“Sugar, those all sound like reasons to get the hell outta here,” Even says.

  He’s right, of course. I haven’t left town since I dropped Brittany off at the mall. Since then, apparently, she took up with some guy who moved into a trailer in her park, and I haven’t seen much of her. Even looks like he wants to say more, but the first bell rings, and we both hurry inside.

  The day slogs by. I need to pinch myself to stay awake during a long, droning history lecture. Finally, I wait on the low brick wall under a maple tree to meet Even after school at two thirty to walk home. When he approaches me, he looks serious.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  He exhales.

  Allie and Hillary bustle by, shooting dirty looks in my direction.

  “My dad never made it home last night. Not a huge surprise; sometimes he passes out in his truck before he comes home, you know, to sleep it off, but I found out from Aaron Irons, Officer Irons’s son, that he was arrested. Drunk driving.”

  “Futz,” I say, and think about my dad, wondering why he never made it home, period. But there’s no use in thinking about that; he’s gone. I turn my attention back to Even.

  “Yeah. This isn’t the first time. I have to get him out.” Even looks exasperated. “But, first, I want to show you something. Actually, one thing now, and if I can convince you, something else tomorrow.”

  Instead of walking to my house, we walk down Birch Road to Even’s apartment. It’s quiet as he stashes his backpack in his room and fills up a glass of water for each of us. This is only the second time I’ve been inside; usually we hang out in the shed so he can tinker with his bike while I sit on the snowmobile and we chat. I’ve never invited him into my house, mostly because of Skunk, but also because of how unacceptable it is: dirty and cluttered no matter how much I clean. Lately, I’ve been keeping to my room as much as possible.

  “It seems peaceful in here today,” I say absently, noting the empty sink and the sunlight casting checkers on the linoleum.

  “Yeah,” Even agrees. “A rarity.”

  I’ve gotten the sense that Even and his dad don’t get along, but he never talks about it. All I know is Nash Anderson works at the box factory like Fat Henry, but unlike my brother, Nash gets wasted after his shift.

  “Let’s go out to the shed,” Even says.

  He’s tossed a giant oilcloth over the hulking form of the bike. He hesitates before he unveils the motorcycle, like he’s also going to see it for the first time. The cover whooshes when he lifts it. Dust rises into the air like confetti.

  All I see is perfection. Polished chrome beckons me like a magpie to shiny treasure. The gas tank is glossy black. The contours and details are all kinds of sleek, James Dean cool.

  “The Switchback is new again,” Even says, referring to the vintage Harley model.

  I only know what this means, and about one hundred other useless-to-me motorcycle facts, because he loves them so much. I imagine he had a poster tacked to his bedroom wall when he was a kid with a photograph of a bike just like this.

  Pride, backed by the promise of freedom, glistens in Even’s eyes.

  “It’s amazing,” I say, running my hand along the smooth seat.

  He gazes from the bike to me, and it’s like he’s found the thing that makes him whole: taking a beat-up, abandoned old bike and giving it a new purpose, much like what I do with my needle and thread.

  Met with so much possibility, my distorted reflection in the tailpipe makes me forget what’s underneath the baggy clothes I wear.

  “Listen, I have a feeling you don’t want to ride on this because of—” he begins, but I don’t let him finish.

  Tears well in my eyes, but I don’t waver from meeting his. For my entire life I’ve wanted the truth, and not in the form of cruel ridicule, whether spoken by Mama, my brother, kids from school, or perfect strangers. I want to hear the truth about who I am, boldly, indiscriminately. Not under the apologetic guise of She’s just big-boned or It’s just baby fat. I am fat, and I know it. Own it, a voice in my head whispers. There’s no way to hide it or the scrutiny I face every day from the public and, worse, from myself, but there’s no point in pretending it’s not there.

  “Because of my size,” I blurt.

  Even takes a step toward me. A toolbox lies on the floor between us. He pushes it aside with his foot. It grates on the dirty floor.

  Tears stream down my face. I don’t care if he sees me exposed. I can’t hide behind the obvious fact that I am overweight and have an honest friendship at the same time. It’s crushing me.

  Even extends his arms. Finally, all those tears welling up breach, as if his embrace is the floodgate. He envelops me. I continue to cry, and his sweatshirt becomes damp. I stand wrapped in his arms for what feels like ages. I let him hold me and pour myself out. He’s patient, firm. Even doesn’t waver in his ability to support me as I count a tear for each time someone’s called me fat.

  Dark thoughts crash through my mind. I see Mama, when she was still able to get around, feeding me fried chicken and mashed potatoes topped with half a stick of butter along with gravy and mayo. I downed it with a liter of soda. She insisted I eat, saying, “You’ve got to grow. I don’t want no string bean for a daughter.” Then she let me eat an entire tray of brownies. I ate until I felt like I was going to throw up. All the while, she watched, working through her own plate. I see myself over the years, mindlessly eating, filling my belly until it ached. I feel at once disgusted with myself and yet relieved that I’ve allowed these thoughts to surface as I’m held in the safety of someone else’s arms.

  After a time Even asks, “What is it?”

  I shake my head and say, “Never mind.”

  His forehead wrinkles with concern.

  My face must look puffier than usual, so I put it back against his chest. His heart beats against my cheek. He strokes my hair, his fingers occasionally grazing the back of my neck.

  “I know it must be hard for you, Sugar,” he says softly. “I hear kids talking, but you know what? You’re better than that. You’re—”

  That shadow within me that reminds me how worthless I am reckons Even can’t come up with anything nice to say. Then I catch his clear blue eyes and feel his warmth, alive, courageous, so close to me. Real.

  “You’re my friend, Sugar. You have the biggest heart and the best laugh. And your smile. It melts me,” he says.

  My breath catches in my chest. All I can do is cry. I don’t want to, but it’s as if the tears lubricate the kinks in the rusty chain that just barely holds me to this life. Even’s words grease it, and I suddenly feel lighter, like some slack has been let out, and even though that shadow doesn’t want to believe what I heard, my heart does, and, for a fraction of a minute, I’m free.

  “Listen, you’ve seen bikers. Big dudes with huge mustaches, flashing their plumber’s cracks?” he asks.

  I squeak out a snot-filled laugh.

  “Compared to them you’re a mouse and they’re—oh, I dunno, big ugly ogres. If they can ride, so can you. I’d be happy to have you on the back of my Harley,” Even says, smiling at me. This time his words pierce the web of lies inside of me, created by years’ worth of insults that have gelled into ugly truths.

  “OK. I’ll do it,” I say.

  His smile is magnificent. It looks like Christmas morning.

  “I’ll pick you up at seven,” he says.

  I think on this. “Maybe it would be better if we meet. Just in case of Skunk,” I say.

  “Yeah, I get the sense he doesn’t like me.”

  “It might just be a good idea,” I say quietly.

  “Now, I’ve got to figure out how to get my dad out of the clink,” Even says.

  I grimace and turn to leave. “Oh hey, wasn’t there something else you wanted to show me?”

  “Tomorrow,” he says and smiles again.

  When I get back to my house, Skunk’s in the kitchen. After putting four Hot Pockets in the microwave, he directs a tube of Pringles toward his mouth, pours, and then with his mouth full says, “Mama’s ripped. You better go see her.”

  Bubble burst. If cloud nine existed, I just fell from it. I squeeze down the hall and knock on her door.

  She coughs before answering.

  I cautiously enter.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she asks. “I told you to come home right after school. I need you to pick something up for me. I saw this stuff on TV; it will help me lose weight. Some kinda vitamin.” A cough interrupts her. “I wasn’t always so fat. At least I could get into a skirt. You’ve seen the pictures, Sugar. After having you kids, this extra padding decided to stick around. Too bad your papa didn’t.” She scowls something fierce. “But I’m gonna wear a skirt again, you watch.”

  I’m pleased she wants to lose weight, but worry about her taking another pill. Lydia Monroe took some kind of diet pill in freshman year and ended up having to go to the ER because her heart got messed up.

  “Well?” she says.

  I can’t say no to Mama.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say. “What’s it called?”

  She gives me the details.

  “The only problem is my car is being fixed,” I say.

  “My car. What happened to it?” she asks.

  “Flat tire.”

  “That shouldn’t take long to get fixed.”

  I think about how it’s taken quite a long time, but don’t care because it’s free. More importantly, I’ve been able to spend so much time with Even. I don’t tell Mama this.

  “Henry should be by in a little while to bring me my smokes. Tell him to bring you to the store. Or walk, girl. Goodness knows you could also stand to lose some weight,” she says disdainfully.

  From under my bangs, I look at Mama, splayed on the bed, wheezing. No, I’m not like her, I tell myself, then the dreaded voice in my head tells me I will be someday. I turn to leave and she asks me to bring her something to eat.

  Skunk left one package of Hot Pockets, so I nuke them for myself. Meanwhile, I warm Mama up a box of Hamburger Helper and bring in her favorite Doritos flavor, Cool Ranch.

  “Bring some sour cream and Pepsi,” she hollers.

  She has me running back and forth, shouting orders. I don’t hear when Fat Henry comes in. When I bring her a refill, he stands by the door in her room, having deposited the cigarettes on the shelf.

  She immediately lights one up, followed by a round of coughing. “Fat Henry, you bring Sugar to the store. I need her to get something for me. And stop at Mickey D’s. Bring me back my usual,” Mama orders.

  Fat Henry looks less fat than the last time I saw him. Also, he’s wearing a new pair of shoes. He playfully pushes me. With a rare smile, he says, “Well then, come on.”

  I haven’t spent much time with him since he left home, and back then, I wouldn’t have wanted to—he was just about as ill-tempered as Skunk. Tonight, the way he’s acting tells me he’s softening a little. Maybe his girlfriend’s influencing him.

  We pass the church on our way to the store; it glows softly in the light, like a beacon. We’re both quiet with reverence until it’s out of sight. Then he makes friendly small talk. “So tell me about school. Mr. Hammons is your homeroom teacher, right? Is he as dull as ever?”

  “Pretty much, but it’s Mrs. Nelson who’s the worst. I think she remembers you and Skunk. He didn’t make a good impression,” I say, remembering the dead mouse he left under her chair. “She takes it out on me.”

  “Sorry about that,” he says. “I saw the mail in the kitchen. I see he hasn’t been going. Truant.”

  “I made sure he saw the letter, but nothing I say gets him to listen. I think he hangs out in someone’s garage all day working on his dirt bike.” This makes me think of Even and his motorcycle. “How’s Stacy?” I ask him about his girlfriend, whom I’ve only met once. I’m beginning to think we have the same reason for not bringing friends, girl, boy, or otherwise, around the house.

  “She’s great,” he says. “She just finished her third year in college. She really likes it. She’s studying to be a nurse and minoring in nutrition and Spanish. And she’s got me eating a little better.”

  “I can tell. You look good.”

  “Thanks. I feel good. How about Mama? How’s she doing?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

  “Same as ever. ‘Ornerier than a rattlesnake,’” I say, quoting Granddad.

  Fat Henry lets out a laugh. “That’s good. She wouldn’t be Mama unless she was mean.”

  This comment strikes me like a venomous bite. Mama is mean. Really mean.

  “Stacy keeps telling me to stop bringing her cigarettes. She’s got that cough,” Fat Henry says.

  “I know. I ask her about it, but she claims she’s fine. It worries me, though.”

  We pull into the drugstore parking lot. The blue letters of the sign flicker, as if they’re unsure if they want to be on or off in the dusky evening. I find the vitamins that promise to suppress appetite and help lose weight. I read the label. Maybe I should take them, too.

  We stop at McDonald’s and Fat Henry buys us both bacon-and-ranch salads. For Mama, he gets a couple Big Macs and fries. “You know, she probably shouldn’t be eating this,” he says, taking the bag, already stained with grease, from the drive-through window before parking in a spot so we can eat.

  “Yeah, but she’d pitch a fit if you didn’t bring it to her,” I say.

  “True,” he says.

  She’d probably throw whatever was within reach, but more than likely, she’d wait to strike until well after I’d forgotten about the tantrum and my defenses were down. She’s cunning like that. She never forgets if I talk back to her or don’t do something right. I have the scars to prove it.

  Once back at the house, Fat Henry drops me off without coming inside.

  “See ya, Sis,” he says with surprising affection.

  The smile playing at the corners of my mouth disappears as I close the front door behind me.

  “Suuuuuuuuuugar,” I hear from down the hall. Then coughing. I go to Mama’s room. “Skunk says Henry left some donuts. Bring me a couple,” she says.

  Unsure why the request required her to yell like that, I look around and find the box, half caved in, on the sofa in the living room. Fat Henry said he took a few mornings at Dunkin’ Donuts after he switched from the day shift to the night shift at the box factory. He said since he was up all night anyway, he may as well keep on working. Based on the way he looked when he talked about Stacy, I think he’s saving to buy her an engagement ring. A half-dozen donuts remain. As requested, I bring Mama a couple along with the greasy fast-food bag.

  “That’s a good girl,” she says flatly. “Now, I need some more to drink to wash down this cough.”

  I don’t think soda will do the trick, but bring it to her anyway.

  As I exit she says, “You seem different lately. Happy? Don’t get too used to it. Life’s a bitch and then you die.” Then, more softly, she adds, “I thought it was all rainbows and cupcakes. But you get tangled up with a man and have a few kids, people stop looking or they look so long it’s like their eyeballs are frozen. When you get old, if you don’t keep up, the world leaves you behind and makes you bitter. There’s no mistake; it’s that bitch called life that’s made me mean, Sugar. And maybe a few people who said they were friends, but turned their backs. You’d do well to watch out.”

  Her acidic words follow me through the hall, into the kitchen, burning into my vision and scorching my skin. I see the cupboards are nearly empty, courtesy of Skunk. I settle down on the sofa with the remaining donuts. I flip on the TV and finish off the box, licking the cinnamon sugar from my fingers.

  Sometime later, I wake to slamming, swearing, and very bright light. Skunk stumbles into the living room. The malty smell of beer and sweat bites my nose.

  “Move,” he says.

  Sleepily, I push over to the side of the couch, ready to go up to bed anyway since I have to get up early in the morning. I look at the clock above the television. It reads one a.m.

  Skunk flops down and his hand hits my foot. “I said to fuckin’ move.”

  I scramble to my feet.

  He glares at me. “What’s the matter with you? Lazy-ass, worthless, fat piece of shit. Where are the rest of the donuts?”

  I clear the cobwebs from my throat. “Mama and I ate them,” I answer.

  He slurs something unintelligible and then makes to get up, but thick, invisible glue holds him down. His head tilts from side to side like a daisy in the wind. For a moment, I feel bad for him. Then he swings his arm behind the couch to swipe at me. I jump back, but fall over an old swivel chair piled with books and outdated magazines. It moves and I careen backward, a heap of abandoned sports equipment poking painfully into my back. I cry out.

  “Serves you right, fatso,” he says.

  I struggle to my feet and then go upstairs. Once in the bathroom, a dark stain on my shirt tells me that something, probably the old pair of ice skates, cut my side. I stare at my naked upper body. Fat rolls down my middle in the broken mirror. I don’t bother angling so I look thinner, even though I have lost a few pounds. I consider going downstairs and sneaking some of those pills I got for Mama, but while we ate in the McDonald’s parking lot, I read the warnings on the box. I think of Lydia Monroe. If I took diet pills and the EMTs had to rush me to the hospital, I’d never live it down. And worse, would they be able to lift me? Not that it matters, I think bleakly.

  I go to my room and collapse on the bed. I hope that tomorrow, a day spent with Even, will be brighter than the hopelessness I feel during the seemingly interminable hours I spend each day in the presence of Mama and Skunk.

  Chapter Eight

  I’m downstairs by six thirty, showered and dressed. Skunk’s passed out on the couch. I debate whether to tell Mama where I’m going, but figure it’s better she doesn’t know. She snores loudly when I bring her a tray of food and set it beside her bed before I slip out the front door. For once, Skunk will have to look after her. I tread lightly down the sidewalk in the hush of the early morning.