Free The Jock and the Fat Chick by Nicole Winters Page B

about you get some first, and then you worry about being picky? A BJ is still a BJ.”
    “What if I don’t want to?” I say, and realize my blunder, so I add, lightning fast, “I mean, right now. Maybe I just want to focus on a scholarship and not have to deal with girls.”
    He shakes his head, like he can’t figure me out, and I can’t blame him. He’s gone out of his way for me, and I keep running interference. No wonder he asked if I was gay the other day.
    I change the subject by talking about the NHL rookies, and how they’re doing early in the season. I scan the gym and spot a girl by the free weights with a similar body type to Claire’s.
    “Hey, how about a BJ from her?”
    One side of his face bunches up in a “you’re kidding me” expression. He scoffs. “Yeah, maybe, if the lights were off.”
    It’s my turn to shake my head in disgust. He laughs.
    “She’s not that bad,” I say.
    “Aw,” Viktor says in a baby voice. “Does chunky give you a chubby? Does she make you tingle in your pee-pee?”
    “Har-har.”
    After working out I ride to the grocery store to buy some food. I think about how nice it was to have a family dinner at Claire’s, so I buy some eggs and greens. When I get home I open the door to the backyard to find Mom in her lawn chair. She’s bundled up tight in a sleeping bag and reading (and smoking) as she soaks up the sun. No matter what time of year, this is her Sunday ritual—reading and vitamin D. She says it’s her church.
    “Hey, Mom? Okay if I cook dinner?”
    She looks up from her romance novel. “Wow. Is it my birthday?”
    I chuckle. “No.”
    She coughs, and it sounds all wet and phlegmy. I wishshe’d try to quit again.
    “Whatcha gonna make?”
    “I’m thinking eggs.”
    “That sounds good.”
    I head for my computer to watch a video on how to make an omelet. When the young British chef says to “add a knob of butter” to the pan, I laugh. The camera then zooms in on his face as he begins chopping onions wicked fast. His brows knit together, looking serious as his tongue sticks out a little.
    I head back to the kitchen and grab eggs and spinach. I’m not sure how much to use of each, so I crack half a carton’s worth and wash all the spinach.
    I whip the eggs in a bowl until they’re frothy and then add some salt and pepper. I wonder what else I could put in there to make it taste good, so I check out Mom’s spice collection. There’s nothing but cinnamon and onion flakes, and they’re both the same shade of pink. That can’t be good. I chuck them.
    Salt and pepper it is.
    I lay the rinsed spinach onto the plastic cutting board and pull out a knife. I hold it the way Claire taught me, by grasping the bolster for more control. I also remember the psycho killer imitation, and smile. When I cut, my knife performs nothing like the ones at Claire’s. It’s like I’m using a plastic spoon. I turn the blade over and test the edge’ssharpness with my thumb. Yup, dull as a spoon, too. I muscle my way through the job and reach for the dial on the stove. I’m about to crank the heat to max when I remember that’s the way Mom always does it: cooks everything on the highest setting. Maybe that’s why the food’s always burned yet raw in the middle. I choose a medium heat and then add a “knob of butter” to the pan before pouring half the eggs and adding a handful of spinach strips over the top. As the sides start to firm, I psych myself up for my first pan flip, like how the English chef did it in his video. I shake the pan first, making sure the egg isn’t sticking, then I suck in a breath and flick my wrist. Whoooo! The omelet flips all right, but lands with a soggy splat, splashing egg onto the stovetop, the counter, and my shirt. The second omelet is perfect, mostly because I fold the egg over rather than flip it. That one will be for Mom.
    “Smells good,” Mom says, walking into the kitchen. I set the table with placemats and cutlery, and