Chapter One:

Maybe he wasn't the world's fattest kid, but he was definitely the fattest that Brandon had seen! He wasn't the only fat kid in the house; of the thirty-two freshmen in History class, at least eight were packing extra pounds from a little bit chubby to totally huge. But this dude was off the fat grading scale!

Brandon tried not to stare at the boy, though he'd chosen a desk at the rear of the room because he wanted to watch everyone. His Creative Writing teacher last year had said that a good writer had to "observe," but so far here on this first day of school, in these opening minutes of World History, there hadn't been a lot to observe that might have inspired a story. The kids were a typical Santa Cruz mix -- meaning that most of them were white -- from surfers in tank-tops, hoodies and shorts, to hip-hops in big-jeans and backward-turned caps. A pair goths, boy and girl, had so many piercings that Brandon winced, even though he was wearing an earring himself. There were also a couple of obvious jocks.

The surfers were tanned to the shade of old pennies. One could have starred in Endless Summer, a buff-bodied blondie with long curly locks. Another resembled a wiry coyote, his body as hard as a sheet-metal roof; while a third was a big-bellied, round-breasted boy who looked like he'd just spent the night on a beach, with sand in his hair and beer on his breath.

The goths were as pale as vanilla ice cream and as bony as week-old cadavers. One of the hip-hops was borderline chubby, though hiding it well in his oversize clothes; while one of the jocks could have been on TV as a model for All-American boys... a sort of muscular Opy Taylor complete with freckles and rusty-red hair. There was also a skinhead in boots and suspenders who could have passed for an albino ape. About the only "statement" he made was that some Caucasians had lame-looking skulls and should have kept something on top of them. Of the ten other white kids, Brandon included, most were fairly average in build... meaning that most looked very well-fed compared to the 1960's kids that Brandon had seen in his mom's photo album. A couple of girls were "pleasingly plump," while another resembled a Barbie Doll, which looked almost scary in real life.

At a desk in the front sat a marshmallow dude whose belly peeked shyly from under his shirt, an Area 51 souvenir from the Little Alien Cafe. The shirt was at least two sizes too small, but cool in space-nerdy way. The other students included three Asians, two slender girls who looked Vietnamese, and a Japanese boy either chubby or husky depending upon your point of view. Four kids were brown, and three of them fat; a raven-haired girl with a friendly smile, and a pair of rolly Latino dudes in white T-shirts and baggy jeans. The other brown girl might have been Middle-eastern.

The black race hadn't been represented... until this ebony mountain of blubber had lumbered casually into the room.

That wasn't a good metaphor, thought Brandon; an author had to describe his people so readers could picture them clearly. For one thing, mountains didn't "lumber," and this dude seemed nothing but ebony Jell-o that wobbled in rolls everywhere. The boy's massive chest looked like water-balloons, while his waist seemed as huge as the truck-tire tubes that were rented down at the Boardwalk. His clothes were kind of carelessly cool; his T-shirt was black and at least triple-X, though it still couldn't cover his titanic tummy, which plunged and rebounded with every slow step as if trying to bounce on the floor. Beneath that midnight avalanche were faded old jeans that were sagging so low their cuffs dragged the floor at his heels. Only the toes of his sneakers showed, but they looked sufficiently oversized to carry all that weight.

Brandon made notes in his "writer's journal," a section reserved in the shiny new binder his mother had bought at the mall yesterday. At least this dude was something new, and a prime candidate for his Beastworld book, a graphic novel he planned to write as soon as he found an illustrator. Brandon found himself staring again, not being "detached" like a writer should be. He shifted his eyes from all that wild fat to study a face like an African cherub's: chubby round cheeks, a wide snubby nose, and eyes as black as a starless night. Fierce white teeth were displayed in a grin that might have been his normal expression... like he just didn't care about being so fat or what anybody might think.

The huge boy's hair was a lion's mane that tumbled over his super-size shoulders to midway down a massive back that also seemed composed of rolls. It might have been braided, or maybe dreadlocked, though Brandon wasn't sure about that, not being down with African Culture. He guessed it was only natural that the boy was lumbering toward him, his vast belly clearing a road ahead as kids leaned aside to get out of his way.

The desks were arranged in five rows of six, with another four at the rear of the room, and Brandon sat in the back right corner, farthest away from the door. The desk to his left was still empty, while the chubby surfer was sprawled in the third, smogging the air with alcohol fumes and shedding a virtual beach on the floor. Brandon had made a few notes about him, his hoodie unzipped, a sneaker untied, his hair like a mop of salt-stiffened curls that totally covered his eyes. One of the white girls, an "average type," had taken the fourth desk beside the surfer but wasn't looking too stoked about it. There was another available desk in the very first row at the front of the room, but any cool kid would have naturally chosen the one at the rear next to Brandon.

Brandon was cool enough, he supposed, though a little detached from the center of cool. If cool was a sun then he was a planet, not shining himself but reflecting the rays. At age fourteen he was five-foot-five and probably weighed about one-thirty pounds, though he hadn't recently checked. He had silky blond hair in a central part that flowed down over his chest and back like a feral young prince in a sorcery game. His eyes were dark blue, his nose slightly snubbed, and his lips rested partly open a lot, displaying a pair of startling teeth that probably should have been tamed. He had a few muscles in all the right places; his chest was high and gently defined, though his tummy was still a bit round like a child's, which tended to give him a Bugs Bunny look. He'd tried working out with his big brother's weights, but had only developed a backache. A chiropractor had aligned his spine -- beneath the eyes of his worried mother -- while scolding him for being "brainwashed," and falling for the "movie-star image that Hollywood fed to American kids."

Still, Brandon managed to look fairly cool; his tan was as deep as the drunk surfer-boy's, and he'd carefully chosen his clothes this morning to give him a sort of nuetral pose; a blue denim shirt from his brother's closet with three buttons open to show off his chest, along with an old pair of loose Tommy jeans worn at a dangerous level. Most Santa Cruz kids would have thought him a surfer -- the drunk boy had dreamily greeted him, "duuuude" -- a cool enough image to front in this town where everyone had to be something. It was also a look that didn't offend or attract any special attention; good camouflage to be an observer without admitting to anything except being an average white teen.

The woolly black mammoth was grinning at Brandon as if he'd been reading his mind. Obsidian eyes queried Brandon's blue, confirming the empty desk wasn't taken. Brandon still fought to control his stare, but the dude was just so awesomely... FAT! Every slow step seemed a struggle... his gigantic thighs got in each other's way so he had to squeeze one in front of the other, which sort of looked like he was wading through snow. Brandon glanced around again to observe the other kids' reactions.

The "average" white girl ejected, not wanting to sit with an unrated Brandon, a drunk and smelly surfer-dude, and now this enormous ebony beast... a word Brandon used as a compliment. The girl snatched her things and flew to the front, landing beside the "51 kid," who nervously tugged at his undersized shirt.

The other two surfers were smirking now at the sight of the mammoth dude fighting to walk. The "All-American" looked disgusted. The skinhead was beaming a stupid hate stare that he probably practiced every morning while scraping the fuzz off his simian skull, while the 51 kid seemed a little relieved at no longer being the fattest in class. The Latino dudes looked kind of impressed, and one may have murmured "El Grande," while the Japanese boy was scanning the black as if maybe thinking of Sumo. Most of the girls wore a mix of expressions, which seemed to range from pity to shock, with maybe a flicker of interest or two. A few of the students were looking confused, as if not knowing how to react: fat kids were common enough in their world -- even if not this extreme -- but there weren't many black dudes in Santa Cruz and nobody knew much about them. Their movies and music were freezerburn cool; and Brandon had heard all the usual stories about how strong and bad they were: but this dude didn't fit into his role any more than his clothes fit him.

Then, Brandon wondered how he should react? The other students were watching him, too: he felt as if he was up on a stage and no one had told him what part to play. This enormous black dude was invading his space on the very first day of high school, dammit! It seemed like his cool was a house of cards and this ebony mammoth was shaking the floor.

Brandon had gone to a private school from kindergarten through junior-high, so he didn't know anyone here. He had no posse to take his back and validate his coolness permit. He remembered something his father had said about making career decisions. Nobody would dis him for dissing this dude, but they'd probably dis him for not. And they'd have him under a microscope for all this freakin' period. "Observer," hell!, he told himself; he was the one who was being observed... scanned, filed, and categorized, labeled and tagged for the next four years by how he treated this fat black kid in the space of the next fifty minutes!

He turned for support to the sandy surfer, who sprawled with sockless sneaks splayed out, his chubby body on careless display in the old sleeveless hoodie and short cutoff jeans. He was wearing a charm around his neck, a weathered wooden Tiki god suspended on a leather strip between a pair of bobby breasts with tips reversed like dimples. His eyes were hidden under his hair, a messy mop of tangled locks, bleached by years of sun and salt, and clearly never combed. A rat was tattooed on one of his arms above a chubby bicep... a Disney kind of cartoon rat who grinned around a big cigar; the sort of thing a kid would love but most adults would hate. Words were tattooed underneath, but Brandon couldn't read them... not without getting a little too close and maybe looking gay. But, any dude who had a tat would naturally be cool, and his judgment would be final in this Freshman student court...

But, dammit, he was sleeping!

The fat black boy had finally arrived. The effort of moving had sheened him with sweat, darkened the shirt beneath his arms and painted it over the orbs of his chest. His huge body seemed to radiate heat, like being close to the steam locomotive that chugged though the Santa Cruz Mountains. Brandon almost expected a hiss of air-brakes as the dude finally puffed to a halt. His scent was strong and blatantly male, though Brandon wouldn't have called it bad. He found himself a little surprised that the boy wasn't any taller than him, though easily four times as wide.

The dude wiggled out of his ancient pack, his shirt climbing up over acres of belly, displaying a navel as deep as a cave and big enough to swallow an orange. Sweat dribbled out of that oval-shaped tunnel to spatter the floor at his feet. Again, Brandon thought of the steam locomotive, which always seemed to be leaking a little. Those jeans weren't really doing much to cover the dude's enormous bottom, which looked like a pair of planets colliding. He simply seemed too fat to wear clothes, like something never meant to be clothed... huge, black, steamy, slow, yet somehow possessing enormous power.

It was also strangely embarrassing to be so close to the boy's huge body and seeing so much of it bare, feeling his heat, steamed in his scent, with every eye upon them. Brandon turned to the surfer-boy, still hoping for a backup; but the dude was lost in space somewhere, or maybe riding waves. Brandon felt a bit betrayed, yet there was nothing he could do but smile and say, "What's up?"

Total silence ruled the room. Every ear was listening. The place was like a pack of raptors massing for attack. But, could the prey defend itself? At least inflict some nasty wounds? The dude didn't look like a video thug, but his size was still intimidating... a locomotive loose in the room. What could it do, run over somebody? Bash you aside if you got in its way, or crush you under its awesome weight? Should it be respected, rejected or feared? Or maybe just avoided?

Snickers were stored away for the moment, and smirks were carefully shared. Insults waited locked and loaded, but who would be the first to fire?

The goths looked oddly understanding. The jocks just looked disgusted. The skinhead chewed on broken glass and didn't seem to like the taste. The brown boys traded Latin glances cryptic to Caucasians; and the Anglos seemed to realize that four of them were "overweight"... and one of those a surfer.

"Chillin'," said the black dude. "S'up with you?"

"...Oh. ...Phat," said Brandon, the first "black thing" that came to mind. As soon as it was out of his mouth he felt his cheeks turn red. "I mean with a 'P',' he added, sweating, feeling his own underarms getting wet. "You know? Like, phat is cool?"

He almost expected a crushing "duh," which might have turned the raptors on him, but the fat boy only chuckled. "I heard you, man."

Then the bell rang and the teacher came in. The other kids turned like Pavlov's dogs as if expecting Scoobie Snacks... but they would remember that Brandon had smiled and spoken first to the huge fat dude. The enormous boy sat down in his desk, and Brandon watched in fascination.

The dude almost had to put the desk on, like donning a piece of sports equipment, or maybe a personal space-craft. This took a lot of puffing and struggle; and Brandon actually held his breath, wanting to help but not knowing how. He remembered an old cartoon he'd seen of an overloaded camel, whose legs had splayed in four directions beneath an impossible burden. He expected the desk to do the same and dump the huge kid on the floor. That would murder Brandon's cool faster than a cluster bomb! But, somehow the structure held all that weight, and the boy finally managed to squeeze into place. Most of his midnight middle was bare, as well as his gigantic bottom. His chest covered most of the desk top, and Brandon wondered how he could write. It was lucky that no one had seen this show: the kids were watching the teacher now, and probably scanning for weaknesses. The teacher, Mr. Rosenberg, had tactfully chosen not to watch and might have distracted the class on purpose by squeakily chalking his name on the board.

Brandon scribbled "careless fat" on an empty page of his journal. It seemed like a perfect description... a dude so fat he couldn't care that his body overflowed his clothes and steamed the air around him. A locomotive might be cool, a puffing, massive, midnight beast, but careless of its awesome size, so you approached it carefully. He turned to the boy and whispered: "Um? Are you okay, man?" Then his cheeks got red again: had he just said something else uncool?

The fat boy only flashed his grin. "Guess I can wait fifty minutes to breathe. Figured the desks would be bigger in high school."

"Yeah," agreed Brandon. "Would've thought so, huh? ...Um, do you need anything from your pack?" It was clear that the boy couldn't reach his stuff; there was too much of him to reach over.

The dude studied Brandon a moment, then smiled. "Sure, dawg. Snag me a pen an' the binder."

Brandon flicked a glance at the teacher, who'd turned from the board and was facing down eyes. He looked to be in his middle forties, and obviously knew about animal taming. He also acted pretty cool, not seeming to notice when Brandon rose to get the fat boy's things. The binder was ancient and sadly battered, but covered with wicked grafitti cartoons of Bambi-eyed black boys in various poses. Many were shirtless and several were fat, their oversize jeans sagging comically low. The dude offered Brandon a chubby hand. "Travis."

Brandon was guided through twists and turns in one of those complicated shakes. He'd never touched black skin before... what a stupid thing to think! Like, what was it going to do, rub off?

"Brandon," said Brandon. "Um, did you draw all this stuff?" he added, indicating the tagged old binder. "Those 'toons are hella cool."

"Yeah. Thanks, man," the huge boy replied. "Just a little thing I do."

Mr. Rosenberg cleared his throat, and Brandon scuttled back to his desk. A couple of kids looked over their shoulders, but no one seemed very interested now.

The teacher flipped open a folder and smiled. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to World History. Which, believe it or not, you're a part of."

The skinhead raised his hand. "Are we gonna learn about Aryans? Or just that 'muliticultral' crap?"

The jocks and surfers snickered a bit, but with him or at him was hard to tell. The 51 kid seemed a little embarrassed, maybe for the sins of his race, while the brown boys scowled at one another though otherwise didn't react. Brandon scanned for Travis's view, but the fat boy only looked amused, as if a baby had cooed the F-word.

Mr. Rosenberg's smile didn't change. "This is World History, Mr...?"

"Uh, Slater," said the skinhead.

"Joe Slater?"

"Yeah. It's an Aryan name."

"Anglo-Saxon, actually. A mender of roofs. ...'Slates,' you know? But, a perfectly honorable trade." Mr. Rosenberg marked the roll. "Unfortunately, we live in a country that doesn't spend much on education. We have many fine new prisons, and are building more as fast as we can. We also spend billions on various wars, but we don't have the funding for 'frills' in our schools, such as music, art, and up-to-date books... or a special class for European History. However, I think you ought to know that there never was an Aryan race. If you want to study 'Aryans,' you'll need to focus on languages... and at your own expense, I'm afraid."

The skinhead's skull flushed neon pink. "That's a... not true! I got a book!" He frantically dug in his pack.

"Ah, yes, I'm familiar with that one. I've also read Mein Kamph. However, Mr. Slater, it's either 'true,' or else there have been many other books written -- by genuine scholars -- for the sole purpose of deceiving you. But, I'll be happy to give extra credit for a well-researched paper on Aryans."

Some of the kids looked curious. Joe just looked confused.

Mr. Rosenberg scanned his folder. "Please answer up as I read your names. And correct me if I mispronounce."

"Woah," whispered Brandon to Travis. "I didn't know that. About Aryans."

"I did," said Travis. "Never were any. Just a language. ...Want me to wake up your homie?"

"Um... sure," said Brandon. This didn't seem like the time to explain that he didn't know the surfer dude.

Travis's desk creaked omniously as he leaned way over his massive middle and tapped the surfer's shoulder. The boy woke up and shook back his hair, scattering sand like a blizzard. "Huh?" he murmured. His eyes were blue, and widened fast. "Wooooah!" he breathed. "Are you ever fat!"

He didn't say it loudly, but it drew a few snickers here and there. Also a frown from the teacher.

"You ain't no bone-bag yourself," observed Travis.

The surfer scanned his surroundings, seeming surprised to wake up in school. He could have still been half-asleep, or maybe more than slightly drunk, but he had a dreamy kind of face and might have always looked that way. His teeth were big and beaver-like, and his hair tumbled over his eyes again. Then he smiled and slapped his stomach, which quivered all over like pudding. "Dude! We're brothers!"

"I think I know what you done last summer," said Travis.

"Yeah, heh," said the boy. "Been totally heliotropic, man. Best summer I ever had in my life!" He searched the sandy floor at his feet. "Aw, shit! Musta left my stuff at the beach!"

"Um," whispered Brandon, trying to see around Travis's mass and feeling a little left out. "I've got an extra pen. And tons of pape..." He suddenly became aware that silence ruled the room again, and Mr. Rosenberg was frowning.

"I seem to have a 'Bosco Donatello' penciled in here." Mr. Rosenberg scanned the roll as if someone had added that name as a joke. "Where might this gentleman be? ...Or not?"

"Oh, heh," said the surf-boy. "Yo, teacher-dude."

A few kids promptly snickered, but the other surfers looked surprised and turned to stare at Bosco.

"Thank you... dude," the teacher replied, and went on reading names. "Travis White" also got snickers, being sort of an oxymoron, but "Brandon Williams" got nothing at all... not being ethnic or anything special.

Well, thought Brandon, at least one of his teachers was cool this year. But he had to survive the rest of the day, sort of like mapping a minefield. He'd almost stepped on a mine already, but surfer Bosco had saved his butt, had taken his back by talking to Travis, which gave them both a bonus point.

Mr. Rosenberg closed the folder and roamed the room with his eyes. "I seldom alter seating arrangements... unless there's a problem. But I hope it won't be a case of 'Why Are All The Black Kids Sitting Together In the Cafeteria.' That would be history repeating itself, and those who don't learn from history are always doomed to repeat it."

Brandon felt embarrassed for Travis, as if the teacher had singled him out, but Travis only smiled.

"Mr. Tanaka?" added the teacher, turning to the Japanese boy. "Would you please pass out the texts?" He glanced at a stack of books on his desk and frowned at their battered condition. "Such as they are."

The next few minutes were normal enough for a first day of school anywhere, Mr. Rosenberg sketching the course while Tiger Tanaka distributed books that looked like they'd been in a war. If someone had snickered at Tiger's name, Brandon had missed it while talking to Travis. He slipped from his desk to give Bosco some paper and one of his extra Pilot pens. Bosco thought the pen was "boss," like something he'd never seen before, and started drawing a rat on a surfboard. Brandon scanned the dude's tattoo; the words beneath were, "Tola Rats"... whatever they represented. Mr. Rosenberg noticed Brandon, but seemed to approve of his charity.

"You surf, dude?" asked Bosco. "You got the look."

"Nah," said Brandon. "But I hang at the beach. And I usually skate every day."

"Skurf-boards are cool," said Bosco. "Got one myself."

"...'Skurf'...boards?" asked Brandon.

"Yeah. You know? Sidewalk surfin'?"

"Oh yeah, My dad said they used to be called that."

"But, you oughta check out real surfin'. Ain't nothin' so boss in the whole universe! Not even sex, heh. ...'Less it's havin' it in the ocean."

Brandon considered that picture, then shrugged. "I'm probably too old to learn."

"Nah, man. Anybody can. I could teach you easy. 'Specially if you ride a skurf. Them things are treacherous, woah! They skid all over the place!"

"What kind of wheels do you ride?" asked Brandon.

"The regular kind." Bosco circled a finger and thumb. "About this big."

"Oh," said Brandon. "I ride Bullets. Ninety-sevens."

"What's those?" asked Bosco.

"Wheels," said Brandon, a little surprised. "A lot of people ride them. But, surfing looks really hard."

"Nah," said Bosco. "Cement, now that's hard. Like, bust your buns, dude. Heh." He turned to Travis. "How 'bout you, big black Kahuna?"

Brandon winced, but Travis chuckled. "I can float really good. Fat's lighter than water."

Bosco grinned like a cartoon beaver. "Yeah, I found that out."

"Um?" asked Brandon. "Does it ever bother you, being so black?"

"Huh?" asked Travis and Bosco together.

Brandon's cheeks flashed red again. "I... mean fat," he stammered.

Travis smiled. "Somebody's Freudian slip is showin'."

"Huh?" said Bosco.

"Sorry," said Brandon.

"It's somethin' you learn to live with," said Travis, and didn't sound unhappy about it.

"Yo," said Bosco. "You'd be a natural long-boarder, Travvy. I got me some big old beauties at home just dyin' to meet a dude like you."

"I never heard of black surfers," said Travis, then glanced at Brandon. "Or fat ones either."

"Then you never been to Hawaii," said Bosco. "They got some huge kahunas there! An' it wasn't white people who invented surfin'."

"Hmm," said Travis. "Food for thought."

"Cool tat, Bosco," offered Brandon.

"Thanks, dude. Got it when I was eight. ...Oh, an' thanks for the paper, too." He searched his hoodie pockets. "Aw, shit! I don't got my schedule! It's back on the beach with my stuff. ...I guess."

"Shit," agreed Brandon.

"Hey, can I borrow yours, Brandy?"

"...Um... But I need it myself. I don't even know where the rooms are yet."

"Well... like, could you copy it down for me?"

"Planet earth callin'," said Travis. "It's Brandon's schedule, man. What good it gonna do you?"

"Oh yeah."

"What are your classes?" asked Brandon.

Bosco shook more sand from his hair. "...Well... The regular kind, I guess. ...Like, um, History..."

"We're in History," said Brandon.

"Oh yeah."

"Yo," said Travis. "Axe if you can go to the office. They gotta have a copy of your schedule."

"Gentlemen and dudes," said the teacher, materializing suddenly. "I'm glad to see the races and..." He glanced at Bosco. "Other species mingling. But, I must ask the question; do we have a problem?"

"Oh, heh," said Bosco. "No prob at all, Mr... um...?"

"It's on the blackboard, Mr.Donatello."

"Oh yeah. I can see it from here."

"Um," said Brandon. "He lost his schedule."

"I'm sure it's wherever his mind is. ...Come up to my desk, Mr. Donatello. I'll give you a pass to the office."

"Woah!" said Bosco after the teacher walked away. "He's kinda cool, huh?"

"Yeah," said Travis. "An' your ass be lucky he is."

Bosco got up, swaying dangerously, and Brandon grabbed his shoulders.

"Heh," said Bosco, blowing beer fumes in Brandon's face. "Guess I'm still kinda buzzed, dude. I can't remember nothin' last night."

"Did you have sex in the ocean?" asked Travis.

"I think I woulda remembered that."

"Well, pull up your pants 'fore y'all get arrested."

"Oh. Heh. These are my lucky cutoffs, man. But, they got kinda small this summer."

"Now we know you're a natural blond. ...Funny, you don't look Italian."

"A lot of Northern Italians are blond. But, I get asked that a lot."

"Learn somethin' new every day," said Travis.

Bosco ambled away, shedding more sand on the floor. The other surfers flashed hang-loose signs, which Bosco returned with a smile.

Brandon sat down. "He's kind of a mess. But, a cool kind of mess."

"He could sink the Titanic," Travis agreed.

Brandon smiled. "Was that a Freudian slip?"

"Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."

"Um," added Brandon, "One of my best friends is... overweight."

Travis chuckled again. "'Overweight,' or fat?"

"Well... fat."

"I kinda guessed that already."

"...'Cause I knew about your binder? Like, you couldn't reach it? ...But, you knew that, too. Like, before you sat down."

"Well, give that boy a big fat cigar."

Chapter Two:

The rest of first period was pretty routine, the kids mostly trying to housebreak their minds after three months of letting them go anywhere. The teacher established his rating of cool by not assigning homework that day, except to "look over the book tonight"... which naturally nobody would. The office was right across the hall, but Bosco got lost and was gone half an hour.

"You could've followed your trail," chuckled Travis, dragging the toe of his sneak through the sand as Bosco finally plopped down at his desk.

"Oh, yeah. Heh. Shoulda thought of that myself."

"Did you sleep on a beach last night?" asked Brandon.

"Oh yeah," sighed Bosco dreamily. "Ain't nothin' so boss in the whole universe than wakin' up to the sound of waves an' the sun shinin' rosy an' gold on the water." He closed his eyes as if seeing a picture. "Like, God just finished makin' the world an' you're the first dude who gets to see it. Like bein' born all over again."

Brandon made a note of that, surprised that Bosco was so poetic. Then the bell sounded out in the hall, and most of the kids had leaped to their feet before its last echo had died. Brandon suddenly realized that he'd made two friends in these first fifty minutes, but now he'd have to go it alone in five more alien atmospheres. He quickly shouldered his Sideout pack, not wanting to leave but scared of a tardy. "Maybe we can hook-up for lunch?"

"You got it, man," said Travis. "My favorite part of school."

"Pray for surf, dude," added Bosco.

Panic and urgency curdled the air as Brandon hurried into the hall. Kids crowded past in a jostling herd, the younger ones looking bewildered. Brandon felt like a fool with a map in his hand; and it wasn't much comfort to see other Freshmen scanning their maps with desperate expressions while slammed aside by older kids who knew their way around. There were various curses and threats, as if Freshmen were an inferior race that nobody wanted to integrate; though Brandon had been prepared for that, thanks to his older brother. But, this was the safest school in town, with only four shootings and one homicide to bloody its record last year.

Just like back in History class, most of the kids around him were white. Brown was the next predominant color, the other majority Asian. A few black students flowed along, or battled against the teenage tide like night-colored salmon fighting upstream. A white dude pushed Brandon and called him a punk, but Brandon ignored him and kept on going. Other bullies lurked by lockers like bears on a riverbank waiting for fish. Brandon got spit on once or twice, was called a faggot a couple of times, and hit in the face with a wad of gum... which wasn't as bad as he'd expected. He finally found the freakin' "quad," and his second class was near the front in another building across a lawn. He blinked in the bright September sun, catching the salty scent of the sea a mile away in Capitola, and reached his room with minutes to spare. There were a lot of empty desks, but Tiger Tanaka was already seated, his binder open, a pen in hand.

This was a class that Brandon had wanted, one of his two electives, but he stopped outside to catch his breath and watch the stream of teens. A lot of the dudes were showing skin, their shirts unbuttoned carelessly but never accidentally. Brandon unbuttoned his own all the way, revealing his dangerous Tommy jeans and several inches of skater shorts.

"Hey, dork!"

Brandon turned as a boy approached, weaving his way through the rowdy rush. "Yo, Troy. Wuttup?"

Brandon Williams and Troy Durrant had met each other in pre-school. They'd cruised their skates a million miles, and always dreamed of surfing. They had shared a lot of their Wonder Years, and had more than a few adventures... like getting drunk at ten years old and passing out on Santa Cruz Beach. They had finally awakened just after dark to find their shoes and shirts were gone. Also Brandon's Tommy jeans, leaving him only tightey-whities. Then they'd seen a Latino boy who seemed to be wearing Brandon's gear. They'd chased him across an acre of sand, and brought him down like a pair of lions, ripping off his jeans and shirt -- like trying to skin a tiger alive -- before realizing those weren't Brandon's clothes! Luckily, Troy still had some money, and the kid was persuaded to sell his things... after they'd chilled him out a bit.

But, this summer hadn't been the same: Troy had gotten a surfboard, but had also developed a passion for weights... which Brandon found terminally boring. Troy looked cool with his new definition; but Brandon got tired of watching him "work" while having to make admiring comments and feel him up like a sweaty pony in some perverted petting zoo. The gain of Troy's summer was on display in a tight T-shirt and loose jean-shorts. His hair was buzzed and golden-brown, his eyes a brilliant indigo, his face a Calvin model's, though looking a little confused.

"Where the hell's World History, man? This mookin' map is retarded!"

Brandon took a casual pose and leaned against a locker. "Chill out, dawg. I'll hook you up."

Troy cocked his head. "So, who you been hangin' with... 'homey'?" Then he laughed. "You look like Shaun in The Partridge Family with all that 1970s hair. Don't make a total fool of yourself. Especially on the first day of school. Like, I know you're a hopeless dork but nobody else does... yet."

"Thanks, I needed that." Brandon pointed to the quad. "History's down in front of that building. Right across from the office. ...Oh, and the teacher's totally cool. Didn't give any homework today."

Troy looked relieved. "Thanks. The fat old cow in English class is givin' it out with a bullet! Tale Of Two Cities, first chapter tonight!"

"Been there, done that," said Brandon. "Back in seventh grade. ...'Tis a far, far better thing...'"

"You should have stayed in private school." Troy glanced around at the swarming kids. "Compared to these losers you're college. ...Speaking of which, can you help with my homework tonight?"

"When have I not?"

"Sucks we only got P.E. together."

"You can beat me at hoops as usual."

"Have to do that in your driveway tonight. It's football season, remember?"

Brandon groaned. "But, I hate football."

"You keep forgetting, retard, this isn't your preppy school anymore. You don't have a choice what you do in P.E."

"It wasn't a prep school, ferret-face. But, that ostensibly sucks."

Troy punched Brandon's shoulder. "Welcome to the real world, where lots of things ostensibly suck."

"You could see your counselor and switch to one of my electives."

"Writing?" Troy laughed. "That's your thing, man. I can't write shit." Then he gave Brandon a scoping. "You should have gotten in shape this summer. Used my weights and buffed. Your tummy still looks like a pot-bellied kid's. Suck it in, dork... no, wait, leave it out."

"Huh?" said Brandon. "Like, make up your mind."

"Girls, dweeb! Three o'clock. You make me look ostensibly good."

Two girls went by, and not in a hurry. One was blond, tanned and cute, in T-shirt, jeans, and leather sandals. Brandon felt like he'd seen her before, but couldn't remember where. She seemed to give him the ghost of a glance, and maybe a spook of a smile.

Then, a black dude sauntered past, maybe fourteen and buff as a brick. He was clad in big-jeans at maximum sag, while a wife-beater clung like a coat of paint to his six-pack abs and high-jutting pecs. Brandon laughed and gave Troy a nudge. "Deflate, little guy, he's out of your league."

"Aw, it's natural with them," muttered Troy, gazing after the midnight god. "You check his pecs? ...Way out to here!"

"Cool, but I don't wanna marry him, Troy."

"I gotta get a shirt like that."

"Try K-Mart. Three for five. But, it's not the shirt, boy-wonder. It's what's inside that counts."

Troy pulled up his shirt. "So, how do I look?"

"I assume you want some stroking? ...Hopefully the verbal kind?"

Troy gazed after the black boy again. "And it's natural with them!"

"You said that already."

"Did you check out the blond babe checking me out?"

"I think she was looking at me."

"In your freakin' dreams, dork!"

"I can hardly wait."

"Hey, Brandy!"

"...Oh. 'Sup, Bosco?" Brandon asked, as the chubby dude appeared. "Sure aren't those lucky cutoffs."

"Heh." Bosco gave his jeans a tug. Brandon noted that, just like Travis, the rear belt loop was broken loose from always being pulled. It was one of those details writers observed.

Bosco held out his schedule. "You know where this is? I'm all confused."

Brandon's eyebrows arched. "You have Creative Writing?"

"Guess so. Heh. They got my records all skeezed up. Like, I ain't on their I.B.M. or something. So, I got two 'lectives that wasn't full."

"Well, this is one of 'em, man," said Brandon. "But, we still got a couple of minutes."

"I better go in. I'll save you a seat. I'm totally lost in space today."

Troy had been staring at Bosco. "Shit, Brandon!" he said, after Bosco left. "You know who that is?"

"Sure, Bosco Donatello."

"You retard! That's the Bosco Donatello! He was on the cover of Pipe! The Endless Summer special in June. Don't you ever read anything except those stupid fantasy books?"

"He was in Pipe?"

"On the freakin' cover, dork! Won that big Hawaiian thing. The Pacific Surfing Championship."

"Oh, yeah. He said he'd been to Hawaii." Brandon glanced into the classroom where Bosco now sprawled in a desk. "You sure that's him?"

"You sure you're not brain-dead?" snorted Troy. "He's the only fat kid I ever saw with his picture on a magazine cover, except those anti-obesity things."

"I'd call him more chubby than fat."

"On whose rating scale?" Troy jerked his jaw toward a Latino boy... one of the pair from History class. "'Chubby' compared to that tub of lard?"

"Shut up, man," hissed Brandon.

Troy only shrugged. "He probably doesn't speak English."

"Hey, Troy, you're really a total mook sometimes. You ever hear of hate speech?"

"People can't help being other colors, but nobody has to be fat."

"Nobody has to be an asshole, either."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Like, who died and made you God? Like, to judge anybody? But, I guess they don't judge surfing skills by how much somebody weighs."

Troy glanced through the doorway at Bosco. "He'd look okay if he lost forty pounds. Maybe he can surf all right, but he'll never get a movie deal, or do any gear commercials."

"He doesn't seem sad about it."

"You know him now?"

"Kinda. Want me to get you his autograph?"

"Hell, yeah! ...Wish I had that magazine. He could sign the cover to me. ...You got any other classes with him? I'll call mom and get her to bring it. Maybe we can meet him at lunch."

Brandon laughed. "I already met him. We're doing lunch, dude."

"Cool!" Troy looked up at the hallway clock. "But, I only got two minutes! How the hell can I call her now?"

Brandon wiggled out of his pack. "You can use this if you kiss my butt."

"Looks too much like your face. Your 'rents finally got you a phone?"

"Mom's idea. So I'll be 'safe' in public school. Like, having a phone's like a bulletproof vest. ...Here, mook."

Troy snatched the phone and flipped it open, but then his eyes narrowed in sudden disgust. "Shit, Brandon! Check that out!"

"Yo, Brandon," said Travis, lumbering up like an earthquake in Jell-o, puffing like a steam locomotive, and sweating like an ebony pony who'd galloped ten miles though a desert.

Ignoring Troy, who stupidly stood with the phone to his ear, Brandon smiled and offered a hand. Travis gave him the shake again, so fast it looked like Brandon knew it. "Bro, you lost?" asked Brandon.

"Nah, dawg. I never get lost. Always got my course laid out. Shortest distance between two points so I don’t have to walk very far. ...You got this writin' class, too?"

Brandon was surprised... a black kid taking a writing class? "Hey, man, I'm sorry. I could've come with you from History. Like, taken your back in the hall."

"I'm way too fat to get shoved, man. Besides, I shove back."

"Bosco got this class, too."

"Yeah, he told me. Surprised he didn't get lost again."

Troy stepped away to plead with his mom.

"We should check our schedules," said Brandon. "See what else we have together."

"P.E. next period?"

"Yeah. ...And Health and Science in fourth after lunch."

"Aight. An' Math in sixth."

"Oh," said Brandon. "This is Troy. He's calling his mom. Troy, this is Travis."

"S'up, man?" said Travis.

Troy barely nodded. "Not much."

"Bosco's saving a seat," said Brandon.

"Cool," said Travis, "I'll save you one."

Troy closed the phone after Travis left. "She's bringing it."

"Is she pissed?" asked Brandon.

"Nothing terminal. She's picking me up after school anyhow. Dentist appointment. ...Who the hell is that black blubber tub?"

"Long-boarder champ."

"You can't be serious! He'd need one as big as a garbage barge! And he'd raise the ocean level, like another freakin' tsunami."

"Actually he's a Beastworld prince. Panther genes, of course."

Troy made a face. "That's totally disgusting, man! He's so fat he can hardly walk! His parents should be put in jail for letting him get like that! There's a freakin' obesity epidemic!"

"At least on TV," said Brandon. "I guess it's supposed to scare me as much as terrorism."

"Maybe it is terrorism," said Troy. "Like, how can America protect itself if kids get too fat to join the Army?"

"Then we couldn't make wars for oil."

Troy scowled. "We couldn't fight sand-niggers, either."

"Watch your mookin' mouth, dork! Or you're gonna need protection!" Brandon quickly glanced around, noting several chubby dudes, but no one black or Middle-Eastern.

Troy shook his head. "Why are you always defending fatties?"

"The mook are you talking about?" said Brandon. "Because I don't like you dissing people?"

"Fat people should be dissed."

"So should assholes," said Brandon. "But I've taken your back a few times. Like when you got jumped on the beach last month for dissing a fat little kid. ...Who had two big brothers defending him."

"Aw, they were Vallies. Fat-ass Vallies."

"Who almost put you on your skinny one."

"Hey, it's not skinny!"

"On whose rating scale?" Brandon shrugged. "I've got one fat friend. And you're right, I'll defend him."

Troy glanced into the classroom again, where Travis was struggling to put on a desk. "Look's like you made two more. Fat people shouldn't have any friends. Being rejected might make them lose weight."

"You're really a total mook sometimes."

"You said that already. ...And aren't you getting a little too old for role-playing games anymore? I do my surfing for real these days."

"Graduate from the grommies yet? Or, still riding down at the sewer plant?"

Troy looked at the clock. "See you at lunch. ...With Donatello!" Bells went off along the hall. "Shit! I'm late!"

"I'm not. See?" Brandon stepped casually into the room as Troy took off at the speed of light.

Chapter Three:

Brandon had been prepared for P.E. like a taking a trip to the dentist, expecting to suffer in various ways but hoping to come out alive. He definitely wasn't a wussy, with muscles, a tan, and a few basic moves, but he'd never cared much for organized sports or dealing with grownups who forced kids to "play."

His private school had given kids choices, as if they really had minds of their own and should be encouraged to use them. Soccer had been a popular sport, along with Greek Dodge or basketball if you wanted or needed to be on a team: but there was also a swimming pool, and kids could play computer games, or spend recess in the library if they didn't feel up for a sweat.

He wasn't shy about dressing down, he'd been stripping for gym in sixth-grade, while most public schools didn't make kids get naked until a year or so later. He wasn't a nudist or anything weird, but his mother had always professed a belief that human bodies were beautiful, and the family had gone to the Free Beach a lot until Brandon had reached his teens. He still swam naked at home all the time, along with his older brother and Troy, so being bare-assed among other bare asses wasn't anything new... except now he was one of the smaller asses.

He'd been surprised in second period to find his Writing teacher was black. But, Mr. Jakarta had six published novels, along with a couple of story collections, which made him mega-qualified. Mr. Jakarta was thirty-something, slenderly built, mahogany-skinned, with sable braids that swept his shoulders. He'd asked the class if they'd done any writing during their summer vacation. Most of the kids had looked confused... was this some sort of sneaky test?

But, Brandon had passed in a trio of stories about the adventures of two mutant boys who'd escaped from a secret laboratory. They'd been injected with animal genes -- those of lions and tigers from Earth combined with beasts from other dimensions -- as part of an evil experiment to spawn a race of worker slaves. The story took place on Beastworld, a mostly uninhabited planet of sunny blue oceans and tropical islands. The project hadn't been going well: some of the boys were turning out wild... like the pair who'd escaped from the Beastmaster's lab. These were the heroes, Bucky and Beast, and their quest was to bring down the evil Beastmaster and set all the mutant kids free. The stories were part of a graphic novel; the book that Brandon planned to write as soon as he found an illustrator.

Tiger Tanaka had turned in a tale, though Asians were always supposed to be smart: but Travis had also brought a story, surprising Brandon even more. Some of the kids had taken the course in hopes of getting an easy "A," while a few, like Bosco, had only been added to fill an empty desk. Travis, Tiger and Brandon were the only ones who'd written that summer, except for a shy chubby girl who wrote poems. A few of the dudes had smirked at them as if they'd done something dorky; but Bosco had managed to stay awake, and had even made a few notes now and then... on Brandon's paper with Brandon's pen.

It had seemed like a hella inspiring class, and Brandon was still elevated by that as he waited in front of the gym. Then, a whistle blew and somebody roared in a voice like the evil Beastmaster's.

Brandon's brother had warned him that Coach was a frustrated anal-retentive with hair everywhere except on his head... which wasn't exaggerating much. The boys were bellowed into the gym, a vast and echoing raftered cavern, reeking of sweat and sour old socks, while broiling under mercury lights on a day that was already hot. Brandon saw air-conditioner ducts, but maybe the school was "green?" Boys began to abandon their shirts, and Brandon unbuttoned his own. The coach bulled his way to a line of bleachers, mounted to pose like Mussolini, flipped open a clipboard and thundered out names.

The boys were ranked alphabetically, putting Brandon in back with Travis, while Bosco was forced to the front of the lines to stand with Troy Durrant. Brandon was amused to see that Troy was too shy to talk to Bosco.

Also in front was the muscled black boy who Troy and Brandon had seen in the hall before Creative Writing class. He nodded to Travis as if they were friends; which Brandon supposed was natural... the only black kids in the house. The dude looked like an anatomy model, every tight muscle starkly defined; and Troy kept giving him envious glances, obviously wanting to take off his shirt, but bashful at being so underdeveloped compared to the ebony god. The black dude didn't seem to care about the awesome shape he was in: his posture was almost appallingly sloppy, his six-pack stomach thrust carelessly out, while his paving stone pecs would have sagged if they could. He only peeled off his wife-beater shirt when the heat of the lights and the bodies around him had risen to nearly volcanic extremes.

Brandon murmured to Travis: "I guess Bosco's locker won't be near ours."

Another boy gave him a smile. "Your homie can trade with somebody."

If Travis White was the world's fattest kid, then this dude rated second prize. His belly blubber poured out of his shirt and wobbled halfway to his knees. Brandon had tagged him as being Latino -- coppery-brown with long raven hair -- but his name was Danny Little-Wing.

"Yeah," said Danny, when Brandon had asked the logical question. "I crack whenever I see those stickers on somebody's Beamer or SUV. 'Native Californian,' my ass!"

Brandon's mother had one on her Saab. "Are you a Senior?" he asked.

"I freakin' wish," sighed Danny. "Then I'd be out of this suckhole next year. Just a lowly Sophomore, dude."

"Former buffalo soldier," said Travis, reaching past Brandon to shake Danny's hand. Brandon felt like a skinny third-grader squished between the two mammoth dudes.

Danny shrugged an enormous shoulder. "Guess it wasn't your idea to help the white man slaughter the red man. There used to be a bounty on us: fifty bucks a head... dead."

"I won't bore y'all with the slavery thing."

"Um," said Brandon, trying to breathe. "I didn't do it. But, yeah I know I benefitted from it."

Travis smiled. "That's more than most people admit."

"It's a start," said Danny, then stepped back a pace, allowing Brandon to breath again. "Sorry, man. I don't even know where I stop anymore and the rest of the world begins."

Coach blew a blast on his whistle. "Shut up back there! ...Oh. Little-Wing. You want the Special Eds this period? I'll give you extra credit."

Snickers rippled the ranks of boys: everyone knew that "Special" wasn't.

Danny shrugged. "Sure. Why not? I've even got an opposable thumb."

Coach snapped his clipboard shut like a bite. "Line up for your locker assignments! Through that door over there! I want everyone suited and outside in five! ...And you will take showers today! ...You! What?"

It was Bosco with his hand up. "Dude," said Bosco. "I can't dress down."

"You're not that fat!" bellowed the coach, drawing a few more snickers and laughs as the other boys bustled away.

"Huh?" said Bosco. "Nah. I mean, like I can't 'cause..."

"Don't be a shy little Suzy!" roared Coach.

That was a stupid thing to say, considering Bosco's hoodie was open, displaying his belly and bobby chest; but Brandon had noticed a couple of kids -- the marshmallow dude in the 51 shirt, and another boy standing beside him -- who were looking a little scared. It was like they'd known this moment would come, but maybe they'd hoped for a pardon? The other boy wasn't chubby or fat: he looked normal enough, though sort of small compared to everyone else.

"Huh?" said Bosco again. "Nah. Hey, coach-dude. Like, what happened