Baby Fat

one

"Are you putting weight on?" Bradley's mother—Cassandra—asks him. He's barely gotten into the kitchen but she still pries. Bradley rolls his eyes before grabbing an orange from the wooden fruit bowl on the island.

Cassandra's eyes look him up and down from her place on the other side of the kitchen where she chops the last of the fruit up for her and her husband's smoothies.

Bradley laughs bitterly, peeling his orange from the dark brown kitchen table. He's getting juice on the wood when he squeezes a bit too hard. His mother stands 5'6 weighing about 105 pounds so she has no idea what "fat" is. However, Bradley knows she worries, in her own way, about him being the fat kid at school.

"Are you?" he counters. Cassandra purses her lips, attempting not to throw insults at her stubborn 17 year old son. She's far too used to the comeback from him, but that doesn't stop her from wanting to snap at him. She shakes her head disapprovingly while she tosses her fruit into the blender and turns it on for thirty seconds.

After the blender turns off, Bradley asks his mother, "Why are you even asking?"

She hums for a few minutes, pouring the smoothie into two metal cups.

"Just looking out for your well-being, is all," she shrugs.

Bradley knows it's a half-ass excuse. There's always a catch with her.

"Hmm," Bradley mused, obviously not believing her.

"We have this event in a few weeks and I wanted to make sure you can fit into the suit from last year." There's the catch.

Immediately, Bradley declines, "I'm not going."

It's not that Bradley wasn't going to fit into the suit—Bradley knows he'll fit in the dumb suit—it's just that Cassandra and Graham's, his father, events were the biggest pain in the world. Cassandra takes a long gulp of her smoothie before responding.

"Honey, I know you hate the events but you have to meet people in the industry to make it big in choreographing," Cassandra explains, even though Bradley has heard the speech dozens of time. Bradley knows that the Johnson reputation as the perfect family has to remain perfect, no altercations. He understands that his mother is a control freak who's completely obsessed with the idea that her only son was going to resemble his fathers career wise, but that doesn't mean he accepts it.

"I don't want to choreograph ballet," Bradley mutters, rolling his eyes. He eats an orange slice and looks at his mother, waiting for her say something back.

Cassandra huffs, "Stop being so stubborn," her voice is sharp, and stern. "Dad will teach you everything you need to know."

"Leave me alone," Bradley says so quietly his mother doesn't hear him. She fiddles with her gym clothes for a few seconds before telling Bradley something about talking to his Dad. She leaves slamming the garage door behind her.

Bradley and his mother have different outlooks on life. His mother was raised on ballet. She ate, drank, and slept ballet since the age of twelve. She wants that for her children, she wants them to fit into a mold she's created of them in her mind. But Bradley will never fit, and Cassandra fails to accept that.

After finishing his orange, Bradley goes to his posh living room and lies down on the black leather couch. He didn't want the couch at first, hated the way the leather would stick to his fat, but he accepted it after awhile. He opens Netflix and attempts to decide what to watch.

He browses through "My List" for a few minutes before choosing The Vampire Diaries, even if he's seen every episode more than twice. While the show is loading, Bradley decides to call his best friend Corrie Hughes.

They've been best friends since kindergarten. A kid called Bradley weird and Corrie smacked him which ultimately lead to a punishment. Corrie hadn't even tried to convince the daycare lady he didn't do it. Corrie was never one to tell a lie. Corrie and Bradley remained friends for the next 11 years of their lives, having decided right there and then they were both outcasts and should stick together. Oh, how the tables turn.

When someone picks up after three rings, their voice surprises Bradley. It's a feminine voice, higher and softer than Corrie's.

"Hello?" The mysterious girl asks.

"Uhh," Bradley stumbles, "who is this? Where's Corrie?" He's tentative with his words.

"I'm Whitney," the girl—Whitney—informs Bradley. Her voice sounds disappointed when she asks her next question. "Didn't Corrie tell you?"

Bradley silently curses Corrie. Usually, Corrie tells him when to call and when not to call. Bradley has to schedule his talk time, unfortunately.

"Oh, yeah. He did," Bradley fibs for the sake of Whitney's dignity and self-esteem. He picks at the blanket he's thrown over himself, waiting for Whitney's response.

"So, was there something you needed?"

Bradley then realizes that he did call for something but he can't recall. "I'll just call back later."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Whitney giggles. Bradley finds it oddly annoying, but he doesn't say anything about it. "He'll be busy."

Bradley physically gags. He doesn't want to hear the details of Corrie's sex life, mainly because it's repulsive and that he doesn't care all that much either. He hangs up, not considering how rude it was not to say goodbye.

After the first episode of The Vampire Diaries, Bradley dozes off.

•••

Bradley's woken up by the slight sound of a phone ringing. He scrambles to find his phone before discovering it's not his phone that is screeching. He checks the time. Six-forty-eight at night. Bradley groans because he's been asleep since three.

"Bradley," his father—Graham—pulls him away from his thoughts. Graham has short golden blonde hair, a beard that makes him look five years younger than he is. He doesn't look a day over 36, good genes run in the family, Bradley supposes.

"Hmm?" Bradley sits up, pushing the blanket off of himself and smacking his dry lips together. He turns to face Graham, who's caddy corner to him sitting on the other, larger, black leather sofa.

"We need to talk," Graham says seriously. He closes his MacBook and sighs heavily.

Bradley groans internally, wishing he hadn't woken up for this of all things. "How about we don't and say we did."

"Look, I know you're uncomfortable talking about your we—"

Bradley cuts him off, snapping at him, "Don't say it. If you say it you can't take it back." Bradley places his feet on the ground and pushes himself up. He stretches his limbs. His black t-shirt lifts up when he raises his hands above his head, he hastily pulls it down.

Graham doesn't say anything else about the subject. "Fine. Your mother wants you to come to the event. It's important to her that you meet people. It's a very big night for us." Graham explains mad if Bradley hadn't heard it before.

"I don't care." Bradley states. "You tell me that every time, and I don't care. I've been to enough of your dumb ceremonies, awards shows, and dance recitals to last a lifetime, so no, I'm not going." With that, Bradley stomps out of the room angrily. He grasps that ballet is life consuming. He just wishes that his parents could see beyond the bright lights and see him, their son.

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☒ - unedited