Read Online Good Luck, Fatty by Maggie Bloom - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maggie Bloom
Tags: english eBooks
Ads: Link
hang on.” I slip over and fetch the 45 from the floor and return it to his waiting hand.
“Here goes nothin’,” he says, an air of skepticism in his tone as he slides the vinyl disc over the spindle, powers the turntable on (it’s spinning!) and gingerly coasts the needle to the sweet spot at the record’s edge.
All I can do is stare at that glossy black disc revolving and revolving (this thing won’t put me in a trance, will it?) as the music starts to crackle out. “It’s working!” I squeak, suddenly giddy at our success in resurrecting a bygone technology. “I can’t believe it!”
As Freddie Mercury, the lead singer of Queen, a band about which I know next to nothing but not absolutely nothing (they do sing Bohemian Rhapsody, after all) croons about the virtues of rounded feminine derrieres, Tom gets inspired to sample a bit of this fat girl’s bottom.
And I let him, at least for now. But before things can progress to the next level between Tom Cantwell and me, I’m obligated to bring him up to speed on the whole sordid truth of my sexual promiscuity, including the fact that I may now be carrying Brent Flynn’s (or Justin White’s or Craig Benson’s) baby.
chapter 8
LUCKILY MARIE and Duncan decided they were above celebrating Christmas, despite their return to the motherland (too much commercialism, consumerism, and plain old American greed, they said), which left me to enjoy a pleasant holiday with Orv, Denise, and Denise’s family.
By the time New Year’s Eve rolled around, I hadn’t laid eyes on my parents in nearly two weeks, and things had almost returned to normal.
Then the phone rang.
“Hello?” Denise says in the kitchen.
It’s seven p.m., and Orv and I are settling in for a rerun marathon of Penal Code 911. Ever since I told Orv about Lex Arlington and the Yo-Yo race, he’s been obsessed with all things Lex-related. (I bet if I asked him Lex’s birth date or his favorite song, he’d know.)
I’m not paying strict attention to the conversation in the other room, but Denise’s tone has gone wildly animated. I slide off the couch and peek around the corner, just in case I’m missing something of consequence.
As soon as Denise spots me, she hangs up. “Get your coat,” she tells me, her voice tight and professional. “We’re going to the hospital.”
I wrinkle my brow. “Why?”
“Orv, come on!” she shouts into the living room. “Your Aunt Marie’s in labor!”
Something makes me stop breathing for a few seconds. Maybe it’s the realization that, as little as I’ve mattered to my parents thus far, their loyalties will now be divided even further. Or maybe it’s the fear that I may be walking in Marie’s shoes in another eight months, give or take.
Orv plods into the kitchen, his feet heavy even without those steel-toed boots he scuffs around in eight to twelve hours a day. “It’s New Year’s Eve,” he says, as if the stork should be off getting snookered from the dregs of some hobo’s peach schnapps instead of ushering new life into the world.
“What do you want me to do about it?” Denise snaps. She hustles for the door, leaving Orv and me frozen and confused. Without looking back, she adds, “I’ll be in the car.”
----
When we get to the hospital, Denise wields the Royale into a fifteen-minute parking spot at the cusp of the emergency room and orders me and Orv out.
“Where are we going?” Orv asks with a disinterested yawn, the passenger door expectantly agape.
I slip out of the car and wait on the sidewalk for my guardians to settle whatever nagging issue is ping-ponging between them. “Just head for the maternity ward,” Denise instructs with a flustered eye roll. “I’ll meet you there.”
Orv quits while he’s ahead, joins me on the sidewalk and hesitantly leads the way. At a second-floor nursing station, he stops and says, “Have you got a Marie…” He stares a second at my ear. “…Cotton
“Here goes nothin’,” he says, an air of skepticism in his tone as he slides the vinyl disc over the spindle, powers the turntable on (it’s spinning!) and gingerly coasts the needle to the sweet spot at the record’s edge.
All I can do is stare at that glossy black disc revolving and revolving (this thing won’t put me in a trance, will it?) as the music starts to crackle out. “It’s working!” I squeak, suddenly giddy at our success in resurrecting a bygone technology. “I can’t believe it!”
As Freddie Mercury, the lead singer of Queen, a band about which I know next to nothing but not absolutely nothing (they do sing Bohemian Rhapsody, after all) croons about the virtues of rounded feminine derrieres, Tom gets inspired to sample a bit of this fat girl’s bottom.
And I let him, at least for now. But before things can progress to the next level between Tom Cantwell and me, I’m obligated to bring him up to speed on the whole sordid truth of my sexual promiscuity, including the fact that I may now be carrying Brent Flynn’s (or Justin White’s or Craig Benson’s) baby.
chapter 8
LUCKILY MARIE and Duncan decided they were above celebrating Christmas, despite their return to the motherland (too much commercialism, consumerism, and plain old American greed, they said), which left me to enjoy a pleasant holiday with Orv, Denise, and Denise’s family.
By the time New Year’s Eve rolled around, I hadn’t laid eyes on my parents in nearly two weeks, and things had almost returned to normal.
Then the phone rang.
“Hello?” Denise says in the kitchen.
It’s seven p.m., and Orv and I are settling in for a rerun marathon of Penal Code 911. Ever since I told Orv about Lex Arlington and the Yo-Yo race, he’s been obsessed with all things Lex-related. (I bet if I asked him Lex’s birth date or his favorite song, he’d know.)
I’m not paying strict attention to the conversation in the other room, but Denise’s tone has gone wildly animated. I slide off the couch and peek around the corner, just in case I’m missing something of consequence.
As soon as Denise spots me, she hangs up. “Get your coat,” she tells me, her voice tight and professional. “We’re going to the hospital.”
I wrinkle my brow. “Why?”
“Orv, come on!” she shouts into the living room. “Your Aunt Marie’s in labor!”
Something makes me stop breathing for a few seconds. Maybe it’s the realization that, as little as I’ve mattered to my parents thus far, their loyalties will now be divided even further. Or maybe it’s the fear that I may be walking in Marie’s shoes in another eight months, give or take.
Orv plods into the kitchen, his feet heavy even without those steel-toed boots he scuffs around in eight to twelve hours a day. “It’s New Year’s Eve,” he says, as if the stork should be off getting snookered from the dregs of some hobo’s peach schnapps instead of ushering new life into the world.
“What do you want me to do about it?” Denise snaps. She hustles for the door, leaving Orv and me frozen and confused. Without looking back, she adds, “I’ll be in the car.”
----
When we get to the hospital, Denise wields the Royale into a fifteen-minute parking spot at the cusp of the emergency room and orders me and Orv out.
“Where are we going?” Orv asks with a disinterested yawn, the passenger door expectantly agape.
I slip out of the car and wait on the sidewalk for my guardians to settle whatever nagging issue is ping-ponging between them. “Just head for the maternity ward,” Denise instructs with a flustered eye roll. “I’ll meet you there.”
Orv quits while he’s ahead, joins me on the sidewalk and hesitantly leads the way. At a second-floor nursing station, he stops and says, “Have you got a Marie…” He stares a second at my ear. “…Cotton
Similar Books
