Sometimes, when I stand back and take a good look, I think my parents are ambassadors from hell. Two of them, at least, the biological ones, the big ones. Four parents are what I have altogether, not unlike a whole lot of other kids. Same with my moms. As a matter of fact, that frightening little off-season trade took place prior to—though not much prior to—my birth, so until I began collecting expert feedback from friends at school, somewhere along about fourth grade, I perceived my situation as relatively normal.
See, when people the size of my parents decide to reproduce, they usually dig a pit and crawl down in there together for several days. Or a blowhole. I swear my gestation period was three years and seven months. While farsighted parents of other infants my age were pre-enrolling their kids four years ahead into elite preschools, my dad was hounding the World Wrestling Federation to hold a spot for me sometime in the early s.
I mean, my mom had to go to the husky section of Safeway to buy me Pampers. And they named me Angus. I am incredibly quick for a fat kid, and I have world-class reflexes. I cannot be shaken free. Which brings me to tonight. I want normal. I want socially acceptable. Granddad is the man who taught me to be a dignified fat kid. And sometimes by joining them—you know, laughing at myself. What I mind is that during those few seconds when Melissa and I have the floor to ourselves, all those kids, friend and foe, will be watching me dance.
When it comes to clapping his hands or stomping his feet to the beat, Angus Bethune is completely, absolutely, and, most of all, irreversibly brain dead.
Those girls had some sore pods. And such lovely genius it was. God, from kindergarten on, Melissa was that tan, sinewy-legged blond girl with the brown eyes that just make you ache. You have no business trying to touch her.
