Kex - Judy Colella (red novels TXT) 📗

Helga Exford looked at the infant in her arms. Her smile was faint with exhaustion, but her eyes held all the love and excitement she was unable to show otherwise.

“I love you,” whispered her husband, gazing with pride at their new son, and it wasn’t clear if the sentiment was aimed at the boy or the mother.

Helga accepted it as hers, raised her gaze and told the large, handsome man beside the bed that she was glad he’d given her a son.

William laughed without changing the direction of his glance, nodding. “In the old days, that would have been what the man said.”

“Well, now we know better, don’t we.” Her voice had gotten somewhat fainter. She really needed to get some sleep – twenty-six hours of labor was almost too much. Understandable, though, she thought through a haze. After all, the child had been weighed at eleven pounds, nine ounces and was a full twenty-three inches long. Big boy….

“Mr. Exford?”

He turned to see the nurse giving him a significant stare. “Oh. Guess she needs to rest, yes?”

“Yes. You can come back later. We’ll be placing the baby in the Nursery now, and you can observe him any time you want.” She was referring to the gigantic room filled with an alarming number of cribs, a huge picture window at one end where parents and relatives could look in on the newborns.

William Exford frowned. “How do I know you won’t mix him up with someone else’s baby?”

Her look changed to one of patient understanding. “Here – watch what I do.” She reached down and lifted the large infant from his mother’s chest; she’d fallen asleep several moments earlier and was snoring gently. “This is how we avoid mix-ups.” The nurse carried the baby to a crib set up near the bed, placed him gently into it, and opened a drawer in the small table beside it. She took out a large blue label and a black marker. “Have you decided on a name?”

“We have – after my wife’s father. Erik.” He spelled it for her.

The woman printed “Erik Exford” in large letters on the label, peeled it from its backing, and affixed it to what looked like an index card with a hole in one end. “Now, we do this.” She pulled a blue ribbon from her pocket, threaded it through the hole, and tied the label around the baby’s left ankle. “That doesn’t come off until you take him home. Okay?”

Satisfied, William nodded.

“Good! We’ll see you later, Mr. Exford, and congratulations!” She picked up the baby again, who had remained quiet throughout all of these proceedings, and carried him out.

William went to the bed, gave his wife a quick kiss on the forehead, and left. As he headed for the hospital cafeteria for a snack, he started dreaming about his son, what he would look like as he grew, what he’d be when he became a man…ah, the pride of fatherhood. He gave a little skip, then looked around to make sure no one had seen him, cleared his throat, and continued on his way.

*******

“Are you sure you want these?” The Cafeteria worker raised an eyebrow, her spatula pointed at the large tray of french fries looking an unhealthy shade of red under the heat lamps.

“I’m sure.”

“You know, you could have some broccoli instead. Or a piece of fruit.”

“Fruit is carbs. Fries are carbs. What’s the difference?”

“Well, broccoli, then.” She was honestly trying to help.

“I hate broccoli. Besides, you guys dump a bunch of imitation butter all over it, so I’ll have a lot of fatty greens. Great choice. I’ll take the fries.”

The woman sighed, shaking her head, and served up the allotted helping, dumping them unhappily on the boy’s plate next to what the menu board claimed to be meatloaf, but even she had her doubts about that one. “Here you go.” She lifted his plate to the glass shelf over the serving area and he put it on his tray. “You know, Erik, I’m not trying to embarrass you – I’m worried, is all.”

“Yeah, me, too. But thanks.” He gave her a half-smile and slid the tray further down to the drink section.

“Hey, there, Chubby-Wubby,” whispered a female voice next to him.

He didn’t bother to look. He knew the voice too well. Martina Casman, the school’s resident self-proclaimed Queen of Hotness, was a young lady who seemed to live for those exquisite moments when she could deliver scathing, sarcastic nastiness to anyone who didn’t look like a young supermodel. Which was just about everybody except her.

As he filled his cup with ice, she put a hand on his free arm. “Have they widened the doors for you at home yet?”

He sighed and moved the cup under the cola dispenser.

“What’s wrong, Butter-Butt? Too much fat in your throat so you can’t speak?”

He wondered briefly what would happen if he “accidentally” tossed the soda into her face. Would it be worth the momentary hilarity of seeing her in a state of gasping outrage? Nah. Not really. Because one of her mindless boy-toys would beat the living crap out of him later, or whatever crap was left after someone else beat him up just for the heck of it. Looked like he’d have to opt for confusing her into silence. “Martina,” he said as he began sidling past her, “the discussion of panniculus should be relegated exclusively to those not suffering from faecal encephalopathy syndrome. Know what I mean?” He gave her a pleasant smile and took off.

Several long minutes passed before Martina could figure out that it was okay to try thinking again, during which time she stood, mouth hanging open, and stared at her retreating classmate’s ample back.

Erik managed to get to his usual table before being overcome by the giggles. Using huge words was his only means of self-defense at this point.

“So, what did you say this time and who did you say it to?” asked Bruno, one of three others who shared their lunch period with Erik. He hadn’t seen what happened, but knew Erik well enough to recognize the source of that other boy’s amusement.

Erik told him, and all four promptly went hysterical.

“What do you think she’ll do?” Harvey, a bespectacled boy whose own poundage rivaled Erik’s, glanced around to see if Martina was anywhere in sight.

Erik shrugged. “Who knows? Who cares? For sure, though, she won’t be able to repeat what I said to anyone.”

That brought on a new wave of laughter. “She’s totally stupid!” choked the fourth member of their little group, a girl named Sissy. She was so skinny, she had to wear children’s clothes, and her black-framed glasses made her thin face look insect-like.

And then, as if they were all struck by the same thought, they fell silent. The thought, of course, was that stupid or not, Martina was beautiful and popular, and none of them could ever hope to claim to be either.

As he munched on his fries, Erik thought about his parents, about the way his mother had gone from a lovely Swedish model to a morbidly obese housewife over the course of only fourteen years. Apparently, giving birth to him had damaged something and she’d been unable to have any more children. This had brought about a deep depression, coped with by binge eating, and over-indulging her only child with sweets, unhealthy snacks, fat-laden (if incredibly delicious) suppers and before-bed yummies. Her manic behavior had eventually brought his father to the brink of his own brand of despair, one in which alcohol – beer, specifically – was all he lived for. Erik, blissfully unaware of the wrong-headedness of his parents’ behaviors, had grown up fairly happy, his only misery coming from his peers who apparently had nothing better to do than make constant fun of his weight and nerdy intelligence.

He knew that part of his problem, if one could honestly call it that, was his love of reading. This was not exactly an athletic pursuit, nor were any of his other pursuits, which included playing video games and making his own comic books. He might have become a classic artist at some point, but enjoyed animé and comic art much more. At fourteen, he was already extremely good at it, but never showed his work to anyone, fearing it would become yet one more source of ridicule by his peer group. He certainly didn’t trust his friends, either, since they felt the need to brag loudly about things everyone else thought were incredibly dumb. No, he didn’t need them broadcasting the fact that he drew superheroes and monsters all the time. His other love – mathematics – was no secret, though, since it was something constantly useful and had even given him moments of enjoyment when the meat-head elements in his age group would ask for help with their homework.

“Hey!”

Startled, Eric almost choked on a fry. He looked up, eyes watering, to see Martina standing beside the table looking furious.

“I don’t know what you said to me, but it better not have been anything gross or obscene.”

He took a swig of soda to send what was left of the greasy potato product on its way down his esophagus. “Just honest,” he croaked.

She frowned. “What does that mean?”

“Uh, honest. You know, real, true, factual, non-falacious…”

“I’m going to smack you stupid with my purse, Erik Exford!”

He gave her a crazy look. “What are you – two years old? Please go away. I’m not bothering you – don’t bother me.”

“Uh-huh. Uh-huh. We’ll see.”

“Cryptic to the last,” Harvey muttered, watching her flounce off and enjoying the sway of her hips more than he’d ever admit out loud.

“Not really.” Eric finished his food and stood up, grabbing his tray.

“What do you mean?” asked Harvey, joining him, the other two rising also.

“I mean, Harve, that when she says, ‘we’ll see,’ she’s basically saying she’s going to go lie to one of her football friends about me, and I’ll be going home with a black eye – or worse.” His sense of doom and gloom was rapidly heading for an all-time low.

Ah, life in the Fat Lane…

*******

Denying the accusation had been worthless, naturally. Picking himself up off the sidewalk, Erik pulled a tissue from his pocket, held it over his bleeding nostrils, and put his head back. His attacker this time had been Taylor Kroll, or Kaylor the Troll as Eric preferred to call him. He was the football team’s star quarterback, an exalted position that made it almost an honor to have been punched by him.

“Dot!” grated Erik, unable to make the “n” sound with his nose all clogged up with blood. The football star was now added to Erik’s list entitled, Classmates Who Have Introduced Me To Their Fists, and to date, Taylor was the most popular. How awesome.

“Oh, Erik, honey!” his mother exclaimed ten minutes later. She would have had to be completely blind not to see the bruise on her son’s chin and the drying blood on his upper lip. “Who hurt you, baby?”

He glared, unable to stop himself. He knew she loved him and was sincere and all that, but dang! “I’b dot a baby!” he replied, unreasonably furious. “And dever mihd who did it! I’b fide!”

“What’s going on in here?” William, who had taken an early retirement – fifteen years early – entered the kitchen wiping one hand on the stained wife-beater undershirt stretched tightly over his beer-distended belly. Welfare could buy a lot of unnecessary comfort these days.

“Some horrible person has hurt our son, that’s what!” Helga, a spatula raised in one hand, her blonde hair in long braids on either side of her round cheeks, looked like she was about to burst out in a Wagnerian aria.

“Why?”

Erik rolled his eyes. He loved his parents. He really did. But… “We’ll talk about it