Fat Girl on a Plane

by Kelly deVos

  SKINNY: Day 740 of NutriNation...the fine print

  “Yes, that Moreno,” Darcy answers, naming my faculty sponsor at ASU. “She thinks Cookie might be even more talented than you are.”

  “Well—” he hedges.

  I do a mental run-through of the stuff I’ve made for Dr. Moreno’s classes over the past year or so for some kind of clue as to what he’s seeing. Maybe some of my knitwear pieces? Or the series of little black dresses I made as last semester’s final project?

  Gareth hands the phone back to Darcy. “It’s good.” He says it like there’s nothing he hates more than making this admission.

  Darcy keeps going. “From a PR standpoint, my idea is a gold mine. The daughter of supermodel Leslie Vonn Tate.”

  My blood runs cold at the mention of my mother.

  “I know Leslie Vonn Tate, and that girl might be even better looking. I sat next to her last night and—” Mr. Manager says.

  “Nobody cares what you think of Cookie’s appearance,” Gareth interrupts.

  “Wow. Touchy subject.”

  Darcy doesn’t acknowledge the interruption. “Who has been through an inspirational weight loss journey and now writes a blog designed to help everyone find figure-flattering fashions.”

  Gareth chuckles. “I guess this is a preview of the press release.”

  This all makes me want to break out in hives. I’m not out to inspire people to lose weight. I want to inspire them to buy my clothes.

  Still, I’m starting to really like Darcy. And to wonder how she keeps it together. “You work with her. Guide her through the process of creating a small plus-size collection.”

  He laughs again. “That’s kind of an oxymoron.”

  I roll my eyes.

  Gareth Miller is an ass.

  “Ten pieces. Things we can put into rapid production easily. Using fabric we’ve already created. You make sure she designs the right things. We go for a January Microshow. Then we release the capsule collection online and in a few select locations.”

  Ten pieces. I could make ten pieces with Gareth Miller. Real clothes in real production. In school, it’ll be a year before we even start talking about manufacturing. This is the kind of opportunity people claw each other’s eyes out for.

  “Neiman Marcus is interested. They’re open to testing it,” Mr. Manager adds.

  “Saks too,” Darcy says. “And her blog sponsor, NutriMin Water, is totally on board. They’ll pay her and pick up the cost of her accommodations.”

  “Money’s not the problem, Darcy.”

  “Then what is?”

  There’s another long moment of silence, and I’m pretty sure now is the time for me to stop hiding behind the glassware. But my thoughts are all jammed up, like thread that’s been sucked down into the bobbin. Am I supposed to be flattered that Gareth doesn’t deny wanting to screw me? Or pissed that he clearly thinks I’m incompetent?

  When Gareth says nothing, Darcy adds, “The point is, come March, people are talking about this and not what happened yesterday.”

  “Okay,” Gareth says. “We’ll do it. But not here in New York.”

  I force myself to approach their table as Darcy says, “Where, then?”

  Gareth doesn’t have time to answer before Mr. Manager stands and offers me his hand. “Cookie Vonn. Nice to see you again. I’m—”

  “Leaving,” Gareth says. “I’ll finish up with the preorder reports and then we’ll meet you in the office shortly.”

  Darcy gets up and leaves with Mr. Manager. She doesn’t introduce herself but does give me a broad wink. Gareth gestures for me to join him at the table.

  I take a seat across from him. “So...who was that?”

  He’s busy reading a stack of papers and is almost dismissive when he says, “My publicist, Darcy Evans. And Nathan Rish. My business manager.”

  I’m not sure what to do, so I just sit there, tapping my foot as he makes check marks here and there on a dense table of numbers. His black shirt is somehow more luxe than his employees’ and it somehow manages to pull off the contradiction of looking worn and expensive. He hasn’t shaved or done anything that would suggest he’s spent a single minute thinking of his appearance. And he looks like a god.

  The seconds tick by and Gareth doesn’t acknowledge me again until I start rooting in my bag for my phone. It’s like the bottom of my purse is some kind of an alternate universe where things appear and disappear without any reason.

  “What you’re wearing. Did you make it?” he asks.

  “Yes. And good morning to you too.” As good-looking as he is, he’s still an ass. A presumptuous ass who thinks I’ll drop everything to fix his publicity problems.

  He’s an ass. He’s an ass. I tell myself this over and over even as my traitor brain is cranking out excited hormones. Cookie Vonn for GM now available at Saks.

  “Even the sweater?”

  “Oh. What? Yes.” I know I need to get it. The fuck. Together.

  “You knitted it? By hand?”

  Now we’re talking clothes. My language. I snort. “As opposed to what? The professional knitting machine I’ve got stashed underneath my bed?”

  At the word bed, his gaze finally snaps up. He reaches out and rubs the fabric of my sweater between his fingers. My palms start to sweat and I have nothing to rub them on. The fleece of my sweater might felt.

  “From?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “The sweater,” he clarifies. “What’s it knitted from?”

  “Alpaca. One hundred gram.”

  “Darcy tells me you’re an aspiring designer,” he says. “That would have been a good thing to mention on the plane.”

  “Oh...uh...well...” I stammer.

  “I hope they’re not paying you by the word over at that blog of yours,” he snaps.

  “I told you before. I love making clothes,” I snap right back.

  “Darcy has this idea that—”

  This time I interrupt him. “I heard.” I try to make my voice as cold as possible. I want him to think I hate him. Even as I struggle to stop staring at his mouth.

  He rubs his chin with his hand and cocks his head. Finally looks me in the eye.

  The emotional iceberg is already thawing and I shrug. “You guys didn’t exactly keep your voices down. I could hear you the instant I got off the elevator.”

  “Well, then it’s settled.” He returns his attention to his spreadsheets.

  My face is growing hot and I’m sure it’s as red as the fancy tomatoes the staff is probably slicing in the kitchen. “How is it settled? You haven’t even asked me if I want to do it!”

  Gareth drops the papers. “Well, don’t you? I mean, you came here to convince me to create a plus-size collection. And now you have. You say you love to make clothes. If that’s true, then the idea of seeing your stuff on racks should get your motor going.”

  “I haven’t convinced you to do anything. Your people think this is a move that lets you make the best of a bad public relations situation.”

  He frowns. “I see. The idea that this plan is mutually beneficial is what bothers you? You’d prefer a scenario where I’m your fairy godmother selflessly making your dreams come true?”

  My simmering anger boils over. “I’d prefer a scenario where we’re honest with each other. What happened to ‘whatever else we’ll be, let’s be honest’?”

  He smiles. His perfect white smile that is infused with the promise of Montana on a blue-sky sunny day. I can’t stay mad.

  “Okay, this is a move that’s honestly good for you and me. Probably in equal measure. But it’s your choice,” he says.

  My mind races in a million directions.

  “So?” he prompts.

  “I...I have school...” I say.

  He squints at me, gives me a crook
ed smile. “Come see how fashion really happens, Cookie Vonn.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Yes.”

  After that, things happen fast. I’m in the car with Gareth and then back at G Studios. Darcy and Nathan are there along with Gareth’s personal lawyer, another lawyer that represents the company and a notary. The company lawyer is wearing the black tee uniform, but it’s not the GM label. This is revealing. Gareth doesn’t like him enough to dress him.

  There’s a speakerphone where several reps from NutriMin Water chime in from time to time. I find out I’ll be paid $25,000 plus expenses to work with Gareth for three months, through the end of the year. This sounds like an absurd amount of money to me. I made $9,842 the entire previous year working at Donutville. I try to picture $25K. In a suitcase. Or as a number printed on a check.

  I also find out that someone, probably Darcy, has already contacted ASU. I’ll be given incompletes in my classes and be able to make up the work during the spring and the summer sessions.

  Gareth’s plan is for us to use the studio at his ranch in Argentina. After he announces this, the lawyers start pushing paper at me. Contracts. Nondisclosure agreements. Paperwork designed to help me get an expedited passport. I find out I can write and tweet about my progress as long as I don’t make any claims about G Studios. Anything like that has to be approved by them. And that process takes up to two weeks.

  The final document is titled, “Personal Nondisclosure Agreement and Waiver of Future Financial Support.”

  “What is this?” I ask.

  Gareth watches with stormy eyes as his lawyer explains. “In the event that anything personal develops between you and Mr. Miller, this agreement precludes you from making any public statements about said development or from seeking unpromised financial support.”

  “Personal relationship?” I repeat. “And why would I seek financial support?”

  Everyone at the table stares at me like I’m the stupidest, most naive person they’ve ever met. And I guess I am for not realizing what could possibly happen.

  It’s the lawyer who’s left to stammer, “Well...ah...I suppose...a personal...friendship might develop...and in that case...”

  I sign the paper without asking anything else.

  The notary stamps this and Gareth gets up, signaling to everyone that it’s okay to leave.

  “I have some conditions.”

  “You do?” the lawyer asks. He straightens his T-shirt and casts a sideways aha glance at Gareth. “And these are?”

  Everyone sits back down, and there’s a weird tension in the room. Like I’m behaving as they feared I would.

  “Okay. Well. I didn’t know we were having this meeting, so my stuff is not typed up like yours is,” I tell the lawyer.

  “Go ahead and say whatever you like and I’ll take notes.”

  I’m not sure what drives me to do it. But I know that I have to do whatever I can to level the playing field. “Okay. While I work with Mr. Miller, there can be no fat jokes.”

  “Fat. Jokes?” the lawyer says slowly.

  “Yes. No a small plus-size collection is an oxymoron. No I hate sitting next to fat gals on the plane. Fat people are people, and they deserve to be treated like it.”

  “What have you really got if you can’t laugh at yourself?” Gareth asks.

  “Dignity,” I say.

  “Fine. No fat jokes. What about short people jokes? Can I still make those?”

  “Can I tweet them and tag you?” I fire back.

  Darcy is biting her lip. I suspect she’s trying not to laugh. Gareth covers his mouth with his hand, leaning on his elbow as he sits at the conference room table.

  “Next, I won’t talk about my mother. She doesn’t get mentioned in the press releases. Or my blog. If you want to work with her, hire her instead of me.”

  “Okay,” Darcy says reluctantly.

  “And finally, Mr. Miller must agree to answer, honestly, any questions I have about clothing design, construction or his background in fashion. This is supposed to be a learning opportunity for me.”

  All eyes turn toward Gareth.

  “Done.”

  I leave with Reese to go back to the hotel.

  On the way out, I can hear Darcy talking.

  “Gareth, you might be biting off more than you can chew here.”

  The last thing I hear is him chuckling and saying, “Don’t worry, Darce. My daddy always told me I have a right big mouth.”

  FAT: Day 9 of NutriNation

  “Ouch.”

  “If you don’t want to get pricked by the pin, you have to hold still.”

  It’s lunch at Mountain Vista. Tommy and I are in the Clothing room and I’m fitting him for a new English-cut, gray wool suit he plans to wear to his parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary. It’s turning out better than I expected.

  I’m relieved I have something to do. I took me all of three seconds to wolf down my NutriNation-friendly lunch. The apple slices, cheese cubes and almonds are swimming around in my stomach wishing a candy bar would come visit.

  “Shouldn’t you match this to my eyes or whatever?” he asks, running one hand through his curly hair.

  I’m kneeling on the floor in front of him. “Stop. Moving. And your eyes are brown. You want to wear a brown suit?”

  “Isn’t that what women always do—match everything to their eye color or whatever?”

  Snorting with laughter, I say, “Most people have one of, like, four different eye colors. Fashion is going to get extremely boring if fabrics only come in brown, blue, green and hazel.”

  He groans. “Never mind.”

  I crane my neck to look at him. My stomach turns over a couple of times. “This color is perfect. You look perfect.”

  The moment is sort of tense and his face is turning pink. I hunch back down and keep working.

  Once I get over the initial awkwardness of dealing with things like inseam measurements, making menswear is fun. Unlike when I drape my flowing skirts and dresses, stuff for guys is constructed and precisely tailored. It’s sort of like suddenly becoming an architect after spending years as a painter.

  “I saw you talking to my nemesis today,” I say. Since last week, Kennes Butterfield’s been trying to beat me to class to get my seat next to Tommy.

  “Hardy, har,” he says, checking his phone and shaking free the pin I’m inserting.

  There’s something off about his response.

  I stop hemming Tommy’s left pant leg and glare at him. “I’m not kidding, Tommy. She took my seat in the Gareth Miller preview. I’ve been working at SoScottsdale for over a year, and that was the first real opportunity I’ve gotten. And, thanks to her, I’ll never meet LaChapelle and talk to him about Parsons.”

  “Come on. It was a long shot in the first place. And you got her kicked off the plane. So, don’t you think you two might be even now?”

  Tugging the pant leg down hard, I resume pinning, paying less attention to whether or not I stick him. “Sure. Her crushing my lifelong dream is exactly the same as me making her wait two extra hours at O’Hare.”

  He doesn’t answer, so I add, “Did she mention she called me Cankles?”

  “Um. Yeah. That’s not cool, but she’s under a lot of pressure,” he says with a sigh. “Her parents got divorced. Then her mom moved her out here. She really feels the need to impress her dad with all this new blog stuff.”

  “She told you all of this in between the segments of Mr. Smith’s lecture on the Viet Cong?”

  He shakes his head. “She has independent study for third hour too. In the library. You think you’ve got it bad. Just imagine if Jameson Butterfield was your father.”

  I take his advice and imagine the life of luxury that Jameson Butterfield’s 500-million-dollar mobile-phone fortune must buy. “I’m picturing it. And it doesn’t look so bad f
rom where I sit.”

  “You of all people should know that having a famous parent isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  Through clenched teeth, I say, “She. Called. Me. Cankles.”

  “I’ll talk to her, okay?” Tommy says. “Get her to apologize.”

  Perfect. Just what I was going for. Tommy spending more time talking to Kennes.

  I’m done pinning the cuff of the trouser and Tommy steps behind the modesty screen to put his real pants back on. “Want to hang out after school? My dad’s got the pinball machine working again,” he says.

  My face relaxes. “Thanks. But I have to go to SoScottsdale after school. Then I’m pulling the swing shift at Donutville. We’re on for Friday, right?”

  Back in his jeans, he says, “The Star Party at the Riparian Preserve. Wouldn’t miss it. Hey. What did Kraken say about the doughnuts?”

  Bob Kraken owns Donutville. He’s known for being pretty cheap. But he likes Tommy and approves of his attempts to get the kids from church into astronomy. There are a bunch of ten-year-olds from Christ the King meeting Tommy for the open house, and the plan is to bribe them with free sugar.

  “He said I can stop by around four and pick up anything left over from the morning. And Steve said he’d make extra stuff so that there would definitely be leftovers.” Steve is an old coot of a baker who dislikes the rules as much as I do. He’s my compatriot in arms at Donutville.

  “Great.” Tommy and I leave the Clothing room together. The click of the door conceals a growl of my stomach.

  After school, I make the twenty-minute drive to the blog office.

  Technically speaking, working at SoScottsdale is my last class since I get independent study credit for the work I do there. I’m required to be in the office five hours a week and do whatever work they assign. Every once in a while, Marlene has to fill out a bunch of paperwork for the school.

  The first thing to know about SoScottsdale is that it’s not actually in Scottsdale. The rent is too expensive, so Marlene has the office set up on the Tempe-Scottsdale border in a small business park off Hayden. She has an ongoing war with the post office. Mail to the office takes an extra day because Marlene lists Scottsdale as the blog’s official city.