Pi Face

Pleased to meet you. I’m the fat kid. Every class has one. Although none as fat as me. It caused quite a hoo ha when we moved to the area. The local comp wouldn’t take me because it would mean specially made furniture and that meant the ‘taxpayers shelling out’ or however The Walton Chronicle put it. But then some well meaning women said it was discrimination. Dad said they were a bunch of interfering lesbians so I suppose they knew a thing or two about all that. He also said it was embarrassing and that I should give up on school and get a job. Which is weird because he never did. Same as he always calls me Pie Face Fat Bastard, but he’s the one who eats all the pies – pork pies, shepherds pie, apple pies. He’d eat dog shit if it came with a pastry crust. At least I have taste buds. I loved my mum’s cooking. That warmth that hugged you whenever she’d been in the kitchen. The clatter of pots and pans; the way she’d hum as she set the cutlery down on the table. My mouth still waters at the sound of metal on metal. But the more my brother Tony and I thrived on her homecooked meals, the more Mum shrank before our eyes. Until there was nothing left of her. Literally. To this day all I know is ‘she was sick’ which came from Tony just before he left to join the army. A tear almost spilled from his eye, but he sniffed, then laughed and said ‘See you later Pie Face, you fat bastard.’ It was something, I guess. He barely grunted at Dad before he slammed the back door behind him and disappeared ‘to kill rag heads’. Weeks later, I heard Mrs Wills who used to go to my mum’s slimming class say it was ‘women’s problems’. I had no idea you could die from being a woman and it made me start to see them differently.

So anyway, the lesbians knew all about me being fat and mumless and they put on their itchiest jumpers and those boots that look like they take ages to lace up and stood outside the school for a whole day and the next thing I knew a letter arrived from Walton Secondary saying that ‘provision had been made for my special needs’. It’s a shame they couldn’t have made provision for my special school uniform needs, too. I had to wear a pair of my Dad’s old grey sweatpants that had gone all pale where they’d rubbed at the crotch and some black Reebok’s without laces because my feet are so fat they won’t squeeze into normal shoes. Of course the headmaster said this was unacceptable and my dad said ‘Well, you try getting clothes to fit that fat bastard' and then the lesbians came marching back in and I suddenly had a ‘plus size suit’ and some too long shoes that squeaked when I walked.

Really it doesn’t matter what you wear when you’re as fat as me. All people see is too much. And too much of anything makes people sick. Not me, though. Not now. After mum went to the hospital and never came back I took out every meal in the chest freezer and ate the whole lot in one go. One of her juicy cottage pies with the crisp brown furrows of mash just how I liked it, seven of her handmade salmon fishcakes, three portions of the Bolognese only she could make that way, some buttery mashed sweet potato, a bag of her green beans, two apple crumbles… I didn’t even know what one of the bags was, some sort of stew. I ate it anyway. As I forced it all down, it tasted delicious and sad all in one. With every mouthful it was like she was with me, but also one mouthful further away. And then it was gone and all I had to show for her life was the ache in my belly and I cried. Because even though I was full I had never felt more empty.

And that’s always how food makes me feel now. Full and empty. Empty and full.

So I don’t have to tell you that school isn’t my favourite place. But I don’t really like being at home either, not now. So maybe that’s why when people shout shit at me it just, you know, bounces off. Sticks and stones wouldn’t even break my bones. I’m all padding. Plus no one can hurt you when there’s nothing inside. Like when Kev Wilson shouts ‘Oi, fat cunt’ or Sarah Hillman says ‘I’m not sitting next to the lard bucket, he stinks’. Whatever. I don’t feel sad I just carry on feeling, well, nothing. Nothing anyone says or shouts or throws at the back of my head in science will make me eat any less or make me weigh any less. This is who I am.

Or so I thought. Because after three weeks of going to the school, a new teacher started. Mr Khim. He was small, Chinese looking, but I later found out he was Korean. He’s our new maths teacher. I don’t really like maths. Equations and formulas aren’t really my thing. Sure I get it ‘If you’ve got a fat kid and he eats six pies, three cakes and four hot dogs…' you’ll get an ever bigger fat kid. Whatever. I see how it works, just not why I need it. I have a calculator on my phone.

But this Mr Khim, he walks into the classroom and starts writing all these numbers on the white board.

It went on and on until he ran out of space. Everyone was laughing and shouting and throwing stuff and he just carried on scribbling away until the laughter died down. And then he said ‘Meet Pi’. And Mark Wallcroft shouted ‘We already did, didn’t we Fat Bastard?’ and he got sent out the class and I pretended not to be pleased. In truth classmates shout out about me so much, it just wouldn’t be practical to throw them out of class every time. But Mr Khim was new so he didn’t know this.

And then he explained that Pi is the ratio of a circle’s circumference to it’s diameter. And though it’s a constant number, we can never truly know the value of Pi because its digits go on forever. For our homework he told us to learn the first 10 numbers. How hard could that be, right?

As soon as I got home I Googled it. I don’t know why. There was just something kinda mystical about the way Mr Khim talked about Pi. As though it wasn’t just some number. But, like touching… I don’t know, impossibility.

It turns out the pyramids were all built to the same ratio. Seriously. Even the Bible mentions it. There’s some bit in the old testament about the dimensions of Solomon’s temple and some brightspark worked out it added up to Pi, or whatever. But the bit that really made my head spin was this: maths geeks reckon it’s more correct to say a circle has an infinite number of corners than to view a circle as being cornerless. Right?

All that talk of square circles made me feel dizzy. Because if circles have corners then what else isn’t as it seems? This was just one of my thoughts as I lay on my bed surrounded by empty crisp bags and chocolate wrappers.

And then it happened. The numbers appeared in front of me. Like a wall of digits before my eyes. And they hung in the air so long I fell asleep scrolling through them. And when I woke up they were still there and followed me all the way to school. I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed them before.

3.1415926535897932384626433832795028841971693993751058209749445923078164 062862089986280348253421170679…

But it wasn’t until I got to school and we were back in maths and Mr Khim asked if anyone had done their homework that it hit me. What I was seeing. And before I know it I I’m raising my hand and I’m at the front of the class. I barely notice the laughter or the balled up Post It note that pelts me on the side of the head. It’s as if I’m possessed. 3: the number of times my mum shouted at me in her whole life, 14: her dress size, 1: the number of times she let me see her cry, 5: her shoe size, 9: the date of her birthday in June, 26: the date in August she stopped existing, 5: the number of freckles that framed her smile, 35: how old she was when she had me, 8: her lucky number, 97: the steps we counted together as we laughed our way to the end of Clacton pier, 932: the number of days it has been since she smiled that smile and rubbed my head and kissed me and told me I was her little miracle and more than worth the wait, 3: the number of times she stood up to my father and told him to lay off me and wasn’t he ashamed to hit his son, 8: the number of times she took me up to London on the train to visit the museums, 46: how old she was when she took her last breath. I carry on for ages. Of course, I don’t say any of that stuff. I just rattle off the numbers, all the time holding Mum in my mind. The class is silent. Mr Khim's eyes are glistening. A calm comes over me the way it does when my belly aches from eating and the pain tips into something… I don’t know, almost touchable. And as the numbers swirl around me I can feel her. Actually feel her. 

Infinite: a mother's love. My name is Stephen, by the way.

(By BG)