by Liza Palmer
Mrs. Morten has taken over the role of photographer. It didn’t hold my attention. I have spent the first hour running around grabbing pins and telling Olivia how the dress looks from every angle. At one point she asked me at what angle it looked the most like a size 2. I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying The one staring down at the tag. I’m no longer in on conferences regarding the dress. I’m reduced to giving thumbs-up or thumbs-down. But no one really minds one way or the other what my thumb is doing. I could shove it up my ass for all anyone cares.
Mrs. Morten is snapping pictures from every angle. My new game is avoiding being in the background of any of the snapshots. After that gets old, I start watching the girl by Olivia. I noticed her when I came back with the disposable camera. She is quite heavy and holds it all in her middle. I know Olivia spotted her as well. It’s the reason she’s positioned herself four platforms away. Once again, it’s the Fat Entity Theory. As in any subculture, there is a pecking order among the overweight ranks. Those afflicted with the disease of obesity constantly compare themselves with other overweight people, the perennial question being whether they are as fat as that woman or this other unfortunate girl. And being in close proximity with another of your overweight brethren doesn’t bring you comfort. Quite the contrary. It brings shame and backbiting. No one wants to shop in the second-floor Plus Size department—the proverbial Fat Girl HQ. And once you no longer have to shop there—like the welfare line or traffic school—you want to forget you were ever there. This is the club that Olivia has distanced herself from. She doesn’t want to be among the alumni. She doesn’t want the monthly flyer. She wants nothing to do with the culture of being fat anymore. And really, who can blame her? I wear my membership with shame—covered up with coffeehouse aprons and untouched by human hands.
Today, Olivia must do the unthinkable: try on her wedding dress next to a woman of size without imagining people are comparing her with the girl on the next platform. The overweight bride’s maid of honor is snapping pictures of her day as well. The maid of honor is dressed in funky fashions that look thrift store vintage but actually cost more than new clothes. She and the mother of the bride, who weighs about a hundred pounds wringing wet and who’s ravishing in a white-and-black Chanel suit, look on and commiserate about the outcome of this session. They fret about the outcome of this session. What are they to do? The dress they ordered came in the wrong size and there’s only six weeks until the big day, I overhear. They can’t order another dress like this in her size and guarantee it will arrive on time. The girl stands on the viewing platform and is silent.
I watch her. She is me. Bridal shop workers run to find bigger sizes. When she emerges from the fitting room, there is no celebration, no thumbs-up. Just someone to quickly throw a shawl over her shoulders, an accessory they feel is a must. Sometimes she emerges with her girdle fully visible in the back because some dresses can’t be buttoned at all. Then the call comes.
“Go get the next size up!” Martine herself cries, with chiffon wrap in one hand and a tape measure in the other.
What young girl imagines her wedding day as a fat bride? How many months passed during which she told herself she would lose weight? I identify with the look of horror on her face as she tries not to act like she’s dying a little each time a dress doesn’t fit. I identify while at the same time distancing myself from her in every way. You smile for your mom and best friend and suck it up. They assure you the dress looks great. But there’s always a beautiful girl next to you who has the salon helpers ogling her. The beautiful girl they never once hand a wrap.
CHAPTER TEN
Most Like a Supermodel
Once in an English class at Cal, the assignment of the day was to write about your favorite place. I sat there, unable to think of anything. I looked around at all the smug faces of the other students who couldn’t wait to tell everyone about sitting on a porch in some chair their grandfather whittled or standing under the great oak where they received their first kiss. Then it came to me. I was most happy while driving in my car. What does it say about me that my favorite place is en route to somewhere else?
“Hey there, Christina, how’s everything going?” I walk into work early and find myself in a good mood because of it.
I don’t know what it is about Christina. I want so badly to get along with her to prove to myself that I’m not a skinny-woman hater. Just because someone has a great body doesn’t mean I have to insult her or think her inferior. Christina Dahl is turning out to be a tough one, however.
“I applied for this acting school, like, to help my career.” Christina’s “career” consists of some morally questionable fashion shoots on an assortment of chrome-plated vintage cars where her only direction was to “look hot.”
“Oh, that’s great. When will you find out if you got in?” My voice is high and forced.
“Yeah, I got in . . . I said I applied.” Christina stops and puts her hands on the rim of the sink. “I don’t know why people have to be such bitches sometimes.”
“Are you having problems with someone?” You stereotypical tart.
“My best friend started all these, like, rumors about me. I know it’s just because she thinks I’m jealous of her and her boyfriend.”
“And you’re not?” I ask.
“Fuck, no. Her boyfriend is like this hairy guy with clothes, you know . . .”
“Yes, people with clothes can be very disconcerting.”
“It’s, like, not even about that, you know. I mean if she really had something, like, going on that was good, I would be jealous.” I finish tying my apron around my waist and pull out my T-shirt.
“But that’s hard to find,” she continues in a quiet voice, whisking her bangs out of her face.
I stop. Has Christina Dahl said something mildly insightful and touching? Can she be one of us underneath?
“You’d be jealous of a man like that, of a relationship like that?” I ask.
“Who wouldn’t? I mean, like, most guys I go out with are much older, you know? Sometimes I think they think all I’m about is being sexy. I was voted Most Like a Supermodel at my last acting school.” Christina has told me that nugget of information ten times since the big election. I have already drafted my letter to the Better Business Bureau regarding an acting school that has elections with categories such as this priceless example.
I only have seconds before Cole notices I am gone and about thirty minutes before Domenic comes in for his shift. To be seen back here chatting up Christina Dahl would definitely be something. Maybe I can learn from The John Sheridan. I am doing charity work. I will look at my relationship with Christina as a bit of mentoring volunteer work. Wouldn’t it be great if she turned out to be a girl who isn’t all caught up in her looks, who believed herself to be intelligent and good at other things rather than showing off her midriff and ass crack at the drop of a hat . . . a hat, a spoon, a leaf from an autumn tree . . . hell, at the drop of a mention from some frat boy wanting to see some ass. Enough. I am not jealous. I will find the good in Christina Dahl. Underneath that tiny, barely clothed figure there is a girl who just wants to be accepted and loved, to have somebody hold her hand as she lies dying. I will find our common ground.
“I’d better get on out there. You know Cole.” Maybe later. That common ground will still be common tomorrow.
Christina begins to get the mop bucket out of the bathroom. She has to make the back room look perfect before Domenic arrives. Once again, she has fallen behind. She looks hesitant. I get a sudden wave of energy to start my mentoring right now, so I stop a second before I walk out.
“Your best friend sounds like she may be a little jealous of you,” I say. “She knows you disapprove of her relationship and thinks it’s the one thing she’s got that you don’t. Just try to understand where she’s coming from. Women can be especially cruel to each other, you know, and jealousy is usually at the root.”
“Well, I know she’s jealous of me. I mean . .
.” Christina trails off and traces the outline of her figure as proof. “But that doesn’t mean she has to be a complete bitch about it.”
Fucking conceited ass . . . this is going to be harder than I thought.
I shake my head, push open the door into the coffeehouse, and wonder how it is that a brainless twit like Christina has such confidence and I, a worthy candidate for it, have nary a speck. I never think anyone is jealous of me, except maybe bulimics and anorexics for eating anything I want and keeping it down. But this girl just walks around knowing people want to be her.
I remember Kate telling me a story about when she enrolled Emily in ballet class at the Pasadena Athletic Club. Kate was told to bring Emily to class in full ballet togs so she could hop around for an hour with a former ballerina named Miss Janie. Upon their arrival, Kate was horrified to see that all the other little girls were wearing little black leotards and pink tights. Emily, on the other hand, was in pink from head to toe, including her tutu and sparkling wand. Kate turned to Emily thinking her daughter would be humiliated.
“Sweetie, are you okay?” Kate asked gently.
“Yes, Mommy, I’m fine,” she said. “I hope all the other girls are okay with what they’re wearing.” And into class she walked, sparkling wand in the air, to greet Miss Janie.
I want to be like that. I want to be seven years old again. I want to go back to the day my confidence left me and was replaced by an apology.
“I found a place,” I say to Cole.
“Where?” Cole is going through the pastry shelves in search of the perfect victim.
“Pasadena. A house. A tiny house, but it’s got a great vintage look to it. You know, woodwork, a fireplace, and hardwood floors. The whole shot.”
“Oh yeah? Sounds nice.” Cole is pulling out a piece of mocha chocolate cake and a piece of cheesecake.
“Sounds nice? What it sounds like is a goddamn miracle.”
“Hey, sailor. Watch the mouth, okay? I said it sounds nice.” Cole is now putting two pieces of cake, two scoops of Fosselman’s chocolate ice cream, and whole milk into a blender.
“I’m moving Fourth of July weekend,” I announce as I pour my nightly cup of decaf coffee into my favorite porcelain mug.
“You’re moving?” Domenic asks, walking in fifteen minutes early.
“Oh, yeah . . . I got thrown out of my old place and found a great new one. I’m moving in Fourth of July weekend.” Wanting to act suave, I keep the porcelain mug at my lips. Somehow, in my mind, this seems European.
“Independence Day, huh?” Domenic strides past me into the backroom.
“Yeah, Independence Day!” I shriek, as Domenic walks out of earshot.
I decide to clean the toppings area by the ice cream case before Cole tells me to. I will begin refilling the sprinkles, nuts, and cookie bits, which are all coincidentally stored in the back room. Where Domenic is. Heh.
I stack four jelly jars of ice cream toppings on top of each other and push through the back room door butt-first. Butt-first? I have obviously gone temporarily insane. The door swings shut behind me. I set the jars on the metal rack that holds the dish dryer, extra ice cream cones, and all of the delectable topping refillables.
“Hey, there.” Domenic is sitting outside with the back room door open. Domenic is comfortable sitting with his latest novel and a soda in one of those 1950s brown plastic cups.
“Hey there, whatcha reading?” I glance at Christina, who is now bending over, dustpan in hand, sweeping up the last bits of trash on the ground. I glare at her ass. I sneak a look at Domenic. Is he looking? Is this the ass of his dreams? Does it matter that this perfect ass is connected to an insipid, arrogant tart?
“Darkness Visible? William Styron?” Domenic flips the book to reveal the cover.
“Oh.” I’ve never heard of it and have no idea who he’s talking about. I am silent.
“So are you excited about moving?” Domenic continues.
“Absolutely. It’s kind of magical. The house is beautiful. Just beautiful.” I am now the type of person who uses words like magical. This is new.
“What makes it so good?” Domenic sets his book down.
“Nothing. Well, not nothing. I mean, it’s pretty boring stuff, you know. Like girl stuff.” I look to Christina. She blankly stares back at me with the eyes of a circling shark. I once asked her how she decorated her bedroom at her parents’ house. She said she loved matching black, white, and red. “Kinda like those pictures at hair salons.”
“Makes sense.” Domenic takes a sip of his soda as punctuation and picks his book back up.
“Boring stuff like hardwood floors and a fireplace,” I almost yell.
“It has a fireplace?” Domenic turns the page.
“Yeah. The house is tiny. It’s four hundred sixty-two square feet. But it’s big enough for one person. You know, and my dog. The rent’s okay, a little more than I was paying, but definitely worth it, considering.” I have finished refilling the toppings. Now I find myself wiping down the metal rack itself.
Peregrine walks through the door right on time for her shift. She gives me a big thumbs-up as I talk to Domenic. My face turns bright red and I feel like I have feathers sticking out of my mouth—like I’ve been caught. At what—I still don’t know. Flirting? Behaving like a woman? Blocking Christina’s perfect ass from Domenic’s view?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sam
Madonna’s “Crazy for You” was playing in the background at Bellis Music Camp’s farewell dance. I played a mean viola. He was first-chair upright bass. The only problem with my fantasy evening was we were wearing the same charming outfit—plaid shirt and khaki pants. If we’d danced together that evening, we would have looked like an old couple celebrating their fiftieth anniversary at a hoedown somewhere in the Midwest. But we didn’t dance. As I lurked on the fringes, he sat on a piano bench oblivious to my affections, sipping his yellow-colored drink from a Dixie cup. That was the last time I spent my birthday with a guy. Technically, he didn’t even know it.
“Christina? Cole says you can go home. Domenic will finish anything you didn’t get to,” Peregrine says.
Christina unties her apron and meets her waiting flock of model-actress friends in the coffeehouse as Cole beckons Domenic. I am alone in the back room with Peregrine. Her face is drawn, and I am uncomfortable with having to ask her what’s the matter. You don’t do that with Peregrine. Well, I don’t do that with Peregrine.
“So Movie Night, huh? What made you choose Garland and Streisand? Remember when they sang together that one time and Judy was all hopped up and grabbing on Barbra? Funny, huh? Hey, is Inez going to be there?” As I babble, Peregrine is rummaging through the medicine cabinet in the employee bathroom. She pulls the dental floss from behind the mouthwash.
Peregrine and Inez met at a Gay Pride parade. Inez was at a booth gathering signatures in support of gay marriage. Peregrine was “dressed” as Lady Godiva on the back of a white horse completely naked, save the long blond wig.
“I went to my grandparents’ last night and brought Inez,” Peregrine says. I can barely understand her through the act of flossing and for one second think she’s said that she fucked her girlfriend in front of her grandparents.
“Oh?” I hesitate.
“I was finally going to introduce her as my girlfriend. I e-mailed my mom and told her, but she couldn’t care less. But my grandparents, that’s a different story.” Peregrine never talks about her mother—though everyone knows that this little move out west was not about running to something. It was more about running from someone.
“So what happened?” This is my stock conversation filler. Peregrine may love to talk about herself, but she demands active listening. If I don’t make some attempt at a proper reaction, Peregrine will assume the story is dull and either add more hyperbole or pepper the narrative with juicier details. This could add hours to an already lengthy tale.
“They’re the only family I really give a shit ab
out . . . so.” Peregrine walks outside and lights a cigarette.
“What happened?” I ask.
“I totally backed out and introduced her as my friend, ‘like sisters.’” Peregrine takes a drag. She looks off into the distance.
“So what happened?”
“I’m all right. Inez is a little . . . unhappy. She’s been out to her family for years, and she thinks I’m embarrassed about us. That couldn’t be farther from the truth. I just don’t know how my grandparents are going to take it, and I can’t risk it. What if . . . I can’t imagine not having them in my life. Something about that made me think of you and Domenic.”
She said you and Domenic like we’re a couple. I think I’m missing the point here. Peregrine continues.
“That moment where I lied to my grandparents. That one moment—maybe two seconds—that’s how you’ve lived your whole life so far.” As a closeted lesbian?
“What?” I ask.
“You have feelings for Domenic.”
“Maybe.” I think about the sheet of paper next to my telephone that harbors my elaborate doodles. Mrs. Maggie Brown. Mrs. Margaret Thompson-Brown. Mrs. Margaret Brown. Mr. and Mrs. Domenic Brown. Domenic. Domenic. Domenic. Domenic and Maggie. Maggie and Domenic.
“So go after him. What are you so afraid of?”
“Nothing.” Everything.
“Is this the whole sex thing?”
“Hey, I’ve been with someone, you know.” I start biting my nails.
“Ten seconds with the great mathematician doesn’t count.” My face goes bright red. Peregrine continues, “Would you do me a favor?”
“Sure.” I think she’s going to ask me to stock the straws.
“You get your eyebrows done over at that spa on Green, right?” Peregrine is digging through her pockets as her cigarette dangles from her mouth.
“And pedicures,” I brag.
“Look, if you refuse to get yourself laid, will you at least go over there and get a massage? Maybe that’ll stir something up.” Peregrine pulls the pencil from behind her ear and writes down a name and direct line on a piece of paper she pulls from her pocket. Another direct line. Great.