Conversations With the Fat Girl (2 page)

?But it's the only home Solo has ever really known. I mean

she...she...?

?Solo is a dog. She'll be fine. However hard this is, it will be

so much better than what you've got now.?

?I can't conceive of moving right now. Olivia's wedding is coming up in

less than two months. She's my best friend, for chrissakes, and I can't

even get it together in time for her wedding? I am totally uprooting

and. . . and when am I going to be able to start my new exercise and

diet regimen? I've got a fucking bridesmaid's dress to get into, for the

love of God. I had my life a certain way, and now it~ totally . . .

totally . . . this sucks.?Can a twenty-seven-year-old woman stomp her

foot in public?

Frustrated and ready to move on, Mom changes the subject and we begin

discussing possible outfits for Olivia's wedding. This brings up a sore

subject. I am going to be nowhere near where I want to be for that

wedding. Another date that comes and goes as I fail miserably I can see

the red circle around the wedding date now. Mom assures me we'll find a

dress. I stopped looking in mirrors a long time ago because I never

liked what I saw. I want to look nice and be comfortable. I can't do

that if I'm still where I am now. I start having flashbacks of my

freshman year in high school when Mom said those same words: ?We'll find

a dress.?Sometimes a sow's ear is just a sow's ear.

His name was John Sheridan. (Yes, The John Sheridan. Every high school

has one, different name perhaps, but they all have one.) His blue eyes

were only accentuated by dark hair, a body with broad shoulders that

tapered into a perfect V at the

13

waist. He was at the top of the junior class, played water polo, and

actively dated the mythical Caroline Pond. (Yes, The Caroline Pond.

Every high school has one.) John began tutoring me in French class.

Tutoring, speaking, dating, kissing, you've got to start somewhere. All

I knew how to say was ?Je ne comprends oas,?which means ?I don't

understand.? I argued this was the only sentence I needed to survive. I

liked the class for two reasons: The John Sheridan and the crepes our

teacher, Madame Hart, made every Thursday

During one of our tutorials, John mentioned that Caroline

Pond couldn't go to the homecoming dance. Her parents were

receiving some volunteer award the same night as homecoming.

Caroline had to go to the Volunteer Gala Ball Fund-Raiser, and

John was left out in the cold.

John Sheridan must have seen me as a project of sorts. I was so asexual,

no one would think his relationship with Caroline Pond was on the rocks

if he took me to the dance. On top of this, he was known for his charity

work. Going to the dance with me would be just another day at the soup

kitchen. Pushing this ugly truth aside, I paraded around like I had

landed the date of a lifetime. I was going to homecoming with The John

Sheridan, the only man alive to look good in a Speedo. Now, what was I

going to wear?

At first, Mom, my older sister, Kate, and I naively looked in the Young

Women's department. I was not looking forward to a day of taking off my

clothes, trying on dresses, and enduring my mom and random salesladies

asking ?how everything is.?To keep the shopping experience from becoming

a complete fiasco, I pointed out some problem with each dress. I looked

fat. And each dress only accentuated that. But I couldn't say that to my

Mom. It would break her heart. She couldn't fix that I saw myself as

fat. I felt horrible every time she tossed another

14

possibility over the slatted door of the dressing room. I'd always

feared that hell was really some type of Orwellian reality in which I

would be damned forever to the harsh lights, 360-degree mirrors, and

those damn slatted doors of department store changing rooms. So I only

told her about things she could fix. That way at least my mom stayed

unbroken. ?My boobs don't fit?was always a popular reason. Who could

argue with that? ?It's tight in the arms?was also safe. For some reason,

?tight in the arms? was not as hard hitting as, ?I'm a fat fuck, Mom.

Just wrap me up in a tarp, put some lipstick on me, and roll me in the

direction of The John Sheridan.?

We finally found what we were looking for in the Mother of the Bride

department: a tight pink crepe dress with a dropped waist and Peter Pan

collar. Pleats fell down the front of the dress. Mom said they drew the

eye away from my Area, a term I used when referring to my

ever-burgeoning belly Of course pleats drew the eye away; that would

tend to be the case when one's eyes had so many other places on which to

feast. It was not my first choice, but first-choice outfits didn't come

in my size. We bought the dress.

John drove us to a local Italian restaurant that Caroline had

recommended. Apparently, Caroline Pond ?recommended? a lot. Throughout

our dinner, almost every one of John's sentences started with ?Caroline

says,?as he parroted some Pond Bit o'Wisdom. When he wasn't repeating

something verbatim that Caroline said, he stared at the breadbasket in

the center of the table, tapping his fingers on the large diving watch

that dwarfed his left arm. I sat before him like a child before a

magician-waiting for him to perform as I had always dreamed. But I was

disappointed. It was like catching that same magician smoking a

cigarette and bouncing a buxom trapeze artist on his knee out behind the

big top.

15

Conversations with the Fat Girl9

By the time the waitress asked if we'd like to see the dessert menu, 1

was actively mourning The John Sheridan I had come to love: The John

Sheridan who had the personality I put together out of various S. E.

Hinton characters with sprinkles from the Knights of the Round Table.

The John Sheridan who sat before me now at this tiny Italian restaurant

somewhere in the San Gabriel Valley was nothing like my creation. He

didn't smoke cigarettes he rolled himself, and I doubt he even knew the

first thing about swordplay to defend my honor.

The night ended with us driving by Caroline Pond's house to see if she

was home from her Volunteer Gala Ball Fund-Raiser. She was. I waited in

the car for thirty minutes while Caroline told John about her evening,

so John could recount every detail back to me on the long ride home.

John yelled to Caroline that he would be back in ?twenty? and hopped in

the car. As we pulled into the driveway of my house, I remember thinking

how awkward these last moments were going to be. What was the end of a

date like? Is this where he would finally unveil the real John Sheridan?

I tried to remember every detail so I could retell the story of my first

kiss to Olivia. Olivia who had set her sights on Ben Dunn, the senior

starting quarterback who made The John Sheridan look like The Hunchback

of Notre Dame and was famous for referring to girls he had been with as

?They've Been Done by Ben Dunn.?Classy

I sat still in the passenger seat trying to put what I thought was my

best kiss-me face on. I remember pouting my lips a little and slightly

glazing over my eyes. In retrospect, it must have looked like I was

having a small stroke.

John quickly announced that he had fun but it was getting late, so. . .

Had he learned nothing from his days at the Round Table? John leaned

over and wrapped one single arm around my shoulder as his car idled

loudly He then proceeded to pat at

16

my back like an impatient mom burping her full-to-bursting new baby 1

kept both arms at my side and just sat there, floating above what was

happening. Did he not want to give me the wrong idea? I floated back

down just in time for one last pat. I pressed a smile out and stepped

from the car. Did he think he just gave me some big, beautiful moment I

would cherish and retell at family dinners? Could he have possibly

thought it was anything but awkward and embarrassing for both of us? No,

John Sheridan believed he had given me the thrill of a lifetime. I just

felt robbed.

?Why don't you give yourself a fucking break??Mom snaps me out of my

walk down Memory Lane.

At this point, a small blond family turns around.

?Could you hold it down??I beg.

?You never give yourself a break. You're going to drive yourself crazy

if you live like this for the next couple of months. The wedding is not

about you. It's about Olivia and Adam. I know this is completely foreign

to you, but a lot of people think you're pretty amazing looking.? Mom

sips her diet soda and glares at the small blond family a Pasadena fixture.

?What about my house??I whimper.

?What about it? You've outgrown it, Maggie. Faye Mabb did you a favor.

The only favor she'll ever do anyone, I'm sure.?

On the way home from dropping Mom off, I allow myself to imagine my new

home: an airy summer cottage with hardwood floors and tons of windows. I

begin switching radio stations, desperate to find the correct soundtrack

for my vision. The chiffon draperies dance in the wind as classical

music lilts through thick Craftsman-style walls. (Do all of the radio

stations play advertisements at the same time?) In the fantasy I walk

out on the porch with my mug of steaming coffee, put my hand on the aged

gray banister, and look out at the lush flora and fauna as

17

sun slowly rises in the dewy morning hours. A song finally

comes on that I enjoy I tap along on the steering wheel, quietly

.humming to myself.

Who needs that shithole of a house I'm living in now, anyway? Truth is,

it really isn't all that great. The water pressure like a slow piss. I

have to share my residence with thousands of spiders. I have visions of

myself sleeping at night with them, not Solo, at the foot of my bed.

Solo was miserable in that backyard being tortured by the legions of

cats and their devil offspring.

Faye's back house was the first place I ever lived by myself. I

paid the rent, the water, and the phone bill by myself. I have to

believe I've got more of that in me. Somehow losing this house

has become the queen of all my other unaccomplished goals

and red-circled failures. Surely I can find a new place to live.

I pull into an office supply store. Once inside, I ask the man

behind the counter if he thinks 1 can pack a whole house with

just thirty-six boxes.

?Depends on the size of the house,?he says. His vest is

hanging on his body as if management throws them on their

employees in some warped party game gone horribly awry

?I'm not packing the actual house, you know,?I say noticing his name is

Dennis, who according to the enlarged mug shot on the wall behind him is

the newly crowned Employee of the Month.

?Yeah, I m saying that if you got a big house, you pro'ly

have a lotta stuff. Little houseHe trails off, as any Employee

of the Month would.

?Little stuff. I get it.?

I buy all thirty-six boxes, thank the Employee of the Month,

and cart the boxes out to my car. I stop at the local health food

store and pick up the only unhealthful things inside: ginger

18

cookies, chocolate stars, and the closest thing to a soda I can find. I

grab a couple of apples on the way to the counter and some cans of tuna.

That way the guy at the checkout might not notice the bad stuff. Then I

throw in a different type of soda-a mandarin orange soda. Now he'll

think I'm shopping for a roommate: a roommate who enjoys mandarin orange

soda, ginger cookies, and chocolate stars. I'll tell him I'd like these

items bagged separately

I pull down my Street feeling newly empowered. For three long years, I

begged Faye Mabb to treat me civilly For three long years, I had to park

my car on the street, even though Faye Mabb's long, sacred driveway sat

unused after she stopped driving altogether.

Today I will pull into The Sacred Driveway right behind the bulldozer.

Faye stands in all of her bathing-suited finery at the edge of the

driveway, trowel in one hand, the other held akimbo at her withering,

pachyderm hips.

?Can I help you??I ask, opening the trunk of my Fancy New Car.

?You're supposed to park out front,? Faye says, her tongue pushing at

the corners of her tight-lipped mouth in search of loose bits of saliva.