Conversations with the Fat Girl

by Liza Palmer

  “Why?” I ask.

  “A little accountability. So I can see what you’re putting in your body during the week,” Gabriel says.

  “How long do we have to do that?” I ask.

  “Until I tell you to stop,” Gabriel says.

  “Oh, okay,” I say. Fucking megalomaniac.

  Mom schedules Monday and Friday mornings for both of us. We are responsible for fitting in “cardio” four or five times per week. We’ll start with thirty minutes per day. I am growing excited. Gabriel never uses words that have to do with emotions or failure. It’s science to him. I have this tiny glint of hope for the first time in my life. But then right after the hope, I cringe with fear. Hope is a scary thing.

  Gabriel leads us out into the gym and asks us to warm up on the treadmill. He is a die-hard gentleman who always insists I go first. I am uneasy walking in front of him. I imagine he’s staring at my girth in all its glory, so I walk quickly and give Mom a flat tire in the process. She whips around and tells me to “back it up.” I feel trapped and hot. Gabriel puts his big paw out and steadies me.

  I get on the treadmill and immediately get winded. My legs feel heavy, and they are rubbing together at such an alarming rate that I believe there will soon be a small fire between them. There is a ponytailed girl next to me running at the pace of a young colt in a Virginia pasture. Effortless and graceful. Her ponytail flips in syncopation with her perfect gait. She even smiles at me at one point—her face glowing with sweat, her eyes clear and bright. I thought girls like that in a gym were supposed to act snobby and point and laugh. But the only one here who looks like she might do that is me. Gabriel comes over now and again and checks our progress. Mom is just as winded as I am, so he slows her treadmill down. I feel a little better about myself. Then he slows me down, too. Seabiscuit next to me makes a disappointed face—I fight the temptation to snatch her bald-headed.

  After what feels like five hours—really seven minutes and twenty-seven seconds—he leads us to our first machine. It is a bench-press setup right in front of a wall of mirrors. I am having flashbacks of my nightmare. You lie back on this bench and he helps you raise and lower a bar with weights. This is supposed to help your chest. The last glimpse I get of myself lying down reminds me of a shot that might come from a home video camera in the birthing room. All that’s missing is a pair of stirrups and a crowning baby.

  “Go ahead and give me seven more, Maggie. Gooood, and three, two, and ten more.” I almost drop the bar. Gabriel’s voice is melodic, like an X-ray technician or a doctor as he says, “Relax, this won’t hurt a bit.”

  “Wait. You said seven more and then you went all the way back up to ten,” I say, raising and lowering the bar.

  “You didn’t look tired,” Gabriel says while he leans on the bar itself. The weight I have to lift has now doubled.

  “Wait—what? Well, now you’re just leaning on it!” I am horrified.

  “Okay, good. Now give me three more.” Now I know that Gabriel is a big, fat leaning-on-the-bar liar. As far as I know, I could be here all night. I do seven more and he finally hooks the bar back into the notch on the equipment.

  Mom is next. She does approximately five total. The whole time she looks like she’s in complete pain. Gabriel doesn’t lean on the bar at all and even passes my mother her perfect little water bottle when she’s done. As she’s getting up from the bench, my mother winks at me. The bitch. It’s on.

  Gabriel moves us over to this other medieval torture device. On this one, he demonstrates that you’re supposed to lie back down, lifting your body weight with your legs as the equipment rolls back and forth. It works your “quads,” he says. All I can see is that this position is pretty near pornographic and there’s no way in fucking hell I’m doing it.

  “Maggie?” Gabriel asks.

  “Yeah, you know what? My knee is . . . um . . . hurting, so I’m gonna pass,” I say, massaging one of my random knees. Mom shakes her head sadly.

  “Oh, there’s no passing, Maggie. Go ahead and hop on up there.” I hate you, Gabriel James. A pox on both your houses, Gabriel James. I climb into the equipment, securing my head and then lifting my legs up into the gynecological position. Gabriel stands at the base of the machine and positions my feet so they are just so. I can’t believe how uncomfortable I am—both physically and emotionally. I am waiting to bend my knees when I hear it.

  “Uuuuuuuggghhhhh!” It’s coming from the corner of the gym where the free weights are. In my mind, I dub it “Testosterone Corner.” A corner rife with musclebound men in tiny tank tops and huge parachute pants. There is a definite Neanderthal energy wafting from The Corner. I fear the men who inhabit it will club me from behind and drag me into their cave by my ponytail. I crack a smile thinking that maybe Gabriel will join in. Mom has her hand over her mouth while she scans the gym for the grunting culprit.

  “Uuuuuuuuuuuggggghhh!” Again from The Corner. This time it’s much louder.

  “Do you hear that?” I ask, still perched at the top of the machine.

  “Okay, Maggie, go ahead and just bend the knees all the way down,” Gabriel instructs.

  “Uuuuuuuuuuuuugggggghhh.”

  “Be sure not to lift your heels from the base, and as deep as you can get it,” Gabriel continues.

  “Uuuuuuuuugggggghhhhhhh!” I bend my knees as far down as I can go. But in this position, with that noise going on, I feel like I’m in some bad virtual porn movie.

  “Is it getting hot in here?” I ask, on repetition seven, or—as Gabriel likes to call it—repetition one.

  “I can turn on a fan, if you’d like. And three more, two, and six more.” Gabriel is leaning on the top of the machine again.

  “Uuuuuuuugggggghhhhh! Yeah! That’s the good stuff!” The man drops his weights to the ground in a fury of victory. I feel like we should all light up a cigarette.

  I crawl out from the machine and grab my water bottle. Mom is next. She holds her hand out as if she’s stepping into a horse-drawn carriage. Gabriel obliges. Mom lies back down on the machine and bends her knees down for one repetition. She gets back to the top and resituates her body.

  “I just can’t seem to get comfortable, hon,” Mom says. I roll my eyes.

  “Okay, well, let’s just do a couple more and then we’ll be on to the next exercise. And three, two, aaaand one. Great job.” Gabriel extends his hand once more, and Mom hops down from the machine. There is the tiniest of smiles on Mom’s face.

  We follow Gabriel to several other machines. I realize that my body is hurting. But it feels good. I feel muscles in parts I had forgotten about. My shoulders feel alive. My Area is even a little sore. And not just from the telepathic messages from my head telling it that it is Evil. As the session comes to an end, I am smiling and joking with Gabriel and Mom. We say good-bye to him and promise to bring in our food diaries the next time we meet. Before I get ready for work, I make my first entry into my food diary. I decide to tell the whole truth and nothing but.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Then Stop Acting Like One

  As human beings, we crave adrenaline rushes and roller-coaster rides as a kind of foil for the boredom of our lives. But the truth, the very essence of life, is that pure adrenaline rush of change—those terrifying moments when we find ourselves in situations that are new and unknown. Rather than redefining a relationship with a lover or asking for a raise at work, though, we go white-water rafting or buy the fastest Porsche on the rod because we’re looking outside ourselves for a fire that burns hottest when ignited from within. You can control when and where that terror is felt and for just how long when you are driving a Porsche or riding a roller coaster. Looking at change and therefore life as that adrenaline rush means you hand over the keys.

  I am late to work again, but Peregrine is the manager, thank God. My breath gets back to normal as I pass her with an I’m-sorry face and walk into the back room. I ready myself to see Domenic. He is not at the sink as he normally is. I have
n’t spoken to him in what seems like forever. Our work schedules have been exactly opposite, and I decided right away I was not going to call him. He didn’t call me, either. I guess we were agreed on that. We so belong together. I tie my apron around my waist and head out to the counter, where Domenic is bending down filling the little refrigerator with milk.

  “Hey, I didn’t know you were here!” I am genuinely happy to see him—and for once I show it.

  “I was hiding,” Domenic says.

  “Good thing I didn’t do anything embarrassing.” Wasn’t I going to try to work on not saying the first thing that came into my mind?

  “Yeah, good thing. Where have you been?” Domenic asks, standing.

  “I could say the same about you,” I say, noticing Peregrine watching us like a tennis match.

  “We have a big deadline with some of the dolls. There were eight in the order. I also got a line on this gallery in Silverlake that is interested in my sculpture. They want me to be a part of their next installation. So I switched most of my shifts with the Dre. I meant to call.”

  “Solo missed you,” I say.

  “You met Solo?” Peregrine asks.

  “Yes, I did. She loves me,” Domenic says.

  “That little bitch wouldn’t even come near me,” Peregrine says.

  “Had her eating out of the palm of my hand,” Domenic says.

  “You don’t call, you don’t write,” I say, turning my body so my back faces Peregrine.

  “Tell her I miss her and I’ll stop by soon. While I’m at it, I owe her mom a dinner,” Domenic says as he heads out front to bus the outside tables. I smile as he walks out.

  The hours pass with Peregrine making small talk and doing a lot of sighing. I refuse to start sputtering out an explanation to her. If she wants to know what happened, she needs to ask. So until then, she can just play her little silent-treatment game. A game that’s not much fun if it’s just one person playing, by the way. Not really a game at all—you’re just being quiet. I know I’m being childish. But there’s something oddly adult about it as well. Peregrine needs to ask and not stare at me in a motherly way or drop hints. Just ask. There’s a degree of respect and equality that Peregrine can’t seem to muster.

  “What was that about?” Peregrine finally asks ten minutes before my shift ends.

  “We had dinner the other night,” I say.

  “You didn’t tell me that,” Peregrine huffs.

  “Didn’t I?”

  “Wait, you’re not pissed about Sam—are you?”

  “No, pissed isn’t the right word. Maybe I’m insulted—kinda embarrassed?” I’m in uncharted territory with Peregrine. My face grows hot and I wish I could take back everything I’ve just said. Smile, Maggie. Tell her you enjoyed your little man-whore experience and if she could just change your diaper everything would be fine.

  “Insulted? I don’t understand.” Peregrine hammers the espresso out of the coffee handles.

  “I don’t know, okay. Can we just drop this?” I don’t think I’ve been this upset in years. I can’t even put my finger on why. I have approximately five more minutes on shift. I pace myself and take deep breaths.

  “How can you not know? Come on, button. Let’s try to get to the bottom of this. You can talk to me about it.” I don’t know if it’s the way she says button or how she’s portraying herself as my savior-therapist, but I snap.

  “I don’t need to get to the bottom of anything with you. I don’t need you to throw me in the water to teach me how to swim. You should have just told me Sam was a guy—that’s all. I would have been ready—maybe I would have even been a little excited and turned on. I sure as shit would have shaved my fucking legs. I just felt silly, you know? Like stupid—like you didn’t respect me or think I was, I don’t know . . . maybe worthy of an explanation. I know you thought you were helping, I really do—and it’s awesome you think of me that way—but . . . I just don’t feel comfortable talking about this kind of stuff with you.” I exhale.

  “Then who? What—are you going to call Olivia? Are you going to leave a message on the answering machine and hope she picks up?”

  What? I now know this fight is going to be that one knockdown, drag-out fight you should never have with someone other than a family member. Every one of your friends has a zinger: the one thing that you can never make fun of them about or throw in their face. It’s an unwritten rule of friendships. There are some issues that are kept far beneath the surface, never to be used in anger. If you exhume these zingers, you have to be ready for an apocalypse of sorts.

  “What did you just say?” I visualize the dirt cascading off the top of the coffin now, with Peregrine standing next to the hole—her red rose primed and ready.

  “I was just noting that you’ve really got no one else to talk to about this. Olivia being a bit absent and all.” Peregrine stands firm.

  “Really? I’m a little curious . . .” I trail off.

  “About what, lamb?” Peregrine leans in.

  “How the fuck you know anything about anyone but yourself.” I stare her right in the eye. She backs away.

  “What?”

  “I’m not your project, Peregrine. I’m not a little potato you put in a glass jar to see if roots grow. I’m also not fucking five years old—and I think, no, I know I’m getting sick of you seeing me like that.”

  “You don’t want me to treat you like a child? Then why don’t you stop fucking acting like one—huh? You come in here and talk and talk and talk about boys and how fat you think you are and how Olivia won’t call you back . . . and I just stand here. And what? Do you think I don’t remember anything? Or put two and two together? You get off on being everyone’s project. You get off on other people’s pity. So don’t come to me and say that I’m the one treating you a certain way—it starts with you, honey.”

  I am speechless. I start to object. Then I slowly realize she’s right. She has just wrapped my entire psyche into a neat little package and spit it right in my face. When my shift comes to an end, I storm into the back room, leaving Peregrine standing there for one second too long, mouth open, waiting for my comeback. There isn’t one. My comeback is ignoring her and that neat little package. At least that feels good; no wonder Cole does it all the time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  That’s One

  My birthday has been the backdrop of many a fantasy: A tearful marriage proposal while strolling on the beach in Malibu. A blowout birthday party at a club where my rock-star boyfriend plays a song in honor of my birthday as I blush in the candlelight of my reserved table. A tiny cake and some company. But up until now it seems that the hours just pass and my birthday slips away without measuring up to my fantasies. This one day belongs to me and me alone. Maybe I try to make too much of it and set myself up for failure. But I want someone to bend over backward to make my day unforgettable. Period. I’m tired of doing all the orchestrating myself. I want a man who won’t let my day slip away.

  During my years in school, I rationalized that my birthday went unnoticed because it was during the summer. Mom, Kate, and I would go to Ernie Jr’s Taco House, where I’d order my favorite bean-and-cheese burrito. Mom would tell the waiter to put a candle in an order of flan and we’d share the dessert. Kate’s birthday is in late July, Russell’s is one day before Kate’s, and mine follows in the first week of August. Olivia fit right into the mix because her birthday landed just a few days after mine. Mom brought up the rear by celebrating her birthday in late August. As the years passed, the tradition continued, and my family began to celebrate all our birthdays at one big bash in Mom and Russell’s backyard. The summer birthday season has always been like a second Christmas for our clan. But now with the big bash looming, I can feel my unfulfilled fantasies regurgitating in my throat.

  “What are you up to tonight?” Christina asks, leaning over the sink. At least she didn’t introduce herself to me again.

  “Family dinner.” Is Peregrine going to come back
here and kick my ass? Why am I so angry?

  “What’s tonight?” Christina hitches her pants up and turns to face me.

  “Our family all has their birthdays within days of each other. My stepdad’s is July twenty-third, my sister’s is the twenty-fourth, and I’m on the first of August. We choose a night that falls a little before all that hubbub and celebrate all three.” Why is it that talking to Christina is completely calming me down after my fight with Peregrine?

  “You don’t celebrate on your birthday?” she asks.

  “We do that, too. Just cake, though. Tonight is about a big dinner and presents. Russell, my stepdad, barbecues. We just really make a party out of it,” I say from the bathroom, grabbing my purse and long black sweater.

  Domenic comes back into the back room. He and I are both off shift at the same time. Peregrine’s words are ringing in my ears: You get off on being everyone’s project. You get off on other people’s pity. So don’t come to me and say that I’m the one treating you a certain way—it starts with you, honey. Am I angry with the wrong person? Am I shooting the messenger? I try to think about something else.

  The birthday party. I’ll think about the birthday party. You get off on being everyone’s project. The birthday party, Maggie. Focus. I realize I have been looking forward to tonight more than I have admitted even to myself—even though I don’t have someone to bring with me. Why does everything hinge on having a man?

  “Sounds nice,” Christina says, turning back to the sink.

  Fuck it, I’ll think about that hinge later.

  “Domenic?” I ask. My voice is too loud. I hardly recognize it. Christina turns around.

  “Maggie?” Domenic does this faux accent that’s reminiscent of an inspector in some old-timey English mystery. Now that was moderately interesting—endearing.

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Nothing. The order went in yesterday, and I’ve finished all my sculptures for the Silverlake thing, so I’m footloose and fancy-free,” Domenic says. Footloose and fancy-free? Old-timey accents? Eyes on the prize, here. Golden. Keep him golden.