by Kelly deVos
The girl eyes me with disdain, like she’d rather sit next to a monkey wearing a diaper than a fat person. I expect her to move on. Instead she reaches for the RESERVED sign.
I put my hand on it, making sure the sign stays put. “That seat is reserved.”
“Yeah, for me, I guess,” she says. As she taps her foot impatiently, her head wobbles oddly on her neck, making it look like her chin-length bob is some kind of weird wig. “This is the only seat left on the plane.”
The way she says it—Like, duh, stupid, do you think I’d be sitting by you if I didn’t have to?
“It’s mine,” I growl. “They made me buy it.”
“It’s. The. Only. Seat. Left.” She jerks her head from side to side as she spits out the words. People are turning around. A flight attendant is making her way up the aisle.
“What’s the problem, girls?” the flight attendant asks.
“I need to sit here. Obviously,” Miss Money Bags says, smoothing down her thick black hair.
“This is my seat,” I say. “They made me buy it.”
The flight attendant glances around. “It’s the only seat left on the plane.”
“They told me at the gate that I’m too fat to fit into one seat and they made me buy a second ticket,” I say. I can’t get hysterical.
“But you can fit into one seat,” the flight attendant says.
“Mostly,” the girl adds.
“That’s what I told them. But they made me buy another seat anyway.” I want to cry but I don’t; I can’t. You cry, and people know they’ve got you. I’ve had years of practicing waiting until I’m alone. In the shower or in bed late at night.
“Well, if this young lady here sits next to you, you’ll automatically qualify for a refund. I’ll make sure your credit gets issued as soon as we land at JFK.” She smiles kindly at me. “It’s win-win for everybody.”
“I don’t want a refund,” I tell the woman in a dull, low voice. Everything is quiet on the plane. No one else is talking. “I’ve been humiliated at the airport. Had to wait on standby. Had to call my best friend and beg for money. Gotten escorted onto the plane with a man so old he could be my grandma’s grandpa. I had to carry this—” I shake the red sign “—like it’s my Scarlet. Fucking. Letter.”
Pointing at the seat next to me, I keep going. “I don’t care about refunds or win-wins. Or if this plane crashes into the fucking ocean. I want this goddamn seat.”
The flight attendant drops all pretense of friendliness. “We make the call on whether or not you need two seats.”
“I know. The nice lady in the terminal explained all this when she took my six hundred bucks.”
She sighs and turns to the other passenger. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go back to the gate and work this out.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” the girl demands. “Tell Cankles to move her red sign and the plane can take off.” She again tries to slide into the seat next to me.
The flight attendant places her arm across my row to block the girl and then backs her to the door as their conversation continues. “Since she has two tickets, I have to treat this like an overbooking situation. In these cases, the passenger with the last boarding pass issued gets booked on the next flight.”
“The next flight? Tomorrow?” the girl asks. Her voice is becoming higher pitched and semi-hysterical. “But I’ll miss...”
I don’t get to hear what she will miss. The instant she’s back on the entry ramp, another attendant closes the plane door with a thud. The guy on the other side of the aisle gives me a dirty look.
At the front of the plane, I spot a blur of curly, beachy hair. Tommy. The feeling of relief passes as my rational mind connects the dots. Tommy’s back in Mesa, and the guy up front is stowing his girlfriend’s purse in the overhead compartment.
I close my eyes as the pilot reads a bunch of announcements and the flight attendants give instructions. A few minutes later everything is quiet and still.
The plane charges down the long runway, the cabin lights dim and I try to picture myself up there in first class, holding hands with Tommy. That reality feels reserved for the posh and perfect. It’s a members-only club I don’t know how to join.
What I do know is that, after this trip, I’m not doing this again.
I’m done being the fat girl on the plane.
SKINNY: Later on Day 738
“Thank God,” he says as he smiles at me.
It’s him. After all this time, I’m meeting Gareth Miller.
And he’s smiling at me.
The plane has stopped in Dallas, and it would figure that my fashion idol would get on and plop down next to me. I’m filled with dread. Or panic. The kind of panic that makes me consider heading for the emergency exit and taking the evacuation slide onto the runway.
He takes the aisle seat. “There’s some whale of a woman raising all kinds of hell in the airport because they want her to buy more than one ticket.”
And he’s a douchelord.
Never mind. I’ll push him down the evacuation slide.
Gareth Miller leans in toward me, like we’re now in a conspiracy together and says, “I hate to be rude.” It’s a hushed whisper. “But she needs two. At least two. Back before I had my own plane when I had to fly commercial, I always got stuck next to them. Them and the crying babies. Or sometimes fat gals with crying babies.”
I scoot back and glare at him. “Sounds like you’d be a lot happier on Air Force Asshat,” I blurt out. I sort of wish I hadn’t said it. I’m on my way to New York to interview the guy and it’s probably not the best idea to pick a fight with him. I turn to the window and try to seem busy stuffing my iPad in the pocket on the seat in front of me.
“Oh, now, shoot, I’ve gone and offended you.” He pushes his hand in my line of sight. “Gareth Miller. And no, I don’t think I’d be happier. Asshat One is having mechanical issues.”
Forcing myself to stay calm, I shake his hand lightly and say, “I’m Cookie.”
I’ve been thinking about this meeting for two years. Fantasizing about it since I caught a glimpse of his profile through a slit in his maple-paneled studio door. In my imaginary version of our first meeting, he flips through my sketchbook, loudly announcing that my designs are the best he’s ever seen. Then he insists on making sure I get a scholarship to Parsons and an investment to start my own line. But I guess we’ll be sitting next to each other in beige airline seats instead.
“Cookie,” he repeats with a laugh. “That a really sweet name.”
It takes all my self-control not to give him an epic eye roll. People always think they’re so original. Like this is the very first time someone’s ever thought of making a joke like that.
“My mom ate chocolate chip cookies in the hospital after I was born,” I tell him, trying not to stare at his chiseled features. “I guess I should be happy the nurse didn’t give her a candy bar. Or I’d now be known as KitKat or something.”
“Gimme a break,” he says with an appealing grin.
It’s kind of funny but I force myself not to laugh. Gareth Miller might be skating through life, saying whatever he wants and relying on his appeal to make it all okay. But that whale of a woman used to be me. Still feels like me. I put my hands into the empty inch of space at the edge of my seat. This is what two years of NutriNation has gotten me.
I really hope he doesn’t notice I’m wearing a Gareth Miller sweater.
The flight attendant is making long, smooth waving motions with her arms and gesturing toward the exit rows. I pull out the airline safety card and read along, looking up for the oxygen mask.
“I think this may be a first for me. Someone is actually checking the crash instructions,” he says in his drawling accent. He’s from Montana and has a sort of cowboy couture charm.
“I like to be prepared in t
he event of an emergency.”
“I hate to break it to you, but if the plane crashes, we’ll all be dead,” he says with another smile. He’s able to make this line sound like the best news I’ve had all day.
“Not true.” My stomach flip-flops but I give him a fake smile of my own. “Most crashes occur on takeoff or landing, and the rate of survival is about 56 percent. We’re at a disadvantage here in first class since the safest seats are in the back of the plane. But since you don’t mind dying, I’ll just crawl over you if there’s an emergency. And you can be part of the 44 percent who don’t make it.”
“Well, I’d die a happy man,” he says, his eyes drifting over me. “And do me a favor, Cookie, at my funeral, you give the eulogy. Make sure everyone knows I made that sweater and gave my life so you could keep looking so fine while wearing it.” He points at the smooth cashmere top. It’s covered in whimsical, eight bit cherry clusters. A combination of quality and caprice. Gareth Miller’s signature style.
Of course he noticed the sweater. Sigh.
“I said I designed that sweater. That doesn’t impress you?”
I nod and hope he finds something else to do with his time besides stare at me. He’s either staring because:
a) I look like my mom and he’s trying to figure out why I seem familiar,
b) I have mascara smeared on my face or maybe a leaf stuck in my hair or
c) some other kind of reason that’s giving me hot flashes.
Two out of the three of those things are nothing to get excited about. I remind myself that I don’t want to want someone like Gareth Miller to like me. And anyway, I’ve spent hours writing hard-hitting interview questions. I don’t need my momentum spoiled by four hours of good-natured chitchat. I try to get my headphones in before he can say anything else.
“You know, you look awfully familiar,” he says. He cocks his head and adds, “I mean, I know that sounds like a line. A truly bad one. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
The first-class attendant approaches us. “Something to drink before takeoff?” she asks. Her glance dances from Gareth to me and a grin spreads across her face. “I get a lot of good-looking people sitting in my section, but you two are just fabulous.”
I’m not used to this. To compliments and attention. My stomach’s producing acid in overdrive. I’m pretty sure I’ll have an ulcer by thirty.
“I’ll have a glass of white wine,” Gareth says.
“I’ll just have a Diet Coke,” I tell the woman.
Across the aisle, I make eye contact with a man in a Men’s Wearhouse navy suit. He smiles at me.
All I can think is that a man shouldn’t wear a striped tie with a striped shirt.
I turn back to my window, watching a crew load luggage into another plane a couple of gates away. The last time I was on a plane, that guy wouldn’t have even made eye contact. He’d have been praying that he didn’t have to sit next to me.
The plane’s air conditioner kicks on and I catch a whiff of Gareth Miller’s cologne. It’s not fair that he should look and smell so good.
Trapped next to his appeal and his “charm,” which oozes out like an unwanted infection, I scrunch myself into my seat and pray I make it to New York without killing him.
FAT: Two days before NutriNation
(two seats take me to New York)
Here’s why people are fat. Losing weight is hard. Really fucking hard.
Two peanut butter cups equal forty-five minutes on the treadmill. So enjoy. And start running your ass off.
Let’s say you smoke two packs a day. You get sick of being winded when you climb up a flight of stairs and those commercials that show the guy cleaning the hole in his throat really start to get to you. So, what happens next?
Take your pick from any one of about a thousand free hotlines you can call. There’s lozenges, inhalers and patches to help you quit. If you have decent health insurance, your doctor might hook you up with some Chantix.
Need to lose weight?
You’re on your own. And most of the world is working against you.
They play food commercials on TV 24/7. They make you watch spinning golden french fries while you’re trying to run off that candy bar. The stereotypical date consists of dinner and a movie. All holidays and parties end with cake or pie.
I finally land in New York a little before 10:00 p.m. I’ve gotten one step closer to meeting Gareth Miller and seeing LaChapelle. While I wait for the airport shuttle, I call Tommy. His Lego events go on forever and there’s a ton of downtime. He picks up on the first ring. We talk about the plane.
“I really think you’re oversimplifying things,” he says. “People aren’t fat because of peanut butter cups.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Because if they were, we could load all the peanut butter cups on a rocket and blast it to the moon.”
He continues as if he hasn’t heard me. “Some people have medical problems. Some people have tried diets and they haven’t worked. And some people are happy the way they are.”
I know he’s right. But what about right now?
“You think juice cleanses work?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I guess,” he says. “But that’s not a great long-term plan. I mean, how long could you possibly survive on juice?” There’s a pause. “My mom’s doing NutriNation. You could try that.”
“You think I should? You want me to be your supermodel?”
He sighs. In the background I can hear Korean pop music and the whir of the high-pitched engines Tommy and his geek friends attach to the Lego cars they build. “I don’t want you to be anything. I want you to be happy.” There’s another pause. “You remember Fairy Falls?”
I snort. Of course I do. That’s where we became friends. The fat camp with an idiotic name where we both spent two Christmas breaks.
“Doesn’t it bother you at all that your parents dumped you like a sack of old clothes in Duck Lake, Wyoming?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “And that’s my point. I know your mom—”
“My mom treats me like I’m a pair of designer jeans that are too baggy,” I say.
“I know. I know.” He’s getting impatient and talking faster so that I can’t interrupt. “That’s the whole point. You keep letting your mom tell you how you’re gonna feel about yourself. Fat camp wasn’t all that bad. If it weren’t for Fairy Falls, we probably wouldn’t be friends. We can thank our parents for that.”
“Thanks for the analysis, Dr. Phil, but I’m not letting my mom tell me how to feel. I just don’t want to be like her. That’s all,” I say.
“Eating a banana or cracking a smile now and again won’t make you vapid and self-centered,” he says. “But you keep punching yourself in the face and hoping your mom will get a black eye.”
“It just seems so unfair,” I say.
“Cookie, some snotty girl on a plane isn’t a reason to come down on yourself.” His goofy, boyish grin transmits even through the phone. “I like you the way you are.”
I smile in spite of myself, even though I secretly think he’d like me more if I looked more like my mom.
As the shuttle pulls up to the curb, I hang up and shimmy my way into the back of the van. It’s not easy getting back there, but I know it’s the best way to avoid dirty looks from other passengers.
I think of Tommy as I watch the yellow streetlights pass. I try to remember the exact moment that I knew I wanted to be more than friends and the exact moment when it occurred to me how impossible that is.
It’s my first time in New York.
Even the buildings are tall and thin.
“You going to the Continental Hotel?” the driver calls from the front.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Sorry. That place is a dump.” He chuckles as a man slides into the front seat.
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I close my eyes and imagine that I’ll open them to a whole new world.
We drive.
SKINNY: Day 738...details
Gareth Miller continues to stare. I consider throwing something in the aisle so he’ll have to turn in that direction.
“You know an awful lot about airline safety for someone so young,” he says.
Yuck. What a cheesy way to ask someone’s age. “I can use Wikipedia, and I’m nineteen.” This is a mistake.
I don’t know why I give him that detail.
He smiles again. “Ah, I remember nineteen. Where’d your boyfriend take you for your birthday?”
I’ve never had a boyfriend, and I don’t want to tell the King of Fashion I spent the evening crying into a diet soda while Tommy was probably somewhere making out with my nemesis.
“What did you do on your nineteenth birthday?” I hedge.
He laughs, revealing a smile that would shame a toothpaste ad. “Ever been to Flathead County, Montana?”
I shake my head.
“Well, you can have dinner at the Sizzler. Or a kegger down at the lake. My pop settled on the latter.”
“Weren’t you already at Parsons by then?” I ask.
He pauses, regards me a bit differently. “We have met before. I knew it. Do a fella a favor and give me a hint where it was.” He turns a bit red. “We haven’t ever...”
At the front of the plane, the flight attendant is buckling herself into her seat. A few seconds later, the 757 races down the runway.
I glare at Gareth Miller. “You have that much trouble keeping track of the women you sleep with?” I let him squirm in his seat, facing the real possibility that he’ll have to spend four hours next to a stranger with whom he’d shared forgettable sex. He’s making a big show of watching the plane lift off the runway.
“We’ve never met,” I say. “But I get the ParDonna.com newsletter.”
He leans away from the window, breathing more comfortably. “Well, yeah, I had already moved to New York by then. But my dad always insists I come home for my birthday. It’s during the summer, so the timing isn’t too bad. The weather is nice.”