back to the fry bin with their order.

Viktor adds, “Pretend you’re packing them for yourself.”

The girls giggle.
I raise my drink up to my mouth and mumble, “You bet-
ter hope she doesn’t spit in those.”
Viktor shoots me a challenging look that would nor-
mally have us trading shots and horsing around, but he
keeps his mouth shut, probably because of A-lysss-sa.
We grab a table for four in front of Al’s Sports Outlet.
Viktor and Alyssa yap about school and gossip about other
kids. She picks at her fries, grabbing one to wave around
before setting it down again. Missy eats like she’s in a con-
test, shoving food in her mouth with the heel of her hand.
“I have a high metabolism,” she says, gazing up at me,
like she’s reading my mind.
I feign interest by grunting. I don’t want to be a jerk, but
I also don’t want to lead her on. It’s like walking a tightrope.
She continues, “My dad says I eat like a long-haul trucker.
I can have two burgers, large fries, an apple pie, and a shake
every day and still not gain an ounce.” She shoves five fries
into her mouth to prove it. Wow. I’ve never met a girl with a
bottomless gut just like mine. Impressive. I remember eat-
ing like that—anything and everything—but now that I’ve
got my diet straightened out, Coach is on my case.
“That’s because you’re a bitch,” Alyssa jokes, and they
start laughing.
Viktor takes one of Alyssa’s fries and eats it as he stares

38 NICOLE WINTERS
into her eyes. She falls for his charms, dropping her gaze
and acting all shy. Man, how does he know when to do that?
Missy offers her fry cup to me.
“Want one?” Her eyes widen in hopes that I do.
I point to my drink and swirl it around, as if to say, No
thanks, I’m happy with this. I suck back the rest, finishing it.
The garlic, ginger, and other veggies start to kick in, giving
me a boost of warmth and energy. I like it. I wonder how
many calories were in this; maybe two hundred? I’ll have
to eat something else when I get home. The thought of a
sickly sweet vanilla-strawberry protein bar actually turns
my stomach.
Missy finishes her fries, wipes her hands on her paper
napkin, then tucks her hair behind both ears. She leans for-
ward, so her torso rests against the edge of the table. She
stares, smiling.
I purse my lips tight and smile back. She’s nice, but why
does she have to like me?
“So?” she says.
“So,” I echo back.
She grabs a clean napkin and starts creasing it, flipping
it over and making folds. When she’s done she presents a
paper crane.
“Cool.”
“Thanks.” She motions to my empty cup. “That looks
gross.”

I nod. “I find eau du front lawn to be an acquired taste.”

She laughs, and it gets weirdly quiet between us, the
same way it does before people make out. I lean back in my
seat and stare at all the shoes in Al’s display window. I try
to think of a random thing to say, but my mind goes blank.
Every second of silence feels like I’m giving Missy the sig-
nal that I like her. My knee hammers. I should never have
agreed to this. Coming here was a bad idea. Ugh, Alyssa’s
barely touched her fries. She’s stalling.
What I’m about to do next is rotten, especially when
Viktor asked for help, but if I stay a second longer, I’m going
to bolt, screaming. Besides, he doesn’t need me. I reach for
my pocket, faking like I got a text and pull out my phone. I
pretend to read a message, one so important I rise from my
chair.
Viktor glances up, and I hand him a few small bills
for the protein drink. I know he said he was buying, but I
feel sorta guilty. “Yo, can’t stay. I gotta split. That’s for the
drink.”
He stares at the money, then me. “What?” he says, and
I can tell he’s caught off guard. So much for him playing it
cool. “Where are you going, man?”
I hold up my phone and play the one card he can’t argue
with. “My mom needs me.” Yeah, it’s a lie, and before he
thinks of a comeback, I walk backward, waving bye-bye as
I head for the exit. Maybe this’ll be enough of a hint to him

40 NICOLE WINTERS
and Missy that I’m not interested? Also, Viktor can deal. He’s
always dishing advice on how to get girls to me and the guys.
Besides, it’s not like I’ve left Alyssa and Missy with Armpit.
The second I’m outside I remember I left my sweaty gym
clothes in his car. I shrug it off. It’s only a two-mile walk to
my place, and I can run that no probs if I had to.
I trudge along Main Street, and an unseasonably icy,
whistling wind smacks me in the face, so I zip up my jacket.
I shove my hands into my pockets just as my phone vibrates.
I pull it out. It’s a text from Viktor.
Dude!
I stop in front of a restaurant to text back Sorry, dude
and then press send as the door to a fancy dining place
opens and a dozen people spill onto the sidewalk. They
box me between them and the restaurant’s window. Since
I’m stuck and I can’t go around without walking onto the
street, I make myself useful and hold the door, so the exit
line hurries. They gather in a circle, chatting, oblivious to
everything. Before I let go of the handle, I glance inside the
restaurant and what I see causes a happy jolt through my
body. It’s Coach Claire. Beside her is some chef guy with a
head of wild hair, and they’re talking to a round table of
diners. The chef guy slides his arm around Claire and kisses
her on the head. What? The guy’s old enough to be her dad.
Someone at the table says something hilarious, because
everyone cracks up laughing. Claire squeezes the chef guy’s

arm, and I notice how similar their smiles are. That has to
be her dad. Huh, no wonder the girl can cook—her old man’s
a chef.
By the time I get home, Mom’s awake. She’s parked on the

living room couch, sipping coffee and watching TV with
Buddy by her feet. The blue light from the screen bounces
off her face, making her already pale skin and dark under-
eye circles look even worse, like a vampire who sleeps in a
deep freezer.
“Hey, Mom.”
She mutes the TV. “Hey, darlin’. How’s your day?”
“Good.” I sit on the armrest and reach down to pet
Buddy. His tail thumps. I remember a time when the ol’ Bud-
ster was my number one running partner. Every day at 6:00
a.m. he’d jump on my bed, holding the leash in his mouth.
Now he gets winded making it across the living room. Poor
guy.
“Can you do me a favor tomorrow?” Mom asks. “Drop
by the post office and mail those bills on the counter?”
I glance at the envelopes. “I can show you how to pay
them online if you want.”
“No,” she says with chuckle, “I’m too old for that.”
I shake my head, letting her know what I think of her
“I’m too old” routine. She should leave the house more, go
on a few dates and have some fun. I wander to the fridge

42 NICOLE WINTERS
for something to eat. After Claire’s amazing risotto, and the

energy I got from the veggie drink, I want something that’s
not a protein bar or gel. I open the door—ketchup, mustard,
bread, a jar of olives (gross), and Mom’s diet cola.
I then open both crisper drawers. Empty. “Is this all
we’ve got to eat?”
“Check the cupboard.”
I check the cupboard. There’s a can of carrots in brine—
what the heck is brine?—more tuna, some pasta that’s been
there forever, and something called “Ribs in a Can Meat
Product.” Barf.
Mom breaks into a phlegmy coughing fit. I bite my lip.
In the summer we had a big fight again about her smok-
ing. She ended it by saying that if she had to work nights
to support us, she’d damn well smoke if she wanted. I shut
up about it, and ever since, I’ve done my own laundry and
dishes, and I’ve never missed putting out the garbage, either.
I sigh. I’m not into tuna, canned ribs, or carrot-y brine.
Mom walks over for a peek. “Oh,” she says, noticing how
sparse it is. “Why don’t I give you some money, and you can
buy something.” She digs through her purse on the kitchen
table and pulls out three twenties. “Just make sure you get
me a case of diet cola and some more of those frozen dinners
I like.”
“Okay.”
Mom glances at the sunflower clock on the wall. “I

should get a move on. Shut the TV off, will you?”

I nod, and she grabs her leather jacket from the hook.
“Love you, baby.”
“Love you, too, Mom.”

Sneak Peek: The Jock and The Fat Chick

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Sneak Peek: The Jock and The Fat Chick

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THE JOCK

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 1 9/2/15 11:35 AM

EPub Edition © 2015

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 2 9/2/15 11:35 AM

“Shine on you crazy diamond(s).”

Big thanks to my agent, Marlene Stringer,

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 3 9/2/15 11:35 AM

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 1 9/2/15 11:35 AM

dance. Damn, we make this look good. Hockey scholarship,

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 2 9/2/15 11:35 AM

rush to tell Viktor.

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 3 9/2/15 11:35 AM

of earshot, he swings his lacrosse stick, pretending it’s a golf

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 4 9/2/15 11:35 AM

got wind of the weird jock-artsy couple, he couldn’t take the

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 5 9/2/15 11:35 AM

After showering and changing I head to Coach Barker’s

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 6 9/2/15 11:35 AM

“Uh-huh. And what’d you have for lunch on the twen-

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 7 9/2/15 11:35 AM

There’s something in his tone that kicks up my defenses,

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 8 9/2/15 11:35 AM

“Protein bars, gels, and meal-replacement shakes aren’t

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 9 9/2/15 11:35 AM

cook.” Coach nods, and I think he even half-winks at me.

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 10 9/2/15 11:35 AM

When my dog, Buddy, a smooth fox terrier, sees me, he

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 11 9/2/15 11:35 AM

which I learned contains wheat, soy, by-products, and saw-

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 12 9/2/15 11:35 AM

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 13 9/2/15 11:35 AM

my arm. “Scholarship,” I mumble, and step inside.

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 14 9/2/15 11:35 AM

so nice of you to join us.”

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 15 9/2/15 11:35 AM

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 16 9/2/15 11:35 AM

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of magic ninja move where her shoulder-length hair is piled

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 18 9/2/15 11:35 AM

could be worse; I could be stuck working with that space-

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 19 9/2/15 11:35 AM

“Yeah, I never eat in the cafeteria. It smells funny, like

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 20 9/2/15 11:35 AM

it just stuck to the ceiling.”

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 21 9/2/15 11:35 AM

“How can you tell?”

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 22 9/2/15 11:35 AM

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 23 9/2/15 11:35 AM

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When Mrs. A returns I can’t help but picture her in the

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 25 9/2/15 11:35 AM

in her voice. I guess it’s possible to upset her. “You’re being

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 26 9/2/15 11:35 AM

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 27 9/2/15 11:35 AM

looks and smells incredible. There must be a million grams

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 28 9/2/15 11:35 AM

away and smiles, big.

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 29 9/2/15 11:35 AM

Her face grows serious as she considers my point. She

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 30 9/2/15 11:35 AM

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carbs hijacking my blood sugar and causing a preworkout

JockFat EPBtxt_ed2_CS6.indd 32 9/2/15 11:35 AM