Big Guy Read online

  Big Guy

  Robin Stevenson

  Orca Soundings

  Copyright © Robin Stevenson 2008

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Stevenson, Robin H. (Robin Hjordis), 1968-

  Big guy / written by Robin Stevenson.

  (Orca Soundings)

  Electronic Monograph

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 9781551439143 (pdf) -- ISBN 9781554695768 (epub)

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PS8637.T487B52 2008 jC813’.6 C2008-900186-9

  Summary: Derek thinks he might be falling in love for the first time ever.

  The problem is, he hasn’t been entirely honest with his online boyfriend.

  First published in the United States, 2008

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2008920123

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing

  programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada

  through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada

  Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC

  Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover photography by Getty Images

  Author photo by David Lowes

  In Canada:

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 5626, Station B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4

  In the United States:

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  11 10 09 08 • 5 4 3 2 1

  To Katrina and Toby, with love.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  I’m whistling as I walk in the door, still buzzing from finding out I got the job. It’s the only decent thing that’s happened in months. Well—that, and meeting Ethan.

  I haven’t told Dad about either one.

  He’s home, but something seems odd. It takes me a moment to realize: the house is too quiet. For once, Dad hasn’t turned on the television. Instead, he’s standing staring at a picture on the wall of the three of us: himself, Mom and me.

  I’m trying to decide whether to say hello or just sneak past when he turns. “Derek.”

  “Hi, Dad.” I start to edge by, wanting to get to my computer.

  He nods at the picture. “You still think about her?”

  I stare at him. We don’t talk about Mom. I nod, warily. “Sure. Sometimes.”

  “She’ll be back,” he says. “It’s only been a couple months. She’s been gone longer than that before.”

  “Sure, Dad,” I say. No, you idiot. It’s been a year, she hates you, she’s off chanting mantras with a bunch of orange-clad cult freaks in California. I look around for a glass or bottle, wondering if he’s been drinking.

  He glares at me. “What do you know about it?”

  “Nothing,” I say. I miss her like hell, but I half hope she doesn’t come back. At least one of us got away.

  I slip past him and into my room, turn on the computer. Ethan, I think. And my heart speeds up, dances in my chest. He sent me a picture of himself a few days ago. I keep it under the mouse pad in case Dad snoops in my room. While the computer boots up, I slide it out and study it carefully, even though by now I can see it with my eyes closed.

  Brown eyes, olive skin, straight dark eyebrows and an easy white-toothed grin. He’s hot. I know I’m biased, but he really is. Even Gabi thinks so.

  Yes! He’s online.

  hey ethan

  about time you got home

  yeah. what’s up?

  missed u today

  I grin. I probably look like an idiot, sitting here by myself at the computer with this big grin on my face, but I can’t help it. My fingers fly over the keyboard.

  missed you too

  at least you have a picture of me. Hint

  hint

  My grin freezes on my face. I was half hoping he’d forget. But to be honest, I knew he wouldn’t. So I’m ready. I’ve been waiting.

  sorry. keep forgetting to send one.

  here u go

  It’s my favorite picture. My friend Gabi took it and I actually look pretty good in it. I’m leaning against the brick wall of the high school, wearing jeans, black T-shirt, leather jacket. My expression is kind of serious and my hair’s a bit shorter than it is now. I’m squinting just a little and the sun is on my face. I’ve always been tall, always looked older than my age. I study the picture, wondering what Ethan will think.

  My fingers pause, hover over the keyboard.

  Last chance to change my mind.

  Then I send the picture.

  Ethan is still chatting away, saying I look just how he imagined, but somehow I don’t feel like talking anymore.

  I type a quick reply, make an excuse.

  eth? dad’s yelling something. gtg.

  I log out and walk down the hall to the bathroom. I slide the dead bolt, locking the door behind me. Slowly, I pull my black T-shirt off over my head and stare at the reflection in the mirror. Rolls of fat, white slabs of blubber and misery. I grab fistfuls of it, dig my fingernails in hard enough to leave sharp red crescent-shaped marks.

  That picture I sent? It was taken last year, before Mom left. Before I packed on all this fat. That was a good eighty pounds ago. You wouldn’t even recognize me if you saw me now.

  I barely recognize myself.

  Chapter Two

  Since ninth grade, I’ve bagged groceries after school, down at the A & P. I don’t know why, exactly, but when I dropped out of school a few months back, I felt like I should do something different. Move on, you know? Plus, the pay was pretty crappy. But now, first day of the new job, I’m wishing I was back at the A & P with the rest of the guys.

  To be honest, this job’s a little freaky. I thought I could do it, but now I’m not so sure.

  I’m standing in the middle of the living room in one of the residents’ apartments. It’s bigger than I expected. It’s a large square room with a gray carpet, not much furniture, a narrow window overlooking a parking lot.

  I glance down at my file and read her name again. Aaliyah Manon. I don’t have a clue how to say it. I should’ve paid more attention during the orientation. I dredge through the mud of my memory and come up with an image of Francine’s mouth opening and closing as she drones on and on. I can remember her smoker’s breath and the way her red lipstick bled into the little wrinkles around her mouth, but I can’t remember anything that’s going to help me get through this next hour.

  “Hello?” I call out.

  No answer.

  I cross the living room and gaze out the window. Eight in the morning and barely light out. Pouring rain. It’s rained every freaking day this month. Cars pull in and out of the parking lot, an occasional pedestrian hurries by, clutching an umbrella.
Above the street, red brick buildings meet a greasy gray sky.

  I look at my watch. My stomach is a tight twisting knot.

  “In a rush, are you?” a voice says.

  I look up, wondering how she managed to enter the living room so quietly in that bulky wheelchair. The first thing that strikes me is how young she is. Not more than thirty. Maybe even younger. I’m surprised. Francine told me most of the residents were old. The woman is very thin, and one side of her face is pulled downward, mouth and eye drooping slightly. It makes her expression hard to read.

  “I told them not to send a guy,” she says. “Francine knows I don’t like male care workers.” Her speech is slurred, but despite this her voice has a sharp edge that adds to my nervousness.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Do you want me to call Francine? See if there is someone else?”

  She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I have to be somewhere in an hour. I need to get ready.”

  “Okay then.” I think back to Francine’s words this morning. Just be matter-of-fact, Francine said. Remember, the residents are used to having assistance with personal care. If you aren’t sure about something, ask.

  “What can I help you with, then?” I realize I’ve forgotten to introduce myself. “Ahh...I’m Derek.”

  Aaliyah struggles to push her long dark hair off her face. Her movements are stiff and jerky. “I need to shower. I need help washing my hair and getting dressed.”

  “No problem,” I say. I manage to keep my voice light, but inside I’m freaking out a little. I’d take my old job back, right now, if I had the chance. Screw the three-dollars-an-hour pay difference. I dig my fingernails into my palm and follow the wheelchair down the hallway.

  The bathroom is large and a sling hangs from the ceiling.

  Aaliyah sees me looking at it. “I’m not using that anymore,” she says. “You just have to help me move onto the chair.”

  Chair? Then I see it, in the shower: a plastic chair with little holes in it for the water to run through. “Okay.”

  She sighs. “Are you new? I mean, I know you’re new here, but please tell me you’ve done this before.”

  Here’s the thing: I had to lie a little to get hired. Okay, more than a little. I told them I was twenty and that I’d done a couple of college courses. Told them I took care of my aunt who has MS. No one ever checks up on stuff like that. Truth is, I’m seventeen, just dropped out of high school, don’t even have an aunt.

  I shrug. “I’ve, ahhh, done some...”

  Aaliyah’s eyes are scalpel-sharp and I look away. “No. Ahhh...no, I’m new.”

  “Damn it,” she says. Francine warned me that some of the residents could be difficult. Just stay calm, she said. Talk slowly. Be aware that you may have to repeat the same information several times.

  Repeating that I’m new doesn’t seem like a good idea.

  Aaliyah sighs. “Sorry,” she says.

  I don’t meet her eyes. “Shall I...”

  “Yes. Help me get undressed.”

  She is wearing flannel pyjamas, blue with a pattern of soft yellow flowers. I undo the small pearl buttons with cold fingers and try to slip the top down over her shoulders. It’s not so easy freeing her stiff arms from the sleeves. She’s really skinny, and I’m clumsy and awkward and scared of hurting her. At last the pyjama top comes away in my hands. Aaliyah sits half naked in her wheelchair, her arms folded across her chest. I look away, my neck and cheeks flaming.

  I can’t think how to take the pants off with her sitting down. I remember her saying she hated having male care workers, and I wonder if she’d feel any better if she knew I was gay. Maybe I should tell her. Then again, maybe not. Who knows what she’d think?

  Aaliyah gestures for me to come closer. “Look, you have turn on the shower, let it warm up. Then you have to help me up. I can walk a couple of steps, with support. Help me get the pants off and transfer to the chair.”

  I nod numbly, turn on the shower and hold my hand under the spray until it runs warm. I turn back to Aaliyah, put one arm around her back. Her shoulder blades jut out. Bird bones. Her spine is a chain of sharp bumps. She flinches and shivers, skin jumping, and I realize that my sleeve is wet from the shower and has dripped water down her back.

  “Sorry,” I say under my breath.

  She ignores me. Her forehead is creased in concentration as she struggles to stand. She weighs almost nothing and, despite my clumsiness, it isn’t all that difficult to remove her pants, help her into the shower and lower her onto the chair.

  In the shower, Aaliyah closes her eyes and turns her face into the spray. Water streams from her dark hair, over her shoulders and breasts. I look away again, embarrassed. My reflection stares back at me from the bathroom mirror: tall and dark but a solid eighty pounds past handsome. As always, my appearance shocks me. Disgusts me. Even after a year of getting steadily fatter, this still isn’t how I see myself.

  Aaliyah’s voice startles me. “I haven’t always been like this,” she says.

  For a second I think she’s reading my mind. Then it sinks in that she’s talking about herself. I just nod. I mean, what am I supposed to say to that? Me neither? I sneak a sideways peek at her and realize she can’t see me nodding anyway. Her eyes are closed.

  I glance in the mirror again, remembering the photo I sent Ethan. My stomach twists a little.

  I never wanted to lie to him. But what choice did I have?

  Chapter Three

  I grab the shampoo and pour some on my hands, rub her thick wet hair between my fingers. I snag a tangle and Aaliyah jerks her head away.

  “Sorry,” I mutter.

  I’ve used too much shampoo and it takes me ages to rinse it all off. Neither of us talk. Finally I am drying her off and she sits, towel-wrapped, in her wheelchair.

  When she finally looks at me, her eyes are dark and unreadable. It’s like she just put on a pair of sunglasses, like she’s closed herself off, and if I look at her, I’m just going to see my own reflection.

  “Get my clothes from the bedroom,” she says. “I need to get dressed.”

  Her bedroom is painted blue, with ruffled bedsheets and brightly colored paintings on the walls. A photograph on the dresser catches my eye. It’s a picture of a girl standing on the deck of a sailboat, one hand raised to catch the long dark hair blowing across her face. She’s leaning back against a man who stands behind her, arms wrapped tightly round her waist. She is laughing, mouth slightly open, eyes crinkled. It’s her. Aaliyah.

  “They’re on my bed,” she calls.

  I pull my eyes away from the photograph and retrace my steps back down the hall. “Yeah. I found them.”

  The whole time I’m helping her dress, I’m wondering what happened to her. Like, does she have some disease or illness or something? Or was she in some kind of accident? I flex my muscles slightly, bend my knees. It makes me feel weird, thinking about it. To be honest, I can’t get out of her apartment fast enough. I can’t wait to get home and talk to Ethan.

  So what if I sent an old photo. It’s no big deal. It’s still me, just a thinner version. And just thinking about him, I can feel the corners of my mouth twitching in a stupid happy grin.

  Being in love is way better than any drug out there.

  The rest of the day is all right, I guess. I help a couple of other residents get dressed, brush their teeth, whatever. They’re all in their seventies and eighties. Old people. Some of them are kind of out of it. Some seem pretty okay and show me pictures of their grandkids. Some are grumpy as hell. Whatever. I help feed some old guy who complains a lot. I water plants. I even clean a freaking goldfish tank for one old lady.

  At the end of the day, Francine catches me in the hall. She is wearing a peach-colored dress, too tight in the hips. It’s one of those pastel colors nurses always wear in hospitals, and she has on those white nurse shoes too. I figure maybe she wants people to think she really is a nurse.

  “Derek. How was your first day?” She
stands in front of me, blocking my path.

  I shrug. “Fine.”

  She tilts her head to one side, forehead creasing. “No questions?”

  “No. No questions,” I say.

  Outside, it is still raining hard. Four o’clock and already starting to get dark. This November it seems like the sun can hardly be bothered to come up at all. Like it takes too much effort for the sun to rise when it’s just going to have to set again in a few hours, and no one is going to see it through the clouds anyway.

  I drive home. Dad’s not home, which is fine by me. I’m not in the mood for another talk about how I could get a girlfriend more easily if I’d just lose a few pounds, blah blah blah. I stand at the fridge and eat leftover pasta straight out of the plastic container.

  Then, like I do practically every night, I head to the computer.

  My dad hates this. He’d like me to be out playing football or hockey, even though all he does is sit on the couch and drink beer. Dad likes to give advice on things he’s clueless about. “Time you had a relationship,” he said the other day. “It’s not healthy, spending all your time on the computer.” Hah. He thinks he’s the expert on relationships. Sure, he slapped me and Mom around, but he watches the Dr. Phil show religiously.

  Jerk.

  But I’m not stupid. I do actually realize that most people have relationships. You know, with real live people who they actually meet. It’s just not so easy when you’re living in a small town, you’re seventeen and you’re queer.

  Not to mention fat.

  Anyway, there are maybe four hundred students in my high school. If that ten percent figure people are always quoting is true, forty of them should be queer. Other than me, I only know one for sure, and that’s Gabi, my best friend since first grade.

  So Ethan and I may only talk online, but it’s no less real for that. He lives out west and we’ve been talking, on and off, for a few months now. Some people might think that’s kind of pathetic, you know, online dating, but it’s actually been really intense. It’s like this dance we’ve been doing, getting to know each other, kind of flirting I guess, but becoming friends too.