Fat by James Keene Read Free Book Online Page B

put a suture into a fleck of a laceration?  This wound did not heal this well because of the gifted hands of the plastic surgeon; it would’ve healed just like it did even if Xander sealed it shut himself with a thumb of mud.  Why not demand that the Pope come and irrigate it with fresh holy water before closure?  Then maybe get Jesus to float down and seal the cut with his healing finger?  It’s no wonder Xander gets all his demands filled to excess.
         “Kids get minor scrapes when they are active, it’s entirely normal and impossible to always prevent.  Xander needs to get active, regardless of those minor risks.  And most cuts and bruises will heal just fine and are not that big of a deal.”
         “Well, next time, we’re going to have to find a better supervised program.”
         “A small cut is not that high of a price to pay if it means Xander is getting healthier.”
         “I guess.”
         “Regardless Kate, you’ve really done nothing we talked about and it shows.  Xander is up another twenty pounds.”
         “We’ll keep trying, but it’s tough.”
         “You’re his mom, you need to do this for him.  I shouldn’t be caring about this more than you.”
         “I know, I know.”  Kate sighed. 
         Xander finished his lunch, and with a burp, tossed the McDonald’s bag into the trash.  Next stop: World of warcraft and Hentai porn.  This kid has got no chance.  No fucking chance. 

 
     
     
     
     
     
    FAT BULLY
     
     
     
        About once a month, I do a free sports physical clinic at a local grade school.  It’s a good way to provide some physicals for kids that otherwise wouldn’t get one.  And occasionally, I will see some minor urgent care stuff – strains, runny noses, rashes and such.
         On one visit to Jane Adams Elementary, as my mind started getting numb from the repetition of normal pediatric physicals, Xander was escorted into the exam room.  A burly teacher had a tight grip on Xander’s right upper arm.  Xander had a cut on his left hand and a zig-zagged scratch on the center of his forehead a la Harry Potter.  He was almost as wide as he was tall.
         “Hey Xander, long time no see, how’s it going buddy?”
         The teacher that was escorting him just shook his head.  “Not too good, he was beating up a kid again.”
         Makes sense.  Xander’s been getting called “Lardass” and “Triple ex-el-Xander” for a few years now, and that’s a perfect recipe to get bitter and mean.  And by the looks of him, he was just eating more junk to cope.  But he must’ve also figured out that at this age, his body used that excess fuel to grow wider and taller at a quicker rate than his peers.  Like how the grass where the neighborhood dogs squat their crap grows lushest.  He became the biggest kid in class.  Suddenly, he found another, more satisfying way to feel better: beating on kids.  I wish I could’ve been there when one kid too many called Xander “Fat-fuck”, and Xander reared back and connected with the kid’s face, sending the kid flying.  Like a semi-truck hitting a Prius.  And a lightbulb going off that mass was strength, at least at this pre-pubertal age.    
         “Let’s take a look at him.”
         Xander just had some superficial scratches and minor soft tissue swelling.  More so on his knuckles.  That kid he was beating on must have got lit up.
         “Anything hurt, Xander?”
         “No, not really, Dr. Grant.”
         I took his hand and started feeling around.  “Not here, or here?”
         “No, not really.”
         Then this teacher chimed in, “Are you sure nothing’s broken?  Because my cousin got in a fight once and he broke his hand.  Never healed right because the doc missed it.”
         I’m going to ignore this guy.  What did he think I was doing, not making sure it wasn’t broken?  If so, the