Home > Fat Chance, Charlie Vega(7)

Fat Chance, Charlie Vega(7)
Author: Crystal Maldonado

I weigh my options: say goodbye to the warmth of this blanket and the easy banter with my online friends, or venture out into the real world with my bestie and feel like an actual person?

When my phone buzzes again (Helloooo?), I sigh and decide on the latter.

Just need a few minutes to get ready, I write.

I’ll wait. You’re picking me up anyway!

With long hair like mine, there is no such thing as a quick wash, so I opt to keep it up in the shower and am careful not to get it wet. Once I’m out and dry, I braid it into two plaits, pin it to the back of my head, and slip into a sweater dress, some tights, and boots.

I grab Amelia and we head to Jake’s. It’s a quirky little coffee shop with delicious lattes, fresh-baked goods, and eco-friendly compost bins where they recycle the used coffee grounds. The mismatched decor makes the place feel cozy and lived in, like maybe you’re having coffee at your hippie aunt’s house. There’s tons of natural light, which makes for getting the perfect Insta pic of your drink, and a tiny section of used books they sell for a dollar each. Obviously, I’m all about it.

It’s late January in New England, and the best place to sit is by the fireplace. Unfortunately, that spot is always taken, so Amelia and I settle in two comfy chairs by the window with our large hot drinks instead—chai latte for me, hazelnut coffee for her.

“I saw you posted a new story this weekend,” Amelia says, propping her legs up on the small table between us.

“Eesh, I did. I don’t know about it, though,” I say. “This is the first time I’ve written from the perspective of a boy. And what do I know about boys and how they think?”

Amelia laughs. “Yeah, but what does anyone know about boys and how they think? So come on, Charlie. Give yourself a little credit. I thought Clive and Olivia were really cute together!”

I smile at her. “Thanks. But be real with me: Would you change anything?”

“Well…” She taps her chin thoughtfully. “Since you asked—I was curious why Olivia was so scared to hold Clive’s hand. She’s sixteen, not a nun.”

I wince a little internally, if only because Olivia’s nerves are totally based on mine. “I mean…not everyone is comfortable just going for it.…”

Amelia takes a sip of her drink. “You just spent, like, a really long time explaining how terrified she was and I wanted to be like, ugh, just do it, girl! It’s just holding a hand!” I chew on my lip a little, letting her critique sink in. I maybe take it a bit more personally than I should, and she notices, adding, “I mean, don’t stress. Everything else was perfect.”

“Okay, yeah.” I give her a smile. “I’ll work on that next time.”

A thoughtful look comes over Amelia’s face. “You know, it’s really impressive that you just, like, come up with these stories from your brain. You make people up. Whole-ass people!”

I laugh. “Guess I’ve never thought of it like that. Amelia, honestly, writing is super hard—it makes me feel so vulnerable. I mean, you know how reluctant I am to share my stuff. But my dad always used to say that to be a writer, you’ve got to be fine ‘writing naked’—like, baring your soul, being real—so I think you’re just supposed to power through the fear. It’s hard, though! It feels so personal that I can’t help but be fiercely protective of it, and then there’s this little voice that’s constantly concerned it’s not quite ready for other people’s eyes yet, but then it’s like…if I’m not going to share my writing, what am I even doing? I don’t know. I sometimes think I should totally switch dream jobs and just do data entry at a novelty mug warehouse.”

Then I feel a little sheepish for sharing so much and add, “I fully realize how dramatic I’m being.”

“I think it’s cute. You should get dramatic about things you care about,” Amelia says. “I wish I were that passionate about track.”

I frown at her. “You’ve been unhappy with track all year. Why don’t you just quit?”

She wrinkles her nose at that. “My mom really wants me to stay on. The legacy.” An eye roll. Mrs. Jones was a track star. “She also says it looks good for my college applications.”

“I wish I could say she’s wrong, but everyone keeps saying you need to be super involved in a trillion extracurriculars to even be considered for college these days.” It makes me think of how sparse my own résumé is. There’s my job, sure, but writing online probably doesn’t count as an extracurricular, right?

“I know, that’s what blows. She’s right! I just don’t want her to be!”

I shoot her a sympathetic glance. “You shouldn’t have to do something that doesn’t make you happy. Maybe you can talk to your mom and just be super honest with her about it. You’re already doing volleyball and your grades are good. I think she’d understand.”

Amelia looks unconvinced. “Yeah, maybe. But I don’t want to disappoint her.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I think I’ll stick it out for the rest of the year and just not sign up next year,” she says. “At least I’ve met some cool people on the team.”

“That’s true.” I nod, but I’m bummed for her. While I’m used to disappointing my mom, I realize others probably aren’t—especially not Amelia. Her mom is so great I’d be scared to disappoint her, too. “Oh, I know what will make you feel better! I meant to share this with you. I’m obsessed with this new playlist I found on Spotify. It’s called ‘Lovesick.’”

“Please tell me there’s at least one Spice Girls song.”

“There are multiple, which is why I know this playlist is meant for you.” I whip out my phone and dig through my bag to get my AirPods. I hand the left one to Amelia and stick the right one in my ear. “Here.” I settle back in my chair as we listen.

“Ah.” She sighs happily.

“Yeah. Pretty great, right?”

We sit and listen until we finish our drinks, then head home. Amelia has homework to do and I, feeling inspired by the playlist, have some writing that’s calling my name.

Also: I want to put off going to bed as long as I can so that I can pretend Monday isn’t coming.

 

 

Weirdly, no matter how late I stay up writing on Sunday nights, Monday always comes around again. So then, on top of it being the start of another week, I’m super tired. Sigh.

At least my first class is English—my favorite, obviously. It’s a bunch of quiet, nerdy seniors. I’m the only junior, which makes me feel special, TBH.

I admire the teacher, Ms. Williams. She’s whip-smart and worldly, and in between each book we’re mandated to read by the school curriculum (aka a “classic” written by a white dude), she also picks a book written by an author from a marginalized group. For every Animal Farm and The Great Gatsby we’ve read, we’ve also read The House on Mango Street and The Bluest Eye. It’s incredible, and it’s in this class I’ve been exposed to some of my favorite books.

Plus, Ms. Williams gives us time in class to write, and unlike my online writing, this writing gets attached to my actual name, which is terrifying but exhilarating. Not that we do anything too rigorous, but we do spend the first ten minutes of each class free-writing in our own notebooks. We’re not graded on what we put in there; the only rule is we have to write for the full ten minutes. I really let myself go and spill my thoughts—sometimes about my life, sometimes about what I’m reading, and sometimes just little snippets of story ideas floating around in my head.

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