Big Fat Disaster

by Beth Fehlbaum

  The sugar and fat I consumed in record time have me woozy enough, but stir in the discovery that Dad’s cheating on Mom, and I’m positive I’m going to puke. I grab my iPod and stretch out on the sofa in the media center (it’s just the room with a sofa and TV). Maybe if I lie really still, I won’t throw up.

  I’m between songs when I hear what sounds like arguing; I press Off and tiptoe just inside the doorway to try to hear what’s going on. I lean forward and when I do, the photo of Dad and that lady pokes out the top of my bra. I push it back into place and peek around the corner into Patrick’s office. Mom’s nodding and smiling—but it’s the smile of hers that looks like a dog baring its teeth.

  Mom does that: She nods and smiles even when she thinks the person speaking is full of shit, and I can tell by the way she’s arching her eyebrows that Patrick falls into that category.

  Patrick Osmer has sweat pouring down his face. He grabs Dad by the biceps and pleads, “Reese, it’s me, okay? If there’s something you need to tell me—even if it’s bad news—you need to let me know so that I can do as much damage control as possible. While you and Sonya were doing the meet-and-greet, some F.B.I. guys cornered me and told me that the campaign finance auditor contacted them. There’s discrepancies, Reese. Big ones. I’m telling you, those agents aren’t fooling around.”

  “Patrick, you’re getting all worked up for nothing. Those guys aren’t real agents; it’s something my illustrious opponent is pulling to try to psych us out. They probably had a video camera and recorded the whole thing.”

  Patrick shakes his head violently, and his voice sounds tight when he speaks. “They knew details about our campaign that the other side couldn’t.”

  Dad bites off each word: “Then. The. Auditor. Must. Have. Made. A. Mistake. Period.” He turns to Mom and says loudly, “Are you about ready to blow this Popsicle stand, honey? I’ll bet the girls are ready to go—”

  “Listen!” Patrick’s no longer pleading. “I saw their badges! They said they’ll have a warrant within an hour, and they’re going to search here, your business office, and your home. Do you hear me, Reese? A warrant!” He addresses Mom. “Sonya, if you know anything, please, tell me. I need to—I mean, we need to do what we can to protect ourselves before it’s too late!”

  Mom fires back, “No, you listen, Patrick! Reese is a rarity in politics: an honest, honorable man. If he says that the auditor made a mistake, then that’s what happened. Maybe you’re not the right person to run this campaign. In fact, if you can’t look those investigators in the eye—if they’re really F.B.I. agents—and tell them that you know without the slightest doubt that Reese Thomas Denton is the person he says he is, then you are definitely not the right man for this job!”

  Patrick laughs, but it’s not a funny-ha-ha laugh. “Lady, I’ve got to hand it to you. I’ve never met a person who trusts as completely as you do.” He takes a step back and leans against his desk, looks from Mom to Dad, and shakes his head. “Reese, they said that this info they’ve got on you—it’s bigger than the campaign. Way bigger. And the dollar figures they’re throwing around are out of this world.”

  Patrick lowers his voice and leans into Dad. “I’m not going down with you, Reese. Tell me the truth: Have you misappropriated campaign funds? Has your investment firm been scamming your clients?”

  Drew runs full-speed into Patrick’s office and yells, “Hey, Mama! Those people out there said that I’m going to be a star!” She turns to Bobby. “And he’s going to be my—what did they say you are?”

  “I’m your backup dancer.” Bobby grins.

  Drew notices me in the media center doorway. “Colby! You should have come out there! We were famous!”

  All eyes turn to me, and I’m high-tailing it for the sofa, but the telltale click of Mom’s high heels on the tile tell me that I’m busted.

  “How long were you standing there?”

  I fumble with my ear buds and try to slide them in, but my hands are shaking. “Huh? Where?”

  She shoots an arched eyebrow at me, takes a dramatic deep breath, and exhales, “The doorway.”

  I shake my head and give my best look of confusion. “Just…I heard Drew come in…and with all her yelling…I didn’t know if…she was, you…you know…safe.” I lie back against the armrest and push Play on my iPod, close my eyes, and hope that my “Wish I Was Anywhere But Here” playlist will help me stop freaking out. I wait until the second song ends to open my eyes and see if Mom’s still there.

  She’s gone, and when I breathe a sigh of relief, the photo of Dad and the woman seems to exhale, too. I slide my finger down the front of my dress and touch the photo. I still can’t believe the guy kissing that lady is my dad. Who is my father, anyway?

  A couple of hours later, I pretend to be asleep when Mom raps her knuckles on the end table next to my head until I open my eyes. I haven’t been snoozing; I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with what I know. Maybe there’s a reasonable explanation for the photo. But I can’t think of anything that makes sense.

  Mom’s shrill: “Wake up, Colby! We’re leaving. Have you seen Rachel?”

  I sit up, swing my legs forward, and put my feet on the floor. I don’t feel the photo’s sharp corners against my skin and for a microsecond, I think it fell out of my bra. I frantically scan the sofa cushions for it but don’t see it anywhere.

  Mom’s voice is flat. “If you’re looking for your iPod, it’s right here.”

  I take it from her and look down as if I’m winding up the cord, but I’m sneaking a peek inside my dress, too. Whew! The pic’s still there. Maybe it’s becoming part of me, like a growth or something. I don’t even feel it anymore. Wish it was that easy to forget the image of my dad kissing that lady.

  I mumble, “Rachel went out with the seniors. She said thanks for the twenty bucks. She’ll be home by ten.”

  Mom straightens and puts her hands on her hips. “That girl. Well, I guess I can’t begrudge her; it can’t be easy to say goodbye to her friends until Thanksgiving.”

  Dad slips in behind Mom and wraps his arms around her waist. He places his chin on her shoulder and presses his face against hers. “Can’t believe we’ll be moving the big scholarship winner to school next week! Then it’ll be just a matter of time before we have an empty nest!”

  I watch Dad’s face carefully—but he doesn’t seem any different. He looks like he loves my mom. But if he loves her, then why…?

  Mom croons, “That’s right, honey. Someday, it’ll be just the two of us again, like the honeymoon days.” She pulls out of his embrace, faces him, and they gaze into each other’s eyes. “Want to grab an early dinner out, sweetheart?” She brushes a hand across his shoulder and straightens his tie.

  He sighs and shakes his head. “Actually, I need to speak to Patrick about these”—he throws up air quotes—“‘concerns’ of his, and try to find out what kind of mischief the opposition is up to. I’ll grab something to eat from my snack stash.”

  My face feels hot; my stomach clenches, and I run my hand over my lips. I fill a paper cup at the water cooler and drain one cupful after another until I’m sure my red cheeks have faded.

  “Where were you during the rally, Colby?” Mom asks from behind the steering wheel.

  “I stayed inside. I…wasn’t feeling well,” I mumble. I stare out the window as we pull out of the campaign headquarters parking lot.

  “Could it be all those chips you ate at El Fenix last night?” Mom’s voice is tight, like it always is when she brings up what she calls my “food issues.” She waits like she expects an answer. All I can think about is my dad and that lady. “Colby? Could you look at me, please?”

  I drag my eyes to meet hers in the rearview mirror. I shift in my seat, and the photo pokes me. I want to reach in and adjust it, but I don’t dare. I guess I could pull it out and show it to Mom so that she can tell me it’s nothing.

  Maybe it’s Photoshopped! Hey, that could be it: If Photoshop can make me
look so different, I’m sure that anything can be faked. I feel myself relax for the first time since I found it. It’s Photoshopped. It’s just something else the other candidate cooked up to gain a few points in the polls. But…why was it taped to the frame’s backing? And why does it look like he was holding the camera to take the photo?

  Mom’s eyebrows make an inverted V. “Well? What do you think? Possible that all that fat and corn are doing a job on your insides?”

  Drew pipes up. “I only ate twenty chips. That’s a serving, right, Mama?” Drew gives me the same sort of judgy look that Mom does. She’s only going into second grade, but she can name the Weight Watchers “Point” value of any food. Mom was teaching her to read nutrition labels while other kids were learning to read Dr. Seuss.

  Drew is Mom’s Diet Buddy. Rachel’s her Fashion Buddy. I’m just Colby, The Fat Girl. I live in the school library, shop in the XXL section when I’m forced to buy clothes, and stay in my bedroom with the door closed. And I have my own snack stash that nobody knows about.

  “Rachel ate lots of chips, too.” I know as I say it that it won’t do any good. Once Mom gets started on dissecting what I ate, she won’t shut up until I promise to try harder to lose weight.

  “Rachel has my metabolism, and you have your dad’s. You know that; we’ve talked about it ever since you were little. You can look in the mirror and see that you take after your dad’s side of the family. You don’t want to end up like your Aunt Leah: a hundred pounds overweight and all alone.”

  I snap, “Aunt Leah’s alone because she divorced Uncle Mark, Mom! He beat her black-and-blue, remember?”

  “Colby! We are not going to discuss that situation in front of your little sister!” Mom glares at me in the rearview mirror so long that she nearly slams into the car in front of us.

  “How could she not know about it already? It’s all you talked about at the Fourth of July picnic after Leah and Cousin Ryan left!” I turn to my sister, knowing full well that I’m going to catch it for doing this. But I do it anyway. “Drew, what did Grandma say about Aunt Leah’s divorce?”

  My seven-year-old sister says sweetly, “The biggest mistake Leah ever made was leaving that man. He’s going places!”

  I mutter, “Yeah, he should have gone to jail for the broken nose he gave her.” I’m watching my mom’s face in the rearview mirror, and I can see her temperature rising.

  “Colby! Enough!”

  “It’s not like you guys censor yourselves when you talk about the”—I throw up air quotes—“‘situation’. What I don’t get is why you don’t believe that Uncle Mark did that, and why Grandma thinks she messed up her life because she didn’t want to be hit anymore!”

  Mom’s definitely not nodding and smiling now: “You don’t know what you’re talking about, young lady. Mark Ellis is a powerful man, and he’s on your dad’s campaign committee. He has a lot of connections who have been very generous supporters. Besides, it’s Leah’s word against his, and the whole family knows that she’s always been infuriating.”

  I shrug and look out the window. “Just seems to me that seeing as how Leah’s actually Dad’s flesh and blood, he’d feel some loyalty to her. At least some protectiveness, I mean, damn, she showed us those pictures of what Mark did, and—”

  Mom’s eyes bug out at my use of a swear word. She swerves hard into the Jack in the Box parking lot and throws the car into Park. She throws off her seat belt and whips around to me. “Look at me!” She waits until I obey. “Now you listen to me, Colby Diane Denton: Your father is an honorable man. His ethics are without question, and I will not have you disrespecting him by questioning his judgment in any way, shape, or form. Leah is a misguided, unhappy woman. Your dad says that ever since they were children, she was always the one to stir up trouble. If he said the sky was blue, she’d say it was green just to be disagreeable. Sometimes, I swear you must be her child instead of mine! You definitely take after her, size-wise! If she’d take a little pride in her appearance, she’d probably still be married.”

  “Gee, thanks, Mom.” I either have a lump in my throat or a Ding Dong. Can’t be too sure at this point.

  Mom rolls her eyes but plunges forward. “Look, even if Mark did lose his temper once or twice, there’s nothing to be gained by the whole world finding out. Besides, who knows what she did to drive him to it? I don’t want to hear you bring it up again. It’s unfortunate that Leah took constructive criticism personally, but the way she handled it, with all that screaming and yelling, was wrong. After all: we are family.”

  “Some of the stuff y’all said to Leah and Ryan was really mean, Mom. Like, yelling at Ryan for telling on what those guys did to that girl? Really?”

  Mom cuts her eyes toward Drew, grimaces, and gives a micro-shake of her head, but I pretend not to notice. “He was the only guy on that football team who picked up the phone and called the cops, but instead of—”

  Mom shrieks, “Enough!” She spins back to the steering wheel, yanks her seat belt into place, and tries to start the car again, even though it’s already running. The engine makes a scratchy-screeching sound, and Mom’s growl echoes it. She grips the steering wheel with white knuckles and glares at me in the rearview mirror.

  I look away. Even though I promised myself that I wouldn’t eat any more today, the Oreo milkshake poster in the Jack in the Box window makes me want one. I breathe in deeply and let it out…glance down to see if the outline of the photo can be seen through my dress. “Hey, Mom? Seeing as how I didn’t steal twenty bucks from your purse and Drew entertained the troops while they folded up chairs, could we get Jack in the Box for dinner?”

  Mom scrunches her face angrily, then suddenly relaxes it and studies her own reflection in the rearview mirror. She runs the tip of her pinky over the flecks of mascara under her eyes, then rubs gently at a smudge of lipstick at the corner of her mouth. “We’re not dogs, Colby. We don’t reward ourselves with food.”

  Chapter Two

  We arrive home to see three black SUVs and a couple of police cars overflowing from our driveway and lining the street in front of our house. A News Ten van nearly sideswipes us when Mom parallel parks in front of our neighbor’s house.

  “Who are those people, Mommy?” Drew asks in a worried voice.

  Mom doesn’t answer; she’s already got her iPhone up to her ear. “Hello, Reese? Anyone still there? Pick up! Pick up the phone, Reese!…The—the—I don’t know, maybe it’s the F.B.I.? And—the police are here, too. Honey, pick up the phone if you’re still in the office. Please! We need you here!”

  She presses End but immediately dials another number. “Patrick? It’s Sonya. Listen, the police are…What do you mean, your attorney told you not to talk to me? You work for Reese, and you will talk to me, do you underst—Hello? Hello?”

  There’s a tap tap tap on the driver’s side window. A lady I recognize from the local news is standing on the sidewalk next to our car. She’s holding a microphone, pointed right at Mom.

  Mom freaks out, throws the car into Drive, and nearly takes out a passing police car when she pulls away from the curb. We speed back to campaign headquarters.

  We find Dad in his office. It looks like a tornado blew through there. Books are knocked off the shelves, boxes are dumped out, there are papers everywhere, and the paper shredder is going full-tilt. He’s oblivious to us as he pulls handfuls of papers from a file cabinet and feeds them into the shredder.

  Mom hisses, “You girls stay out here.” She enters Dad’s office and closes the door.

  Their voices can be heard over the roar of the shredder, and Drew and I exchange worried looks. I stride to the water cooler and fill a cup, then straighten, keeping my back to Drew. I slip my hand down the front of my dress into my bra. I touch the photo, just to be sure that it’s there, and exhale shakily.

  Several minutes later, the shredder stops, and Mom opens the door. She says tersely, “Come in here.”

  Dad’s drenched with sweat. He gestures
to the two armchairs facing his desk and orders, “Take a seat, girls.” He comes around to the front of his desk and leans against it.

  No one makes a sound until my stomach bumps around a dozen Ding Dongs and I stifle a chocolaty burp.

  Finally, Dad speaks in a panicked voice. “You know that in our family, honesty is everything. And…I need you to be honest with me, girls. This is very important.” He looks from Drew to me and back again, ending with me. “My desk calendar is missing. I’ve looked everywhere for it.” He gestures shakily to contents of boxes dumped out on the floor. “As you can see.”

  I concentrate on keeping my face neutral. I can’t meet his eyes so I focus instead on his hands, which are knotted into fists.

  “There was private information about people who have made…donations, on that calendar. Now, if something happened, I need to know about it so that I can”—he seems to lose his train of thought for a second—“protect the confidentiality of my, um, supporters.”

  Drew speaks in baby talk: “I didn’t take your calendar, Daddy.” Why does she always use a three-year-old’s voice? I clench my fists and imagine punching her heart-shaped little face.

  Dad’s eyes are like lasers on me. “Colby, do you have anything you’d like to tell me? Your mom tells me that you stayed inside today instead of coming to the rally.”

  Mom moves to stand beside me. She places her perfectly manicured hand on my shoulder and squeezes it. I feel like I’m the size of Shrek. “You said you weren’t feeling well, Colby. Did you spend any time in here?”

  I swallow hard and run my hand over my lips. Finally, I nod.

  Dad barks, “Drew, you’re excused! Go to the media center and watch TV.”

  “Yes, Daddy!” Drew practically skips from his office.

  He springs to his feet and stands over me, puts his face in mine. I can’t tell if he’s angry or frightened, but I’ve never seen him so freaked out, and I freeze. “Where’s my calendar, Colby Diane? What did you do with it? It’s very important that you didn’t look at it! You’re not allowed to see my private information!”