Fat Boy vs. the Cheerleaders Read Online Free

Camille said.
    â€œBehind this? Behind what? A new school program? That’s not exactly in the realm of conspiracy. Don’t be so dramatic,” Justin said. “Nobody’s hiding anything.”
    â€œUh, Kaus Company? The pop machine? They own it? The price went up?” Camille said. “Kailey’s mom is head of the school board? Kailey is suddenly getting a dance team? Sounds like conspiracy to me.”
    â€œDrama,” Justin said. “Just relax.”
    Here’s the thing, sir. I did relax. “Oh,” I sighed. I thought about Kailey knocking on my window the summer after fifth grade. “Crap,” I said.
    â€œChunk’s right,” Camille shouted. “We’ve been bamboozled.”
    â€œWould you both please shut up?” I said quietly. I sat down, put my head back on the table.
    â€œI’m getting kind of sick of your attitude,” Justin said.
    â€œSeriously, Chunk,” Camille said.
    â€œWhatever,” I mumbled.
    Terrible day, sir. It went on too. I didn’t take a ride home from Justin after school. I left right as the bell rang and walked. Seth Sellers and Emily Yu pulled up next to me in Seth’s car as I walked. “Hey, turd!” he shouted.
    I stared straight forward, kept moving, didn’t make any jokes.
    They rolled along at my speed for about twenty seconds. They were expecting me to make an ass of myself, I’m sure. Then Seth shouted “Later, fat ass” and tore off.
    Grandpa made lasagna that night. I ate a whole pan by myself.
    â€œYou doing okay, Chunk?” Grandpa asked.
    Dad read his magazine.
    â€œFine,” I said as I plowed through that lasagna.
    Before school the next morning, the last morning because it was the last day of the year, I took a bunch of quarters from my dad’s change mug. I wanted to drink all the Code Red in the world. I wanted to fill up and explode.
    Hey. I have to go to the bathroom, Mr. Rodriguez.

CHAPTER 4
    That bathroom is disgusting, sir.
    Sure. Yeah. Serves its purpose. I’m good.
    Where were we?
    Right. Last day of school. That was nine days ago. Feels like a million years ago though. I stole money from Dad so I could drink all the Code Red in the world.
    Actually, I tried not to go to school at all. After breakfast, instead of heading outside and down to the corner where Justin usually picks me up, I sat back down on the couch and shut my eyes.
    By the time Grandpa noticed I hadn’t left the house (and was asleep on the couch), I was too late to make gym (too late for Mr. McCartney to call me names one last time).
    â€œWhat the hell?” Grandpa shouted when he saw me.
    â€œSick,” I said, opening my eyes.
    â€œNo, you’re not,” Grandpa said. “Get in the van!”
    Grandpa drove me to school in his dumb orange van, which I didn’t appreciate.
    Nobody seemed to notice or care that I’d skipped a class. I’m sure it would’ve been a big deal if it hadn’t been the last day of school. I bought my first Dew and shuffled to second hour.
    The morning was only notable for a couple reasons.
    One, someone had stuffed a note in my locker saying, I’m sorry, Gabe! I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry!
    That’s the note Dad handed you this morning, sir. Guess he found it when he was digging around my room last night. It’s from Baba Obi and I don’t have a clue why you guys think it has something to do with this pop machine robbery because it doesn’t.
    No, I don’t know any Baba Obi.
    The handwriting is a girl’s. I’m sure Camille was sorry for something. It’s nothing.
    Baba Obi is no one.
    Two, Ms. Feagan, my English teacher, asked me to stay after class following third hour. “Gabe, are you feeling all right?” she asked.
    â€œNo,” I said. “I don’t feel good.”
    â€œDo you need help? Can I help?”
    â€œI just don’t want to be funny