Chunk

Chunk.

That’s what they call me, anyway.

My actual name is Charles Blake McDuffie III. Charlie for short. I also answer daily to fatass, freak, dough-boy (I actually hate bread, wouldn’t you know it?), lardo, fat-freak (a favorite hybrid of theirs) and, most recently, queer.

Part of me never worried too much about the name calling. I mean, yeah. I’m fat. I get it. My mom even called me “thunder thighs” when I was a toddler. But the thing is, I’m cool with it. I actually like my body. It’s soft and squishy, and I get a kick out of the jiggles my belly does when I jump. Sue me already. Isn’t it a good thing to like your body these days? The media would tell you so.

I never found my tormentors very perceptive. It seems almost a cheap trick to make fun of someone for a trait so obvious. I mean, find something actually difficult to poke at already, am I right? But see, that’s kind-of changing. Once they started throwing in the big-Q, I started to sweat a little. And not in the cute, oh I just ran a mile type of sweat. I mean the drenched tee-shirt for no good reason, drippy upper lip and shiny forehead while the AC is blasting type of sweat. Nervous sweat.

Sure, I might be an avid thespian, vice-president of the drama club type of guy. So what? I happen to find Shakespeare rather titillating.

But it wasn’t until he showed up that my worst fears began to come true.

I was becoming a walking, talking, bedazzled and neon-painted sign of a stereotype.

Who would have guessed this dull, Neanderthal-on-a-good-day group of guys would figure something out about me before I even knew?

Not me, that’s for sure.

It’s all his fault, anyway. Goddamn that Darren Lee and every inch of his perfect, flippy hair.