Kody Keplinger - The DUFF - Designated Ugly Fat Friend

Fearing, dreading, remembering.

I took a step back as the knob turned and the door swung open. There stood Dad, his eyes red and deeply circled behind his glasses. He looked really pale, like he’d been sick, and I could see his hand shaking on the doorknob. “Bianca.”

He didn’t smell like whiskey.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Hi, Dad. I, um, left my keys inside last night, so…”

He moved slowly forward, like he was afraid I might run away. Then he wrapped his arms around me, pulled me into his chest, and buried his face in my hair. We stood there together for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, I could tell the words came through sobs. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“I know,” I murmured into his shirt.

And I was crying, too.

Dad and I talked more that day than we had in seventeen years. Not that we weren’t close before. It’s just that neither of us is very expressive. We didn’t share our thoughts or feelings or do any of that stuff they tell you is important on those public service announcements you see on Nickelodeon. When we ate dinner together, we were always in front of the TV, and there was no way either of us would interrupt the program with lame small talk. That’s just how we were.

But that day we talked.

We talked about his work.

We talked about my grades.

We talked about Mom.

“She’s really not coming back, is she?” Dad took off his glasses and rubbed his face with both hands. We were sitting on the couch. For once, the television was off. Ours were the only voices that filled the room. It was a good kind of semi-silence, yet scary at the same time.

“No, Daddy,” I said, bravely reaching out to squeeze his hand. “She’s not. This just isn’t the right place for her anymore.”

He nodded. “I know. I’ve known for a long time that she wasn’t happy… maybe even before she knew. I just hoped-”

“That she’d change her mind?” I offered. “I think she wanted to. That’s why she kept leaving and coming back, you know? She didn’t want to face the truth. She didn’t want to admit that she wanted a”-I paused at the next word-“divorce.”

Divorce was just so final. More than a fight. More than a separation or a long speaking tour. It meant their marriage-their life together-was really and truly finished.

“Well,” he sighed, squeezing my hand back. “I guess we were both running away in different ways.”

“What do you mean?”

Dad shook his head. “Your mother took a Mustang. I took a whiskey bottle.” He reached up and readjusted his glasses, an unconscious habit-he always did it when he was making a point. “I was so devastated by what your mother did to me that I forgot how horrible drinking is. I forgot to look on the bright side.”

“Dad,” I said, “I don’t think there is a bright side to divorce. It’s a pretty sucky thing all around.”

He nodded. “Maybe that’s true, but there are a lot of bright sides to my life. I have a job I like, a nice house in a good neighborhood, and a wonderful daughter.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh God,” I muttered. “Don’t go all Lifetime movie on me. Seriously.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, smiling. “But I mean it. A lot of people would kill for my life, but I didn’t even consider that. I took it-and you-for granted. I’m so, so sorry for that, Bumblebee.”

I wanted to look away when I saw the tears glistening at the corners of his eyes, but I forced myself to focus only on him. I’d been turning away from the truth for too long.

He apologized multiple times for everything that had happened over the past few weeks. He promised me he’d start going to weekly Alcoholics Anonymous meetings again, to go back on the wagon, to call his sponsor again. And then we poured every single bottle of whiskey and beer down the drain together, both of us eager for a clean slate.

“Is your head all right?” he asked me about a million times that day.

“It’s fine,” I kept telling him.

He always shook his head and murmured more apologies for slapping me. For saying what he had. Then he’d hug me.

Seriously, a million times that day.

Around midnight, I joined him in his nightly ritual of turning out the lights. “Bumblebee,” he said as the kitchen went dark. “I want you to thank your friend next time you see him.”

“My friend?”

“Yeah. The boy who was with you last night. What’s his name?”

“Wesley,” I muttered.

“Right,” Dad said. “Well, I deserved it. He was brave to do what he did. I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but I’m glad you have a friend who’s willing to stand up for you. So please tell him I said thanks.”

“Sure.” I turned and walked up the stairs to my bedroom, praying that wouldn’t be anytime soon.

“But Bianca?” He winced and rubbed his jaw. “Next time tell him he should feel free to write a strongly worded letter first. Hell of an arm on that kid.”

I smiled in spite of myself. “There won’t be a next time,” I told him, taking the last few steps and heading to my bedroom.

Both my parents were facing reality, giving up their distractions. Now it was my turn, and that meant quitting Wesley. Unfortunately, there were no weekly meetings, no sponsors, or twelve-step programs for what I was addicted to.

I was pretty sure Wesley wouldn’t approach me at school. Why would he? It wasn’t like he’d miss me… even if I really, really wanted him to. He wasn’t losing anything. He had plenty of replacement girls ready and willing to fill any gaps I might have left in his schedule. So there was no need for an avoidance plan on Monday morning.

Except that I didn’t even want to see him. If I had to look at him day after day, I could never hope to forget about him. I could never hope to move on. For this situation, I did need a plan, and I had one all lined up.

Step one: keep distracted in the hallway in case he passed me.

Step two: stay busy in English and never look over at his side of the classroom.

Step three: speed out of the parking lot in the afternoon so I didn’t run into him.

Dad made step three possible by fixing my car Sunday, so I was sure I could keep from seeing Wesley. In a matter of weeks, I’d be able to put our relationship-or lack thereof-out of my mind. If not, well, we’d graduate in May and I’d never have to look at that cocky smirk ever again.

That was the theory, anyway.

But by the time the final bell rang on Monday, I knew my plan sucked ass. Not looking at Wesley didn’t necessarily equal not thinking of Wesley. In fact, I spent most of my day thinking about not looking at him. Then I just thought about all the reasons I shouldn’t be thinking of him. It never freaking ended! Nothing seemed to distract me.

Until Tuesday afternoon.

I was on my way to lunch after an unbearably long AP government class when something happened that gave me just the distraction I needed. Something unbelievable and shocking. Something pretty damn awesome.

Toby fell into step with me in the hallway. “Hey,” he said.

“Hi.” I did my best to sound at least halfway pleasant. “What’s up, Harvard Boy?”

Toby grinned and looked down, shuffling his feet. “Not much,” he said. “Just trying to decide what to write about for the editorial assignment. Mr. Chaucer wasn’t very specific. What are you going to write yours about?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I’m thinking of doing it on gay marriage.”

“Supporting or opposing?”

“Oh, definitely supporting. I mean, the government has no right to dictate who can and can’t publicly declare their love for each other.”