Read Fat Girl for Free Online Page A

that I have more than a dirty dream of what Dee’s plump body looks like beneath those bulky clothes. Papa T would have my ass for thinking this way about his foster daughter, and Dee would probably be shocked and embarrassed. But it’s my fantasy and I’m playing it out on paper.
    As consolation, I make Dionna fierce in combat. Dee would like that. I’m completely lost in the scene where my heroine and the renegade hero, Dark Shadow—that’s me, naturally—battle the enemy with ninja moves to protect the citadel and its people. I don’t hear him until my bedroom door swings open with a force that knocks it against the wall.
    I can’t shut off in time or cover the application forms on my desk.
    “What the fuck are you doing here?”
    My chest constricts and my lungs work double time as I swivel my chair around to face his question. “I took off early to study.” I’m so used to lying, the fabrication rolls off my tongue. But he’s not buying it. His sharp gaze takes in my computer screen and the papers on my desk, and I know I’m screwed.
    He stalks toward me in his khaki uniform. The gold sheriff’s badge glistens on his chest, and the black revolver sits menacingly at his waist. I can see that his pupils are dilated to the size of saucers. He’s been drinking. I’ve seen the flask he keeps hidden in his office desk and in the glove compartment of his cruiser. On occasion, he comes home at lunch to sleep it off. Figures that today would be one of those times.
    My old man can hold his liquor, though. So as drunk as he is, his advance toward me is steady. Purposeful. I’m a sitting duck but I don’t try to move. As a kid, I used to hide under my bed, up in the oak tree out back, or at Victor’s. Before my mom died in a car accident, she would often put herself in between my father’s fists and me. It shames me to think of how many hits she took that should have been mine. But at eighteen I refuse to hide or let anyone else fight my battles.
    Snatching up the NYU application forms, he growls deep in his chest, “What the fuck is this?”
    It’s obvious so I don’t answer.
    His breathing accelerates like a raging bull’s. Alcohol fumes mixed with the scent of the mints he chews as camouflage blow in my face. He crumples the papers in his beefy hand. “Only pussies and faggots write this shit. Are you a fucking faggot?”
    I don’t flinch or respond. I’ve spent the past three years screwing any pretty chick in a skirt to prove to him I’m not.
    “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear.” His vicious hiss warns of what’s to come.
    A series of hard punches to the chest, kidney, and gut; nothing to leave any visible marks or that will prevent me from being able to practice. I steel my soul in anticipation, because the physical pain is the least of it.
    Only he’s angrier this time. His face is flushed with fury, his teeth bared. He doesn’t tolerate defiance. But he hates my writing even more. I inherited the talent and passion from my mother. And we were what came between him and the basketball career he desperately wanted. Maybe that’s what makes him reckless this time. Because I don’t count on his large fist slamming into the right side of my face.
    The pain is explosive and topples me to the floor. I blink against the dark spots.
    “Still want to write?” He kicks my stomach with his hard leather boot, and I think I’m going to hurl.
    I want to fight back. Fist to fist, I probably could. My father’s a big man, as tall as me, but burly with it, while I’m lean, strong, and quick. But he has that fucking gun on his side. A gun I’ve had pressed to my temple enough times to believe, if mad and drunk enough, he might pull the trigger. And as bad as life with him is, I don’t want to die.
    Another kick slams into my ribs this time. “You will play ball, do you fucking hear me?”
    I hear him but I say nothing. He kicks me again and again, wanting the answer that never comes. I lie in a