Fat by James Keene Page B

“How’s he doing at school?”
         “Really great.  Ever since he watched something on whales on National Geographic, all he talks about is wanting to be a marine biologist.  I mean, his bedroom is wall to wall pictures of turtles, whales, manatees, sharks…”
         Kate went on for another few minutes naming more sea wildlife.  Curious that she thinks I don’t get it that Xander is now obsessed with marine biology, and that the only way to convince me is by listing animals that live in or near oceans.  It’s always good to have interests but becoming this obsessed, this early, turns Xander from the “fat kid” to the “weird fat kid into whales”.  Kids are just going to call him a whale.  It is really concerning that either Xander doesn’t see the obvious fodder or that he doesn’t care.
         “…and sea anemomes.  It’s really given him motivation to do well in school.  I even brought his report card to show you.”
         Kate fished around in her Dior purse for a while.  She had on matching Gucci shoes and a revealing Gucci tunic.  I didn’t know Gucci made anything besides purses.
         “I can’t find it here.  Oh, Xander do you have it?  Show Dr. Grant your report card, Xander.”
         Xander reached into his book and fished out a slip of paper, holding it out for me without lifting his head from his book.  I took the report card.  All A’s, and one D.  In gym.
         “What happened in gym, little buddy.”
         “Gym is stupid.”
         “Why is it stupid?”
         “Because it is.”
         Preteens are usually jerkfaces to any adult, especially to their doctor, but this smelled different.  It smelled familiar.
         I knew a kid named Michael Ferry who was in most of my gifted classes in junior high – we called him “Fat Ferry”.   He was however a surprisingly popular kid for being a five-four, two hundred thirty pound scumbag.  Scumbag in the sense that he wore the same zebra striped pants everyday with an array of T-shirts that seemed to be more sweat and grease than cotton.  He was undoubtedly popular from the fact that he dabbled in smoking and selling weed. 
         Every fall, every seventh and eighth grader would have to run the mile for a grade in gym.  There would be some training runs for a week or so to gear us up for the final run, and the hope was that the final run would be a personal best.  Better times meant better grades, and slacking was punished with a redo of the mile, so there was good motivation to put in at least some effort.  Michael was the kid that pitted out his T-shirt just walking to the starting line and ran the training miles in over thirty minutes.  Most of the days he was late to our next period’s math class because he couldn’t finish the one mile in the allotted gym class time.  And he usually spent the hour of advanced algebra breathing heavy and sweating through his tee, with a zombie-like blank stare and gaping mouth.   But whatever, it was no big deal to most of the other kids because it was not a surprise, and Michael didn’t get ripped with ridicule, mainly due to the fact that half the gym class was impressed with a twelve year old kid that could get weed. 
         Well, that ended.  Michael shit his shorts during the final mile run. 
         I remember almost everyone was finishing up their last four hundred meters, and Michael was still working his way to the halfway point, so there were plenty of people still lapping him around the track.  Then some commotion.             
         “Shit!  It’s shit!”
         “What the fuck, he shit!”
         Everyone scattered and halted their running.  Michael just collapsed onto the grass.
         Word was that Michael threw it into the infield grass.  That stress shit must’ve been in his shorts for at least a little while before he got the nerve to reach into his shorts and try