DESCRIPTION:

What's eating Brandon Williams? At age fourteen he seems to have everything American teens are entitled to: he's blond, blued-eyed, with a surfer pose. Although a bit chubby around the waist, he has muscles in all the right places, and lives a Rocket Power life in a million-dollar house that overlooks the ocean in Santa Cruz, California. Like his high-school senior brother Chad, he gets a generous allowance from his liberal-minded parents; and there's even a maid to clean up his room, which is stuffed with the latest high-tech gear. So, why isn't Brandon happy? What's missing from his perfect life of sun, surf and skateboards? He's gone to a private all-white school from kindergarten through eighth grade, but has wasted a year in a fog of dope dreams; and the only friend who hasn't abandoned him is Tommy Turner, a fat twelve-year-old who lives next door.

Brandon hopes to be a writer and fight against injustice, but pot gave him no inspiration. A fantasy warrior in cyberspace, he's a crusader without a real time cause, a fighter with nothing to fight for. Although he knows these things exist, he's never experienced prejudice, discrimination or hate. After all, what is there to hate about Brandon? He's not handsome or muscular enough to be envied for his looks, he's open-minded in an innocent way, and he's not chubby enough to be dissed as a fat kid. The only problem he has is not knowing he's part of a problem.

But, this year is different: against his parents' wishes he decides to attend a public high school. It's a whole new world for Brandon, and scary because no one knows him. Not surprisingly, he finds himself among the outcasts. His first new friends are an enormous fat boy named Travis, one of the few black kids in Santa Cruz and maybe the fattest dude on the planet. Brandon's other first-day friends include a fat Native-American boy named Danny Little-Wing, a chubby Latino gang member named Carlos, and Rex Watson, the school's smallest kid who skipped a grade to find himself in high school a year too soon. There is also Bosco Donatello, a chubby world-class surfer-dude, but strangely lost in space. Bosco is also oddly out of date, like a ghost boy from 1963, a time when surf music ruled the airwaves, before the Black Panthers, the Vietnam War, and protest marches by kids with long hair who knew the System was lying to them.

In the months that follow, Brandon discovers the fat-kid world and all its different inhabitants, from kids forced on diets by health-nazi parents and made to feel guilty about everything they eat as if food were some sort of dangerous drug and eating a schizophrenic ritual of control, to other kids who love being fat and even try to get fatter. It's a secret and often cyber-world of "gainers, feeders, admirers and encouragers."

Brandon also discovers hate... hate for fat kids that is made "okay" by American society. It might not be politically-correct to dis a kid for being black, Latino, Jewish, or gay, but it's totally acceptable to make a kid's life an endless hell just because they're "overweight." Like any form of ignorant hate, some kids can handle it while others can't... sometimes with fatal results. And, the constant pressure to be movie-star thin makes normal kids suffer and healthy kids sick, while feeding a billion-dollar industry of mostly bogus health drugs and diets.

In this first year of public school, and through a mild yet turbulent Santa Cruz winter, Brandon discovers his real self and strength. While society rants that inside every fat kid is a thin kid crying to be free, Brandon finds that he's always been a happy, healthy, chubby warrior with the power to fight injustice and hate.

A FEW COMMENTS:

Speaking as one who was a happy, healthy chubby kid, it amazes me how this society seems far more concerned about how much kids weigh than how smart they are. One could say that this culture is becoming obsessed about what goes into kids' stomachs but doesn't seem the least bit concerned about what -- or what doesn't -- go into their minds. This culture constantly rants about how kids should look on the outside, but could seemingly care less about how they feel on the inside. There's certainly nothing wrong with the admonition to "go out and play for an hour every day" -- other than that it assumes all kids have a safe place to play -- but what about "stay in and read for an hour every day?"

This society makes losing weight seem like a great and noble accomplishment instead of just something almost anyone can do by simply keeping their mouth shut.

Or by not having any money.

If someone is on a TV show and announces they've lost weight, the audience gives them a standing ovation, as if they'd discovered the plan for world peace. I lost my own chubbines unwillingly by simply being poor, and no one applauded me for it. Next time you pass a skinny homeless person on the street, be sure to tell them how great they look and how much they've accomplished. You might also tell them how vastly they've improved their quality of life by shedding those extra pounds. This might even make you feel better than giving them a quarter.

I guess this skinny obsession isn't surprising in a country where everyone has suddenly become an expert on health. ...Of course, most of their information comes from those whose livings depend upon convincing people they're unhealthy.

I hear a lot about "the war on obesity," -- especially waged against kids -- but I hear almost nothing about wars on illiteracy, poverty, homelessness, or improving what passes for public education... perhaps by teaching kids that it might be more important to be able to read, write and do basic math than count calories.

I found out early in my writing career that to try to tell young people the truth is almost certain literary suicide. But, as George Orwell said: "Good novels are not written by people who are frightened."

The truth is that we live in a xenophobic, narcissistic, self-centered, materialistic culture. A society where the rights of individuals are only protected as long as they don't interfere with the agenda of a corporate-controlled State; a State that tells us how we should live, what we should buy, how we should look, what we should think, and who we should hate. All "for our own good," of course.

And/or to save us from "terrorists."

And now this corporate-controlled State is telling us how much we should weigh. But hey, since it's for our own good, what could be wrong with this picture?

After all, no less an expert on the health and welfare of the public than Adolph Hitler said: "A German boy must be lean and mean, quick like a greyhound, tough as leather, and hard as Krupp steel..."

I've been to many kid-prisons and they seem to be filled with lean mean kids... and adding more every day. Assuming there were only two choices, I'd rather have fat kind kids.

(By the way, greyhounds originated in ancient Egypt, and Krupp was a corporation... just as the "health" and diet industries are multi-billion-dollar concerns.)

If we allow a government or society to dictate how much we can weigh, then what's next? ...And history has invariably proven that there is always a next whenever a government or a society is controlled by people who think they know what's best for everyone... and especially when those people are making a profit. Fans of The Twilight Zone series should checkout the edisode Number 12 Looks Just like You, which was set in the (then) far-distant future -- the year 2000 -- and portrays a society in which everyone is forced by the government to be "happy, healthy and beautiful." An interesting quote from this episode is that "When everyone is beautiful, no one will be."

History has also shown that most decadent and degenerating societies obsess about physical appearance.

"Gluttony" comes in many forms, and one may be a glutton of health; when outward appearance is worshipped and becomes more important than God. When the body becomes an idol instead of a home for a beautiful soul.

Disregarding the fact that the multi-billion dollar diet and "health" industries are the most obese things in this culture and getting fatter by the minute in terms of profit (the best way to sell snake oil is to create a disease for it to "cure") and setting aside the questionable issues of health, usually "proven" by people who are paid to come up with the desired results, what we have is a government, state or society that is dictating how its citizens must look. If that look is not acceptable, then it must be changed. In the case of children, if societal and peer-pressure cannot force this change -- generally through torment and ridicule -- then the children must be taken from their parents, forced to change, and then be re-educated into maintaining the acceptable look. There's a big difference between being educated and being brainwashed. If you don't find the concept frightening -- that children are being "educated" that only one size or look is acceptable, while another size or look should be hated -- then you've obviously been brainwashed.

Of course, there may not have been much there to wash.

The word obese has become the latest hate-speak. Just as kids now "abuse alcohol" instead of drinking beer, or are "addicted to tobacco" instead of smoking, obese sounds far more dangerous, dirty and derogatory than just being chubby or fat. For example, when my novel, Babylon Boyz, came out in 1997, one of the heroes was usually called a fat kid by reviewers. Today, reviews often say that he has "an obesity problem" or is "crippled by obesity."

A noted TV celebrity recently remarked in regard to the firing of a shock-jock who went a little too far with his racial slurs, that he "was tired of cruelty that passes for funny." This seems sadly ironic because dissing fat kids is exactly that -- cruelty that passes for funny (sometimes) -- and not only seems perfectly acceptable in this culture but is actually encouraged. One could say that fat kids have become the new niggers.

So, don't think of yourself as being enlightened, or even a good person, if you think it's okay to dis and ridicule fat people and kids. You're no better than any other ignorant fool who hates niggers, wops, beaners, honkeys, fags, kikes or gooks... just to name a few.

And, considering the rising violence and bullying in schools -- not to mention the shootings, stabbings, beatings, and outright massacres -- what is the wisdom of giving kids a group of people to openly hate?

If letting a kid become "obese" is "child-abuse," then what about teaching kids to hate?

This book will probably piss-off a lot of people, from those who just hate whatever and whoever they're told to hate -- either from the government through the so-called news and public-service proclamations, or commercially from TV, Hollywood, and magazines -- to people with only the best of intentions who believe that their standards of beauty and morality, their religion and lifestyle, their values and laws, will make everyone just as healthy and happy as they probably think they are.

To some, this book may be only a funny tale about fat kids, like Disney's Heavyweights film.

(Incidentally, back when Disney was interested in making a movie out of Way Past Cool I was talking with one of their producers about a fat kid story. Heavyweights came out about a year and a half later. Hmm.)

To others, this will be a story about a few outcasts and losers who are too uncool, lazy or stupid to play in the real game so they make up a game of their own. (Kind of like most groups of disenfranchised people.)

Still others will see this book as a bizarre tale of weird kids with unhealthy (and possibly unpatriotic) ideas who ought to be re-educated. ...And/or sent off to mandatory fat camps for their own good.

What was my intention in writing this book? Am I telling kids it's okay to be fat? I suppose I am... at least within reason. But I'm also telling kids it's okay to be themselves... in whatever shape, color or size they're happy with. And, more importantly, to think for themselves... to question their constantly televised orders to buy and consume everything on the planet while being continually obsessed to stay "lean and mean." Welcome to America, land of the beautiful, buff... and brainwashed.

As Brandon says in the story: "After they cut out part of my stomach, they'll cut out part of my brain."

Do you still have all of yours?

Jess Mowry

REVIEWS:

Fat and phat
Even those of us in our early teens are old enough to remember when there were basically four kind of kids if you wanted to describe how much they weighed. There were skinny kids, average kids, chubby kids, and fat kids. Sometimes there were REALLY fat kids, way fat kids, or hella fat kids, but nobody called them "obese." If a kid called a kid "obese" most other kids would have called him weird or something. If somebody was being mean, they might call a fat kid "fatty, lardo, blubber tub," or something like that. But usually if a kid was cool and you liked him you didn't think about how much he weighed. But now every kid who weighs about 10 pounds more than anybody thinks they should is "obese." Like Jess Mowry says in his book, Phat Acceptance, "obese" has become the latest hate-speak. It's a word now used by closet-haters who used to be too scared to say the N-word about black people, or dis other people who were gay, brown, Asian or Jewish. Even worse is that this society says it's okay to dis anybody who weighs more than people think he or she should, especially kids. The idea seems to be that if fat kids don't like being dissed and hated-on then they should lose weight. So it is totally acceptable to hurt anybody's feelings if you think they weigh more than they should. Everybody has become an expert on heatlh and how much kids should weigh.

Here is a quote from the book:

"Formerly loving, caring parents had turned into anti-obesity priests beating their bibles of fat-hating rites. They made every meal a torment of guilt, and every snack a deadly sin. They set weight limits and lectured on health -- parroting TV, of course. They punished with doctors, diets or camps, and apologized to their neighbors and friends for the "fat little slob" their kid had become."

Another quote:

"Nobody wants to defend these kids. They gave up their rights by getting fat. No one cares if they're teased or bullied. Or even beaten up."

"Yeah," agreed Brandon. Like, 'your kids are fat, and if you loved them you'd make them lose weight.' So, if they're fat you don't love them. And if they don't like being teased, bullied, beat up and hated, then they should get skinny. Like, we've finally found some people to hate and nobody cares if we do. ...Like, open season on fat kids and nobody needs a hunting permit. Or has to prove they're qualified. Just get a gun and start shooting."

There is a multi-billion-dollar "heath" and diet industry that gets more and more obese every year by selling diet and health plans and pills, most of which don't work. Most of the pills and "weight loss formulas" don't have to be tested to see if they are even safe, yet people who you would think were fairly smart put them in their mouths.

Another quote:

"...Every year," the teacher droned, "There are 300,000 deaths in America because of obesity. Furthermore..."

Travis raised his hand. Mr, Mortimer looked surprised. "...Yes?"

"Those statistics were never objectively proven," said Travis. "The original study never mentioned other health-risks fat people might have, like drinkin', smokin', an' drug use. Including diet drugs. Especially all those sold on TV that never have to be tested so nobody knows what's in `em. That study also never mentioned excessive dieting, yo-yo dieting, an' diet itself as contributing factors to health risks. Also not gettin' exercise. Or depression or stress... like from gettin' dissed all the time or havin' to listen to lectures like yours. None of those things were stuided, an' their effects on average size people were never compared to fat ones."

Mr. Mortimer blinked like a deer caught in headlights. Then he cleared his throat. "These are facts in your Science book," he said in an almost astonished voice, as if Travis had spit on a Bible."

These are some of the things that are talked about in this book. But this is not a book about whether it is bad to be fat or good to be skinny. Jess Mowry leaves that up to the so-called "experts." Instead, Phat Acceptance is a story about friendship that crosses all lines of race, color and size. It's a story about accepting other people for who they are, not what they look like. The main character is Brandon Williams. Brandon is an average size (or maybe a bit chubby) boy of 14. He has blond hair and blue eyes. Some people might say he is a rich kid because he lives in a million-dollar house by the ocean in Santa Cruz, California. Brandon has everything that most teens in America either have, want, or think they are entitled to. His room is stuffed with all of the newest and coolest gear, and there is even a maid to do his laundry. Brandon has gone to a private school from kindergarten to 8th grade. He is smart, but he has also had problems with dope and has basically wasted a year of his life staying high. One of Brandon's lifetime friends, Troy Durrant, mostly abandoned him during this year, and the only friend who stayed true was Tommy Turner, two years younger than Brandon and fat, who lives next door. Against his parent's wishes, Brandon decides to go to a public high school. Since nobody knows him there, and nobody knows if he is cool or not, he hooks up with the kind of kids who are usually outcasts in high school, and many of them are fat. There is Travis White who just moved down from Oakland. Travis is the school's fattest kid at over 500 pounds. He is also one of the few black kids in that school. There is Bosco Donatello, a word-class surfer dude who is very chubby. There is Danny Little-Wing, a Native-American dude who is the second fattest kid at school, and also Carlos a Latino gang kid. Brandon's other new friends include Zach, a pot-bellied gainer whose girlfriend feeds him, and Rex Watson, the school's smallest kid who skipped a grade. None of the fat kids call themselves "obese" except a dude named Jason Bray who hates being fat and is always talking about losing weight but who never does.

Most of the story takes place between the start of school in September and Halloween at the end of October. In these two months, Brandon not only learns all about being a fat kid in this society, including the world of gainers, feeders, admirers and encouragers, but he also learns about his multi-racial friends. This is not just a story about fat kids. There is surfing, skating and various adventures. We also learn how easily our minds are controlled by TV, movies, and the so-called news to make us hate anybody we are told to hate and never ask why. We are also conditioned to buy and consume from the minute we watch our first TV show. The big question is not whether it's always unhealthy to be chubby or fat, instead it is how far do we let ourselves be brainwashed into thinking that everybody has to be the same size and look like a Hollywood star? And if they don't, should me make them?

Adolph Hitler said, "A German boy should be lean and mean." The health-nazis today are saying the same thing about all kids.

Maybe he wasn't the world's fattest kid, but he was 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 chubby to maybe obese. 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 8th grade Creative Writing teacher had said that a good writer had to "observe," but so far here on this first day of school, in these first few minutes of World History, there hadn't been a lot to see that might have inspired a story. The kids were a typical Santa Cruz mix -- meaning that most 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 wore 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 blond with movie-star looks. Another resembled a wiry coyote, his body as hard as a sheet-metal roof, while a third was a big-bellied baby-fat 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. 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 husky or chubby compared to the 1960s 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 pretty scary in real life.

At a front row desk sat a marshmallow dude whose belly peeked 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 the definition. 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 big-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." The boy's massive chest looked like water-balloons about to burst out of his shirt, while his waist seemed as huge as the truck-tire tubes that were rented down at the beach. 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. Beneath that midnight avalanche were faded blue-jeans that were dragging the floor, and only the toes of his sneakers showed.

Brandon made notes in his "writer's journal," a section reserved in his shiny new binder. 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 he was staring again, not being "detached" like a writer should be. He shifted his eyes from all that loose 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 his massive back. It might have been braided, or maybe dreadlocked, though Brandon wasn't sure about that, not being down with African Culture. He supposed it was only natural that the boy was waddling toward him, his huge 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 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 happy about her choice of neighbors. There was another empty desk in the first row at the front of the room, but any cool dude would have sat in the back and taken a chance on 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 slightly "overweight" if judged by diet commercial standards. 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, displaying a pair of startling teeth that probably should have been tamed by tin. He had a few muscles in all the right places; his chest was high and gently defined, though his tummy gave him a Bugs Bunny look. He'd tried working out with his big brother's weights, but had only developed a killer backache. A chiropractor had aligned his spine -- under the eyes of his worried mom -- 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 neutral pose; a blue denim shirt from his big brother's closet with three buttons open to show off his chest, along with an old pair of loose Tommy jeans. 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 getting caught in anyone's mix.

The woolly black mammoth was grinning at him 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 looked like he was wading through snow. Brandon glanced around again to observe the other kids' reactions.

The average white girl abandoned her desk, 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. She snatched her things and fled to the front, landing beside the "51 kid," who nervously tugged at his undersized shirt.

The other two surfers were smirking 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, while the Japanese boy was scanning the black as if thinking of Sumo wrestlers. 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 ass-kickin' 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 few minutes!

He turned for support to the sandy surfer, who sprawled with sockless sneaks splayed out, his chubby chest on careless display in the 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, their nipples "reversed" like dimples. His eyes were hidden under his hair, a messy mop of tangled locks, bleached by years of sun and salt, and probably 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 way 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 mammoth 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 probably 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. Those jeans weren't really doing much to cover the dude's enormous bottom, which looked like a pair of planets colliding. He seemed... well, just too fat to wear clothes, like something never meant to be clothed; huge, black, steamy, slow, yet somehow suggesting enormous power.

It was also weirdly embarrassing to be so close to the boy's huge body, feeling his heat, steamed in his scent, with everybody watching 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 betrayed somehow -- maybe by his race -- 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 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? Bash you aside if you got in its way? Smash you under its awesome weight? Should it be respected, rejected, or feared?

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 his mind. As soon as it was out of his mouth he felt his cheeks turn red. "I mean with a 'P'," he added, sweating. "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."

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 the desk, and Brandon watched in fascination.

He almost had to put the desk on, like donning a personal spacecraft. 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 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 thing held together, 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 the 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 didn't care that his body overflowed his clothes and steamed the air around him. A locomotive might be cool, a puffing, massive, midnight thing, 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 somewhere in his middle forties and obviously knew about animal taming. He also acted pretty cool, not seeming to notice when Brandon got up 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 riding 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 crazy 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 but 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 every year. 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 dude woke up and shook back his hair, scattering sand like a blizzard. "Huh?" 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, 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 checked 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."

"Skurfs are cool," said Bosco. "Got one myself."

"...Skurfs?" asked Brandon.

"Yeah. You know? Skurfboards. 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. "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."

"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.

"I always been fat," 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 an' get another 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 is lucky." "Heh," said Bosco, blowing beer fumes in Brandon's face. "Guess I'm still kinda buzzed. 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. 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. The other surfers flashed hang-loose signs, which Bosco returned with a careless smile.

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

Travis nodded. "He could sink the Titanic."

Brandon smiled. "Was that a Freudian slip?"

"Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."

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 coulda 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. 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 muttered curses and shouted 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 blemish its record last year.

Just like back in history class, most of the kids 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 homo 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 lots 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 rowdy stream of teens. A lot of the dudes were showing skin, their shirts unbuttoned carelessly, though 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, worming his way through the bustling bodies. "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 someday. They had shared a lot of their Wonder Years, and had more than a few adventures together... 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 had seen a Latino boy who seemed to be wearing Brandon's gear. They had 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 cash, 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 now 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 was a Calvin model's, but 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. ...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 level. ...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. "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."

Troy laughed. "You think public school counselors actually counsel? Besides, writing's your thing, 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 bod. 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 a T-shirt, jeans, and big 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 six-pack abs and high-jutting pecs. Brandon 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."

"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. S'up, Bosco?" Brandon asked, as the chubby surfer 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 electives 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!" he said after Bosco left. "You know who that is?"

"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! He won that big Hawaiian thing. The Pacific Surfing Championship."

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

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

"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?"

"Hey," said Troy. "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. Right now he's got tits like a girl. Maybe he can surf his ass off, but he'll never get a movie deal, or do any gear commercials."

"He doesn't seem sad about it."

"You know him now?"

"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. ...Hey, you got a new phone."

"Mom's idea," said Brandon. "This one has a panic button. So I'll be 'safe' in public school. Like, having like a bulletproof vest."

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. Besides, I shove back. An' I'm black so I might have a gun."

"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 in June for dissing a fat little kid. ...With two big brothers defending him."

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

"Who almost put you on your skinny ass."

"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. "Looks 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.

Brandon had been prepared for P.E. like a going to a 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 liked 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, 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.

In second period he'd been surprised 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-ass 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 beast-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 boys 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 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... on Brandon's paper with Brandon's pen.

It had seemed like an 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 Kleghorn was an anal-retentive retarded goon with hair everywhere except on his head, and he hadn't exaggerated much. The boys were bellowed into the gym, a vast and echoing raftered cavern, reeking of sweat and dirty 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 lose 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 bellowed 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. 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 with 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 snowy wife-beater 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 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: twenty bucks a head... dead."

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

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

Travis chuckled. "That's more than most white people admit."

"It's a start, anyway," said Danny, then stepped back a pace, allowing Brandon to breathe 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? It gives extra credit and you could use it."

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! Then everyone dresses down! ...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 damn little girl!" roared Coach.

That was a stupid thing to say, considering Bosco's hoodie was open, displaying his belly and bobby boy-breasts; 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 had 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.

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

"Listen up!" bellowed Coach, ignoring Bosco. "Special Eds! See Little Wing! Over there in the red T-shirt!"

Somebody laughed. "Red tee-pee, more like it!"

Most of the boys were already in line at the double doors to the locker room -- Troy gave Brandon a hurry-up wave -- leaving Danny, Travis, and seven others alone in the sweltering gym. Four dudes were fat to different degrees; the Latino boy from History class, the dude in the Area 51 shirt, and chubby Bosco Donatello. There was also a boy in a grimy old tee that might have been urban camouflage... or may have once been white. He seemed to have swallowed a basketball, though he wasn't fat anywhere else. Beside him stood the little dude, who looked eleven and ready to cry; and also the muscular ebony boy. Brandon had lingered with Travis -- the line was in alphabetical order so he had plenty of time -- and Bosco came ambling over.

"Is Coach a skeeze, or what?" he grumbled. "I was only tryin' to tell the trog I left my gym clothes at the beach."

Danny Little-Wing laughed. "They got loaners. But, I hope you've had all your shots." He studied Bosco and smiled. "Boys with innies can ride the wind."

Bosco looked down at his chest. "Huh?"

"My grandfather told me that," said Danny, patting his own enormous breasts, which also had inverted nipples. "But, you don't have to be Special, dude. You're not fat enough to be obese."

"What's that?" asked Bosco, as if he'd never heard the word.

"Dangerously overweight," said Brandon.

The brown boy gave him a glare. He was rolly and loose with a mop of black hair, and jiggled all over whenever he moved. "'Dangerous' to who?" he demanded. Then he stepped to Brandon. "The hell you doin' here, skinny-ass?" He gave Brandon a scoping and narrowed his eyes. "Hey! Don't I know you from somewhere?"

Brandon was more surprised than scared -- he'd been called many things, but never skinny -- and studied the boy in return. The dude looked a little familiar, and it wasn't from History class. Brandon noticed a gang tattoo across his chubby knuckles. "I... don't think so, man."

"'Chubby compared to that tub of lard'? ...'Probably doesn't speak English'? That ring any bells in your head, amigo?"

"...Oh," said Brandon. "...But, hey, man, I didn't say that."

Danny stepped to the brown boy. "Peace-out, bro."

"Yeah," added Travis, putting a hand on Brandon's shoulder. "This here's my dawg."

"Wuttup?" asked the ripped black dude, ambling over to stand with Travis. He straightened his sloppy posture a bit like a lazy panther coming alert.

"My cousin Kelvin," said Travis to Brandon.

"Hey," said Brandon, taking the buff boy's offered hand and doing the shake that Travis had taught him.

"Wait a minute," the brown boy said. "I do know you!"

Brandon checked the boy's face again... and suddenly saw it smaller and younger snarling at him in the dark. It was the dude from Santa Cruz Beach... the boy who Brandon and Troy had skinned!

"...Oh," said Brandon. "I... um... still got those Tommys we bought from you."

The dude cocked his head for a moment, then looked down and jiggled his belly, which avalanced over his jeans. "I don't think they fit me no more. Besides, you paid for 'em, man." Then he laughed. "An' twice what they was worth."

"I'm really sorry about that," said Brandon.

"Guess we all look alike to you, huh?"

"No, man. We got our clothes stolen. I told you after."

The boy snorted. "Yeah, after. ...Hey, man! You got any clue what that felt like? Gettin' chased across the beach in the dark an' havin' my clothes ripped off?"

"...Um," said Brandon. "I guess not too cool."

"Like, what you think I was thinkin', man? I thought you were gonna rape me or somethin'. ...An' it had to be one of us, huh? Like, white dudes wouldn't have rolled you, huh?"

"I'm sorry, man. What else can I say?"

The boy shrugged. "Aw. That was four years ago." He smiled. "An' it was kinda funny. ...After. I'm Carlos."

"Brandon," said Brandon, shaking the boy's chubby gang-tatted hand.

Travis was looking curious, but Bosco asked: "How do I get obese, dudes?"

Everyone cracked, except the Area 51 kid. The small boy had edged to Brandon's side, maybe to offer more backup. He didn't look "Special" to Brandon -- curly brown hair, an elf-like face, and the hint of a little-kid tummy -- though way too young for high school. His T-shirt hung down past his knees like a dress.

A wiry boy came trotting up with a battered clipboard and a tarnished whistle. "Coach said to give you these, Danny." He looked around at the other dudes. "P.E. sucks! I wouldn't mind being Special."

"Hey, Ralph," said Danny. "So, get fat and come hang with us."

"I might just do that. ...Later, dudes."

"Anybody want a whistle?" asked Danny. When no one answered he tossed it away clattering over the floor. "Don't need no stinkin' whistles." He turned to Bosco again. "'Obese' is the latest hate-speak, dude. Like nigger, beaner, honkey.... or wop." He grinned and patted his chest. "Or blanket-ass. It's something fat-haters and health-nazis call you." He pointed to the locker room doors where the other boys were waiting in line. "There's a dude who's fatter than you... chubbier, anyway. I wouldn't call him obese, but lots of haters would."

"I'm obese," said the 51 kid.

Danny gave him a thoughtful look. "Only if you wanna be."

"I think I'm just fat," said Bosco. "Like, there's nothin' dangerous about me."

"I'd call you chubby," said Brandon. "If I had to call you anything."

"Me too," said the boy in the camouflage tee, whose belly seemed to be seeking escape.

Brandon gave him a scoping... maybe that was a basketball beneath his straining shirt? The dude's skater jeans were years out of date -- Skunks with a black-and-white stripe down the sides -- and he wore them so low that his sneaks were hidden beneath their tumble of cuffs. His hair was a thatch of unruly straw, and his eyes were as green as a cat's. "Hey, man," said Brandon. "I've seen you down at the Boardwalk."

Carlos laughed. "Did he jack a pair of your Tommys, too?"

"Give it a funeral," said Brandon. He faced the basketball-bellied boy. "You work at Captain Softee. Killer chocolate dip."

"Yeah," said the dude. "It belongs to my mom." He grinned and grasped his spherical tummy as if preparing to make a shot. "I'm quality-control."

"I must have bought a hundred from you. They totally rock," said Brandon.

"We got that much in common," said Carlos.

"Don't forget the Tommy jeans."

"No offense," said the pot-bellied boy. "But a lotta dudes look like you at the beach."

"Tell me about it," said Carlos. "Can't tell one blond from another."

The pot-bellied boy was studying Brandon. "I kinda remember your hair. ...Oh yeah! You're Tommy's bud. I'm Zach."

"Brandon," said Brandon.

"What's all this Tommy shit?" asked Danny.

"A friend of mine. Not the jeans," explained Brandon.

"Yo, Zach," said Travis. "My folks got Neptune's Fish 'N Chips. Under the coaster by Corn Dog Cavern."

"Oh yeah," said Zach. "Best fish 'n chips on the 'walk, man. But, I'm way down at the other end. Between Pelican Pizza an' Buccaneer Burger."

"Your joint kicks ass," said Carlos to Travis. He slapped his belly, making it wobble. "This ain't all burrito blubber."

"You work at the Boardwalk, too?" asked Travis.

"Nah. But, I hang there a lot. My dad's a mechanic. Fixes the rides. An' mom works in the nurse's office."

"Sorry, Zach," said Danny. "You're not fat enough to be obese by anyone's definition. Surfer-dude is borderline on the health-nazi scale, but even Coach wouldn't buy it. It's football season, remember? He needs a few heavyweight orcs."

"I got asthma," said Zach.

"Yeah? How bad?"

"How bad does it gotta be?"

Danny smiled. "Sounds bad enough." He opened the clipboard and scribbled something. "Bring me a note tomorrow." Then he turned to the small elvish boy. "What's your problem, little big man?"

The kid looked down at his huge puppy feet encased in sneaks like cartoon shoes. "I'm just... little," he murmured, then added quickly, "Like, normal little. But... little."

The other boys had moved together, except for the Area 51 kid. "Okay," said Danny. "But you're gonna need a note for somethin'. And it can't just be for being little."

"Like, what?" the little dude asked.

"Asthma?" suggested Zach.

"Try Bronchitis," said Danny. "It's easy to fake. Just cough like you're gonna spew sometimes whenever Coach is around."

"Cool," said the boy. "How do you spell it?"

"I'll write it down."

"What's your name?" asked Travis.

"Rex."

"Yo, T-Rex." Travis shook hands with the little dude.

"How old are you, man?" asked Kelvin.

"Thirteen. I skipped eighth grade."

Danny turned to Kelvin and whistled. "You're gonna need a major excuse if you wanna be a Special!"

"I got a heart problem," said Kelvin, his posture gone sloppy again. "I ain't supposed to run."

Travis smiled. "It's on the real. We'll bring you a note."

"Make it from a doctor," said Danny. "Coach might want him to model as the perfect P.E. product."

"Um?" asked Brandon. "How did you get all those muscles, Kelvin? A friend of mine worked out all summer, but he never got as ripped as you."

Kelvin shrugged. "Come with the package, I guess."

"He eats like a garbage-disposal," said Travis. "Laziest fool on the planet, too."

The 51 kid spoke again: "Do obese people have get naked?"

"It's part of the ritual," said Danny. "Making kids get naked seems to fulfill some deep adult need."

"But, I'm obese and I hate it."

"Well, shit!" said Travis. "You're with your own kind. The hell you got to be shy about? I show you 'obese' with a bullet!" He stripped off his shirt.

"That's my cuz," said Kelvin, leaning on Travis's blubbery shoulder.

Everyone looked awed. As Brandon had already noted, Travis was really too fat to wear clothes. The rolls of his waist were so enormous, and his belly hung down so far in front that his jeans were secured around his thighs by a punker studded leather belt that had to have come from a Big and Tall store. His gigantic bottom was almost bare except for a strip of white boxers, and his breasts were massive midnight melons, their nipples the size of soda can tops.

Rex looked amazed. "Are you dangerous, man?"

Kelvin laughed. "Only when he's hungry. Then don't get between him an' food."

"I can't get naked!" howled the 51 kid. "I don't want people to see I'm obese!"

"You really are obese," said Travis. "What's your name? ...Though I don't think I care."

"Jason Gray. I'm on a diet. In a month or so I'll be okay."

"I went on a diet once," said Danny. "But I'm all better now."

"What's wrong with you, Jason?" asked Bosco.

"I told you! I'm obese!"

Danny frowned. "I think we shall tire of that word fairly soon."

"Hey, Jason," said Brandon, feeling left out. "Everyone puts on little weight over summer vacation." He patted his tummy. "See? I did."

"I know I did," said Zach. "With a bullet!"

"I should have exercised," sighed Jason. "And dieted a way lot more. My mom was always telling me to."

"Then it's all your fault you're obese," said Danny. "Look, man," he added. "Trade lockers with someone and shower with us." He smiled. "Down in the Pig Pen. We got your back."

"...Well..." said Jason. "Maybe until I lose some weight."

Rex laughed."I'll take it. I need all I can get."

Brandon glanced to the locker room doorway. The line was getting shorter. He wasn't sure why he said the next thing; maybe because he liked these dudes. He pictured them all together, laughing and getting to know each other, while he had to play a stupid game. And yet it seemed to go deeper than that: all his life he'd done what he wanted, gone where he wanted, been who he wanted -- but here was something he couldn't do just because of his weight. ...Or, actually, the lack of it. "So, what does it take to be Special?" he asked.

"Bein' obese, I guess," said Bosco.

Jason flared, "Why would you wanna be obese? You think it's funny or something?"

"I'm starting to think you're funny," said Brandon.

"Try asthma," said Zach.

"Or bronchitis," said Rex.

"It can't be anything major," said Danny. "Then you'd be Physically Challenged. There's a separate class and a teacher for that."

Brandon considered. "What about a back problem?"

"You have one?"

"I used to. And it might flare up."

"You'll need a note. Make it look real." Danny wrote Brandon's name on the clipboard. "Bosco, you'll need a note, too."

"So, like, what should be wrong with me?" Bosco asked.

Brandon laughed. "You have an allergic reaction to anal-retentive retarded goons."

Bosco grinned. "What he said."

Danny considered. "How about epileptic?"

"You mean like spaz attacks?"

"How about cataleptic?" said Brandon. "That means you fall asleep a lot and don't know where you are."

Bosco grinned like a beaver. "Yeah that's me all over."

Danny wrote on the clipboard. "Welcome to the blubber club."

"So, what do we do?" asked Bosco.

"Walk laps, what else," said Danny. "Unless it's raining. Then we sit on the bleachers in here and watch the skinnies play B-ball. Or sometimes old sports movies. We saw Field Of Dreams six times last winter. Think you can handle that much pressure?"

"Do we have to take off our shirts?" asked Jason.

Everyone groaned. Zach stripped out of his camouflage tee, revealing an amazing belly, almost perfectly spherical, though his chest was fairly muscular.

"Wicked!" said Rex. "How long did it take you to get like that?"

"Three months of dippin' softee cones an' eatin' all the rejects."

"How do you mook-up a softee?" asked Brandon.

"It's hard but I practice."

"My mom looked like that for a while," said Carlos. "Before she had my little sister."

Brandon took off his shirt and relaxed his tummy -- which wasn't very impressive -- and Rex pulled off his tent-like tee, revealing a featureless little-boy body as pink and white as a Caucasian baby's. He turned to Jason. "Lose it!" he ordered. "Or everybody will think you're a wuss!"

"That's not fair!" cried Jason.

"Yo, Jason," said Carlos. "In a month you won't have to hang with us. You gonna get skinny, remember?"

"Um?" said Brandon to Danny. "How does the grading system work? I'm trying to maintain a B-plus average."

Danny smiled. "I'm goin' to college, too. Learn the ways of the white man and take back California."

"You can take it back from us," said Carlos. "After we take it back."

"It's mostly up to me," said Danny. "Walk laps on the track and you'll get a B-plus." He glanced at Jason. "Don't lose your shirt and I'll give you a D. Don't take showers, and you'll get an F. ...A big obese F."

"Do Specials ever get A's?" asked Rex. "I gotta overachieve."

"It's theoretically possible, but Coach hates giving A's to fat kids. He calls it rewarding failure. You could volunteer for towel-boy. ...But in your case I wouldn't advise it. No offense, but you're too cute."

"I have that problem, too."

"You could be our runner, man. Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is foxing off to the candy machines and keeping everybody supplied."

"Okay."

"I'm not supposed to eat candy," said Jason.

Danny rolled his eyes. "Nobody's gonna make you."

"But, if I don't will you give me an F?"

Danny glanced at Brandon. "You're right, he is funny."

"And obese," said Zach.

"Yo, Danny?" asked Travis. "What about the swimmin' pool? I need to work on my tan."

"I need to start," said snowy-white Rex.

Carlos groaned. "Why is havin' a tan so cool, unless you was born with one?"

Danny shook his head. "That's only for the swim team. Besides, there's no supervision."

"Oh yeah," said Travis. "Like we gonna sink?"

Danny shrugged. "Fat kids aren't supposed to have fun. It seems to fulfill some deep hater need."

The afternoon air was hot and sticky, a steamy stew of seashore scents, as Brandon came up the sidewalk and stopped in front of his house. He'd lost his shirt at the bus stop, and his coppery body was shiny with sweat. The ocean lay glassy across the street below the thirty-foot sandstone cliffs. It was emerald-green along the shore and shaded to indigo-blue farther out. The swells were nothing but slow-rolling humps, stirring the beds of golden kelp as they whispered in over the reefs. The sky was clear and cloudless; the sea lions out on their own little rock seemed too sleepy to bark; and even the seagulls were lost in space, nodding in rows on the white wooden rails that lined this part of West Cliff Drive.

An occasional middle-aged jogger plodded the broiling asphalt path that followed the edge of the cliffs. They looked out of place in this slumbering scene, panting, puffing, pouring sweat, as if running from something that rode on their shoulders. Maybe, thought Brandon poetically, they were trying to run away from time, as if they thought they couldn't be caught as long as they kept on the move.

A dozen surfers were out off the Point beyond the sea lion rock. Of course, there weren't any waves today, but they were still astride their boards in a place where nothing could catch them. Some had their suits peeled down to their waists; and Brandon pictured armored knights at rest upon their trusty steeds. ...Another world he would never be part of.

He studied the sleepy, sunlit scene and tried to recall the angry sea that crashed and roared in winter storms, hurling waves against the cliffs and flinging spray across the street that rattled his window glass. It seemed like a whole different universe now. Or maybe a whole different time.

The drowsy smell of summer lawns mingled with the salty sea, and flowers bloomed along the block in brick-lined beds and redwood borders, adding sweetness to the mix like breathing cotton candy fumes. A mower grazed the grass next door in Tommy Turner's big front yard. Its driver was a barefoot boy with shaggy chocolate-colored hair and skin as tan as Brandon's. He was twelve with Bambi eyes and a chubby chipmunk face. His belly overflowed his lap and almost hid his cutoff jeans, while his chest was a pair of bobby balloons that looked about to pop. The Turners had a swimming pool but Tommy lived in Brandon's; and Brandon's room belonged to him by right of occupation.

Brandon scanned his own front lawn... he should have mowed it yesterday. Tommy saw him, grinned and waved, shifted gears, raised the blades, and drove the mower up the walk. The John Deere could have plowed a farm, shiny green and dangerous, the baddest mower on the block and everybody knew it. Tommy cut the engine and suburban silence settled.

"What's up, Brandon?"

Brandon let his tummy out: he'd kept flat while walking home... as if the neighbors gave a shit about his body-image. "Chillin'." He scanned the younger boy and smiled. "Dudes with innies can ride the wind."

Tommy switched off his I-pod and took the headphones out of his ears. "Zot?"

"An Indian dude said that today."

"Did he have innies, too?" asked Tommy.

"Yeah. And so does another dude."

Tommy cupped one of his breasts with a hand. "They're pretty rare. ...You sure he was an Indian?"

"His name is Danny Little-Wing."

"What tribe?" asked Tommy.

"Said he was an Ohlone."

"I read about them in fourth-grade," said Tommy. "This used to be their land. But, I thought they were extinct."

"Guess the strong survived."

"Is he fat?"

"With a bullet!" Brandon spread his arms.

"Cool! A lot of Indians are. There's a dude in Arizona who saw our site last week. He's thirteen an' a Papago. They get mookin' huge!" Tommy spread his own arms wide. We traded pics the other night." He pulled a bottle from a holder. "Here, man, cool off. It's hotter than Beastworld with both suns out."

"Thanks," said Brandon. "But, Diet Coke gives me headaches."

"Same here. Airplane pilots, too. But, it's real Coke on the under."

Brandon took a long, sweet swig and gave the bottle back. "Your mom got you on another diet?"

Tommy made a pukey face. "This one's based on grapefruit... retch! I been ordering dinner from web deli." He slapped his belly, making it wobble. "I always gain weight on a diet."

"You'd think your mom would figure that out and leave your bod alone."

"Tell me about it, man." Tommy drank some Coke and burped. "But I'll survive. Breakfast with you, lunch at school, an' then McDees an' the web deli van."

"Do you gain weight on purpose?" asked Brandon. "Like, to get revenge or something? I saw this TV show one time..."

"Not no more. But I used to." Tommy grinned. "You mean you never noticed? I'd eat everything in your house."

"When did you stop doing that?"

"Bite me, Bucky. Da Beast need lots of energy."

Brandon scanned the rolly boy. "You got a lot fatter this summer, huh?"

"You never noticed that either? Almost twenty pounds. Check it out." Tommy hoisted his belly with both chubby hands. "Can't even button my cutoffs no more. 'Course, nobody knows 'cause nothin' shows."

"Well, I see you every day."

"I know what you mean," said Tommy. "It's like seein' your grandma at Christmas, an' all of a sudden she got really old." He studied Brandon's tummy. "You put on some weight yourself, dude. Looks good on ya, Bucky."

Brandon glanced down. "My old jeans were getting tight. These are bigger, another inch."

Tommy reached to Brandon's jeans and tugged them down a little more. "Give it room to hang, dude. It's da cool fat look, unbuttoned, unzipped an' sag to the max."

Brandon smiled. "Some people would say it's only cool if you don't have to look that way. Like, being born with a tan."

Tommy giggled. "Speakin' of which, I got another offer today. People drive by an' see me mowing, they think I'm a Mexican kid. I oughta start a business." He patted the side of the tractor. "She'll do almost ten on the street. I could drive anywhere in town. Rode her to McDee's last week."

"You sure got brown this summer," said Brandon. "But, why would you wanna work? You get a good allowance."

Tommy frowned. "Mom cut it down to forty a week. She thinks I'm spendin' it all on food. Like, I don't buy anything else. You are what you own, y'know?"

Brandon looked down at his tummy again. "Guess I did gain a little. But, hey, it was summertime, man. And I had a big lunch at school today so it's kinda sticking out."

"Feels good bein' stuffed, huh?"

"Sort of... careless," said Brandon. "And the food was actually edible."

"Yeah? What was it?" asked Tommy.

Burgers, burritos. Tamale pie. Pizza. Meatloaf. And other ass-kickin' stuff. They have some deadly desserts, too... pies, cakes, and ice cream."

"You ate all that for lunch?" said Tommy. "Sounds more like my kinda happy meal."

"'Course I didn't eat all that. I was kickin' it with some other dudes, and as long as you eat you can stay at a table. ...Um... so, how do you feel, Tommy?"

"About what?"

"About being fat. Duh."

Tommy leaned back and pounded his chest with chubby fists. "Me Da Beast!" He suddenly leaped from the tractor and slammed his bulk into Brandon, crashing Brandon down on the lawn and pinning him on his back. "How does that feel, Bucky-boy?"

"Hey!" gasped Brandon. "C'mon, get off! I can't even breathe under here!"

Tommy sat on Brandon's chest as if astride a surfboard, his belly engulfing Brandon's chin. "Is Da Beast cool, Bucky?"

"Yeah, the coolest. C'mon, get off!"

"Does Da Beast rule on Beastworld?"

"Yeah! Will you get off me, man!"

"Are you a mook?"

"Bucky knows Da Beast's one weakness!"

"Okay, okay! Don't tickle!" Tommy rolled off and got to his feet, tugging his cutoffs up a little, though the moons of his bottom were still half bare and just as tan as the rest of him.

Brandon sucked air and wiped sweat from his face. "I never knew you weighed so much!"

Tommy grinned. "Back when I was little an' I didn't wanna do somethin', I just sat down on the floor. No way could mom get me up."

"I believe it," panted Brandon. "Makes me think of Sitting Bull. He must of been an awesome dude to get a name like that."

"Huh?"

"Like, picture a sitting bull."

"Oh, yeah."

"So, how are you paying the web deli van if you only get forty a week now?"

Tommy grinned again. "Plastic, what else? Mom's got so many she can't keep track." He gulped some Coke then offered the bottle. "I meet 'em in front of your driveway so mom don't know what's goin' on."

Brandon killed the last of the soda then pillowed his head on his arms. "You're bitchin', Beast."

"You'd bitch too if your mom was tryin' to starve you."

"No, man. It's an expression. It means you're cool."

"Oh," said Tommy. "I never heard it before."

"Well, you're boss, too."

"Mookin' right! Bitchin'. Boss. That's me all over."

"So, it never bothers you? Being fat? Don't you get dissed?"

Tommy laughed. "Only twenty-four-seven. But, you oughta know that already. Or don't you listen when we go out? 'Specially with no shirts."

"I guess I just tune it out," said Brandon. "Assholes say shit to me, too. Like, homo, hippie, and... retch... golfer."

"I don't listen much neither," said Tommy. "You gotta accept that some people are assholes. Otherwise you'd go totally postal an' do a Columbine."

"So, how was your first day of school?"

Tommy spread his arms. "Da Beast lives. Ta-da!"

"Lots of other fat kids there?"

Tommy plopped down on the grass beside Brandon. "Actually more than last year, even with all the fat hater shit. An' some are really cool. You can always tell a cool fat dude by how he wears his jeans."

"I kinda noticed that today. I call it the careless fat look. The mookie dudes try to wear 'em way up. Sorta like golfers."

"That's a major mookie, man. They're always the shy ones, too."

"So, how about cool fat girls?"

Tommy smiled. "Fat girls are usually cool an' smart, which always works for me."

"What about P.E.?"

"Usual mookshit, walkin' laps. Like, that's gonna make fat kids lose weight! That's just as stupid as TV commercials sayin' go out an' play for an hour every day." Tommy gave Brandon a thoughtful look. "We never talked about fat before."

"Is that cool?"

"It's like about time! I only been fat for twelve years." Tommy jiggled his blubber like doing a hula. "An' I'm the coolest kind of fat. Like Mexican kids, an' Indians."

"Yeah," said Brandon. "I guess if you're gonna be fat, you should really look the part."

"Def," agreed Tommy. "'Course, if you're just starting to get fat, like during summer vacation, it mostly goes to your belly first. I call it the basketball look."

"Like Zach at the Boardwalk?"

"Yeah. ...Hey, I didn't know you knew Zach."

"He's in my P.E. class this year. But, we bought a million cones from him. He remembered you."

"I usually go an' hang with him when you an' Troy are doin' stuff. He lets me run the place sometimes. I'm boss at dippin' softees."

"You ever mook 'em up?"

"That's pretty hard to do."

Brandon sighed. "Seems like all I've been doing with Troy this summer is watching him lift his mookin' weights."

"That's gotta get old."

"At the speed of light."

"But, he is gettin' muscles."

"Yeah," agreed Brandon. "But, he's also getting a shitty 'tude. Like, muscles make him better."

"Better than what?" asked Tommy.

"Than anybody without them."

"I got muscles," said Tommy, flexing a chub-padded arm. "They just don't show."

"I noticed that," said Brandon. "Like when you jumped on me. ...You think Troy looks cool?"

Tommy shrugged. "If you like muscles that show, I guess. But, lookin' cool an' bein' cool don't always come in the same kinda box."

"I've noticed that, too," agreed Brandon. "So, how come you've never been shy, Tommy? Like, you never wear a shirt."

"Maybe 'cause you never dissed me."

"Couldn't of just been that."

Tommy considered. "You were the first friend I ever had. An' always the best. ...I have to kill you now."

"So, you think being fat is cool?"

"You just said I was. Boss an' bitchin' too."

"I didn't mean because you're fat."

"But, if I wasn't fat I'd be somebody else. An' maybe a mook. Like, if you had muscles you might be Troy."

"Hey, I have muscles!"

"Yeah. But your brain is in better shape."

"You think Troy's a mook?" asked Brandon.

"I think he's been takin' mook lessons. Ever since he got them weights."

"Those weights."

"Yeah. That's why they call 'em dumb-bells."

"Guess you know a lot about fat."

"More than a Master's, less than a Ph.D." Tommy stretched out on the grass beside Brandon, his cutoffs slipping indecently low and baring the base of his shaft. "So, what's it like in high school?"

Brandon considered. "Public school is like one size fits all, which doesn't really fit anyone. And now I'm one of the smallest dudes instead of one of the biggest."

"Da Beast not have dat problem yet. Me still one of the biggest. ...You get your writing class?"

"Yeah. And it's totally boss. The teacher rocks. Makes up for all the mookie shit."

"You gonna take a swim?" asked Tommy. "I'm just about done with the lawn."

"How much Da Beast charge for mowing Bucky's?"

"Five an' a beer."

"Okay." Brandon got up and brushed back his hair. "I'll be in the pool."

Tommy climbed back on the tractor and clamped the headphones over his ears. "For you, senor, I will mow like the wind."

The drapes were drawn to keep the sun out, and the huge living room was a chamber of shadows as Brandon came in and took off his pack. He dropped it on the coffee table atop the latest magazines -- Newsweek, Time, National Geographic, Computing, People, and Mother Jones -- that no one actually read. The air-conditioner murmured low, set at a green 75 degrees, while Tommy's tractor droned outside grazing Brandon's grass. Brandon walked down a long hallway, past his father's den and four bedrooms, into the spacious ranch-style kitchen. There was a massive double-door fridge, a mighty dishwasher, a vast island range, a big microwave, a four-slice toaster, plus various blenders and other machines that his mother seldom had time to use.

Sunlight sparkled the swimming pool and shimmered through the wide glass doors that opened onto the patio. It winked on rows of bright copper pans that hung from racks above the range, and frolicked in ripples around the room like being in an aquarium. Brandon opened the monster fridge to snag a bottle of San Miguel beer. He popped the cap and leaned way back to guzzle it down as fast as he could... that first icy swallow was always the best.

He felt his tummy grow heavy and round, sticking out a bit like Zach's, though nothing that extreme. His jeans slipped down to an indecent level, a comfortable, careless, mook-it-all feeling. He killed the bottle and sucked a breath, then stripped like a savage gone back to the wild, scattering clothes across the tiles, jeans, shorts, sneaks and socks.

The patio brick was hot underfoot, but that was a pleasant kind of pain, like dancing across a broiling beach to meet the cool of the ocean. He dove in the pool, not using the board, and swam like dophin escaped from a net, rolling, spinning, then diving down deep, pushing up from the bottom then rocketing skyward to burst from the water and grab the board. He did a few chin-ups hanging there, enjoying the feeling of strength in his arms, then dropped in the water to float on his back.

He wished that Tommy was with him. It would have been cool to play right now, transforming themselves into Bucky and Beast, the Free Mutant Boys of Beastworld. Maybe that wasn't very mature, but Brandon was tired of being fourteen, like wearing clothes that didn't fit.

He swam to the floating lounge chair and climbed aboard to sprawl in the sun... maybe obscenely but who gave a mook. Lapping waves made soothing sounds while bees bumbled over the flowerbeds that lined the backyard fence, blending their hum with the droning mower and making a drowsy duet. The sky was so clear you could almost fall in, and the smell of cut grass seemed twice as sweet since Tommy was doing the cutting. It was good to be back in a peaceful place after all the confusion and hassel today. The warm beer buzz and heat of the sun had brought his body to throbbing life, but he could enjoy that without any effort. He thought up a lot of stories like this, here on his back, adrift in the water, but most got away before he could catch them, escaping between the pool and computer like dreams often vanished when leaving your bed.

Becoming "Special" had been kind of cool, walking the track with the careless fat boys, sharing sodas and candy bars smuggled in by little Rex, while the "skinny" kids bashed and battered each other, goaded and spurred by the bellowing coach who might have been paid for making pain and each bloody nose was a bonus.

The concept was kind of barbaric... forcing kids to fight each other. Were sports a "healthy alternative to violence?" Or, were they really just surrogate wars, where none of the wounds were supposed to be fatal and only your pride got murdered or maimed on the field of somebody else's honor?

Brandon's brother had been on a team until his Junior year, but had finally quit in disgust. What were sports all about, he'd said: if you lost, you got cursed by a frustrated goon, called a sissy, a wimp, or worse for losing to another goon's team. If you won, then the goon got a cheap tin trophy. Sports were as old as the human race... but so were violence, hate, and wars.

Brandon supposed he could fight in a war, carry a rifle and kill for a cause if there was anything real to win... like "freedom and justice for all." But, what the hell did he mookin' care if victory went to the Shirts or the Skins? He wasn't afraid of getting hurt; he'd splattered gallons of skater blood on most of the sidewalks in West Santa Cruz. But, nobody told him to bust a move, and nobody got in his face if he failed and ordered him to do it again. And, nobody told him when to fight, or when it was smarter to run like hell. He thought of the surfers out off the Point: sometimes they dissed and cursed each other, and he'd seen a few fights in the parking lot, but mostly it was them and the sea. Nobody told them what waves to ride, or yelled at them if they didn't.

Who had invented surfing, he wondered? Hawaiians, yeah, but kids or adults? No doubt it must have been a kid who'd nailed a set of roller-skate wheels onto a piece of wooden plank... and probably, promptly, fell on his ass. But, had anyone roared in his face to get up? To "be a man," to do it again, to skin his knees and shred his arms and batter himself to a bloody mess until he learned to cruise his plank and other kids thought it was cool?

That had been back in the 1960s... Brandon had read it somewhere. Who was that kid who'd invented the skateboard and found his cool on steel wheels? Legend said he'd been a surfer who'd lost his board to rocks somewhere. Some said it had happened in Santa Cruz. Or maybe Capitola.

Brandon thought of Bosco, a natural transiton. Bosco was an athlete, yet he didn't rate dirt in the eyes of the coach. Surfing wasn't a team sport, and Bosco didn't look like a winner. And, fat kids weren't spposed to win no matter what the game.

Troy dissed Bosco for being fat -- not to his face, of course -- yet, Troy had looked like an awed little kid when Bosco had signed his magazine. Troy would pin it up in his room; a fat boy riding a monster wave, rolly and brown in cutoff jeans, a red long-board beneath his feet, a watery wall of blue at his back. But, Troy just couldn't accept the body. ...Because it blew the health-nazi image of how a winner should look?

Lunch had been a dilemma for Troy, being seen with the blubber boys, everyone from Special Ed except for dismal Jason Gray who'd slunk away to "diet." On the other hand, being seen with Bosco was worth a hundred points of cool. But, the other fat dudes were negative numbers on anybody's coolness chart.

Maybe Brandon was, too?

He'd definitely dusted most of his cool by chosing to be a Special. He might have been forgiven for that -- too bad about Brandon, stuck with the fatties, but, hey, he hurt himself lifting weights -- but he'd blown that option by staying with them. He'd showered down in the "Pig Pen," like bathing with a gang of Beasts is some echoing watery cave. And he'd laughed along with the fat kids, too. Like, fat kids had any right to laugh.

That was a total coolness killer.

For anyone but Bosco.

Bosco was an enigma; something or someone you couldn't define. He was one of those dudes who could do what he wanted, but nobody really knew why. He was cool for many other reasons than just because he surfed... maybe not to dudes like Troy, but other people felt it. A sort of cool attraction that couldn't be explained. But, he didn't seem to care about cool, equally friendly to everyone, grinning his goofy beaver grin from under his messy mop of hair. The surfers all seemed to know who he was -- the Pacific Championship winner -- yet he didn't seem to have any friends who knew him personally.

But, whoever he was he was totally cool, which meant he was free to be who he was... whatever that was. If he wanted to hang with fat boys -- even though he wasn't that fat -- nobody would dis him for it.

But, Brandon was no one and nobody knew him. Muscles and tans were a dime a dozen in sunny, seaside Santa Cruz. Zach hadn't even remembered his face from the hundreds of other pseudo-surfers hanging around the beach. Bosco could blow off the fat boys tomorrow and no one would hold it against him; but Brandon's choice of first-day friends was bar-coded onto his forehead.

Rex was probably a loser, too. He'd stuck to Brandon like Super Glue, at Brandon's side while walking the track, and shyly close while showering. He'd never been naked with other dudes, though he hadn't tried to hide himself like dorky Jason Gray. He'd traded lockers with some other kid and moved into the Pig Pen... the last and least desirable lockers farthest from the entrance door. Bosco and Zach had also traded, along with Carlos and Kelvin. But, what could you do when you looked eleven, yet had all the needs of being thirteen? Find a friend and hang on tight? Survival of the littlest?

But, that was cool because Rex was cool -- at least among the fat boys -- and Brandon's cool was probably toast.

Funny, he thought, adrift in the sky, in a way it was like a relief. He'd found a place from which to observe, and still had cool companions. He might even be an enigma himself, a dude who'd chosen not to be chosen; a dude who hadn't wagged his tail and begged somebody to throw him a bone. A dude who'd rejected potential rejection before the rejectors rejected him.

Travis White was another enigma. Travis surprised him at every turn... or was it Brandon who went the wrong way and had to make a one-eighty? It wasn't until the last bell had rung that Brandon asked where Travis lived. By then he'd expected to be surprised... like, Travis lived in Santa Cruz Gardens or some other nice suburban 'hood. So, it had been a surprise in reverse to find that he lived in The Flats.

Kelvin lived with Travis. Brandon hadn't asked why, though he'd heard all the usual TV tales about fathers in prison and mothers on crack. But, Kelvin had taken a different bus because of a doctor's appointment. There really was something wrong with his heart... didn't that happen to crack babies?

It had been a long day of decisions for Brandon, like wandering in a labyrinth where his every move was videotaped to be used against him later. His last decision had been on the bus... it was filling up fast but not yet full, and Travis spread out when he sat down, his blubber filling most of a seat. This forced another choice on Brandon: squeezing himself beside his new friend, or taking a seat across the aisle. It should have been a simple choice, and yet was like a dilemma.

One: it would look kind of funny.

Two: it would look kind of gay.

Three: would Travis think he was gay?

Four: would Travis feel betrayed if Brandon didn't sit beside him?

And Travis wouldn't give him a clue!

He'd boarded the bus ahead of Brandon, puffing hard and pouring sweat from the effort of walking across the quad. It had taken a lot more panting and puffing to get up the bus's steps. His belly hung down down so far in front that he almost couldn't lift his legs. Brandon had thought about trying to help, but wasn't sure what to do... try to push Travis's mammoth bottom, or try to lift his foot? There were a lot of snickers and smirks as Travis finally struggled aboard and waddled his way to the first empty seat. The bus had rocked and rolled a bit. Then he'd just gazed out the window, as if there was anything to see except parents in minivans picking up kids. Brandon had almost felt angry that Travis wouldn't clue him... did he want or expect Brandon's company, now that school was over? Was he being polite because of his size, not wanting Brandon to suffer beside him? Or, was it because of Brandon's color. Or maybe the lack of it?

Brandon had dithered a moment, then jammed himself to Travis's side, like shoving into sweaty Jell-o. Then he'd thought he'd blown it, because part of his bottom was still in the aisle which made him look ridiculous. Then, someone had taken the empty seat, which toasted all his options. But, Travis had made a little more room by squeezing himself to the bus's side and draping an arm across the seat back. Brandon got most of his butt on the seat, though it looked gay as hell to be jammed against Travis, the dude's huge arm across his shoulders... or looking that way anyhow. Then he had glanced across the aisle and saw the blond girl in the leather sandals who might have smiled at him that morning. She didn't seem to notice him now. Outside he saw Troy in his mother's Beamer, naturally without a shirt, and the girl was probably watching him. Maybe she'd given up on Brandon... since he seemed to have a boyfriend?

Travis had chuckled softly.

"What's funny?" Brandon demanded, as if that didn't seem obvious.

But, Travis was looking out the window. "Check out the time machine."

Brandon had peered around Travis's chest, which took a lot of peering around. Bosco's ride had arrived; an incredibly battered Volkswagen van with a surfboard strapped to its roof. The van looked like a 60s model, and the surfboard might have been older, a redwood monster as long as the truck and painted an impudent, raving red with a grinning, cigar-smoking rat on its nose... the board in the magazine picture.

Brandon couldn't see the driver, but someone handed Bosco a beer -- looked like a Budweiser long-neck -- a blatant defiance, a spit-in-your-face, of the plainly posted DRUG FREE ZONE. Bosco had lost his hoodie, and his bobby-breasted chubbiness was also a kind of defiance. The van clattered off in a cloud blue smoke, maybe another defiance.

"You believe in time travel?" Brandon had asked, as the rusty old van disappeared down the hill.

Travis looked thoughtful. "Something like that could make me believe. You check out Bosco's sneaks today? They're genuine U.S. Keds."

"Never heard of 'em," Brandon said.

"No surprise. They ain't been made for centuries."

"Maybe they're reproductions? Like goths and emos wear."

"Nope," said Travis. "They're on the real. The only others I ever saw were in an antique shop. ...You check out the brand on his hoodie?"

"There wasn't any," said Brandon. "At least not where you could see it. And his cutoffs were Levis 501s. No way to tell how old they were."

"Make a sweet story, huh?"

Brandon considered. "Like... 'The Dude Who Surfed Time?' Or something like that?"

"Maybe 'The Time Surfer'?"

"That sounds better."

Travis looked thoughtful again. "Maybe he don't even know it's the future? That's why he's so lost in space. 'Spaced-out' is a 1960s expression."

"Late sixties," said Brandon. "Kinda post-surf. The psychedelic era. 'Love, peace and stop the war'... the Vietnam war."

"I hate to say duh," said Travis.

"Well... like that Jimi Hendrix song about never hearing surf music again."

"You like Jimi?"

"Yeah, he was cool. I have three of his albums."

"There was a TV show," said Travis. "'Lost In Space.' That was in the early sixies."

Brandon smiled. "Not many people would know that."

"I watch a lot of classic TV."

"And write?"

"A little. I like ghost stories."

"Me too. And fantasy. Mutants and stuff."

Travis had chuckled again. "I kinda guessed that already."

"Well..." said Brandon. "Maybe Bosco's a ghost? Like, maybe he drowned a long time ago, but he always comes back for his first day of school? He had enough sand in his hair to be drowned... I saw a drowned kid on the beach last year, all covered with sand and seaweed. ...And Bosco's records were all mooked up. They couldn't find his schedule. And he wasn't on the computer. And his name was penciled on the roll in Mr. Rosenberg's class. That's all kinda weird."

"Aight," said Travis. "But, how you explain the magazine cover? An' winning that surfin' contest in June?"

Brandon had thought for a moment as the bus started up and pulled away. "Well... this was the best summer of his life. He said that, remember? Or that summer was. Whenever it was. When surfers still rode long-boards. Which would have been around... um... 1963. Surfers dressed like him in those days. They wore their hair shaggy like Bosco. And they drove old vans like he got in."

"Speakin' of which," said Travis. "Who was drivin'? Another surf ghost?"

"Didn't you see?"

"All I saw was a hand with a beer." Travis chuckled. "But it had skin on it."

"Anyway," Brandon went on, "it was such a cool summer... say, in 1963... that he keeps coming back to live it again. ...Being reborn like he said."

"Aight," said Travis. "But, you gotta respect the genre. Could a ghost from 1963 win a sufin' contest today?"

"It's doable," said Brandon. "Like, people have ridden in ghost trains that hadn't run for a hundred years. And there was the ghost of a truck driver who picked up hitchikers late at night. Ghosts can interact with the living and even seem to have substance." Forgetting about looking gay, Brandon had patted Travis's blubber, which spilled hot and heavy over his thigh.

"Did you touch him?" asked Travis.

"No."

Travis had considered. "Don't seem fair to the livin' surfers, bein' beat-out by a ghost."

"Well," said Brandon. "Assuming he didn't use ghostly powers, his skills would be fifty years out of date. And he won it on a long-board. I don't know much about surfing for real, but a long-board is pretty slow and clumsy compared to what they ride today. That would be more like a handicap."

"Kinda like bein' fat."

"He's not that fat. ...Oh sorry, man."

"Don't trip, dawg. I'm pretty slow an' clumsy, too."

"Not where it counts."

"Thanks."

"The plot needs some work," said Brandon. "But it's cool start."

"You ever collaborate?"

"We could if you want," said Brandon. "Maybe for the semester story that Mr. Jakarta was talking about? The one that counts for half our grade." Brandon had thought for a moment. "Um, you don't really think he's a ghost?"