Food, Girls, and Other Things I Can't Have Read Online Free

standing in the back of the room.
    Goddam Warner. I wish he would sit down or quit school or change his last name. Something. Anything. But no, he only sweats and pretends to read the stupid Trig and shuffles from one elephant hoof to the other.
    “Aren’t you going to sit down?” Nancy says. I want to kill her, too.
    Ms. Weston calls, “Tackenberg, Thomas, Tiburon …”
    It’s now or never.
    I suck in my gut, say a quick prayer to the god of physics, and aim my bulk towards the narrow opening between the desk and the chair …
    Plop .
    I’m in.
    It takes a little adjusting, a few grunts of effort, and an embarrassing shifting of blubber around my belt—but I fit.
    Ms. Weston’s at the end of the alphabet, and she calls Warner’s name. He answers from a standing position. She looks at him strangely, then looks at the empty desk. She’s about to say something, when she decides to move on. I’m kind of relieved for him.
    “Zansky,” she says.
    “Here,” I say proudly and from a sitting position.
    I fit, and Warner doesn’t.
    For now.

a revised history of fat and fifteen.
    Good news. I’m in AP American History this year. They started a new pilot program where they moved some of the top sophomores into AP a year ahead of time. Me, Eytan, Nancy Yee, and a couple other kids are actually mixed in with juniors and seniors.
    Even better news. The AP American History classroom has tables rather than desks. And there’s a new teacher, Ms. Hartwell. She’s younger than all the other teachers. Someone said she just got out of graduate school. That means she’s not giving us the same tired old lesson plans. She has fresh ideas.
    “History is subjective,” she announces in the second minute of class. “Who can tell me what that means?”
    I want to raise my hand. I want Ms. Hartwell’s first impression of me to be special. I’m not just some fat sophomore who got accelerated for good grades. I’m an intellectual. I’m going to get a PhD someday, too, but I’m notsure what subject it will be in. I look around, and none of the other sophomores are raising their hands. Everyone’s afraid, especially with these older kids around. There’s a super high potential for embarrassment.
    A senior with wire-rim glasses pops his hand up. I think his name is Eric. “‘Subjective’ means it’s an important subject,” he says.
    “Not quite,” Ms. Hartwell says with a smile on the corner of her lips.
    That makes the class laugh, and Eric looks pissed off.
    “Anyone else?” she says.
    I’m thinking as fast as I can, looking for some way to get into the game, but I’m coming up blank.
    “That means it’s not objective. It’s someone’s opinion,” a girl says.
    The voice sounds familiar. I shift around to see who said it, but there’s a big guy in front of her blocking my view.
    “How can history be someone’s opinion?” Eric says. “I mean, it happened, didn’t it?”
    “No,” the girl in the back says. “It didn’t happen.”
    The class laughs uncomfortably. Whoever she is, she’s got serious attitude. Ms. Hartwell raises an eyebrow. I look over at Eytan, and I can see he’s excited. He’s rubbing his hands together like he’s ready for some action. He lives for this stuff.
    “That’s stupid,” another guy says. His name is Justin. I recognize him because he was vice president of Model UN last year, and that’s my only club. Eytan’s, too. Eytan nominatedme for chairman of the Botswana Election Committee, but Justin was a dick and blocked me. He said a freshman didn’t have enough experience to be chairman. Then he gave the position to some cute girl.
    Now he tries to block the girl in the back. He says, “Things happen, and people write about it, and those things become history, right? That’s what history is.”
    Most teachers would jump in and explain it now, but Ms. Hartwell doesn’t say anything. She just folds her arms like we’re discussing something really important, and she’s