But it does.
“I don’t understand how she ever could have allowed herself to get that way. I mean, she must be about seventeen, and she looks like an old woman.”
Norma was stuffing paper into a pair of Adidas. We were going to a Halloween costume party at Roger Torres’ house, and she was wearing my clothes. She had on my T-shirt with a picture of Burt Reynolds that said BURT REYNOLDS IS ONLY A 10. I’M A 15. It flopped all over her, and so did my jeans. But nothing could ever stop her from looking beautiful.
She managed to fit her feet into my Adidas, tied the laces, stood up, and giggled when she looked at me.
I wanted to go to the party wearing her clothes, but since all she ever wore were jeans and old shirts, we both decided it wouldn’t be funny. So here I was, wriggling around in an old pink tutu of Carmen’s and wearing a lot of lipstick and makeup.
“You better keep away from Castro Street,” she said. “You really do look bee-yoo-ti-ful.”
We twined our arms around each other and stood in front of the mirror, inspecting ourselves. The funny thing was—I did look beautiful. Tall and big as I am, and wearing the ridiculous tutu, I looked good enough to almost turn myself on.
“You know something?” Norma said.
“What?”
“We’re lucky.”
I knew what she meant, but I asked “Why?” anyway.
“Because we never have to worry about looking good. So many things you have to worry about in life, but that’s one thing we’ll never have to worry about.”
“You can never tell,” I said, watching in the mirror as I bent down to kiss the top of Norma’s head. “Maybe I’ll get bald and have hair sprouting out of my nose, and maybe you’ll lose your teeth and get fat like the fat girl.”
“Poor thing,” said Norma.
“The slob!” I said.
Lots of the kids from the ceramics class were at the party, but not the fat girl.
“How come you didn’t invite the fat girl?” I asked Roger.
“I didn’t know you had a thing for her,” he said. Roger was a short, dark, very muscular guy. He was planning to become a ceramic designer and work on developing new glazes. He and Dolores Kabotie had been going around together for a long time, and both of them were dressed up as figures from a Grecian urn. Dolores was dressed in a long, white dress, but Roger was only wearing a skimpy pair of shorts.
“He’s always got to be showing off his rippling muscles,” I muttered to Norma. Roger took weight lifting classes and was proud of his bod.
“Actually, the men wear a lot less than that on the Grecian urns.”
“Too bad the women don’t,” I said. “It’s not fair that Dolores has to be all covered up.”
“Well, she is a little thick in the thigh, and her bust is kind of droopy.”
“Meow!” I said. “You know, Norma, sometimes I think you’re jealous of Dolores.”
“Me—jealous of Dolores?” We both looked over at the dark, intense girl whose dumpy figure was encased in white. Roger was pretending to be playing a panpipe and dancing around her.
“She’s actually not bad looking.”
“She has a very nice face,” Norma said kindly, with the generosity of one who knew she was much more beautiful. “And if she lost a little weight . . .” Norma sighed. “I guess I am jealous. The three of us are too close. It’s practically incestuous. We’ve been working together for years and trying to act like we’re not competing with each other. But did you see that stunning pot she finished yesterday, with the wide bottom and narrow top and those geometric designs? I could never do anything like that—never!”
Roger moved over toward me, still playing his panpipes, and the kids started shouting for me to get up and dance. So up I rose, flung my arms up in the air, balanced on the tippy toes of my basketball sneakers, and twirled around, stepping on as many feet as I could and landing finally in Norma’s arms. She laughed so hard, she forgot all about being jealous of Dolores Kabotie.
But not me. I was jealous of Dolores Kabotie, and I was jealous of Roger Torres and of Norma too. I was jealous of all three of them. Because they were set—they knew what they were going to do with their lives. All of them were going into ceramics—Roger as a designer, and the two girls as professional potters. And they were good. Nobody came up to them in the class. They were the inner circle.
Now somebody else was playing the panpipes and Norma and Roger were dancing together. I watched them gloomily. What was going to happen to me when I graduated in June? I guess I’d go on to college, but what then? My mother wanted me to be a doctor, and my father . . . my father drove a bus, and he always said he’d be proud of me whatever I wanted to do. Actually, I figured he’d be just as pleased if I didn’t go on to college, if I went out and got a job and relieved him of my share of child support. But he always acted as if he thought I should go to college.
I’ve got time to make up my mind, my advisor says. He doesn’t want me to waste his time sitting around discussing it with him, while all those hordes of students wait to see him. I still don’t know what I’m going to do. Sometimes I think that’s how I’ll spend my life, wondering what I’m going to be doing with it. I get mostly B-s in my classes and that’s probably where I’m going to end up in life, being a B- in whatever I do. The only thing I’ll ever get an A in is looks.
“Come on, Jeff, dance with me,” Dolores said, pulling at my arm.
I stood up, put my arm around her and we started dancing. Dolores was shorter than Norma, and her body felt warm and soft. Suddenly I wondered what the fat girl would feel like, and I wanted to puke.
The fat girl always made a lot of noise whenever she came into class. Usually she was late—maybe because she moved so slowly. The rest of us could usually beat out the bell, darting through the door just as the teacher was about to close it. Ms. Holland yelled at anybody who came late, but when the fat girl lumbered through the door, banging against it and clumping noisily to her seat, she just shook her head.
You always knew the fat girl was there. I always knew she was there. I could hear her heavy breathing when she sat near me on the bench, and it seemed to me she always tried to sit near me. I could smell her too, a fat, sweet smell that made me think of fried bananas. Yuck!
Now she was learning to throw on the wheel and, as usual, Norma was working patiently with her. She was too big, and there wasn’t enough room for her to move her legs or her arms. She couldn’t seem to center the clay either. Even if Norma did it for her, it invariably collapsed under the weight of her hands as she began pulling it up. Finally, one day in early December, with a lot of help from Norma, she managed to turn an ugly, lumpy bowl about eight inches high. She was proud of it and hovered over it during that week as it moved through drying, bisque firing, and finally glazing. She hung around that afternoon for the kiln to be unloaded, and her face was radiant as she picked up her bowl, covered in a muddy green glaze. She didn’t say anything, but she smiled at Norma and hurried away, carrying the ugly little pot with her.
“Poor thing,” said Norma. “I don’t think she’ll ever really learn.”
“I hope she’s not planning to take ceramics again next term,” I said, looking with satisfaction at my two pieces that had come out of the kiln. One was only an ordinary mug. But the other was a low bowl with a golden crackle glaze which, I thought, had an elegance and delicacy far beyond anything I’d done before.
“Lovely,” Dolores said, looking over my shoulder. And even Roger whistled.
I held it out toward Norma, and she smiled and nodded but didn’t say anything. It seemed to me this bowl represented a breakthrough for me, but Norma kept right on unloading the kiln and chattering away.
“I think she’s planning to take ceramics again next term,” she said.
“Who?” I turned the bowl
in my hands and looked inside to the shimmering golden translucent center, like an open heart.
“Ellen. Ellen De Luca.”
“Somebody should tell her.”
“Tell her what?”
“That she’d do herself and the rest of us a big favor if she’d go bust up another class. It’s a real drag having her around.”
The three of them were silent, silent and motionless. They were looking around me to the door of the room. What was there? I didn’t want to look. It couldn’t be the fat girl. Her entrances were always marked with loud bangs and crashes. And besides, she had taken her ugly pot and gone. It couldn’t be the fat girl.
But it was. She was standing there, silently for the first time, holding her pot in one hand and her books in the other. Nobody said anything. She was looking at me, and I knew she’d heard what I had just said. She put down her pot on one of the tables and pulled a tissue out of her pocket. Very, very slowly. We all stood and watched her. Very slowly, she began crying. She moved the tissue up to her eyes in her large fist and began wiping them. Then she turned, crashed against the door, and left.
“Wow!” Roger whispered.
Dolores made a face. “She must have heard.”
Norma said angrily to me, “Now look what you’ve done. You’re always going on and on about her. What did she ever do to you? What did she ever do to anybody?”
“I didn’t know she was there,” I said.
“She always makes a lot of noise,” Dolores said. “This was the first time she didn’t. Jeff didn’t hear her. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t mean to make her feel bad.”
“It was his fault,” Norma shouted. “He never stops saying mean things about her. If you keep saying mean things about a person, sooner or later she’ll hear it.”
“Look, Norma, I’m sorry.”
“A lot of good that’s going to do. You made her cry,” Norma yelled. “Now do you feel good?”
“No, I feel lousy.”
“Well, do something!”
I ran out into the hall, but it was empty. I didn’t know which staircase she took, but I hurried down the closest one and out onto the street. What was I going to say to her anyway? “I’m sorry, Fat Girl—I mean Ellen. I’m sorry, Ellen. I don’t really think you’re a drag.”
She wasn’t in sight in the street. It would be impossible to miss her if she were. What could I say to her? “Look, Ellen, I’m sorry I said what I did. I didn’t mean it.”
But I did mean it. I didn’t want her in my class next term. I didn’t want her watching me and spying on me. And I didn’t want her making me angry and cruel. It was all her fault.
I walked slowly upstairs to the ceramics room. Norma was tidying up and refused to look at me.
“I couldn’t find her,” I said.
The muddy green, misshapen pot was still sitting out on the table where she had left it. I picked it up and held it out to Norma. “Look, she left her pot. I’ll put it up on the shelf and tomorrow I’ll tell her I’m sorry. Come on, Norma, I didn’t know she was there. I wouldn’t have said it if I’d known. I’ll make it up to her. You’ll see.”
She was still mad, but after I’d helped her clean off the table and benches, she calmed down and let me come home with her and stay for dinner. Her mother made marinated tofu shish kebobs, but it was a great evening anyway. I didn’t get home until nearly midnight, and my mother yelled at me and called me selfish
five
The fat girl didn’t come to school the next day. The ugly little pot sat up there on the shelf unclaimed. Nobody noticed her absence except me. Even Norma seemed to have forgotten about her.
“The fat girl didn’t come to class today,” I told her.
“Oh no?” She looked around. “Maybe she’s sick.”
“Maybe,” I said. But I didn’t think that was the reason.
She wasn’t in school on Monday either.
“The fat girl didn’t come to class today either,” I told Norma.
Norma said impatiently, “Look, Jeff, her name is Ellen. Why don’t you call her Ellen?”
“Okay. Ellen didn’t come to school today.”
“So?”
“So—I wonder why she didn’t. I wonder if . . . if it has anything to do with what happened Thursday.”
It took Norma a second or two to remember. She was busy brushing delicate scallops around the rim of a low, flared bowl. She put her brush down and looked at me. “Oh, Jeff, I hope it’s not because of that.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you could call her and ask how she is. Or maybe—maybe I could call her. Would you like me to call her?”
Her lovely, kind face was filled with pity for Ellen. How I loved Norma! I reached over and pressed her hand. Then I looked at the ugly, green pot on the shelf. “I think maybe I should handle it myself. Maybe I’ll just stop at her house and bring her the pot. I don’t have to say anything about Thursday. It would be worse if I apologize. I’ve been thinking about it over the weekend. You were right, Norma. I’ve been weird and I don’t know why. But that’s all over now. I’m going to take the pot over to her house. From now on, I’m going to try to . . . to be more friendly to her.”
“You’re a nice guy, Jeff,” Norma said softly. “Did I ever tell you I think you’re a nice guy?”
“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m a jerk, but I’m going to be different after this.”
I thought about what I was going to say on the way over to her house that afternoon. I was going to be friendly, a little hearty, the way you were supposed to be with the deformed. “Hey, how are things, Ellen? We missed you in class, and I thought I’d drop your cute little pot over. Are you sick? Can I get you anything?” Real cool! I’d make-believe Thursday never happened and, after this, whenever I saw her, I’d smile at her, maybe wink, maybe wave, throw a few crumbs of kindness in her direction.
But it wasn’t going to be easy, because I still loathed her. I still hoped she wouldn’t take ceramics next term, wouldn’t be there watching me, disturbing my balance and, most of all, making me forget that I was a nice guy. Like Norma said, that’s what I am, a nice guy. I don’t go around making girls cry—not even huge, bloated ones. I’m a nice guy.
“Hi, there, Ellen,” I was going to say. “How are things?”
But maybe she would yell at me or slam the door in my face. She shouldn’t—she should be grateful—but maybe she wouldn’t. You never knew what to expect with a creature like that. Here I was going out of my way to deliver her tacky pot to her, and if she carried on, well, it wouldn’t be my fault.
I was getting myself all worked up over her by the time I reached her house. To my surprise, it was a very pretty house. I guess I was expecting that she’d live in a messy, dumpy place. But her house had brown shingles and neat flower boxes filled with red geraniums lining the sides of the stairway. When I rang the bell, I could hear chimes inside. I checked the address Ms. Holland had given me, but it was the right one. A normal-looking boy about twelve opened the door.
“Uh—does Ellen De Luca live here?”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, is she home? I’m a—a classmate of hers.”
“She’s sick.”
“Oh, well, I don’t want to disturb her, so would you please give her . . .”
“Who is that, Ricky?” came a voice from behind him. And a normal-looking woman came to the door and inspected me.
“I’m Jeff Lyons, Mrs. De Luca, a—a classmate of Ellen’s. I just wondered how she was.”
“She’s been sick,” the woman said quickly. Too quickly.
“Well, I don’t want to bother her. I just wanted to drop something off.”
Mrs. De Luca suddenly smiled at me and opened the door. “Come in, Jeff.
I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you. She’s much better. Nothing contagious.”
“She’s eating,” Ricky said.
“She’ll be glad to see you,” repeated Mrs. De Luca. “Come in, come in.”
Inside, she led me into a bright kitchen filled with plants. Baskets and pretty blue and white dishes hung on one wall. Glass doors led out onto a deck filled with pots of colorful flowers. It was a lovely room, and smack in the center of it sat Ellen, a half-empty plate of cookies in front of her. She looked enormous, dressed in an ugly pink and green flowered wrapper, with lace edging her huge throat.
“Here’s a friend of yours, Ellen,” said her mother in a hearty voice.
She looked up at me, her fat face impassive, very white but with an unmistakable red rim around the eyes.
“Hi, Ellen,” I said cheerily. “How are things?”
Ellen didn’t answer. She bent her head over the plate of cookies in front of her. There was a half-empty glass of milk also on the table.
“How about some milk and cookies, Jeff?” said her mother quickly. “I just baked some.”
“Thanks a lot, Mrs. De Luca. They smell great, but I had something to eat before I came.”
Both of us looked at Ellen, who remained silent, so Mrs. De Luca said, “Why don’t you have a seat, Jeff?”
Just then another boy, also a normal-looking one about fourteen or fifteen, wearing a soccer shirt, came into the kitchen and said, “Come on, Mom. I’m late.” He took a cookie off the plate in front of Ellen and smiled at me.
“This is my other son, Matt,” she said. “I’ve got to drive him over to the park.” She looked in a worried way at Ellen. “Is there anything you want outside, Ellen? I’m going to take Ricky for a pair of tennis shoes, and then I have to pick up a few things at the store. Do you want anything outside?”
Ellen shook her head. She kept her eyes on the plate of cookies.
“Well, dear, I won’t be gone too long. It was nice meeting you, Jeff. Help yourself to some milk and cookies if you get hungry.”
The Fat Girl Page 3