Conversations with the Fat Girl

by Liza Palmer

  “You sit in front of us, Maggie,” Emily says, always the hostess.

  Mom buckles herself in and says hello to the girlies. They give a rousing hello back and ask Kate to turn the music back up. Kate has mastered the balance control on her car stereo so the music is louder in the back than it is in the front. This makes the girlies happy, along with everyone over the age of six who doesn’t want to listen to the latest animated movie anthem.

  “I quit Joe’s,” I blurt.

  “What?” Mom says. The girlies are suddenly as still as statues.

  “Good for you,” Kate says.

  “Sweetie, you didn’t belong in that place,” Mom says.

  “Aren’t you worried about how my bills are going to get paid?” I say.

  “Should I be?” Mom asks.

  “I have a plan,” I say.

  “Would this involve a certain Roman emperor?” Kate asks.

  “Marc’s Face and Tell Us!” Bella screams. Emily nearly explodes with frustration.

  “I figure I’ll hear from Beverly Urban any day now, and if I don’t, I’ll find a job with one of those temp agencies until I find a job at another museum.”

  “Sounds good,” Mom says.

  “So you’re okay with this?” I say.

  “Of course. You’ll make more as a temp than you ever did at Joe’s, and I don’t think you’re going to be waiting long for Beverly Urban to get back to you,” Mom says.

  “So what do you need to get today?” Kate asks. I am breathing easier. According to this family, quitting Joe’s is the best thing I could have done. Apparently, they’ve been waiting for this for two years.

  I try to hold back the tears. It doesn’t matter how much you tell the girlies you’re crying because you’re happy. They still think it’s because you’re sad. I try to take deep breaths. But I am crying because I’m happy. Who else has a family that would celebrate quitting a job? I was bred to succeed. I was bred to stand atop jungle gyms.

  Kate, Mom, and I discuss possible color combinations for me and talk about what they might wear. I’ve been saving money ever since I found out Olivia was getting married. I wanted to be able to buy some new clothes for the festivities.

  “Who is watching Solo while we go to Las Vegas for Olivia’s shower?” Kate asks.

  “I asked Domenic.”

  “Domenic from the party?” Emily asks.

  “Yes. Domenic from the party,” I say.

  “Donemic is crazy,” Bella says.

  “I think somebody has a crush on Domenic,” Kate says, pointing at Emily.

  “He’s nice.” Emily laughs.

  “He brings sodas and has my same palace,” Bella adds.

  “Yes, he’s pretty nice,” I say.

  “Does he know about Solo’s . . . tendencies?” Kate hesitates.

  “She’s been to obedience classes,” I say.

  The entire minivan is quiet.

  “Yes, he knows about her tendencies,” I admit.

  We pull into the mall parking lot and unload. I am feeling a little carsick from constantly looking back at the girls and their demands. We take the outside escalators into the Beverly Center and begin the search.

  As I walk through the stores, I fear I’ve already let myself down as I drift to the back of the racks where they hide the bigger sizes. I should have lost X amount of weight before this day came. But there’s a small part of me that is oddly okay with it. I feel strangely hopeful that working with Gabriel and writing my food down will finally work for me. The rest of me, the scared part of me, believes I will probably fail again. No matter what I buy here today, will I still be seen as Olivia’s fat friend? My cell phone chirps as we are going up yet another escalator.

  “Hello?” I ask.

  “Hey, girl.” It’s Olivia. I mouth this information to Kate. She rolls her eyes.

  “Hey, there. What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Wedding mayhem,” she says.

  “I would suspect,” I say.

  “So Vegas, huh? Did you make all the reservations?” Olivia asks.

  “Yep. Martinis at the Caramel Bar first thing, just you and me. Then high tea at Petrossian, dinner at Prime . . . shall I go on?” Mom and Kate are staring at me. I think Kate is asking me to hand her the phone. I stumble off the escalator. Bella tells me to be careful.

  “No, no. That all sounds great. So I’m going to fly in with Gwen. Did you reserve a room for us? Did you get her e-mail about upgrading us to a better suite—one of those villas if they have one—my Adam said he’d pay for it.” I did get that e-mail. I made the call, and now this phone conversation is reminding me of one you might have with a travel agent—not a maid of honor.

  “Yep, got the e-mail. Everything’s taken care of,” I say calmly. Kate and Mom are now walking in front of me talking shit about Olivia in very loud voices. The girlies skip and dance about ten feet in front of them, oblivious to everything.

  “Okay, just making sure. Is there any way you can have the Bellagio just send me a confirmation e-mail about the villa?” Olivia asks.

  “I don’t know if the Bellagio does confirmation e-mails, but I’ll check.” Who the hell am I talking to? Or more importantly, who the fuck does Olivia think she’s talking to? “Okay, well, see you in Vegas, I guess,” I continue.

  “I can’t wait! I wouldn’t be surprised if the Birthday Girl had an extra-special weekend . . . I’m just saying . . . you might want to look out for a little something from your best friend, that’s all. Do you want to know what it is?” She is giggling and excited.

  “No, I want it to be a surprise,” I say, a smile spreading across my face. I have forgotten, for the moment, about Gwen and her confirmation e-mail.

  “Okay, fine . . . but can I give you a hint? Please, please, pretty please?” Olivia begs.

  “No! Nothing. Not one hint, you do this every year, and every year I guess! Try to control yourself, woman!” I am now laughing. Mom and Kate have stopped, mouths open, watching what must look like a reenactment of Sybil.

  “Oh, okay, fine. But it’s small and you can wear it. Bye!” she quickly blurts. I beep my cell phone off and look toward Mom and Kate.

  “She is unbelievable,” Kate says.

  “What was she talking about?” Mom asks.

  “She was talking about my birthday present—you know how she goes all out every year,” I equivocate.

  “No, the other thing.” Mom is stone-faced.

  “Oh, yeah.” I deflate.

  “Yeah, that,” Kate says.

  “She and Gwen want one of those villas at the Bellagio. She wanted to make sure everything was set up.” I figured it was because I was bringing Kate that Olivia didn’t want to room with me in Las Vegas. Now I’m not so sure.

  “That’s just tacky. You don’t call your best friend up right before the wedding and tell her you’re sharing a villa with another bridesmaid. This has nothing to do with you,” Kate hisses. Mom looks softly at me. I concentrate on taking deep breaths.

  “I just think . . . I got the impression . . . it just sounded like . . . she didn’t even invite me. Like I wasn’t . . . or I didn’t want or couldn’t fit into . . .” I lose control quickly and start to cry. This is new; I usually don’t start crying until after I’ve tried the clothes on.

  Kate and Mom rally around and hug me. The girlies run back. I hide my tears from them as we walk into the first shop and begin searching for perfect outfits for a wedding I am barely invited to.

  I knock on the door to the dressing room Mom has set aside for me. I am let in by a naked Bella. She’s not trying anything on, mind you, she’s just decided to take off all her clothes. Emily is sitting on the floor putting clothes that have been rejected back on the hangers. Bella continues to check herself out in the mirror. I hang up my clothes and take off my pants.

  “Cute panties,” Emily says.

  “Thank you, they’re pink,” I say.

  “I know. That’s why they’re cute,” Emily says
.

  “I’m an outie,” Bella proclaims as she spins around pointing at her navel. Emily and I share a moment of awkward validations for Bella’s outie belly button.

  I have not worn a tightener today for some bizarre reason. Everyone knows that you never try on clothes without a tightener. Here I am trying on the mother of all apparel without one. I won’t panic; I’ll just visualize how these clothes would look with a tightener. I get the vapors. The black skirt fits. Kate pops her head in and assesses the progress.

  “That skirt is a size smaller,” Kate says, perfectly comfortable with the spectacle of the Exhibitionist Bella.

  “What?” I am sliding the skirt around after zipping it up.

  “You’ve gone down a size.” Kate smirks.

  I stare at myself in the mirror. I didn’t starve myself. I didn’t drink lemonade laced with cayenne pepper and maple syrup. I didn’t eat boxed lunches from the frozen section. I didn’t drink a shake instead of a meal. I am learning how to feed myself. I am learning how to play again. Oddly, it seems to be working.

  “Try this one,” Mom says, handing me a white wraparound shirt.

  “She’s gone down a size,” Kate yelps. Mom smiles at me and gives me a thumbs-up.

  “I’m a six-X,” Bella adds. Emily rolls her eyes.

  The white shirt is a little short, but I imagine the magic a tightener will work. Olivia has specifically outlined that I am to wear black and white to the rehearsal dinner. I am unsure of the outfit. I’ll have to wear this outfit all day and in pictures that will last forever. I feel light and strong at the same time. I feel proud of myself.

  “You looked amazing in that skirt,” Kate says as we stand at the cashier with all my purchases. I’ve got enough clothes for the entire wedding affair—and all one size smaller.

  “Really?” I say.

  “Absolutely. Really statuesque and classy,” she says.

  “Thank you,” I say. Instead of Fatty and Bobo, it should be Statuesque and Classy. I think I’ll start today.

  Bella eventually puts her clothes back on and Emily reads me the book she has started writing as we move to another shop to find outfits for Mom and Kate. Kate finds a beautiful pale pink linen sheath she’ll wear with a simple strand of pearls. Mom finds an amazing pale blue Richard Tyler pantsuit she’ll wear with an abundance of gold accessories, I’m sure. She finds a pair of Marc Jacobs shoes and splurges on them. We all applaud her and use this as a teaching tool for the girlies in how to pamper yourself.

  We stop for lunch at the Quality Cafe on Third Street right by the Beverly Center. Kate, Mom, and I dish about Olivia and Adam. Olivia’s phone call seems like a distant memory.

  A feeling of pride in myself overwhelms me. As we make our way back through the winding freeways of Los Angeles, I think about Olivia’s phone call. How long has she been like this? This shower has got to be about redefining our friendship and proving to myself that Olivia and I can be friends on equal terms.

  I am driving home from Mom’s house, switching radio stations around, as usual. There’s more traffic on the streets than normal and I keep getting caught at red lights. I switch the radio station again. I know this drumbeat. I’m immediately transported back to university housing with Kate and me and our beloved Electric Light Orchestra. I played this track over and over again. Kate sang the harmony.

  Don’t bring me down, grroosss

  Don’t bring me down, grroosss!

  Another red light. My window is halfway down. I start keeping the beat on my steering wheel. I turn the volume up a little bit. A little bit more. I whisper the lyrics to myself, looking to the left to make sure no one sees. I look at a bus stop full of people. No one is looking.

  I look to the left. A mom in a Volvo station wagon is disciplining a little boy in a kid seat. The light turns green. I screech forward, singing a little louder. The clapping part! I take both my hands off the steering wheel and clap along. The little Volvo boy is laughing and pointing at me. I smile back. He giggles and waves.

  I roll my window all the way down. I am singing so loud, I can barely hear the radio. I haven’t felt so free in a long time or so purely me. I have a good feeling about the shower. This is going to work.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  This Is My Area

  I am meeting Gabriel alone this morning to go over my food diary and to have my one-hour training session. After warming up on the StairMaster for ten minutes, I meet Gabriel at the counter. He tells me to follow him out back. For one second I think he’s going to put me out of my misery. I follow him to a small patio out in back of the gym. He’s set up a small obstacle course of sorts. My breath quickens. Yes, I’m more confident—but I’m not ready to be clocked running, or clocked doing anything really. My eyes dart from medicine balls to small blue mats and then to a large green exercise ball. I am silent. Scared shitless and silent.

  “Okay, Maggie we’re going to start over here on the wall. Go ahead and grab that medicine ball for me.” Gabriel moves to the wall. I follow and try to understand how this course is going to work if we start from this point. Apparently I’m now a marine.

  “Great, thanks. Okay, go ahead and put your glutes up against the wall.” Glutes? Does he mean my ass? I’m standing here with this blue medicine ball, which weighs a good ten pounds, and I have no idea what he wants me to do. Is this some sick form of dodgeball?

  “Glutes?” I finally ask.

  “Oh, yes, I’m sorry. Your pelvis. Go ahead and put your pelvis on the wall.” Is there some trainer handbook that dictates you’re not allowed to utter the word ass? I stand against the wall, holding the blue medicine ball—which now weighs close to a thousand pounds.

  “Okay, great job. Now what I want you to do is go ahead and raise the ball over your head and then bring it down in front of you and tap the ground.” Gabriel demonstrates this action. It looks like he’s bowing down in front of me. Worshiping his new goddess. This momentarily distracts me from the absolute horror at what he’s asking me to do.

  I grab the ball and raise it over my head. My arms are bent—not because the ball is heavy, but because if I straighten them my entire stomach will be completely exposed. I bend forward and tap the ball to the ground. I can feel the fresh air right around my “glutes.” So not only is my shirt rising up in the front, but it’s also slipping down in the back to reveal my white granny panties. Great. This is sure worth the physical benefit. This whole emotional suicide thing is just a silly side effect.

  “Okay, great. Now, straighten those arms fully, and give me three, two, and ten more.” Gabriel is standing directly in front of me watching every move I make. I start to panic. My own shit-talking is getting so bad on the fifth go-round that I am actively holding the tears back. Raise the ball—there’s my Area. Lower the ball—there’s my ass. I don’t think my own mother has seen this much of me in years.

  “Okay, um . . . I’m feeling a little uncomfortable,” I snap.

  “Okay, go ahead and tell me where it feels tight, Maggie.” Gabriel looks concerned. Poor fool.

  “Nothing feels tight. I just . . .” I’m holding on to the medicine ball for dear life. I take a deep breath.

  “This is my Area,” I say, motioning to my belly with the medicine ball. Gabriel listens intently. I continue.

  “I’m just not comfortable raising and lowering the medicine ball and all that because I am superweird about, you know . . . my Area,” I stutter.

  “It’s just us back here, Maggie,” Gabriel reasons. Yes, and you’re gorgeous. It’s not like I’m back here with Solo, for crissakes.

  “I know . . .” I trail off.

  “I understand what you’re saying,” Gabriel says.

  “And?” I hold the medicine ball.

  “Go ahead and give me ten more,” Gabriel says.

  “But . . .” I’m shocked. He doesn’t want to talk about my Area? He doesn’t want to sit by a campfire and sing “Kumbaya” while we talk about why I think I’m fat?

/>   “No buts. I’m not checking out your Area or even noticing what you’re talking about. You’ll just have to trust me on that. Is this some sophisticated plan to get out of this exercise, Maggie? NASA would be envious. Can we continue?” Gabriel smiles.

  I raise and lower the ball fifteen more times—because, of course, Gabriel still doesn’t know how to fucking count. But the weird thing is there is a freedom in just showing my Area. Lifting my arms as high as they could go, challenging myself to lift higher. This could be the start of something. First Gabriel, then maybe someone else. I have visions of flashing my belly to the checker at the grocery store, then at the gas station . . . and then standing in front of Domenic Brown. Well, maybe.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Marcus and Russell Sitting in a Tree

  I call Kate to tell her about the idea I have for the shower invitations. Refrigerator magnets! I will print out the invitations and secure them to magnets so the recipients can keep them on their refrigerator as a reminder. No risk of losing them. Genius.

  “Isn’t it a little late?” Kate asks.

  “Well, there are only seven people going. Olivia wanted something for her scrapbook.”

  “So?” Kate asks.

  After I hang up with Kate, I head out to Vroman’s Bookstore to buy envelopes and ten business-card-size magnets. These invitations are going to be tiny. I design an invitation that will fit on the head of a pin and start addressing the envelopes. Shawna Moss. Panchali Nagra. Gwen Charles. Olivia Morten. I know all the names now. Soon the faces will come into focus. What will the weekend bring? A grown-up friendship or the realization that we’re not kids anymore.

  I drive down Fair Oaks and make a right on Mission. The post office is on the north side of the street. I park my car and run inside with my six tiny invitations. I stand in line and as I am doing so, something unnerving happens: The invitations start sticking to one another. I now have one large invitation. I have three people in front of me and one giant invitation. These fucking things took me forever and now I find out that they are unmailable? I begin maniacally separating each invitation from the others. I approach the post office window with a six-invitation Spanish fan. I look ridiculous. The woman behind the bulletproof window stiffens.