Artichoke's Heart

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Authors: Suzanne Supplee

Table of Contents
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Suzanne Supplee
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eISBN : 978-1-436-23281-4
[1. Overweight persons—Fiction. 2. Weight control—Fiction. 3. Self-esteem—Fiction. 4. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 5. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 6. High schools—Fiction. 7. Schools—Fiction. 8. Tennessee—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.S96518Ar 2008 [Fic]—dc22 2007028486
Published in the United States by Dutton Books,
a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
www.penguin.com/youngreaders

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This book is dedicated to my mother,
Donna Sue Demastus Gibson (1939-2004),
for her life lessons in faith, hope, and God’s love,
and to my husband, Scott.
But a Book is only the Heart’s Portrait—every Page a Pulse.
EMILY DICKINSON
chapter one
The Resemblance
Mother spent $700 on a treadmill “from Santa” that I will
never
use. I won’t walk three blocks when I actually
want
to get somewhere, much less run three miles on a strip of black rubber only to end up where I started out in the first place. Aunt Mary gave me two stupid diet books and three tickets for the upcoming conference at Columbia State called “Healing the Fat Girl Within” (I’m sensing a theme here). Normally, I’m not a materialistic sort of person, but let’s just say this was one disappointing Christmas.
At least Miss Bertha gave me something thoughtful, a complete collection of Emily Dickinson poems (so far my favorite is “I’m Nobody! ”), and Grandma Georgia sent money.
Still, all I really needed was to be stricken with some mysterious thyroid condition, a really good one that would cause me to wake up and weigh 120 pounds. Instead of experiencing a news-worthy miracle, however, I spent the holiday in sweatpants, with Mother and Aunt Mary nagging me to please change clothes. I refused, citing the whole
comfort and joy
argument. The truth was I had outgrown even my fat clothes. It was either sweatpants or nothing.
Once I’d wolfed down enough turkey and dressing and pumpkin pie to choke a horse, I loosened the string in the waistband and plopped down at the computer. Consumed by overeater’s guilt, I browsed the Internet and gazed zombie-eyed at the countless and mostly
expensive
ways a person might lose weight (how pathetic to be thinking about this on Christmas night). According to a doctor on one website, “losing weight can be even harder than treating cancer.” This uplifting little tidbit was enough to catapult me straight back to the kitchen for two more cups of eggnog—right before bed. When I woke up the next morning, I didn’t even have to step on the scale. Still snuggled beneath my bedcovers, I could feel those new pounds clinging to my thighs like koala bears on a eucalyptus tree. The day after Christmas should get its very own italicized title on the calendar:
December 26—the Most Depressing Day of the Year
. With Christmas officially over, I knew there was nothing left to anticipate but the endless gloom of winter, nothing to look forward to except devouring the secret lovers stashed under my bed—Mr. Hershey, Mr. Reeses, and Mr. M&M. I’m convinced Mother must have secret powers because just as I was about to rip open the bag, the phone rang.
“What are you doing, Rosie?” she asked accusingly. “Have you used your treadmill yet? There’s a new box of Special K in the pantry. They have that weight loss plan, you know.”
“
Mmm
, almost as yummy as packaging peanuts,” I replied.
“I’m just calling because we need you at the shop today after all, Rosie,” said Mother, ignoring my sarcasm. “I want you to take down the Christmas tree. It’s a fire hazard. All dried out and messy needles everywhere.” Translation: Mother couldn’t take the thought of me eating and watching talk shows all afternoon, so she’s dragging me into work. “Miss Bertha’ll be over to pick you up in a few, okay?” She said it like it was a question, as if I actually had a choice in the matter.
"O-
kay
,” I said, annoyed. It’s not even New Year’s Eve, and I already have to rip down the last semblance of festivity and celebration—and
hope
. If it were up to me, I’d leave the tree up all year, but Mother had to shove the manicure station into the closet just to make room for it, and with so many parties right around the corner for New Year’s, clients are clawing (ha-ha) for manicures. Mother isn’t about to swap good business sense for sentimentality. At least there’s time for half an
Oprah
rerun and a few “diet” Reese’s cups (they’re bite-sized instead of regular).
Several hundred calories later, Miss Bertha picked me up, and since the salon is only a mile or two from my house, we arrived within minutes. Mother was giving Hilda May Brunson blond highlights, and four old ladies from the Hopewell Baptist Church, a.k.a. the Quilters, were sitting under hairdryers, clucking like noisy hens. I was humming “Blue Christmas” (the Elvis version) softly to myself and carefully taking ornaments off the sad, dried-out little tree. Everything was thumping along at the barely tolerable level when I heard Miss Bertha say, “Oh, Lordy, here she comes.”
I looked up, and filling Heavenly Hair’s entire plate glass window was Mrs. Periwinkle McCutchin, her arms overloaded with a stack of paper plates wrapped in pink-tinted cellophane, her sausage-sized knuckle rapping the glass for someone to help her with the door. I had no other choice; I was forced to let her in.
“Hey, there, Rosemary, I got you some delicious treats today, darlin’!”
Snort, snort.
Big
Hee Haw
laugh. “You’ll have to wait till Richard shaves my neck real quick, though. You got time to shave my neck, don’t you, Richard?” Richard nodded politely, although I knew for a fact he hated shaving necks, especially Mrs. McCutchin’s. “Reckon you can wait that long to get your hands on my goodies, Rosemary?”
Snort, snort
.
Suddenly, I realized Mrs. McCutchin was actually waiting for my reply. “Oh . . . um . . . sure,” I mumbled. The Quilters gaped. Hilda May Brunson pursed her thin, judgmental lips together. When you’re normal-sized, no one cares what you eat; when you’re fat, it’s everybody’s business.
It took Richard several minutes to shear Mrs. McCutchin like a sheep, and by the time he finished, the Quilters and Hilda May Brunson were standing by the front counter.
“Rosemary!” Mrs. McCutchin called. “Can you help me get some-a this scratchy hair off my back? I won’t let Richard put his manly hands up my blouse!”
Snort, snort. Cackle.
(Richard does not have manly hands. In fact, nothing much about him is manly.)
Richard mouthed a
Thank you, God
at the ceiling and rolled his eyes. “Okay,” I said, and prayed that the Quilters and Hilda May Brunson would leave before Mrs. McCutchin made another giant fuss over the sweets. Slowly, I brushed the stubby black hairs off her barn-sized back.
“Hurry, sugar pie! Willy Ray and me and the boys is gonna try to make it to Catfish Campus before the rush,” Mrs. McCutchin scolded, and then, with everybody listening, she said IT: “Rosemary, I swear you look more like me ever’ day. Why, I b’lieve they got you and my little Willy Ray, Jr., mixed up at that hospital. Honey, you are built just exactly like I was at your age.”
Heat ran up my face like a scared cat up a tree. The numbers of my morning weigh-in flashed through my brain: 1-9-0. Mrs. McCutchin wasn’t a pound under 300.
The next thing I knew, Mrs. McCutchin was trying to pry herself out of the chair. Richard took one side, and I took the other. Somehow, even without the Jaws of Life, we managed to free her and stand her on her feet again. Mrs. McCutchin eyed the heap of treat-covered plates stacked on the worn linoleum and heaved her body forward to grab them. Her polyester skirt hiked up, revealing knee-highs with varicose-veiny fat bulging over. Her pendulous bosom swung in front of her face. Joints crunched. Her cheeks turned a dangerous shade of high-blood-pressure red, and layers of forehead and face and chin and neck pulled toward the ground. For a second, I wondered if Mrs. Periwinkle McCutchin might just turn inside out.
When she was miraculously upright again, the tight little salon expanded with relief. Mrs. McCutchin turned toward me and held up the pile of goodies. I shifted my eyes away from her and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror (the whole salon is nothing but mirrors, unfortunately). It was then that I saw exactly what Mrs. McCutchin was talking about—the resemblance. It wasn’t her imagination. It was real.
“I brought tea cakes and blondies and sand tarts just for you, Rosemary!” she went on. “You don’t even have to share. And the Piggly Wiggly had pink cellophane. Ain’t that the cutest thang!” She grinned proudly and tried to hand me the festive little plates.
All eyes were on me. Every single person in the salon was waiting for my response. In private, I have absolutely no willpower, but in public I wasn’t about to fail. “I don’t want those things,” I said, my voice small and childish. And cold.
“Pardon?” asked Mrs. McCutchin.
“I
said
I don’t want them!” Before Mrs. McCutchin could reply or cry, I raced off to the back room and left her standing there, humiliated. It was like shunning Little Debbie or slapping Sara Lee.
According to one of the books Aunt Mary gave me, a person has to be willing to eat differently even if it hurts people’s feelings or causes conflict. I guess today I did both, although I was so upset about wounding a woman who has been nothing but nice to me my whole entire life, I came home and ate four chocolate bars and two bags of cheese curls.
Not only am I fat, I’m stupid, too.
chapter two
The Insulator
This morning there was a note from Mother on my bedside table—
Take the day off. It’s New Year’s Eve!
After what happened with Mrs. McCutchin and her Christmas treats last week, Mother must think it’s safe to leave me home alone with food. Maybe she thinks I’ve turned over a new leaf or something.
Wrong.
I called Miss Bertha to come pick me up. I knew Mother would need the extra help at the salon, it being a holiday and all. Besides that, I knew if I stayed home I’d start eating and never stop.
Last night I dreamed about Emily Dickinson. I must’ve read a hundred of her poems before bed. I gobbled them up like they were Mrs. McCutchin’s sand tarts. In my dream, E.D. and I were sitting together at the school lunch table when nasty Misty Winters walked by and said, “Hey, Fat Artichoke!” E.D. looked at me strangely, as if she could see straight through to my soul, then she said, “Whatever did you do with your dignity, Rosemary?” When I opened my mouth to respond, all the letters of the alphabet came tumbling out.
The Artichoke name-calling started in sixth grade. All winter long, I’d begged Mother and Aunt Mary and Grandma Georgia (and anybody else who would listen to me for five seconds) for the Insulator. Really it was just a goose-down jacket with arms that zipped in and out. Mother had just purchased the shop. Grandma Georgia was still trying to pay off her lawyer from divorce number three. Aunt Mary hadn’t finished paralegal school yet. Basically, nobody had money for the Insulator.
So the gift seemed that much sweeter when it finally arrived that exceptionally warm afternoon in late March, a few days before my birthday. I felt only a mild twinge of disappointment to find the jacket in avocado green with celadon lining. Quickly, Aunt Mary explained, “They were all out of berry pink!” “You’ll be an original,” said Mother. “You’ll set trends,” Grandma Georgia promised. I wonder what my adolescence would be like today if L. L. Bean hadn’t sold out of berry pink.
All morning long I sweated buckets waiting for the other girls to notice my Insulator. Finally, it was Misty Winters who did. “Oh, my Gawd!” she cried, and motioned me toward her lunch table. Overloaded tray in hand, I made my way across the crowded cafeteria. Finally,
someone
was going to say
something
about my new jacket.
“Did you get your calendar mixed up?” Misty asked.
“What?” I replied.
“Duh!” said Misty sharply. “It’s practically summertime outside, and you look just like a sweaty, fat artichoke in that stupid coat!”
I could tell by their dumb, blank faces that most of the kids at Misty’s lunch table didn’t even know what an artichoke was, but the damage was done, and
artichoke
is a very catchy word for twelve-year-olds. From that fateful day forward, I became the Artichoke, Arti, Chokey, Fat Artichoke. The list of variations is as individual as the name-callers.
Oprah always says, “It’s not about the food.” But right now, it feels very much about the food. All I do is think about food, try to resist food, give in to food, hate myself over food. I dream about food; even my nickname is a food! Heck, my
real name
is a food, or an herb, at least. Why, this very minute there’s a jumbo-sized Hershey bar hidden in my cedar chest, and it’s yelling, “Hey, let me out of here!”
Miss Bertha better hurry up.
Mrs. McCutchin came into the salon today. She wanted a wash and set, since she and Mr. McCutchin were going to Country Sizzlin’ Steakhouse for dinner. She didn’t bring any treats. She didn’t smile. She didn’t call me "darlin’ ” or “sugar” or “honey pie.” In fact, she didn’t even
speak
, at least not to me. Instead, she put on this big act like she wasn’t feeling well. “My heart is just a-flutterin’ like a little bird,” I overheard her say. “My stomach’s right queasy, too.”
“Peri, you need to call that new doctor who took over Harry Smith’s practice. What’s his name? I forget,” said Mother.
“Aw, naw. Me and Willy Ray’s goin’ out to eat tonight. I’ll call Dr. What’s-His-Name next week, after the holidays maybe.” She shifted her weight slightly, and the chair let out an irritable groan.
Mother and Aunt Mary were invited over to Hilda May Brunson’s annual New Year’s Eve party. Mother said she hated to leave me home alone on a holiday, but New Year’s Eve or not, I didn’t care. In fact, I was so totally miserable with myself, I actually
wanted
to be alone. Being by myself was certainly better than sitting through another nag session about Special K or listening to a guilt trip about not using my treadmill (
dreadmill
, as I’d started calling it).
After Mother and Aunt Mary left, I clicked through the channels and tried to occupy myself with festive television programs about the shining promise of a brand-new year. Bored, I went to take a peek in the pantry.
It won’t hurt just to look at food,
I told myself. I kept hoping the unfortunate episode with Mrs. McCutchin wasn’t in vain, that maybe I would start to change— eat better, exercise—
tomorrow
. I stood in the kitchen, closely examining shelf after shelf of canned goods, boxed goods, plastic-bag goods. All of it was boring, the kind of nonperishables people donate to food pantries, as if poor, homeless folks don’t have taste buds. All at once, I spotted something promising. It was on the very top shelf, tucked way in the back—hidden from
me
, more than likely, and then forgotten. I climbed on a chair and grabbed the giant bag of Easter eggs.
It seemed way too pathological to start with the Easter eggs (I guess I was still holding out hope that I wouldn’t actually consume them), so I began with the Hershey bar from my cedar chest. Slowly, I devoured each happy little rectangle. Just before midnight, I switched stations so I could watch the ball drop in Times Square. It seemed a shame not to toast the New Year with something, so I went to the freezer and found two slices of carrot cake (it was
still frozen
when I ate it). I’m not sure how many calories I consumed, but it was probably more than a person is supposed to have in a whole week. If I were a heroin addict, I’d be in big trouble.
All at once, I got this sinking feeling, a wave of self-hatred so violent, a sense of disgust and regret so crippling, I thought I might die. It was the kind of moment that makes people vow to change things. It occurred to me that right that very second, millions of people all over the world were bracing themselves for resolutions. They were having one last drink, one final smoke. Determined to make January 1 my new day, I ripped open the bag of petrified Easter eggs and swore this would be my last ever indulgence.
After the binge, I turned on the treadmill and sat on my bed watching it move. I wondered how long I’d have to run just to work off the night’s calories—from now till morning would probably do the trick. I switched it off again and climbed into bed. I didn’t bother changing my clothes. Sweatpants are multifunctional, like those little black dresses they show in magazines that can go from daytime to evening wear (and in my case, back to daytime again). I lay in bed and thought about an Emily Dickinson poem I’d read earlier that day.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all . . .
E.D., in my opinion, is the perfect (although admittedly slightly cliché) poet for lonely fat girls. Is that why Miss Bertha gave me the book? Whatever her reason, I’m grateful. Instead of trying to fall asleep by counting the day’s calories, I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on that four-letter word: H-O-P-E
.
I held on to it as if it were a life vest.
On New Year’s Day Mother woke me up with bad news. Mrs. McCutchin wasn’t faking. She had a heart attack right smack in the middle of Country Sizzlin’ Steakhouse. She’s barely clinging to life over at Maury Regional Hospital. Mother says they’ve got her on all kinds of machines. Mother also says it’s a wonder Mrs. McCutchin didn’t collapse in the middle of Heavenly Hair. Actually, it would’ve been better if she had. At least Mother and Miss Bertha know CPR. The only thing they knew at the steakhouse was the Heimlich maneuver.
That next Friday morning, all the clucking Quilters could talk about was Mrs. McCutchin. I tried ignoring them. I went to the back room to fold clean towels. I unpacked and priced new shampoo and conditioner in the basement. I even washed the plate glass window—from the
outside
. It seemed like everybody, including the meter maid, was talking about “poor old Mrs. McCutchin” or “poor old Willy Ray, Sr.,” or “those poor little boys soon to lose their precious mother.” I tried not to think about the plate of goodies she’d brought for me just one week ago, or the expression on her jiggly face when I said I didn’t want them.
To make matters worse, school starts back on Monday. I’ll have to face Misty Winters and her lunch table filled with teasers and P.E. and my too-tight, ride-up-in-your-crack gym shorts and hall hecklers and locker bangers. If it weren’t for learning, school would be hell.
But at least that’s two whole days away, and tomorrow Mother is leaving the shop to Miss Bertha, Mildred, our part-time manicurist, and Richard. For the first time since I was twelve, Mother canceled her Saturday clients. Mother, Aunt Mary, and I are spending what’s left of Christmas break in Nashville. Maybe I won’t even think about Mrs. McCutchin one time while we’re gone. Maybe some hope will perch on my soul for a change. I wish it’d perch on Mrs. McCutchin’s heart.
chapter three
Hermetically Sealed
Nashville has way more stores than Spring Hill, so Mother and Aunt Mary were dying to go shopping first. No one bothered consulting me about what
I
wanted to do first, which was
not
shopping. We started out in the petite section (you can imagine how fond I am of the petite section) at Rayman’s Department Store. There was a huge after-Christmas sale going on, and the place was packed.
Mother and Aunt Mary spotted a whole rack of discounted holiday dresses. For what seemed an eternity, I had to listen to Aunt Mary say things like, “Rose Warren, you think I should try the size two in this, or the zero?” To which Mother would reply, “Well, that looks like a mighty big size two to me.”
How BIG can a size two be?
I wanted to scream.
In the dressing room, I sat on a hard bench and watched as Aunt Mary came parading out of the stall wearing nothing but a black silk skirt and her bra. “You know a lot of these places have surveillance cameras,” I reminded her. I could picture a bunch of sweaty men in uniform getting all excited in a back room somewhere. In fact, I’d seen such a thing on television once.
“Well, I hope they enjoy the show!” said Aunt Mary. “Yoohoo, anyone want my phone number?” she said, waving toward the ceiling. Aunt Mary still hasn’t recovered from the fact that she didn’t have a date for New Year’s. “I just don’t understand it,” she said, and sighed, scrutinizing herself in the mirror.
“Understand what?” I made the mistake of asking.
“Why men aren’t just clamoring after me. I mean,
look
at me, Rosie. What is the problem?” She asked the question as if I might actually know the answer. Perhaps I did, but I certainly wasn’t going to say anything. Besides, I knew this conversation would veer off in my direction at any second. When Aunt Mary can’t fix something about herself, she sets her sights on fixing things in other people. “I have a decent face, good hair, a thin body,” she went on. “
I
take care of
myself
,” she said pointedly. “By the way, Rosie, how’s the new treadmill?”
At that precise moment, a very pale-looking Mother stepped out of the dressing room, a pile of discarded dresses draped over her arm. “She hasn’t even turned the thing on,” Mother tattled. It was a sore subject between us. “I don’t think she’s even plugged it in. Have you even plugged it in, Rosie?” asked Mother, stifling a cough. Mother’s had the same cold for weeks. In my opinion, she has no business lecturing me about health issues.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did plug it in,
and
I turned it on,” I said.
“Then what’d you do?” asked Aunt Mary. I glared at her, refusing to answer. She nodded and pursed her lips together in that know-it-all way she has. “You just watched it run, didn’t you?”
“You mean I actually have to get on it?” I asked, being sarcastic, of course. Aunt Mary huffed off into the dressing room, and Mother went to give the rejected dresses to the saleslady. I tried to help her with the heavy heap of clothes, but she tugged them out of my hands again. “I’ve got it, Rosie!” she snapped.
The whole way back to the car, which was parked about twenty miles from the mall, I had to endure yet another of Aunt Mary’s lectures.
Atkins this. South Beach that. Your body’s a temple. Don’t waste your youth being fat. Blah, blah, blah
. Of course, Mother didn’t say a word in my defense. She never does when Aunt Mary, her precious sister, is involved. Mother just walked alongside us and coughed discreetly into a tissue. Just once, I’d like for Mother to tell Aunt Mary to back off and leave me and my thunder thighs and big butt alone, but that’s about as likely as the hyperthyroid condition I’ve been hoping for.
By the time we reached American Eats, the diner down the road from the mall, I’d had enough of my aunt’s haranguing and my mother’s
I’m-staying-out-of-this
silence. Just to show them both who was boss, I ordered a slab of chocolate cake with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and an extra-large order of curly fries and chocolate milk. I was starving, so it wasn’t like I was eating for no reason at all, but even so, the second the cake came, I got this guilty pit in my stomach.
Aunt Mary’s mouth flew open. “You’re not going to eat all of that?” she asked, horrified by my rebellious gluttony.
I dug my fork into the moist chocolate and delicately slipped the first bite into my mouth. Yes, I felt guilty, but the cake was also very, very good. I didn’t bother answering Aunt Mary. My English teacher always says it’s better to show than to tell, and in this case, I was definitely showing my aunt who was boss (the cake, clearly).
“Rosie, you are just disgusting! I mean, have you no shame? No shame at all?” Aunt Mary went on.
I blinked at Mother, sent telepathic messages across the table. Your sister just called me,
your daughter
, disgusting.
Aren’t you going to intervene? Tell her that’s enough?
I slid the cake plate to the side, and squirted a liter of ketchup onto the fries.
“Well, I just don’t know how you can stand yourself! You’re just ruining your life is all.
And
your health. Rose Warren, aren’t you gonna say something? Your daughter’s sitting across the table trying to give herself a heart attack, and you’re acting like it’s no big deal.”
Mother seemed at a loss for words, but then at critical moments like this, she’s always at a loss for words—
hermetically sealed,
I call her. Vacuum-packed like processed lunchmeat. She sighed and put down her spoon. Her soup was hardly touched, I noticed. “If you two don’t mind, I need to use the potty,” she said, and slid out of the booth.
“Well, I hope you’re satisfied!” Aunt Mary hissed when Mother had gone. “You’ve all but ruined our weekend!”
My body may be out of shape, but my smart-aleck tongue is extremely fit. I thought of a million comebacks, but I lacked the energy to use even one. Maybe I am a “disgusting” fat girl, but just once, I’d like Mother to stand up for me, to take my side of things instead of Aunt Mary’s all the time. And no matter what my daughter looks like one day, I will never allow anyone to call her disgusting.
chapter four
Delightfully Enormous
I can’t believe Christmas break is already over. I was hoping to come back to school ten pounds lighter; instead, I’m ten pounds heavier. This morning my bathroom scale said something it has
never
said before—200 pounds! I was tempted to fake some horrible illness and stay home, since I had nothing in my closet that would actually fit, but I knew Mother would never go for it.
“Rosie, you just missed the bus!” said Mother, clearly irritated. She had slipped up the stairs to my room and was standing there, staring at me in horror, and no wonder she was staring in horror. I had my jeans pulled up to my thighs, and I was duck-walking across the floor, my pathetic attempt to stretch them so I could get them over my butt. “Those jeans are too tight.” She sighed.
“Oh, no! Really, they’re fine,” I lied. “I dried them on
hot.
Dummy me,” I said. I stood up and tugged so hard two belt loops broke off.
“They are
too tight
,” she said again. Firmly. “How much weight did you gain over Christmas?”
“Oh, Mother, I don’t
know
! I’m not obsessed over that whole scale thing like you and Aunt Mary. What difference does it make? I am not defined by size,” I said, knowing full well that I’m defined by size.
“Rosie, if you would just try a little.” She coughed.
“Mother, you should spend less time focused on me and worry about yourself for a change. Seriously, I’m almost sixteen years old. I could be fat the rest of my life (
dear God, I hope not
). Are you going to nag me for the next forty years if—?” Mother’s coughing escalated, so I stopped.
Finally, she gave up talking to me and went downstairs to find the Robitussin. I tugged on my trusty sweatpants, hoping no one would notice that now even
they
are too tight.
Mother’s still down at the salon—some sort of plumbing problem. I’m waiting for my sweats to dry and reading an article in the
Raiders’ Review
, our school newspaper. Normally, Spring Hill High School news doesn’t interest me much. All the popular, pretty people staff the paper just so they can fill the pages with pictures of themselves, but I had already finished my homework and I needed a distraction (there are waffles lurking in our freezer).
The article’s about this guy named Kyle Cox. He just transferred into my sixth period study hall. Actually, Kyle was in my honors English class, but he switched to standard after one week with Mrs. Edinburgh. According to the article, defensive lineman Kyle is “delightfully enormous” and “strapping”
at six feet four inches and 260 pounds
. I wonder if at five feet six inches and 200 pounds I’d be considered “delightfully enormous.” Somehow I doubt it.
The waffles in our freezer are homemade. Miss Bertha brought them over yesterday morning, said a good breakfast would build up Mother’s bodily defenses a little. . . . If
my
defenses get any more built up, I’ll be playing defensive lineman alongside Kyle Cox. . . . The timer just went off on the dryer. . . . It sounds a lot like the
ding
our microwave makes. . . . In the pantry, there’s a brand-new jar of microwaveable maple syrup. . . .
How many waffles could I eat and still seem normal?
. . .
Three?
. . .
Four at the most?
I WILL NOT EAT YOU, YOU STUPID WAFFLES!
I WILL NOT! I WILL NOT!
I’m probably the only kid in the whole entire school with a food hangover. Too much partying—
with waffles!
I’m also probably the only kid in
wet
sweatpants. For starters, I left them in the dryer too long last night and they shrank. This happened with a slipcover Mother made once, so she rewashed it, and while it was still damp, she put it back on the sofa. Miraculously, it’d stretched back out again. I figured since my sweatpants and the sofa slipcover are approximately the same size, it was worth a try, but now my sweatpants are wet
and
too little.
At least I have Kyle Cox—
Delightfully Enormous Strapping Boy
—to take my mind off the discomfort. He sits two tables over, and he’s so much more fun to look at than Ronnie Derryberry, the only other person at my table. Ronnie’s fingernails are so dirty you could grow a row of corn under them. Speaking of food, Kyle Cox is as yummy-looking as Mrs. McCutchin’s Heal-a-Broken-Heart chocolate cake. If Shakespeare can compare a pretty girl to a summer’s day, I can compare Kyle to chocolate cake.
Tonight after dinner, Mother came upstairs and sat on my bed. She didn’t say anything. She just sat there staring at my stupid treadmill, which was overloaded with underwear—it does make a great drying rack. Finally, she started plucking still-damp bras and panties off the treadmill. “They’re not dry yet, Mother,” I said. My words came out sharper than I’d intended.
“Couldn’t you at least try it?” she asked, somewhat pleadingly.
“I have homework.”
Mother draped my underwear over a chair and tiptoed back downstairs.
For the rest of the night, I couldn’t help thinking how much better off Mother would be with perfect Kay-Kay Reese for a daughter. Kay-Kay’s the cheerleader/homecoming court/Miss Spring Hill Beauty Pageant Winner/Bluebird Club kind of girl.
This afternoon, Kay-Kay came into Heavenly Hair. While Mother painstakingly trimmed and highlighted Kay-Kay’s perfect blond locks, I restocked the manicure station and eavesdropped on their conversation. Actually, Kay-Kay did most of the talking, but I could tell by the little smile on Mother’s lips she was enjoying what Kay-Kay had to say: Kay-Kay shops at Landis Lane, the new boutique in town; Kay-Kay works out at Harvey’s Gym; Kay-Kay has the sweetest boyfriend, Logan Clark; for Christmas, Logan gave Kay-Kay a tiny diamond pendant (Mother has one just like it); right before Christmas, Kay-Kay was invited to join the Bluebirds (Mother and Aunt Mary were members in high school).
I was so busy listening to Kay-Kay that I dropped an entire box of Goddess nail polish on the floor. The crash was so loud it startled everyone in the shop, or nearly everyone. Mrs. Webb, who’s partially deaf, sat unfazed under the dryer. One of the Quilters peered out from behind the
National Enquirer
and crowed, “Good Lord, Rosemary! Be careful!”
Kay-Kay looked at me as if I’d suddenly appeared in the room by some irritating cosmic force. “Does she work here?” asked Kay-Kay.
And do you know what my own mother said? She said, “Yes!” That was all! Just y-e-s! Not,
Oh, let me introduce you, Kay-Kay. This is my daughter.
Just
yes
.
I stormed off to the basement and made love to a Snickers bar.
chapter five
A Good Hairdresser
I’m waiting for Miss Bertha to pick me up in her tattered old station wagon. It’s left over from all the years she spent raising four girls. Miss Bertha says she’s too sentimental to get rid of it, especially now that they’ve all grown up and moved away. It’s not like she has to go very far from her rinky-dink (her description, not mine) house to the salon and back home again. On days when the salon’s not busy, Miss Bertha lets me drive. She says I’ll pass my driver’s test with flying colors when the time comes.
Last summer, Miss Bertha’s husband took a job with a trucking company. He’s gone most of the time now, so Miss Bertha’s life consists of the Mill Creek Methodist Church and all of us at Heavenly Hair. Miss Bertha didn’t get her GED until a few years ago, but out of everybody I know, it’s Miss Bertha’s opinion I respect the most. I bet she’s read more books than most of my teachers at Spring Hill High School. Not trashy books either. Miss Bertha prefers the classics—in books
and
music.
The schedule at Heavenly Hair is jam-packed today. Normally, I like it when the salon is hopping like frogs after a summer rain, but tonight’s the winter dance, and every girl in town (except for me, of course) is getting her most coveted up-do. They’ll be squealing and screaming into their cell phones like tonight’s the Academy Awards, and they’re all up for Best Actress.
Richard makes fun of the whole scene, calls it a “big rah-rah spectacle.” He sneers and says they’ll be drunk and pregnant before the last song plays. Richard’s bitter. He spent his entire high school career being teased because he’s gay. Finally, he dropped out senior year and went to cosmetology school instead.
“Hi, Miss Bertha,” I said, sliding into the passenger’s seat.
“Oh, Lordy. I’ve never seen so many silly girls in my whole life. Gum popping, cell phone yacking! Seems like it just gets worse every year. No manners to speak of, and
who
are they all talking to? I thought cell phones were for emergencies.” I rolled my eyes but didn’t say anything. Miss Bertha has it in for cell phones. “What?” she asked, looking at me. “
You
don’t talk on one,” she pointed out.
“Exactly who would I call?” I asked. Miss Bertha headed up North Main Street and rounded the courthouse. “Can we stop by Reynolds’s Drugstore real quick?”
“Oh, honey, your mama’s swamped.”
“It’ll just take a second. I wanna get a card for Mrs. McCutchin. We’re going to see her this afternoon.”
“Oh, all right,” said Miss Bertha, slinging her boat of a car into a sliver of a parking space.
“I’ll be quick,” I said, squeezing my way through the tiny space between the two cars.
There was an overwhelming selection of get-well cards, some of them even illness-specific. Funny ones for routine operations, philosophical ones for cancer and other long-term, bleak diseases. There was even a card for a sick pet. Finally, I settled on something short and to the point:
Wishing you a speedy recovery!
I waited in line at the cash register and noticed a large display:
Pounds-Away Products
—Buy two six-packs, get the third free!
—Drink delicious, nutritious Pounds-Away and watch the ugly fat melt!
I pictured Mrs. McCutchin on Pounds-Away, but instead of drinking it, the nurses would hook her up to an IV of the stuff. Within seconds, the fat would melt like hot candle wax—sliding down her puffy cheeks and belly and thighs, dripping off the tips of her fingers, soaking the bed sheets, making a mess on the floor. When the process was finally finished, a hazmat crew would clean everything up.
“Are you gettin’ that?”
“Huh?” I asked, blinking at the thinnish blonde behind the cash register.
“You was lookin’ at that stuff like you might want some,” she said, nodding toward the display.
“Oh, um . . . no, thank you. Just the card, please.” I paid for my nondescript get-well card and hurried out the door, Pounds-Awayless.
Hours later, when the last of the winter dance crowd was finally gone, Mother began packing up a tote bag. “What’s that for?” I asked.
“Just a few tools of the trade.” She winked and dropped her shears in.
“Mother, you’re not gonna shave her neck right there in the hospital!” I protested.
“Oh, no one will know, trust me,” she replied calmly. “Now grab that stack of
National Enquirer
s. I reckon the Quilters will have to fight over
Soap Opera Digest
next time they come.” Mother was in her efficient, take-charge mode. There was no stopping her.
When we first walked in, I thought Mrs. McCutchin was already dead. The air smelled strange—a combination of bad gas, hospital food, and cleaning solution—and Mrs. McCutchin’s eyes were closed, her face the same ghostly color as the sheet. I’d never seen the woman so still or so quiet. If Mrs. McCutchin isn’t yammering on and on about peanut brittle or chocolate fudge or a price reduction at Piggly Wiggly, she’s singing Shania Twain songs or gossiping about movie stars like she’s known them all her life.
Suddenly, Mrs. McCutchin opened her eyes, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Well, hidy, y’all,” she said hoarsely. She cleared her throat and tried again, but the
hidy, y’all
came out as raspy as the first time. “My voice is a mess from that tube they had down my throat.”
I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know.
"How you feeling, Peri?” asked Mother. “What do the doctors say?”
“Oh, there’s no need to get into all that,” said Mrs. McCutchin. “Let’s just visit.”
Mother looked relieved. “I’ll fix your hair if you’d like.”
“That’d be nice,” Mrs. McCutchin croaked. “I ain’t had a thing done to my hair, other than them orderlies trying to wash it. Did you bring your shears?” Mother nodded and raised the hospital bed to the upright position. Mrs. McCutchin smiled up at her as if she were an angel sent straight from heaven. She didn’t say a word to me, however.
While Mother worked, she talked. She updated Mrs. McCutchin about the Quilters: Ida Lee Harris turned eighty-nine; Louise Alcott was planning a cruise; Carolyn Wilson had a boyfriend; Laurie Snodgrass quit the church choir. Mother told Mrs. McCutchin all about fixing hair for the winter dance and about Kay-Kay Reese and what a pretty girl she was and how Richard’s negative energy was clouding the salon. It was hairdresser magic. Pixie dust and abracadabra all rolled into one.
After an hour with Mother, the color was back in Mrs. McCutchin’s cheeks, and she was grinning ear to ear—the TV clicker in one hand, a
National Enquirer
in the other.
So much for modern medicine,
I thought.
Maybe all anyone needs is a trashy magazine and a good hairdresser.
Just as we were about to leave, I handed Mrs. McCutchin the card. “I’m sorry,” I whispered (so softly I’m pretty sure she didn’t hear me).
chapter six
The Radical Weight Loss Plan
I can’t stop snacking. Last night the scale said 203 pounds. And I do mean it
said
203 pounds. Aunt Mary saw a talking scale being sold on QVC, and she decided I just had to have it. She even paid extra to have it delivered overnight. The
American Eats
episode must’ve inspired her purchase.
I just can’t believe I’ve packed on thirteen pounds.
Thirteen pounds!
How did that happen? How can I make it stop?
Why can’t
I make it stop? What if it never, ever stops? What if I’m twenty-five and still tortured by talking scales and well-meaning bakers who keep trying to feed the fat girl? What if at my ten-year class reunion I am still the Artichoke?
I can’t think about this now. I’ll think about something pleasant, like Kyle Cox.
Mmm
, now
he’s
pleasant.
Kyle Cox has curly dark hair. His eyes are brown, I think. I wish I could stash Kyle Cox under my bed with the other man in my life—a Mr. Goodbar I have hidden there. I’d devour both of them. Lust is a lot like a chocolate craving.
It’s no use. My brain refuses to think pleasant thoughts. It’s Tuesday. It’s January. It’s cold and gray and I’m fat and nothing fits. I will have to wear sweatpants to school,
again.
A very radical plan has been forming in my head for days. It’s a stupid plan—
insane
, actually—but I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s right up there with my latest fantasy of living in a starving third-world country just so I can lose weight. Mother is in the shower. Maybe if I hurry, I can put my plan into action before she’s finished.
I just put a jar of mayonnaise by the very warm heating vent in my room. I tossed a pair of dirty sweats over the top of it just in case Mother happens to come upstairs and gaze with disappointment at my treadmill again.
Tonight it begins. . . .
Kyle Cox just caught me looking at him, but he didn’t jerk his head away or act all disgusted like any other Spring Hill High School jock would’ve done. He smiled. At least, I think he smiled. Was he smiling?
At me?
I feel like passing him a note.
Excuse me,
the note would say.
I need to know, were you looking at/flirting with me? If so, why? Are you myopic? Mentally compromised?
I’ll say one thing for Kyle Cox, I’ve been observing him rather closely, and he isn’t one of the Nucleolus Boys (obviously, I’ve spent way too much time studying for my biology test). Nucleolus Boys—NBs, as I call them—are the arrogant, popular ones who think they’re the center of everything, that the entire
cell
of high school revolves around them.
Even though he’s handsome and a jock, Kyle seems more like the centrosome type, close to the nucleus, but not actually
in
the nucleus. Kyle says hello to people. He holds the door open for teachers. He doesn’t make fun of fat girls or anyone else, as far as I can tell. I’m more of a vacuole type. I exist in the outer sphere, but I’m still trapped within the cell membrane.
Kay-Kay Reese just came into study hall to deliver a note to Mr. Lawrence. She had on the cutest outfit—slim-fitting jeans, a cool belt, spiky-heeled boots, a crisp white blouse, and a light-blue jacket. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and she had on giant silver hoops. I would give anything to be more like her.
Anything?
I wonder.
Would I toss out the candy under my bed? Climb on that hideous treadmill and actually run? Would I listen to Mother and Aunt Mary? Do what they say for once?
“Rosie, have you seen the mayonnaise?” Mother’s head was stuffed in the fridge, but I knew she wouldn’t find what she was looking for. The mayo was still in my room, getting nice and ripe and rancid for later.
“I haven’t seen it,” I lied coolly.
“Damn!” She stood upright suddenly and stared at me. “You
really
didn’t take the mayonnaise?” she asked again.
“Mother, I’m not
that
bad off. Raw mayo isn’t exactly my snack of choice!”
“Okay,” she said, still clearly puzzled. When she was out of the kitchen, I slipped a can of tuna into my sweatshirt, grabbed a loaf of bread and some Mountain Dew, and headed upstairs to my room again. These were the last of the necessary supplies.
A while later Mother yelled up the stairs, “Rosie, I’m going to Pig’s to get some mayo. You need anything?”
“No, thanks!” I said. I heard the front door slam. I listened as she eased her Honda out of the driveway. Originally, I’d planned to wait until Mother was in bed to make my tainted mayo sandwiches, but I decided now was as good a time as any.
I piled globs of slimy, hot mayo on the bread and added some tuna to help with the taste (I wasn’t lying when I said raw mayo wouldn’t be my snack of choice). I figured two sandwiches would do the trick. I ate them quickly and washed everything down with Mountain Dew. I sat propped up in my bed and marveled at the fact that tainted mayo doesn’t taste too bad (no wonder the Quilters poisoned half the Hopewell Baptist Church with their potato salad a few summers ago).
Mother was back. I could hear her in the kitchen opening and closing cabinet doors. “Rosie!” she shouted up the stairs.
“Ye-
es
?”
“Now I can’t find the tuna. Did you eat it?”
My stomach clutched up. “Um . . . yeah. Sorry.”
“Good Lord! I swear, I spend half my life at that Piggly Wiggly! ” I could hear her climbing the stairs. Quickly, I scanned my room for any evidence.
Mother stood at the foot of my bed and frowned at me. “Rosie, is everything all right?” she asked. “I swear, I don’t know when I’ve been so worried about you.” She glanced around, and I could tell she was taking inventory of my messy room. Clothes on the treadmill. Shoes piled in
front
of the closet instead of inside it. Random books and hair products and nail polish. “You’re sure you’re all right?” she asked again.
I thought of spilling my guts (no pun intended), spewing my innermost thoughts all over the room. Instead, I gave Mother her own usual reply. “I’m
just fine
, Mother.”
A cloud flitted across her face, and she studied me. I blinked back at her innocently, but already I regretted my comeback. At least when Mother says things are
just fine
it’s because she’s trying so hard to make them that way. I’d used the words just to mock her, and she knew it. We were in some sort of tug-of-war, Mother and me, but neither of us was exhausted enough to let go of the rope yet.
Here’s how the remainder of my
just fine
week went:
Wednesday: Woke up and heaved my guts out. Missed school. Missed work.
Thursday: Still sick. Missed school. Missed work. Wrote up a will just in case (cremate me
and
my sweats).
Friday: Weak but better. Ripped up will. Weighed 190 again.
The Radical Weight Loss Plan was totally not worth the suffering, and if Mother and Aunt Mary find out about what I did, they’ll put me in a straitjacket and have me committed to a mental institution for sure. I might just commit myself.
chapter seven
Rolling Fat Girl
Today, I finally went back to school after my tainted mayo calamity. Yesterday was Martin Luther King’s birthday, so I had a vacation day on top of all the sick days. There was a little part of me that thought maybe someone would say something like,
Oh, where have you been, Rosemary?
or
How are you feeling, Rosemary?
But the only person who said anything at all was Mrs. Edinburgh. I believe her exact words were,
You have a lot of work to make up, young lady.
Normally, I would’ve let the fact that I’m a miserable, unmissed loser ruin my day, but today was different. Right before lunch, I spotted Kyle Cox in the hallway. For a nanosecond our eyes met, and he smiled. At me! This time I’m
sure
he was smiling at me because there was no one else in the hallway. I checked.
All through lunch, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I barely touched my roast beef sandwich and french fries. I didn’t even go back for ice cream or chips or seconds and thirds. I drank water instead of soda. The whole time I sat at my lunch table—all by my freakish outcast self—I was at least
thinking
normal things. Instead of lusting after chocolate, I was lusting after Kyle.
Suddenly, I got this shiny little thought: Maybe under all these bulky pounds hides the heart of a normal girl, one who doesn’t poison herself with mayo or abuse her body with food. I do have these fleeting seconds sometimes when I think I see her. Like a flash, I glimpse this girl—this other me—out of the corner of my eye. She has friends and a social life and self-confidence. I’m not sure how big or little she is, but I’m pretty sure she’s happy. I guess in some ways I am sort of like an artichoke. Maybe I’ll have to peel away the layers to get to the good part.
When the sixth-period bell rang, I was the first person out of my seat. Misty Winters and Tara Waters yelled, “Hey, Chokey! What’s the rush? Is the ice-cream truck parked out front?” I ignored them and kept going. First, I had to stop off by the bathroom to brush my hair and slap on some lip gloss. I wanted to look my 189-pound best for Kyle. I wanted to hang on to that normal-girl feeling just a little while longer. Right before the warning bell clanged, I slid into my seat. Mr. Lawrence looked up and gave me the
I-hate-fat-people
glare, but he didn’t say anything. Sometimes he’s as bad as Misty Winters.
Most of the kids around me got busy with something—picking nails or noses or scabs. Lisa Runions, who sits one table over, pulled long, scraggly strands of her bleached-blond hair around in front so she could see to peel her split ends apart. Ronnie Derryberry settled his greasy head on a stack of unopened schoolbooks (I feel sorry for whoever has to use them next year) and fell asleep.
Slowly, I turned my head in Kyle’s direction.
Sigh.
Major disappointment. There was only his empty chair. I waited. The late bell rang. Still no Kyle. With a heavy heart, I opened my biology book and resigned myself to cells,
again
. Fat cells.
At 1:32, the library door swung open. In one hand, he carried an overloaded book bag. In the other, he held a bright orange late pass. “Team meeting,” I heard him mutter to Mr. Lawrence. At the sound of Kyle’s Delightfully Enormous Strapping Boy voice, my heart thrashed around like a cat in a bag. Heat prickled my cheeks. My palms went clammy.
Love is a lot like food poisoning.
To avoid fidgeting, I sat on my hands and waited for Kyle to take his seat. From my chair to his, there was a perfect view, but instead of going to his usual third row, third table, end chair, Kyle took a sharp turn to the left and sat down in front of one of the library computers.
Damn! Damn! Damn!
Ronnie Derryberry stirred and looked up at me as if I’d actually said the words out loud. There was only one way to get a good look at Kyle—get out of my chair and walk over to the computer table where he was sitting.
Oh, God.
I’d have to pretend to Google something. Kyle need never know his nanosecond smiles had spawned Stalker Girl.
I waited and watched the clock pulse too quickly toward the end of the period. I thought about how, if you’re skinny, walking across the library probably isn’t a big deal. In fact, if you’re cute and petite like Kay-Kay Reese, it’s probably even fun—all that strutting and posing and sticking your good parts out. But, if you’re a fat girl, walking clear across the library is like crossing the interstate blindfolded.
I debated. I waited. Finally, I stood. Chairs were wedged too closely together, and the library was warm and packed with kids. Several times, I had to tap people on the shoulder and ask them to scoot in a bit. There were a few irritated sighs but no outright hostility. Finally, I reached a clearing—there was nothing standing between me and Kyle Cox except some ugly stained carpet. I wiped the sweat beads off my upper lip, smoothed out my too-tight black denim skirt (it actually fits again), pulled at my oversized sweater, and aimed my clogged feet in Kyle’s direction.
Right next to him was an empty chair. Quickly, before I lost the nerve, I plopped my barn ass into it. Big mistake. Warning! Chair on wheels! Rolling fat girl! Instead of sitting
next
to Kyle, I practically sat
on
Kyle. The computer table shook. Two seniors shot looks of pure hatred across the table. Even Mr. Lawrence glanced up from his newspaper. I sucked in my breath and held it there.
“Whoops,” Kyle said, and grinned. With an ever-so-gentle football paw, he slid my chair back to its appropriate position as if I weighed nothing at all!
“Excuse me,” I mumbled, mortified.
“No problem,” Kyle whispered. “Excuse that chair,” he said, and laughed. Then it came—another eye-meeting nanosecond smile. After that, Kyle went back to his work on the computer, which turned out to be checking sports scores on the Internet.
Even though I’ll be sixteen in two months, Mother still insists on scheduling my annual check-ups over at Dr. Cooper’s office. Most girls my age have a GYN and a prescription of birth control pills by now; I still go to the pediatrician and read
Highlights for Children
in the waiting room. To make matters worse, at the end of every visit, Dr. Cooper compares this year’s weight to last year’s weight, then he provides a bunch of bleak statistics on obesity (as if he’s telling me something I don’t already know). Finally, he’ll say, “You need to lose weight, Rosemary.”
Duh.
Mother was quiet the whole way there, but I could tell by the way she kept biting her lip and glancing at me sideways that something was up. I didn’t want to spoil my Kyle Cox good mood, so I didn’t ask her what was wrong. She squeezed into the parking lot and snatched a space next to a behemoth SUV. “Rosie?” she said, shutting off the engine.
“Yeah?” Mother dabbed on some lipstick and checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. “What is it?” I asked.
“Oh, never mind. It was nothing,” she said, and hopped out of the car before I could press the matter.
Inside the doctor’s office, Mother darted toward the waiting room, and I stopped at the glass partition to give my insurance card to the receptionist. “I’m Rosemary Goode. I have an appointment with Dr. Cooper,” I said.
“Dr. Cooper’s snow skiing, hon. You’re seeing Mrs. Wallace today.”
As if on cue, a tall, broad-shouldered woman bustled into the waiting room. “You must be Rosemary,” she said, and smiled at me. I glanced over at Mother, but she had her head stuck in a
Field & Stream
magazine.
“Do you have any idea why you’re here, Rosemary?” Mrs. Wallace asked when we were tucked in her office instead of one of the cold, stark examining rooms.
“I
thought
I was here for my usual check-up,” I replied.
“I know. I’m sorry about that. I asked your mother to please tell you before y’all came in, but I had a feeling she might not.”
“Tell me what?” I asked.
“Well, last week, I ran an ad in the
Daily Herald
. I was looking for candidates to participate in a study I’m conducting for my Ph.D. at Vanderbilt. I’m researching the effects of short-term counseling on weight loss. Your mother was very enthusiastic about signing you up, but she thought you might be reluctant if she pushed the idea on you.”
“So she
tricked
me into coming here?”
Mrs. Wallace looked at me apologetically. “I know that must make you angry. It would make me angry, too, but would it be all right if I just told you a little bit about the study and then you could make up your own mind?” I let out an irritated sigh, and she took this as a yes.
“There’s been some research that suggests that even a few sessions of counseling can help a person shed extra pounds. You see, food is just a coping mechanism, and like all coping mechanisms, it’s used to medicate a problem. A person might feel sad about something, so he or she eats to numb that feeling. Or a person feels empty inside, so he or she eats to fill that void.” Mrs. Wallace settled back in her chair and folded her
un
manicured hands across her lap. I could tell she was waiting for me to say something.
“So you’re at Vanderbilt?” I asked. Since fourth grade I’d had my sights set on going to what Aunt Mary referred to as a smarty-pants college, and Vandy was my number one choice, even though I’d probably have to sell a kidney to afford it. Mrs. Wallace brightened slightly at my question in spite of the fact that it had nothing to do with coping mechanisms.
“Yep, I’m a Commodore fan all the way. What about you?” she asked.
“I’m not really into sports,” I replied. A long uncomfortable silence passed between us. I was trying to make up my mind about whether or not I wanted to be somebody’s guinea pig (no pun intended), and it seemed like Mrs. Wallace was trying to help me along by keeping quiet. “So what would we do at these sessions?” I asked finally.
“Mostly we’d just talk. I’d probably ask you to keep a journal. There might be an article I’d want you to read now and then. We’d meet on Monday afternoons for half an hour.”
“How involved would my mother be with all this?”
“No more involved than she is right this minute,” said Mrs. Wallace. “Listen, you go home and think about it. I’ll put you on next Monday’s schedule, but if you don’t show up, no harm done.” She stood and opened the door for me. No pressure. No lecture. I liked this.
On the way home, I didn’t yell at Mother. She looked tired and defeated somehow, and I knew she’d tricked me into seeing Mrs. Wallace because she was worried. Frankly, that made two of us.
chapter eight
The C Word
I’m supposed to be folding clean towels and pricing a new line of shampoo, but it’s so quiet in the salon this afternoon, I can’t stand being here. Normally, this is the busiest time of day—blow dryers roaring, women cackling, the phone ringing off the hook. Today, however, everyone (except Mother) is over at Piggly Wiggly’s buying toilet paper. The weather forecast said there’d be a “wintry mix” tonight.
After her last appointment canceled, Mother looked at me and said, “I’ve got to go. Close up the shop. Miss Bertha’ll drive you.” Her face was pale and sweaty. For a second, I thought she might faint.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Let me come with you. Miss Bertha can close up.”
“Oh, Rosie, I’m
fine
,” said Mother, putting on her happy face. “Everything’s
fine
,” she said again on her way out the door. Later, when Miss Bertha called to check on her, Mother was
lying on the
sofa
. Mother lying on the sofa is about as normal as my going for a jog.
When Miss Bertha dropped me off at home, Mother really did appear to be fine. “I just had a case of low blood sugar,” she said, smiling. I swear my mother could lose a limb in a fiery crash and she’d look up at the paramedics and cheerfully say,
Don’t y’all worry about me. I am just fine.
The following morning I heard Mother on the phone—at five-thirty—and I knew there was some sort of crisis. I lay in my warm bed trying to translate the muffled sounds from the first floor into distinguishable words.
Had the pipes at Heavenly Hair frozen again? Was the burglar alarm going off?
I glanced out the window. No “wintry mix” after all.
All at once, I sat up.
It’s Mrs. McCutchin,
I told myself.
She’s dead.
Quietly, I slipped down the creaky stairs. I sat on the bottom step and pressed my ear against the door. The kitchen was just on the other side, and I could tell Mother was making her morning tea. I could also tell by the way she was talking that Aunt Mary was on the other end of the phone line.
“He just said I needed a lung X-ray,” said Mother. “And he wants to run tests.” The teakettle started to whistle. Mother rattled cups and saucers. “Hold on a minute,” she said.
A lung X-ray? Why? What sort of tests?
I wanted to burst through the door and ask my questions all out in a rush, but I didn’t. Instead, I crept up the stairs and climbed back into my still-warm bed. Mother wouldn’t tell me what was really going on anyway. She’d talk to Aunt Mary for sure, but not to me. When I ask Mother
why
she won’t tell me things, her standard answer is “Rosie, I’m the parent. You’re the child. It’s my job to do the worrying. ” I know this protective attitude is supposed to make me feel all safe and warm, but it doesn’t. It just makes me feel left out.
According to Grandma Georgia, Mother and Aunt Mary weren’t always so close. Grandma Georgia says once upon a time they were like two dogs trying to piss on the same tree. They fought over everything back in high school—clothes, shoes, boys, friends. After Mother got pregnant with me (at age seventeen! ), Aunt Mary thought she’d finally have Spring Hill High School all to herself—Bluebirds, cheerleading, drama club—but it didn’t turn out that way.
Mother became the topic of choice on the high school rumor mill:
I heard she’s getting her GED. I heard she’s putting that baby up for adoption.
At first, Aunt Mary tried to squelch the rumors with the truth:
Yes, she’s coming back to school. Yes, she’s keeping the baby.
But the talk persisted and the rumors raged. Soon, my aunt avoided the gossip altogether—she skipped Bluebird meetings, missed cheerleading practices. She didn’t even audition for the spring musical.
The way Grandma Georgia remembers it, Mother was furious when she learned her sister was hiding out in shame. “Just act like everything’s fine and ignore them!” Mother ordered. So typical. Grandma Georgia says Mother never missed a beat when she found out she was pregnant. Apparently, she reorganized her dreams the way some people clean out closets—threw out the old ones and hung new ones in their place.
The following afternoon things were humming right along at the salon. Miss Bertha was politely trying to discourage Hannah Pierce, a friend of hers from the Methodist church, from getting hair extensions, and Richard was totally livid. He had his heart set on the 15 percent tip (hair extensions are $400). Apparently, when Mrs. Pierce called to make the appointment, Richard had answered the phone. She does have a very young voice; Richard had no idea that the woman was a retired granny living on Social Security.
Mother mysteriously disappeared, although it wasn’t really a mystery. I knew she’d probably gone to have the chest X-ray. To distract myself, I played around with Richard’s old hairdresser dummy. I renamed her Misty and gave her a fabulous mullet.
Around five, Richard left in a huff. “Good-bye,
Rosie
,” he said too sweetly and let the door clatter noisily behind him.
“Good-bye to you, too,” Miss Bertha mumbled under her breath. “The very idea that he was going to give that poor lady extensions. I mean, really! Can you imagine if old Hannah showed up at church on Sunday morning with hair trailing down her back? I did have a hell of a time talking her out of them, though. I hope she’s not starting to lose it a little. She barely scrapes by on Social Security and a flimsy pension. How on earth could she justify hair extensions? Unless Richard didn’t tell her how much they cost. That’d be just like him, don’t you think, Rosie? Not to tell her, I mean.”
The sufficiently mulleted hairdresser dummy was propped up at Richard’s station, and I was poking her vacant polystyrene foam eyes with bobby pins.
“You’re mighty quiet this afternoon, hon. Cat got your tongue?”
“Mother went for a chest X-ray,” I said. Miss Bertha stopped closing out the register and looked at me. “I know you probably already know about it. I overheard her on the phone with Aunt Mary yesterday morning.”
“So what do
you
think it is?” Miss Bertha asked. I could tell she was relieved in a way to be talking about it. I shrugged and sighed and jammed the bobby pin in harder.
“Hon, Richard still uses that dummy once in a while.”
“I don’t know what it is, but it’s not like Mother to go home from work early and lie down. Whatever it is, I’m sure she’ll never tell me about it. She could be dying and I’d be the last to know.”
“Rosie! Hush your mouth!” Miss Bertha scolded.
“It’s just a figure of speech. I mean, she’s not
dying
. Is she?” I asked, wondering if Miss Bertha knew things I didn’t.
“Oh, of course not! It’s just bronchitis, is my guess. Pneumonia at the worst.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” I replied.
That night at home Mother seemed strange. She was pale again and coughing. She barely touched her dinner, and she was quiet. No
Have you used your treadmill, Rosie?
or
When will you clean up that messy room?
I hung out with her awhile, but I could tell she wanted to be alone. Finally, I went upstairs. I knew better than to ask about the X-ray I wasn’t even supposed to know existed.
Just before nine, the phone rang. Mother picked up downstairs. I picked up upstairs (as if anyone would be calling for me). “Hang up,” Mother snapped. Just as I was about to, I heard a man’s voice on the other end of the line.
Dr. What’s-His-Name? What doctor calls patients at nine o’clock on a Friday night? Shouldn’t he be finishing up dinner at the country club by now? It was bad news.
“Rosie, I said
hang up
,” Mother insisted. Obediently, I pressed the button on my phone.
I fumed. I paced. If I had more nerve, I’d eavesdrop or pound down the steps and demand the truth. Instead, my imagination turned to food—an off-limits bag of nachos and a jar of salsa, snacks for Mother’s downtown merchants’ meeting.
It would be so nice to have my own refrigerator, to buy my own groceries. I could eat anything I wanted then, without scrutiny and judgment. Without warning. Without stopping.
I will not eat
.
I will not think about eating
.
A person eats to numb sad feelings or fill a void,
I heard Mrs. Wallace say.
I fell on my soft bed and closed my eyes. The sound of distant tires on asphalt whispered through the pale blue walls. The next-door neighbor called the dog in from his nightly pee. I slipped between the cool, clean sheets and thought about Kyle, which was sort of like fantasizing about a hot fudge sundae. I knew I couldn’t have either one. Finally, I gave up and went to take a bath.
I filled my claw-foot tub with water and lavender-scented bubbles. Mother remodeled my bathroom several years ago. She replaced the cracked tiles, painted the walls a lovely shade of lavender, made toile curtains. We got the old tub at a junk stand on the side of the road. I thought Mother was crazy when she brought it home, but one of her clients reglazed it for free, and now it’s good as new. It’s the kind of glamorous tub that
should
make a girl feel pretty when she’s in it.
Just as I was about to climb in, I heard a voice. I turned to look, although I already knew what it was. It belonged to the sneaky full-length mirror hanging on the back of the bathroom door. “You’re an idiot, Rosemary Goode,” it said.
“You should be more tactful,” I whispered, poised to hang a towel over the ill-mannered thing, but I stopped myself. I stared at my glob-like reflection—bumps and lumps and dimples everywhere. Not even a nanosecond smiler who appears to be without the sadistic Y chromosome that afflicts so many other high school boys could stomach that, a bulging, hulking, out-of-shape body. The mirror might be caustic, but it’s correct just the same.
After my bath, I headed downstairs. I was ready to devour the leftovers in the fridge, snarf up the Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, feast on Mother’s chips and salsa. I was just about to start. I had my nose shoved in the carton, and I was inhaling the ice cream like one of those addicts who sniffs aerosol cans. I took a deep breath. I closed my eyes.
I thought of Kyle again and his lovely smile. I thought of Kay-Kay.
Quietly, I scraped everything into the garbage, neatly tied up the bag, and tossed it into the outside trash can. Mother would be pissed, of course, but not as pissed as if I’d eaten everything. It was my own private victory, right in my very own kitchen, the least likely place for me to experience victory of any sort.
Mother had been holed up in her bedroom since dinner. Through the walls, I could hear the monotonous droning of some woman on HGTV. This was not at all like Mother. Mother’s a go-to-bed-early, get-up-early kind of person. On Friday nights, she’s asleep before ten because on Saturday mornings—her busiest day—she’s at the salon by six o’clock.
For the first few years after I was born, Mother chugged along like the Little Engine That Could (Grandma Georgia’s description, not mine). She worked for Mrs. Avery, the previous owner of Heavenly Hair, saved every dime she made, built up a loyal clientele, and when it came time for Mrs. Avery to retire, Mother bought the shop. Right from the start, she was ambitious; her goal was to fix every head of hair in Maury County, male or female. She advertised. She did mass mailings. She put ads on the local radio and cable stations. She participated in every community event and even sponsored a softball team. Within two years of buying Heavenly Hair, Mother had doubled its profits. Mother would never stay up this late on a Friday night.
I tiptoed to her door and debated whether or not I should knock. “Come in,” said Mother. “I know you’re standing out there.”
Mother was in bed and still wearing her work clothes. “Sit down,” she said, patting the bed. The mattress sagged beneath my weight. The HGTV topic was slugs. Garden Lady scooped up a fat slimy creature and held it closer to the camera. Mother muted her.
“I went to the doctor this afternoon,” she said without my even asking. I held my breath and cursed myself for dumping Ben & Jerry. There’d be no lovers to comfort me later. I tried not to look at the dark half-moons under Mother’s eyes.
How long have they been there? A month? Six months?
Mother drew in a ragged breath and let it out again. “Normally, I wouldn’t burden you with something like this, but . . . well, Spring Hill is a small town. People are bound to notice certain things,” she said.
“Notice what things? What’s wrong?” My heart pumped furiously.
Bronchitis,
I prayed.
Pneumonia, please!
I could feel blood pulsing toward my face.
“I had some tests this afternoon. I don’t have a bad cold. It’s something called Hodgkin’s disease,” said Mother flatly. She took my hand and squeezed it hard. Two syllables formed the dreaded word. “It’s can-cer,” Mother whispered. I tried to breathe, but my throat closed up tight. “Don’t worry, Rosie.” said Mother quickly. “Everything’s going to be just fine. Even the doctor says so.” Mother kept on talking—
the lymph something or other . . . white blood cells . . . trial versus standard treatments . . . the most curable kind
.
I struggled to listen, to make myself believe the positive spin Mother put on the C word. When she’d finished talking, I mustered a smile and a
You’ll be okay,
but I knew she wasn’t okay. A part of me wanted to confront her with the cancer truth—chemo and radiation and suffering—so we could both deal with it honestly, but mostly I wanted to comfort her, to be the first person she needed instead of Aunt Mary. For a long while, we just sat there in the quiet darkness, still holding hands. Mine was sweaty and warm, hers clammy and cold. I could almost feel the fear pulsing back and forth between us.

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