Fat Girl on a Plane

by Kelly deVos

  My mouth falls open. Here’s another first. Being pegged as someone’s sugar baby. I bite back a retort. I mean, I did almost knock her off the sidewalk.

  Gareth waves the car off. It pulls away, and his face shifts into a skeptical mug. This isn’t a man who dreams of being kept by anyone.

  “That was...uh...” I struggle to complete the sentence. Weird? Surprising? Older women seem like they’d rank right up there with fat gals and babies on the list of people Gareth would love to push onto an iceberg and send off to sea. “Um...um...nice?”

  His devilish grin returns. “Ah, I’m offended by your shock, Cookie Vonn. I figured it was the least I could do, considering you seemed so hell-bent on tossing all that poor lady’s toilet paper into the street and making sure she has no sugar for her coffee.”

  My face heats up. “I’m not sure how I was supposed to know that the lady was making her way through Midtown scooping paper products into her handbag.”

  Gareth laughs. “Well, that’s New York for you. I only wonder what Georges Vuitton would say if he knew that the Noé bag could be used to hold twelve rolls of toilet paper instead of five bottles of champagne.”

  I brush off my navy pleated skirt and laugh. “Well, he always was practical. I think he would have approved. After all, he only put the LV logo all over everything to prevent counterfeits.”

  Gareth motions for me to follow him. “Funny, isn’t it? They added the design to stop counterfeiting and now it’s the very thing that makes counterfeits desirable. Sometimes, things don’t go as planned.”

  Yeah. Funny.

  He turns and walks about a hundred miles an hour, and I’m almost running to keep up with him as he makes his way to the hotel’s main restaurant, Parker & Quinn. Although the place is packed, a greeter meets us at the door with two menus in hand and escorts us to a giant booth in the very back.

  On the table in an ice bucket, there’s a bottle of champagne, which the greeter uncorks before he leaves. Miller gestures for me to sit first and then moves in so close that our knees lightly brush. “Let’s try sitting together this time, okay? So we can hear each other.”

  He pours me a glass of champagne, which I stare at because I’m nineteen, under the legal drinking age, and because I never waste calories on alcohol. “Let’s get the unpleasant stuff out of the way right now,” he says, also leaving his glass untouched. “Why don’t I have a plus-size collection? Because I own a fashion business. A business. I’ve never romanticized it. Never lied to myself and said I’m in it for some reason other than the money. If I just loved to make pretty dresses, I would’ve stayed in Whitefish and dressed Miss Montanas and Cowboy Queens.”

  “But—”

  He cuts me off. “But look how many overweight people walk the street. Look how many plus-size women there are. Someone has to dress them. There has to be profit there somewhere, right? Well, maybe. But the thing is you can’t just dress plus-size women, you have to also pull off something of a magic act. You have to make them look thin. Otherwise, they won’t be opening their pocketbooks. Especially not for clothes at a luxury price point.”

  I’m starting to really hate the word overweight. What’s the ideal weight that everyone is supposed to be and why do people like Gareth get to decide who’s “over” it? Anyway, these are old arguments, and so infuriating coming from him. My anger is rising. “When did you get so lazy? You of all people. You know how to fit clothes. And I don’t buy for a second that it would be any harder for you to tailor plus-size. Your own grandmother couldn’t fit into the clothes you sell. What does she say to you?”

  He shrugs. “Thanks for paying the mortgage again, Bubee.”

  His cynicism catches me off guard. My imagination didn’t prepare me for a world in which Gareth Miller doesn’t love making clothes. But then I say, “Wait. She calls you Bubee? Why?”

  “You’d have to ask her.”

  He picks up the glass of sparkling gold. “Truce, okay? I promise I’ll give it some thought. We can discuss it more after the show.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere.

  “Can I tweet that?” I ask, fighting back a smile.

  “Yes.”

  I reach inside my bag for my phone, but he adds on to his statement. I wonder if he’s always like this. If, for him, everything is conditional, is quid pro quo.

  “On the condition that you wait until after breakfast. And we have a toast.”

  “Okay. What do you want to drink to?”

  I learn that Gareth Miller likes to test people. “Lady’s choice.”

  As I hold the flute by the stem like my mother does in her shoots for Movado wristwatches, I run through the options. To your health. To your show. To New York.

  But I come up with something better. “To love potions. The kind they make in Montana.”

  He doesn’t raise his glass, eyeing me in confusion. “What kind of love potions do they make in Montana? It doesn’t take much to make sure the bull and the heifer go to the hoedown and do the do-si-do, if you know what I mean.”

  My face is flushing again and my palms break out in a sweat. “Didn’t you just spend the entire car ride telling me this charming story about a perfume shop near your ranch?”

  He really laughs this time. Not a chuckle but a real belly laugh. “My ranch is just outside Camino a Seclantas.”

  When I clearly have no idea what he’s talking about, he adds, “Remember Mr. Miller?” he asks. “My father’s ranch is in Whitefish. Mine is in Salta, Argentina.”

  “Okay, then. To Argentinean love potions.” Whitefish is a world away from Argentina. Another reminder of the distance between Gareth’s world and mine.

  Our glasses clink together as he says, “I’ll drink to that.”

  I put the flute down and switch to the water glass in front of me. “I’ll have to get you to write that down so I can stop by next time I’m in the area.”

  A waiter approaches our table, sees the menus we haven’t even opened and retreats in silence.

  “Don’t bother,” Gareth says. “I’ll take you there after the show. And that, my girl, is a promise.”

  “Sure. And I’ll treat you to Taco Bell at the ASU Student Union the next time you come to Phoenix,” I answer with a snort.

  He takes the last swig of his champagne and tilts his flute in my direction.

  “Welcome to the big time, Cookie Vonn.”

  FAT: Days 1–2 of NutriNation

  “Welcome to NutriNation,” says a woman behind a gray counter.

  This is the start of my new life.

  I arrived home on Saturday night just as Grandma was about to walk up the street to her usual bingo game. She didn’t ask about the trip or why I was home early. I’ve always loved that about Grandma. That she knows when not to talk.

  There were no messages from Terri or Marlene, no notes or emails to explain what happened in New York. I paced around my room, talking to myself and knowing I had to find something to do with my angry energy.

  Someone always seemed to have the stomach flu on date night, so I was able to pick up an extra shift at Donutville. It was mostly dead, but the regulars were there at the counter and I was extra fake nice, refilling their coffee before they even asked. At the end of the night, there was a little over fifteen bucks in my tip jar.

  Which worked out, because it costs twelve bucks and change to join NutriNation.

  The next morning, I headed over to the meeting, which is in a new strip mall a couple of miles from Grandma’s house. They have one Sunday meeting and it starts promptly at noon. So here I am.

  I meet Amanda Harvey. She’s pretty much Wonder Woman. During her intro, I find out she has five kids, two jobs and a weekly planner that would make Batman feel like a slacker.

  There’s something odd about the way she dresses. Like she Googled “business casual” and hit the cl
earance rack with her Kohl’s Cash. She has thick chunks of coarse brown hair that she’s smoothed with a flat iron. If Mattel made a suburban mom doll, they’d use Amanda to make the mold.

  Because fat people must be God’s inside joke, the NutriNation is sandwiched in between a Starbucks and a Fosters Freeze. “You’ll never see anyone from here over there,” Amanda says. “All my NutriNation people go to the Starbucks around the corner. I guess they think they’re invisible over there.”

  Joining is easy. It occurs to me, midway through the process, that these people deal with weight issues for a living. And they know what they’re doing. They don’t weigh you in public, ask you for your size, measurements or age.

  The scale display is behind the counter, so no one can see my weight. No one except me. Amanda discreetly passes me a weight-tracking booklet. And there it is. In neat numbers written with a cheap ballpoint pen. Three hundred and thirty-seven pounds.

  It’s my first meeting, and I don’t talk to anyone. Before it starts, I don’t even look at anyone. After Amanda introduces herself, she points out a few people in the group. Kimberly is celebrating the loss of one hundred pounds. Rickelle sits next to me. She tells us how she dropped one-fifty and now runs marathons. Dave lost two hundred pounds while stubbornly refusing to stop drinking beer.

  They’re talking about emotional eating. I don’t pay too much attention. I’ve spent a long time thinking that I’m fat because Grandma keeps too many cookies in the house.

  But, man, it’s like Amanda’s got telepathy or something because she immediately says, “Now, we’ve talked a lot about how we can’t assume that people are overweight solely because they overeat. Likewise, we can’t make assumptions about why people overeat. Sometimes people eat because they’re stressed or bored or upset.”

  In the seat next to me, Rickelle murmurs, “Or their mother came to visit and won’t go back to Cleveland.”

  I can’t help but think of my mother. There’s no way I’d let her drive me to eat. When I was seven, she didn’t show up to my birthday party and sent her assistant with a cake. I tossed it in the trash. I’m not an emotional eater. But there are other memories. Of Grandma taking me for ice cream every time my mom forgot to call. Of my favorite grilled cheese when Mom took off with Chad Tate. I don’t want to think about these things, and I spend the rest of the meeting studying the posters on the wall that show frolicking thin people.

  New people have to stay after the meeting. Amanda explains the program. Tells us how, for all of eternity, we’re going to be food accountants. Reading labels. Calculating how many points we’ll need to deduct from our daily food budget for our diet dinners. Entering stuff into the app or in our food logs.

  There’s one big rule. You bite it, you write it.

  If you eat twelve almonds, it’s two points. If you eat fifteen almonds, it’s three. So only eat twelve almonds. Otherwise, you’re screwed.

  I’m not taking notes. I’m writing my manifesto.

  “Do you have a question?” Amanda’s smiling at me.

  I look around, and it’s just her and me in the room. My face gets hot and I gather my stuff. I have no idea how this whole thing is supposed to work.

  She glances down at my notebook. “Cookie Vonn’s master plan,” she reads, slowly, because it’s upside down to her. “May I?”

  She holds out her hand. She wants to see my list. I don’t immediately give it to her. But if I want to get to Parsons and get my happily-ever-after with Tommy, I need this to work. And for it to work, I may have to trust someone. I get the idea I can trust Amanda. It’s just a hunch.

  I fork over the list. And she reads it.

  1. Weigh 120 pounds.

  2. Get out of the friend zone with Tommy.

  3. Get killer size 6 wardrobe.

  4. Get scholarship to Parsons.

  5. Rule the world of fashion.

  She stares at the list that I’ve been making on my Kero Kero Keroppi notepad. She cocks her head and tears out the sheet of paper.

  I’m horrified and terrified that maybe she wants to hang it on the wall. The way restaurants display their first dollar bill.

  And then I’m mad.

  She rips the list in half. My mouth falls open as the two pieces sail into the trash can. “It isn’t going to work like that,” she says.

  With my fists balled up, I suck in a big breath. I’m ready to tell her where she can stick her opinion.

  But she cuts me off. “Losing weight is hard. And honestly it sucks. It takes time and work. And you could be doing great, Cookie. Then in six months or six weeks or six days, you’re tired. You pull out that list, and you won’t have anything you can cross off. That’s when people quit.”

  She hands me a different notebook from her own bag. It’s labeled My Weight Loss Journey. At first, I think it’s really stupid. It has headings like My Weekly Goals and Five Things I Like About Myself.

  She circles a section called Non-Scale Victories with a red marker. “This is what I want you to focus on. Did you drink all your water? Write that down. Did you take the stairs instead of the elevator? That’s the kind of thing. I want to see this next week. We’re out to feel and be healthy. The weight loss is a side effect.”

  Amanda smiles and pats me on the arm. “You know, I get a lot of people in here trying to drop pounds to fit in a wedding dress or make somebody fall in love with them, and it never works. It’s like trying to win the Super Bowl to show people how nice you look in a helmet. If you’re not in it for the right reasons, you won’t end up any happier, no matter what you see in the mirror or on the scale.”

  My gaze travels back to the posters of the grinning thin people. There’s a complete and utter lack of pictures of healthy people getting great scores on their cholesterol tests.

  “I know,” Amanda says.

  “Um...what?” I’m getting a bit worried that this lady is having my private thoughts beamed into her brain.

  “That companies like NutriNation make a fortune selling the idea that fat is bad and thin is good. That’s the company talking.

  “This is me talking,” she goes on, pointing to herself. “I’ve been doing this a long time, and I’m telling you, thin people aren’t any happier.”

  I think Amanda is absolutely wrong. She’s never worked in fashion. In that world, not only are thin people happier, they’re the only people allowed to exist. Still, my lungs deflate and my self-righteous anger is gone. I take the book.

  As I leave she says, “I think you will rule the world of fashion. I mean, look at you.” She waves her hand toward my chambray dolman sleeve dress and continues, “But for the record, you don’t need to be a size six to do it.”

  For the rest of the day, I’m curled up in my Papasan chair making notes. I make a new list. Five things I really do like about myself.

  1. I make clothes like a boss.

  2. My eyes. They’re blue and the same shape as the drawings they always give you when they show you how to do your eye shadow.

  3. My hair. I’ve been growing it out for three years and have finally gotten to the point where it doesn’t look like a rat’s nest when I wake up.

  4. My sense of color. I see it in a way many people miss.

  5. My teeth. Three years in braces has to pay off somehow, right?

  * * *

  I get my stuff packed for school. The next day, I’ll be starting my new project in my Clothing class. It’s an eveningwear assignment, and I’ve decided to prove that plus-size bridesmaid dresses don’t have to be a catastrophe. After her last batch of prom dresses, Grandma had six spare yards of radiant Chinese silk. When it moves, the fabric ripples like the teal ocean water that hits distant white-sand beaches. I’ve been hunting through the discount notions bin at the Sally’s Fabrics store for weeks to make sure I’m not another girl in a bad pastel dress with a butt bow when I
go to my cousin Tina’s wedding.

  It seems like everything is going to be okay.

  Then all of a sudden it’s just another manic Monday and I’m late for AP History. My grandma says that a good education shouldn’t be only for the rich. So I’ve got a boundary exception that lets me go to Mountain Vista High School, which is the best in Mesa. And since the religious right loves to make their own clothes, the school has several good sewing and fashion-design classes.

  But they don’t put the best school in a neighborhood like mine, and getting across town is my own problem. I haul ass each day for twenty minutes to park my beat-up old Corolla alongside the shiny Priuses and BMWs. The orange low-fuel light comes on as I wiggle my tiny car in between two Suburbans.

  Mr. Smith, the history teacher, knows my situation and is mostly cool if I sneak in a couple minutes late and snag a seat in the back.

  And that’s what happens today.

  From that desk in the back of the room, I have a great view of my usual chair next to Tommy. It’s occupied by the owner of a sleek, black bob. The girl from the plane, the one who can only be Kennes Butterfield, is leaning over, copying Tommy’s notes. Touching his arm flirtatiously every now and then.

  If there was one single moment when I realized that Kennes would try to take everything I’ve ever wanted, this was it.

  SKINNY: Days 739–740 of NutriNation

  I cruise around behind the scenes of Gareth’s show, snapping pictures and making posts. But my notes about the show don’t attract much attention.

  Meanwhile, my lone post-breakfast tweet, @GarethMiller will consider plus-size capsule collection, is trending. For a few hours, it’s at the top of the leaderboard. Later, Harper’s Bazaar picks up the story and it trends again.

  Gareth’s people give me a seat in the second row. I’m a little disappointed, but I realize it was irrational to think they’d jettison the editor of Vogue so that my seat would be front row center. For a nineteen-year-old blogger, row two is huge.