I got out of the car, slammed the door behind me, and hurried inside and up to my room.
“Well, isn’t this nice, the whole family together,” Mom said cheerfully as she scooped some mashed potatoes onto my father’s plate. She wore size-six jeans and a tiny, fuzzy pink sweater with too many buttons unbuttoned down the front. As she bent over she looked to see if Dad was checking out her cleavage. He wasn’t.
“That’s too much, Carol,” he protested. “Gotta watch the ol’ waistline.”
“Oh, honey, you’re perfect,” Mom said, kissing him.
“So are you, honey,” he said dutifully.
It was like watching two terrible actors in some really bad play.
“Well, I’m not perfect,” I said, my voice a little too loud as I reached for the potatoes. “Being fat is very freeing. You can eat anything you want.” I plopped three heaping spoonfuls of potatoes on my plate.
“If you’d count calories, Lara,” my father said, “you might be able to do something about your problem.”
Lara. Not princess.
I guessed there weren’t any fat princesses.
“Now, honey,” Mom chided him. “You know she can’t help it. She has a disease.” She put the world’s tiniest portion of potatoes on her own plate.
“Yeah, poor me,” I agreed, putting a big gob of butter on the potatoes.
My father gave me a look of what was supposed to be understanding but was actually thinly veiled disgust. He didn’t seem to be able to get his mind around the facts of Axell-Crowne. No matter what anyone said to him, in his heart he still believed that all I needed was discipline: eat less, work out more.
“You’ll never know if your Axell-Crowne goes into remission,” he said, “if you keep eating like that.”
He knew as well as I did that every other week I dropped down to a twelve-hundred-calories-a-day diet and checked my weight, per the instructions of Dr. Goldner. Dad knew that so far there was no change in my weight no matter what I ate or what I did.
And he still ragged on me.
I gave him a defiant look and added more butter.
Silence. Chewing.
Then finally, “So, kids, how’s school?” Dad asked heartily.
“I hate it,” Scott said.
“Me too,” I added.
“I want to move back to Nashville,” Scott said.
“Me too.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Mom said sharply, shooting me a murderous look. She took a dainty bite of chicken, chewed, swallowed. “How’s dinner?” she asked Dad.
“Great,” he said.
More silence. We were four strangers sitting there, masticating.
“Molly’s coming to visit me for Thanksgiving vacation,” I announced. “She called this afternoon.”
“That’s great!” Mom said. She turned to Dad. “Isn’t that great?”
“Great,” Dad said.
More chewing.
“Lara’s first piano lesson with her new teacher is tomorrow,” Mom said brightly. “I hear he’s wonderful!”
I had changed my mind and decided I would take private lessons again after all. I was definitely not going to play solos in public, but that wasn’t a good enough reason to deprive myself of studying with a qualified teacher. Music was all I had left.
“Terrific,” Dad said, nodding his approval. “Remember, Lara, if you can dream it, you can achieve it.”
“Geez, did you get that from her pageant résumé?” Scott said.
“Watch your mouth, son,” Dad warned him.
Scott stuck out his lower lip and looked down, as if he were trying to literally watch his own mouth. I snorted back a laugh.
Dad pointed at Scott. “I’ve had just about enough of—”
The phone rang. Before anyone could stop him, Scott was out of his seat to get it. “It’s for you,” he told me.
“This is family time,” Dad said sternly. “Tell them to call back after dinner.”
“It’s a guy,” Scott said.
Jett! It had to be Jett! My heart pounded in my chest. I ignored my parents and ran out of the room.
“Hang up after I answer it!”
I reached the externsion in the family room, forced my breathing to slow down, and picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Lara?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Perry. You know. Jameson.”
Perry Jameson. Not Jett. The weight of disappointment forced me heavily to the couch.
“Perry,” I said dully.
“I, uh, got your number from information,” Perry said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Can you talk now?” Perry asked.
“We were eating dinner, actually.”
“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I can say this real fast. The thing is … ahm-na-gay.”
“What?”
“Yeah, slow down, Per,” he told himself. “What I said is, I’m not gay.”
“You’re—”
“I realized that you might think—I mean, a lot of people at school think … but I’m not.”
“Oh.” I had absolutely no idea what to say. It wasn’t like I cared one way or the other.
“It’s just … last year there was this gay guy at school, a senior, Jack Parton, and we used to hang out,” Perry rushed on. “He was one of my best friends and he was real out about being gay and everything, and a lot of kids dissed him. So I guess they just figured I’m gay ’cuz we hung together.”
“Uh-huh,” I replied.
“I never cared that much, because school is so lame anyway. But … well, the thing is, there’s never been a girl at school that I liked before. Before now, I mean.”
He meant me. He liked me.
“I … really have to go, Perry,” I said. “Thanks for calling.” I hung up.
This was so awful. He had only asked me out because we were both fat. He probably figured I was the only girl at school who wouldn’t shoot him down. God.
“Was that a boy from school?” Mom asked eagerly as I came back into the kitchen.
“Yes.” I took a sip of lemonade.
“That Perry guy, I bet,” Scott said with disgust.
“You know him?” Mom asked. “Is he cute? Was he asking you out, Lara?”
Her neediness on my behalf made my teeth hurt. “I’m not interested,” I said, my voice low.
“A boy from your new school just asked you out and you’re not interested?” Mom was incredulous.
“What, just because I’m fat I’m supposed to go out with anyone who asks me?”
She sighed. “That’s not what I meant at all. If you’d just be nice to people, they’d see beyond how you look.”
I hated her. I hated her so much.
“Hey, here’s an idea,” Dad said. “How about if we go shoot some hoops in the driveway?” He pushed his chair back.
“I hate basketball,” I said.
“Me too,” Scott said.
“Why did I bother to put the basket up, then?” Dad asked.
“Honey, the kids appreciate that you put the basket up, really.” Mom hugged Dad from behind. “You look so handsome, Jimbo, I can’t resist you.” She ruffled his hair.
“You know I hate that,” Dad said.
“Okay, grouchy,” Mom said playfully.
Dad threw his napkin on the table. “I have to go make a business call,” he announced, and left the kitchen.
“He’s calling her,” Scott declared.
“There is no ‘her,’ ” Mom said. “That’s a terrible thing to say. That’s over.”
Scott looked at me. “You think he’d be stupid enough to actually call her from here?”
“Anything’s possible in this house,” I said.
“It’s over,” Mom insisted.
“Then why is he treating you like crap again?” Scott asked.
Mom glared at Scott. “You are not the judge and jury of your father, young man. He’s just tense because of his
new job—”
“When are you going to quit lying for him?” Scott asked, his voice rising. “Do you think we’re stupid?”
“He loves me, and he loves you, and—”
“You are so full of it!” Scott yelled, getting up so quickly that he knocked his chair over. “Go ahead. Pretend we’re the Brady Bunch. I don’t care anymore.” He stormed out.
Mom and I silently cleared the table, since Friday was the new housekeeper’s day off.
“He is not calling her,” she insisted as she swiped at the counter with a sponge.
“If you’re worried about it, why don’t you just ask him? Better yet, pick up the phone.”
She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Her hands were shaking. “Everything is fine.”
I loaded the dishes into the dishwasher and turned it on. Mom smoked furiously, eyeing the phone that hung on the wall.
“Just pick it up!”
She didn’t move.
“Fine, I’ll pick it up.” I reached for the phone.
“Stop it! Don’t you dare.”
I put my hand down.
“This is between your father and me,” Mom said. “It has nothing to do with you.”
“How can you say that? I’m stuck here in Michigan and my life is ruined because of it!” I whirled around and snatched up the phone.
There was a dial tone.
Dad walked into the kitchen. He eyed the receiver in my hand. “I have to go back to the office for a while.”
“Why?” Mom asked.
“Conference,” he said, pulling on his jacket. “I won’t be long.”
“Want me to come?” Mom called to him. “I could use the fresh air!”
Dad didn’t answer. He was already gone.
“Hello!” I called out as I entered the City Center Rehearsal Studios. The outer office was empty. I was already fifteen minutes late for my first piano lesson with Dr. Alex Paxton, the teacher Dr. Carson in Nashville had recommended. I had gotten lost in downtown Detroit, and then I hadn’t been able to find a parking space.
I heard loud music coming from an interior room, so I walked down the corridor to a glass door market STUDIO ONE. Studio One featured a beautiful black grand piano. Seated at the piano was a huge woman with wild, dark, curly hair, wearing black jeans and a fitted white T-shirts. A roll of fat on her back bulged under the line of her bra. Her upper arms jiggled as her fingers flew across the keyboard, playing something modern and jazzy.
When she finally finished, I knocked on the door and opened it.
She turned around. She looked to be in her late twenties. If she hadn’t been so fat, she would have been pretty, I realized. She had huge blue eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips. But she was fat. Really fat.
“Hi, excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for Dr. Paxton?”
“Car accident,” she said. “Are you Lara Ardeche?”
“He had a car accident?”
“Two days ago,” she said, coming over to me. Her bust was massive; her T-shirt clung to the rolls on her stomach and midriff.
She should wear something looser-fitting so that her fat doesn’t show quite so much, I thought.
“Someone rammed him at a stop sign,” she continued.
“Is he okay?”
“He’s got whiplash, but he’ll be all right. You are Lara, right?”
“Right. I was supposed to start—”
“Didn’t you get my message? I called on Thursday and talked to your brother.”
“He didn’t tell me. So, I guess I have to wait to—”
“I’m taking Dr. Paxton’s students,” she said. “That was the message I left. I’m Suzanne Silver, Dr. Paxton’s assistant. Call me Suzanne.” She put out her hand and we shook.
“What was that piece you were playing?” I asked her. “Did you like it? I wrote it.”
“Very nice,” I lied. “Listen, maybe I should just wait until he’s better.”
“I really am qualified to teach, you know,” Suzanne said, smiling. “Promise.”
“Well, I only play classical—”
“Oh yeah, I’ve heard of that.” She sat back down at the piano and flawlessly played a short passage from a very difficult Chopin waltz. Then she turned to me.
“I wasn’t doubting you.”
“Oh yes you were,” she said, laughing. “But that’s cool. You don’t know me. So, how about if you play for me now?”
“All right.” She got up, and I sat down at the piano. I closed my eyes and blocked out everything. Then I played Mozart’s Sonata in B flat major. The music went through me, filled me up, until I was the music and I wasn’t fat anymore. I was flying, released, free.
“Wow,” Suzanne said softly.
I opened my eyes.
“That’s a good ‘wow,’ ” she explained, leaning against the piano. “Oh, I’m gettin that feeling—”
“What feeling?”
“Goose bumps,” she said. “Down my spine. When someone walks in here with the real thing, I get this feeling. You’re really good. Dr. Paxton told me you’re a senior, and he said—” She stopped herself.
“What?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter. Where are you going to college?”
“I don’t know yet,” I replied.
“You’re going to be a piano performance major, though, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“But why not?”
“I don’t perform solo,” I said tersely.
“Oh, come on!” Suzanne exclaimed. “You just did!”
“Look, I don’t want to talk about it, okay? I’m just here for lessons.”
“Is it a stage-fright thing? Because I know ways to—”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” I repeated. “If you don’t want to teach me because I don’t want to concertize, just say so.”
She stared at me a moment, then shrugged. “Let’s check out your sight-reading.”
She put sheet music on the piano for a mazurka, which I played, and then we worked on two other pieces I had already learned.
“I know the perfect music for you,” Suzanne said. “I have to unearth it from the files. Be right back.”
I turned back to the piano and idly played a minuet I had learned as a kid. In fact, I had played it when I had won Miss Tiny Tennessee. Mom and Dad had been so proud when they called my name. And Dad had lifted me up in his arms and kissed me and said, “That’s my perfect little princess,” and then—
“Hey, where’s Suzanne?”
I turned around. A truly gorgeous guy was standing there—medium height, dark blond hair, dark eyes, and a cleft in his chin.
“She went to find some music for me,” I explained.
“Good luck, her filing system stinks,” he said good-naturedly. “You a new student?”
I nodded.
“Jazz?” he asked.
“Classical.”
“Too bad,” the guy said.
“Found it,” Suzanne said as she rushed back in, brandishing the sheet music. “I really think you’ll—”
“Hi, remember me?” the guy said, grinning at her.
She smiled back. “I do seem to remember you, but I’m busy now, so I’ll remember you better later, okay?” She turned to me. “Did you two meet?”
“I’m Lara Ardeche,” I said.
“Tristan McCoy,” the guy said. He turned back to Suzanne. “I’ll meet you at the Captain’s when you’re done, okay?”
“Okay,” Suzanne said.
“Nice to meet you,” he called to me as he left.
“That guy is gorgeous,” I blurted out as I watched him walk through the outer office.
“Yeah,” Suzanne agreed. She put the new sheet music up on the piano. “Okay, this is Ravel’s Sonatine, and—”
“Are you good friends?”
“You could say that,” Suzanne agreed. “He’s an incredible musician. Guitar.” She tapped her finger on the sheet music. “Okay, from the top.”
“Wow, time flies and all that,” Suzanne said, looking at her watch. “So, are you going to study with me? I’m a slave driver, I’ll tell you that up front. I’ll kick your butt. But if you work hard, I’ll also be your biggest fan.”
“It’s a deal,” I decided. “And I love the Ravel.”
“You really should think about two lessons a week, you know,” Suzanne said. “If you want to make big progress before college—”
“I don’t even know if I’m going to be a music major.”
“Uh-huh.” She gathered up some of the music. “So, I understand you just moved here …”
“From Tennessee,” I filled in.
“Right. How do you like Michigan?”
I hate it.
“Fine.”
“Really? Isn’t it hard for you to be at a new school for your senior year?”
Of course it’s hard, you fat idiot.
I bit my tongue. Monster-me was going into rage mode for no good reason. I fought back the beast.
“It’s fine,” I forced myself to say.
She cocked her head at me. “Yeah? What high school are you going to?”
“Blooming Woods.”
“No kidding?” she asked, laughing. “That’s where I went. I graduated ten years ago, and I still have the scars to prove it.” She tapped her temple.
“It’s okay.” I got my purse from the chair.
“Well, it must have changed, then.” She shook some curls out of her eyes. “I don’t mean that I didn’t have friends, because I did. But certain kids just loved to make fun of me.”
I stared at her coolly. I knew what she was saying in fat-people code: I got teased, you get teased.
How pathetic. We had nothing in common. She probably ate all the time like Perry Jameson and deserved her fatness, whereas I was a prisoner in a body I hadn’t earned.
“It’s not a problem for me,” I said flatly.
“Oh, well, good. It was torture for me. I’ll never forget this girl Diane Levy. She made my life a living hell. Every day, when I walked into school, she’d yell out as loud as she could, ‘Hey, it’s Two-Ton Silver!’ I wanted to sink through the floor and die, you know?”
Life in the Fat Lane Page 15