Diary of a Mad Fat Girl

by Stephanie McAfee

  I have always been jealous of Lilly’s passion for teaching, but the question pressing in my mind now is how that passion fits into her getting fired. And if she ditched our trip to Florida so she could screw around with some teenaged boy, then this could be the end of our twenty year friendship.

  It takes Chloe a full two minutes to creep out of the bathroom. I stare at the mini-sombreros stuck to Lilly’s door and try to wrap my mind around what’s going on, but none of this crap makes any sense. Nothing lines up.

  “Ace, how did she know we were out here?” Chloe asks. “That’s creepy.”

  I nod my head toward the security camera mounted at the end of the hallway.

  “Someone was watching us! Those monitors are in her office! Someone was watching us!”

  “Chloe, someone was watching out for her and saw us.” I push open the door and motion her in. “Let’s get Lilly’s stuff packed up before that sow pig comes back and throws it all in the trash.”

  I turn to the security camera and throw up my middle finger, then mouth the phrase that goes along with the gesture. I’d like to moon whoever has the birds-eye view up there, but I know I couldn’t get my pants back up before Chloe saw what I doing.

  7

  When the last bell rings, I breathe an audible, “Thank you, Jesus,” and a get a few funny looks from my students.

  I grab the box with Lilly’s stuff in it and make my way to the parking lot while the buses are still loading. McGruff the Crime Hag said she would be off campus this afternoon, so I’m not standing around here for fifteen minutes with my thumb up my ass only to get behind thirteen buses that stop every ten yards for twenty-six miles.

  I head home to check on Buster Loo and he’s layed out in the backyard with all four paws in the air, snoring like a grown man. I run inside and throw on a tee shirt, shorts, and flip-flops then head right back out because I’m anxious to get this done. I want some answers from Lilly Lane and I intend to get them as quickly as possible.

  I swing by China Kitchen and pick up some Kung Pao chicken and cream cheese wontons. She’ll think I’m trying to be nice by bringing over a tasty peace offering, but the truth is that I need a snack to calm my nerves.

  I pull up at the pink and white dollhouse that is the home of Lilly Lucille Lane. I park my dirty Maxima behind her bad-ass BMW and wonder for the hundredth time what the hell is going on with her.

  I grab the Chinese food and go around to the back door, which is unlocked as always. I go in and put the food on the table, then hear a commotion in the living room so I walk in there to see what’s going on. Much to my surprise and dismay, I see Drake Driskall - All-American, All-Star, All-State, Mr. Bugtussle High School himself - sitting on Lilly’s sofa wearing only a colorful pair of swim trunks.

  Lilly is perched on the love seat like the cat who swallowed the canary and all I can do is stare.

  “Not what it looks like, Ace, I swear,” she says, shaking her head and rocking back and forth like a crack addict.

  “It never is, is it, Lilly?” I absolutely do not know what to do at this point, so I say, “This is too much. Too much. Gotta get outta here.”

  “Miss Jones, I promise-” Drake Driskall begins.

  I cut him off quick, fast, and in a hurry. “You,” I point at him, “you shut your mouth, go put on a shirt, and get the hell out of here. Don’t say another word to me. Got it?”

  “Ace,” Lilly stands up, but doesn’t take a step forward.

  “You’re on your own with this one, sister,” I turn to leave. “I cannot believe this.”

  “Ace! Wait!” she calls as I’m walking out the door, but I don’t look back.

  I pop the trunk and grab her junk and sling it out into the yard like a woman who just found out her husband likes men. I hear a heated exchange going on inside, but I could not care less what’s being said. I get in my car and get the hell out of there.

  I tell myself that I’m wrong. That she’s right and that it isn’t what it looks like but, dammit! I’ve never been good at lying to myself. She dropped our annual trip to the beach to screw around with Drake Driskall.

  The Gentleman is an 18-year-old kid.

  That pisses me off so bad that I think I might pass out.

  I bet she went to Paris over Spring Break.

  Paris, Tennessee, maybe.

  I stop by the Hill Top Country Store and buy two packs of cigarettes and a 40-ounce Corona then hit the back roads. I haven’t smoked in fifteen years, but today is like a good day to fall back on some bad habits. My phone is buzzing like a pack of bees at a garden festival, but I don’t give a rat’s ass. I need some time to think.

  When it gets dark, I take a paved road back to town and head to Ethan Allen’s. The bar, not the furniture store. People in Bugtussle don’t get the two confused because the only Ethan Allen they’ve ever heard of besides the one who owns the bar is the Revolutionary War hero who founded the state of Vermont.

  8

  I walk in at 8:55 and Ethan smiles and switches off the neon signs. Everything in Bugtussle closes at 9:00 p.m. and his bar is no exception. He fills a frosty mug with Killian’s Red and puts it down on a beverage nap.

  “Hey babe!” he says affectionately. “You look like you could use a drink!”

  Ethan Allen Harwood spends his days on a tractor, his nights at the bar, and his Sunday mornings at the Methodist Church sitting next to his grandparents. He drives a spotless Chevrolet pick-up with gigantic mud tires and only listens to country music. He’s got on his usual get-up which consists of Wrangler jeans, a plaid shirt with metal buttons, worn-out cowboy boots, and one of his four state championship rings. His dusty Stetson hangs on a hook next to the liquor shelf.

  “What’s goin’ on, gal?” He fixes himself a frosty mug of Mountain Dew and sniffs the air. “You been smokin’?”

  “You might as well sit down, Ethan,” I say, “cause this is gonna take a while.”

  He walks around the bar and parks his long, lean body on the stool next to mine and listens with great interest as I tell him everything that’s transpired. He asks a bunch of questions like he always does and when his antique cuckoo clock strikes ten, I get up to go to the bathroom and realize I’m too drunk to walk.

  “I’m hammered, Ethan,” I slur.

  “Really, Ace? I hadn’ noticed,” he laughs and pats me on the butt as I teeter past him.

  I feel my way back to the restroom and when I get back out to the bar, he has his cowboy hat on his head and my keys in his hand.

  “C’mon. I’m taking you home,” he says with a warm smile. “I know you gotta go to work in the morning. You know the drill.”

  He holds my hand while we walk across the parking lot, then helps me up into his huge truck.

  “Is this a monster truck, Ethan? Is that what you’re going for here?”

  He laughs, pops in a Toby Keith CD, and serenades me all the way to my house. After helping me out of his huge truck, he walks me around to the back door like he’s done a million times before and I know that my car will magically appear in my driveway before morning.

  “Ace, your backyard out here is unbelievable,” he says as he squints into the dark. “Is that okra stalks comin’ up over there?”

  “Sure is buddy, you like it pickled or fried? I do it both ways.” I start sniggering. “Okra that is, you pervert.” I almost lose my balance laughing at my own idiotic joke and Ethan puts a hand on my hip to steady me.

  “You are plum retarded, Ace, plum flippin’ retarded.”

  “Thank you very much.” I hear a small commotion and turn to see Buster Loo running speedy dog circles around the patio table. “What the hell is my dog doin’ out here, Ethan? He is not a night crawler.”

  “Maybe he wants up in that chair.” Ethan walks over to the table, leans down, and says, “Why is there bacon on your out-a-doors table, Ace? That’s mighty unsightly.”

  “I’m puttin’ it in the black-eyed peas I’m cookin’ tomorrow. Okay, not real
ly. I’m havin’ it for breakfast in an omelet. Oh no, wait, that’s not it. I’m savin’ it for a midnight BLT. You got any lettuce I can borrow?” I turn around and look at him, snorting and laughing. “Seriously, Ethan, what are you talking about?”

  “There’s bacon on your table and that’s what your little dog here wants. You want me to give it to him?”

  I walk over to get a closer look at the alleged bacon. It’s the kind you don’t have to fry.

  “What the hell is that doing on my table? I don’t eat that weird ass bacon from a box.” Buster Loo is bouncing like a ball and whining like a derelict feline.

  “Me neither, sister, that’s some nasty stuff right there,” he snarls his nose. “It ain’t right.”

  I pick up the bacon and toss it to Buster Loo and he gulps it down in three bites. I see a pink piece of paper on the table and when I reach for it, it flitters off in the direction of my potted herb garden.

  “What the hell?” Ethan hollers, watching the note fly through the air. “Somebody stuck a pile of bacon on top of a note on your out-a-doors table? Now that beats all I ever saw.”

  I make a move to catch the note, trip over Buster Loo, and go down face first onto the porch. I land close to my Christmas lights, so I reach over and plug those in like that was my plan all along. Buster Loo is clucking like a chicken and looking like his feelings are hurt, so I pull him over and apologize for booting him in his little chiweenie ribs. He shows his forgiveness by speed licking my right eyeball and pawing me on the head.

  Ethan is laughing his ass off and when he gets his breath back, he says, “Oh, so I guess that’s how you always get them lights on? I’m gonna go get you a football helmet to wear around here.” Still chuckling, he asks, “That little Mexican wiener dog okay?”

  “He’s fine. Did you see where that note went?”

  “Landed in your marijuana grove over here.” He waves the rectangular shaped paper back and forth. “Pink polka-dot paper. Wonder who that’s from?”

  “That’s an herb garden, you geek.” I squint at the note, “And I know who it from and so do you. You gonna read it?”

  “Ain’t my note. Ain’t my business.”

  “Oh good word, Ethan Allen Harwood! I just spent over an hour giving you the juiciest news in town and now you’re gonna stand over there and act like you’re a mind-your-own-business kind of guy? Puh-leese. I don’t even care what it says! Throw it away then.”

  “Okay, jus’ calm down and I’ll see what it says.” He unfolds the paper, reads the note, then gives me an odd look.

  “What?” I ask, feeling a killer headache coming on.

  He looks down at the paper, out toward the yard, then back at me.

  “You look like you saw a ghost, Ethan. What is it?”

  “You better look at it. I don’t think I was meant to read this.”

  “Lilly Lane and her stupid pink-polka-dot-stationary-using-ass ditched me nine hours before we were supposed to go the beach so she could screw around with a stupid kid and I spend my Spring Break cleaning out my stupid closets, then she gets her stupid self fired and Catherine Hilliard’s fat stupid ass wants to see me go down with her and now she’s stuck a stupid note out here and used stupid fake bacon as a stupid paper weight so my dog would be going crazy and you think I give a stupid flyin’ shit what it says?”

  “No really, you better read it.”

  “I don’t give a stupid flyin’ rat’s ass what she has to say, Ethan!”

  “No really, Ace. Get up and read it yourself. It’s about Chloe.” He walks over and holds his out both hands. “Here. C’mon, now.”

  He pulls me up and I’m thankful he’s a big strong country boy because I don’t think a little fellow would be able to get that job done.

  I squint down at the note and sobriety comes fast and hard.

  “I’ve gotta get to the hospital, Ethan. Can you take me?” He looks at me, uncertainly evident in his eyes. “Will you take me? Please?”

  “I don’t know if you should-”

  “I have to go. You know I have to go.”

  “Alrighty then. Whatever you need.”

  I run inside with Buster Loo hot on my heels, splash water all over my face, and grab a Diet Mountain Dew out of the fridge.

  “You want a drink?”

  “I don’t think now’s the time-”

  “Not a drink drink! Some water or a Coke or something.”

  “Naw, I got a dip, but grab me an empty bottle if you got one handy.”

  I grab an empty water bottle, blow Buster Loo a kiss, and run out the door.

  Ethan helps me climb back into his massive truck and he leaves rubber on the road at the end of my driveway.

  9

  Lilly is sitting alone in the lobby of Bugtussle Memorial Hospital. She doesn’t see us come in and we startle her out of a daze.

  “Did you know she was pregnant?” she asks quietly, looking at the floor.

  “I had no idea.” I focus on trying not to hurl. When my nerves are shot, my stomach gets really upset and that’s without nine beers and a pack of Virginia Slims. I look around for a drink machine.

  “I didn’t either,” she says, still looking at the floor.

  “Have you seen her, Lilly?” Ethan asks.

  “No,” she mumbles, “Richard had security escort me down here and said he’d call if anything changed.”

  “Security? Are you kidding me?” I yell and then a little quieter, “You know, Lilly, maybe they just don’t allow pedophiles in the ICU.”

  “Ace!” Ethan barks.

  “What? Sorry,” I’m really not sorry at all, so I continue, “but I mean, you never know when Chris Hansen and his Pedophile Prevention Van might roll up and I’m just sayin’ that maybe the doctors and nurses don’t wanna be featured on an episode of To Catch a Predator.”

  “Ace,” Ethan says and shakes his head back and forth.

  “Uh uh,” I say, looking down at Lilly, “not buying it.”

  I walk to the elevator and punch the button and stand there for what seems like twelve hours. I look back at them and see that Ethan has his arm around Lilly and her head is on his shoulder. I put my finger on the little silver button and punch it and punch it and punch it till the doors finally open. There is nary a soul in sight, yet the elevator takes seventy hours to get to the lobby. And then it’s empty. Go figure.

  When I arrive on the ICU floor, I see Richard Stacks the Fourth standing with his pastor and a bunch of random Bugtussle assholes. He comes over and makes a move to hug me and I shove him away like he just climbed out of a manure pile.

  “Don’t make a scene, Graciela,” he whispers sharply.

  “I’m going to see her, so back up out of my face, Richard.”

  The waiting room gets a little quieter and people are trying to look like they aren’t looking. My stomach is churning and I need a Sprite.

  “You look sick, Ace,” he snarls, “you been drinking?”

  I try to push past him, but he grabs my arm and I turn on him like a pit bull.

  “You get your hands off of me!” I say a little too loud and people stop pretending not to look. I see Brother Berkin distracting people with head nods and hand gestures.

  “I’m going to see Chloe,” I say, not quite as loud.

  “No, I don’t think you will, Graciela.” He takes a step closer to me and, in a low voice, says, “You don’t run over me like you do everybody else in this town, Ace Jones, I’m a man and you need to learn your place.”

  “I need to learn my place, Richard?” I practically shout. “Why don’t you tell me what my place is, Richard? Because I have so much respect for your opinion.”

  He grabs my elbow and tries to force me to move, but I don’t budge.

  “Let go of my arm!” I yell. “Get your hands off of me right now!”

  Now everyone is staring. Even Brother Berkin.

  “Don’t make a scene you worthless, fat ass whore,” he whispers, smiling at everyone who
is staring, “and get the fuck out of here before I do something that you will regret.”

  I look him right in the eye and say, “Do it.” He doesn’t move.

  “Do something, Richard Stacks. Do it right here, right now, in front your audience.” I wave my arm at the onlookers. “I dare you, you big pussy.”

  He looks at our audience, smiles, and says, “Sorry folks, she’s just really upset about all this.”

  I get up in his face and say, “Do. It. Do something, Richard.”

  He turns to me and whispers, “You can bet your fat ass I’m going to. Just not here.”

  The air is thick with tension as Richard Stacks steps away from me and flips open his cell phone. Brother Berkin comes over and pats me on the shoulder.

  “Have you seen her, Brother Berkin?” I’m antsy and ready to make a move because I’m feeling sicker by the second and I’m mad as hell on top of that.

  “No, Ace,” he says quietly, “Mr. Stacks thinks it’s best if we don’t disturb her, so I think we should honor his wishes.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about him,” I nod toward Richard and cross and uncross and re-cross my arms. “Did you know she was pregnant?”

  Brother Berkin looks at me like I’m speaking ancient Hebrew.

  “He beats the hell out of her all the time, but no one ever says anything about it because he’s Mister Richard Robert Stacks the Fourth.” I’m wringing my hands and still looking at Richard trying to decide if I want to grab his cell phone and beat his eyes shut or make a run to see Chloe before security gets here. “He’s always got some lame story about some ridiculous accident she had and to be perfectly honest, Brother Berkin, Chloe is not that clumsy of a woman.” I can’t stop fidgeting. “She does yoga for Christ’s sake.”