Fat kid rules the world Read Online Free

take the subway, but at this point the thought of walking even one extra block is too much. I expect Curt to take the hint and leave, but he doesn’t.
    “So, uh … I gotta go,” I say at last.
    A yellow cab is finally maneuvering through traffic, cutting off a half dozen other cars in order to reach me. I can already see the driver—a Chinese guy—debating his decision.
What does he see? Huge freak with cab fare
? Curt pretends he doesn’t hear me.
    “What’s your instrument?” he asks as if we have all the time in the world. I suppose in Curt’s universe everyone naturally plays an instrument. I glance at the cabdriver and he glares, so I answer quickly.
    “Drums. Junior high.”
    Curt nods appreciatively. “That is most excellent because the very thing …” His voice is lost in the drone of traffic as I shuffle forward. I have to walk around the cab because Curt is leaning against the door on the passenger side. Typical New York, everyone pretends they can’t see me waddling into traffic. As soon as I attempt to open the door there’s an explosion of car horns culminating in a bagel truck slamming on its brakes and the driver giving me the finger. I look over at Curt to see if he’s noticed, but he’s oblivious. His eyes are squeezed shut, his face is contorted, and he’s playing air drums. Based on my minuscule confession, he’s now demonstrating his all-time favorite drum solo.
    “A
bam, bam, braaat, braaat, bam, bam, bam, braaat, braaat, bam, bam, braaat, braaat, bam
… and then this sweet bass line jumps in and it’s
weeeehhh
…” Curt makes a high-pitched scream right there in the street and everyone who’s been staring at us looks away. Desperate, I fling open the cab door and slide in quick as I can, hoping Curt’s scream will mask my departure. Then I realize he’s climbing in the other side.
    “What are you doing?” I ask, but Curt pretends he doesn’t hear.I know he heard me because he raises the volume on his music monologue. I have to lean forward and shout to be heard by the driver as I yell my address.
    Curt talks the whole ride home. He talks about chord progressions, then guitars. He names all the makes and models, then rates them. Then he lists them again in order of his rating. Then he changes the list and recites the
revised version
twice as if cementing it. He does the same thing, for my benefit I presume, with drum sets. Then he starts on bands.
    It’s only a few blocks, but by the time the cab pulls up to my apartment building I think I might strangle him. Not only is he driving me insane but his stench is making me nauseated. I’ve tried to roll down the window without being too obvious, but when the cab stops, I bolt. I waddle over to pay the driver and Curt stands on the curb with his hands dug deep in his pockets. I hope he won’t notice as I take out my hidden ten-dollar bill, the one I told him I didn’t have, but he just stares at the pavement as the cabdriver grabs the money and steps hard on the gas.
    I move onto the sidewalk and Curt and I stand there watching our cab disappear into the sea of cars making their way up and down Houston. The moment already makes the Awkward Hall of Fame, but as per my life, it has to get worse. Just when I’m thinking I’ve made a huge mistake letting this skinny kid follow me home, I see my little brother rounding the corner. Dayle’s holding a basketball, dripping sweat, and it’s obvious he’s been shooting hoops at Roosevelt Park while he waited to find out if I’d killed myself.
    He swaggers forward, with attitude, moving the way you’re supposed to move when you live on the Lower East Side—the way I can never move. I think,
He fits here
. Unlike me, Dayle belongs in Manhattan. He’s good-looking, athletic, and he can fit in anywhere. Take Dayle to the Upper West Side and he’d be dating a stockbroker’s daughter. Take him to the Village and he’d be playing football withthe college kids at NYU. Me? I can