Conversations with the Fat Girl
Page 19
“Would you like to come to my family’s birthday party?” A little waver in my voice somehow feminizes me.
“Your family was all born on the same day?” Christina laughs, as if we haven’t just finished talking about this. She is now the third person in this conversation.
“No. My sister, stepdad, and I have birthdays within days of each other, so we throw a big dinner to celebrate,” I say, patiently, yet with building urgency. I have to prove to Peregrine and myself that I’m capable of taking the initiative.
“What time?” he asks.
“It starts at five thirty. There are little girlies involved, so we have to start early to allow for the inevitable meltdowns,” I say.
“It’s four o’clock now, so do you want to meet at your house around five-ish?” he asks.
“Sure. Sure. That sounds super.” Once again with the super.
“Okay, then. I’ll see you around five,” he says. Domenic puts his time card in the basket and gives me a little wave as he goes through the back door to the coffeehouse. I can’t help but stare at his ass.
I look past him for one second and get a shot of Peregrine. She is staring right at me. The door swings closed. I look away. Open. There’s Peregrine. Closed. How do you apologize to someone for telling you the truth? Open. She is still staring at me. I’ve got seconds before this becomes something I’m not going to be able to fix. Closed. Seconds before Peregrine and I just stop talking and the silence becomes the norm. How can I go back in there and say Sorry? How can I go back in there and make her understand that I know that she was right but I still don’t want to be her project? How can I convince myself of that? I fill out my time card and head home.
Once home, I hop in the shower and wash my hair. I even exfoliate my skin with some stuff Kate put in my stocking this past Christmas. It smells like pineapple, and my skin feels really soft afterward. I try on every outfit I own. Domenic has already seen me in the leather skirt and the linen pants. But do men really look at what women wear? I mean, couldn’t I wear the linen pants again and a different top? I bet he wouldn’t notice. I put on the linen pants and my tightening panties. A little better. I find a lightweight black sweater in the back of my closet. I try it on. It used to fit small. It doesn’t look horrible. In fact, it fits me just fine now. My Area is a little exposed, but the black works its magic. Isn’t it too soon for anything Gabriel is doing to be working—maybe I am just feeling better about myself?
Domenic knocks on the door at exactly 5 p.m. Solo goes crazy. I open the door while pushing Cujo back with my leg. Domenic reaches out to her, and she flinches. He Frankensteins his way across the room, and Solo skitters away from The Creature. During this display, I notice that Domenic is wearing a new pair of light brown work pants and a striped, short-sleeved collared shirt with a white T-shirt underneath. His black hair is wet, and I can smell the shampoo again. The smell brings me back to the night after Peregrine’s party. I’m beginning to know these smells. The shampoo. The cologne. The aftershave. It’s this combination of his smells that awakens every tingle in my body, because the combination could be nobody but Domenic.
Solo finally calms down and allows Domenic to pet her on the crown of her head. Then she backs up and stands behind me. Domenic has a present in his hand. I am stunned. “Who is that for?” I ask.
“The birthday girl, of course.” Domenic hands me the gift.
“Should I open it now?” I ask.
“Whenever you want,” he says, still trying to go after Solo. She is smelling and licking his hand. What a conniving little vixen.
“I want to open it now.” Partly because I can’t wait to see what he has gotten me and partly because I am too embarrassed to open a gift from a man in front of my family.
I sit with the gift in my lap. It is wrapped in today’s Calendar section of the LA Times. I read about movie openings and celebrity sightings. No tape is used and it looks like origami. Why isn’t the wrapping falling off?
“How was the interview? I didn’t ask earlier because I figured you didn’t necessarily want Peregrine to know.” He is watching me fiddle with the present.
“Nice paper,” I say.
“They sell it every day.”
“Classy.”
“The interview?” Domenic raises a single eyebrow.
“Oh, yeah. It went great. I just really . . . really want the internship. I just don’t want to . . . you know . . .”
“Get your hopes up?”
“Yeah, something like that.” My heart breaks as I realize my hopes are up without me even realizing.
I’m nervous and embarrassed. Anything to get the focus off me. Domenic is lying on the floor now with Solo. That’s fine with me because his attention is split between the gift opening and the dog, and the dog has to be watched like a hawk or else who knows when she’ll snap. I “unwrap” my gift and find a tiny doll in a box that a cell phone came in. The doll is a brown-haired girl in overalls. She is barefoot and holds a small paintbrush in her hand.
“It’s an original,” he says.
“How did you do this?”
“Gram did a series on artists a few years back, and this was one of the practice ones. I was just learning and she let me do the feet. They’re a little big, but I thought you’d like it. She reminds me of you.” Domenic is concentrating on petting Solo.
“Big-footed?” I am nervously giggling and I know my face is beet red.
“No, you know . . .” Domenic looks to the floor.
“I love it,” I interrupt. He doesn’t need to finish. He shouldn’t have to. This is the nicest thing anyone has ever given me. I don’t even freak out that he apparently thinks my feet are huge.
“I wasn’t sure if you would.” Solo has her paw on his arm.
“No, of course I do. Thank you so much, you really didn’t have to.”
“It’s your birthday. You get presents on your birthday,” he says, disentangling himself from Solo. He begins wiping off the thousands of auburn-gold dog hairs that are now glued to him.
“Thank you, again. It’s absolutely beautiful.”
I put the doll on the green table, crumple up the wrapping paper, and begin to take it to the kitchen to throw it away. Instead I turn around and approach Domenic. The whole world quiets and I just see him. I want to stare at his face until I remember every single little detail. When he’s not around, I can’t quite remember what he looks like. What would it be like to be able to know every inch of that face? What would it be like to see that face whenever I wanted?
There’s a moment where you look at someone and it clicks that there is a real person in front of you, along with an intangible something that connects you. You get lost in him. The world goes on around you, but you don’t care about anything else except this person. I want to pull him close and begin something I can’t control.
Domenic stands still—or maybe time has just stopped and in that second his body is still. How long have I been walking toward him? I stand face to face with him and step that couple of inches closer than just friends do. Something in the closeness gives me courage because he’s not pulling away or reaching for the door handle. I reach for the side of his face and feel his wet hair through my fingers. He eases toward me and allows himself to be pulled. I lean to the left a few inches and kiss the side of his face right at the cheekbone. My pink lip gloss swipes his skin as I pull away. Domenic reaches up at the nape of my neck and holds me there. I’m unable to pull away any farther. He is just a little taller than I am, and there is something so male about him right now. I am a woman and right now in the arms of Domenic, I finally feel like one.
“You’re welcome.” Domenic hesitates and then lets his hand drop from my neck as he fusses with the collar of my sweater. I stare at him trying to find a reason. Something I can pinpoint as to why he has stopped. But I can’t find anything. He says we’d better get going. Where? Nowhere, fast? Check. And Check.
Domenic and I drive to Mom’s house in
silence. The radio is on and some inane song is playing. I am replaying those moments over and over again in my head. I begin to grow frustrated. Why doesn’t he make some kind of move? Why is this a love he can control? How can he just let his hand drop from my neck and walk out of the house? What does it take for a man to finally admit that he wants me? We pull into the Gelsons’ Supermarket off Green Street in Old Town Pasadena. I buy drinks and head to Mom’s house. On the short drive from the store to Mom and Russell’s, I try to make some kind of small talk.
“So, are you ready for this?” I say.
“Is this something I have to be ready for?” he says.
“You’ve basically met everyone. Same people from the move, but now you get to see them in their natural habitat.”
“Is there much of a difference?”
“Russell barbecuing can be pretty scary. Don’t get in the way or ask if you can help. He’s killed people for less.”
“Okay, got it.” I question whether Domenic is even listening. He thinks I’m joking, but we’ve all heard the stories about Russell, an ex-marine who now specializes in security for the Hollywood elite. Domenic straightens his pants and looks out his window. The wind blows his wavy black hair around, and I swear this is some kind of porn made especially for me. It’s like he’s in slow motion and ripping open his renaissance-style shirt to reveal his golden muscular chest.
We pull up to Mom and Russell’s and I see Kate’s minivan in the driveway. I panic. What have I done? Am I honestly having this guy meet my parents? Did I bother to think this plan through? I mean, we’re not dating, we’re barely friends, and I decide to bring him home to meet my family? Am I crazy? How can I just walk into my mother’s house with this hastily invited guest? But wait. What’s the problem here? No, this is not how it’s usually done, but he said yes and even brought me a present. Maybe this is just what change feels like? Inviting Domenic to my family’s birthday bash is just like going to the gym or calling Ms. Beverly Urban—I have to get used to being awake. I pop the trunk of my car and go back to retrieve the bags of sodas. Domenic is already back there, lifting them one by one out of the trunk.
“Can you shut that for me?” he asks, lifting his chin to the raised trunk.
“Sure.” Sigh. I’ve done the right thing. Terrifying, but right. You know, it wouldn’t be so terrifying if I knew where he stood in this whole thing. Why didn’t he kiss me? I mean, there we were, music swelling in the background, his hand at the nape of my neck, and then screeching brakes, metal-bending crash . . . and sirens. What the hell happened?
“Hello?” I say, moving through the dining room with Domenic behind me.
“Out in back!” I hear faintly.
I walk through the staging area the kitchen has become. The three birthday-cake boxes are there on the kitchen counter. Ahh, pink pastry boxes o’magic. I am calmed. Kate has her chocolate-on-chocolate-on-chocolate cake. Russell is always a sucker for the carrot. Then I see mine: a beautiful square pink angel-food cake wrapped up like a little birthday present with a real bow and everything. It is absolutely lovely. I smile as I open the back door out onto Mom’s backyard.
“Don’t let the air-conditioning out,” Russell says, back turned facing the barbecue.
I quickly shoo Domenic out and shut the door behind him. We approach the picnic table much the way a bomb squad would a suspicious package.
“You guys remember Domenic from the big move?”
“Sure. Grab a seat and help yourself, Domenic,” Mom says.
She is holding a caffeine-free diet soda, and her makeup is perfect. Her backyard looks amazing. When Mom and Russell first moved into this house, their backyard was nothing but broken pavement and a field of blacktop. Mom has turned it into an absolute paradise through pure Stubborn Workshop and Womanly Wiles. Right off the back of the house is a pergola laced with ripening grapevines. The top of the pergola has Italian café lights strung end to end. Olivia has long been envious. I think at one point she even asked Mom if she could use hers. I believe Mom said something like, “I don’t think so, dear.” Olivia still asks if she thinks I can wrangle the lights from Mom. I don’t think so, dear. There is a small, vintage wrought-iron patio set with upholstered benches and chairs surrounding the main table. If you go farther toward the back, you come upon a huge raised deck. There’s the swing Russell gave Mom for one of their anniversaries when they didn’t exchange shiny trinkets. The spa is on the very edges of the deck by the hammock. Emily and Bella are engrossed in some role-playing game by the hammock, moving terra-cotta pots of lavender to and fro. It looks like they are pretending to exchange money. Only young women would fantasize about shopping.
The table is set perfectly. Tiny silver vases hold single sprigs from Mom’s cutting garden. There are plates of fruit and vegetables and assorted bowls of dips. Kate and Vincent are sitting on the other side of the table. Vincent is working on the tortilla chips and salsa. Kate has her sunglasses on, but I still feel her eyes boring into me.
“We brought sugary sodas, Vincent,” I say.
“Ooohhhh, it’s like high school vending machines all over again,” Vincent says.
Domenic puts the bags on the ground next to the cooler and begins to set the sodas inside. He hasn’t said two words since we got here. He brings over some pineapple-orange concoction and presents it to Vincent.
“This is still pretty cold from the store,” Domenic says.
“Why, yes it is,” Vincent says, cracking it open and taking a giant swig.
“We have about ten minutes until the meat is ready,” Russell says.
“Which means ten additional minutes for everyone who doesn’t like their meat blood-raw,” I say.
“That’s one,” Russell says, back turned facing the barbecue.
“I’ve got one,” I say to Domenic.
“One?” he says as he cracks open his own pineapple-orange concoction.
“Russell likes people to think that they’ve only got three chances. After that, he’s not responsible for his actions,” I say, smiling.
“That’s two,” Russell says, back turned facing the barbecue.
I hold up two fingers and smile.
“That’s three,” Russell says, back turned still facing the barbecue.
“Emily! Bella! Dinner’s ready,” Kate says to the fully enthralled little girls.
They run over and crumple into my arms. They are obviously dressed in outfits they put together themselves. Emily is wearing a blue jumper with a necklace ending in some type of green perfume in a vial. She is wearing pants underneath her dress and tops all of this off with a pair of lavender socks and pink sandals. Bella is wearing a tiny floral dress that shows off her cartoon panties. She also has on a diamond tiara and the ever-present red cowboy boots.
“Hey, crazies,” I say.
“You’re crazy,” Bella says in that smoker’s voice of hers.
“Why did you bring him?” Emily asks, her finger one inch from Domenic’s face.
A hush falls over the crowd.
“I brought the sodas,” Domenic says with a wide smile. I find myself dopily smiling right back at him. It’s so freeing not to second-guess every single emotion I have. I just wish I could look just a tad more intelligent.
“Oh,” Emily says, slowly checking him out head to toe.
“Where did you put ’em?” Bella asks, picking her nose.
“In the cooler. With the ice so they can get cold.” Domenic is trying not to notice Bella’s social faux pas.
Russell begins to plate the meat from the barbecue, and the family settle into their seats. Bella picks at everything and eats only one dinner roll. Emily is a more adventurous eater. She tries the seared ahi tuna, as well as the grilled vegetables. Domenic helps himself to the meat but steers clear of the vegetables. He also ends up mostly eating a dinner roll.
“You and Bella seem to have the same palate, son,” Russell says.
“She’s got good taste,” Domenic says.
We begin to clear the dishes and get ready for cake and presents. Domenic and Vincent have begun talking about some new show coming to one of the networks in the fall. It’s all the rage, I guess. Emily and Bella have gone back to their role-playing as Russell begins to clean his beloved grill. I am left alone in the kitchen with Kate and Mom. Trapped like a rat.
“How was the interview?” Mom starts in.
“Amazing. Fabulous. Everything I could ever want.” I am whipping up the cream for strawberry dipping. Do I have to write down the whipping cream in my food journal if I swipe some from the bowl?
“How do you think it went?” Kate slams the utensil drawer.
“I think it went great. I just feel so . . . weird.” I can’t describe it any better.
“Weird? Weird, ’cause you’re finally putting yourself out there, or weird because of little Mr. Maggie’s New Boyfriend out there?” Kate is pleased with herself as she leans back on the counter.
“Kate, get the candles and start putting them on the cakes and give your sister a break.” Mom is pointing to the grocery bag with one eyebrow raised. Kate jumps.
“Weird, because it just seems like all of this stuff is happening at the same time—the internship, going to the gym, Domenic, and all this stuff with Olivia. Even work is getting so boring . . . I feel like I don’t belong anywhere.” I lop a spoonful of the whipped cream in a Depression-glass bowl Mom pulls from the cabinet.
“You’re finally caring about what’s going on in your life. It’s not all totally random, here, honey.” Mom adds fresh mint leaves to the sun tea.
“Yeah . . . I guess.” I lick the whipped cream and set the empty bowl in the sink. What am I going to write down, “Lick of whipped cream”?
“Can I talk now?” Kate has put close to a thousand candles on the cakes during her silent tantrum.