Fat Girl on a Plane

by Kelly deVos

  “Email.”

  “Yes. That. E-mail. E-banks. E-this. E-that. Honestly, is it too much trouble to send a real letter these days? People are so busy but...”

  I tune out the rest of her lecture on the good ole days and am staring out into space when she pats my arm.

  “Tommy likes that girl,” she says.

  “I know.”

  “That don’t mean he’ll be with her forever. That don’t mean someday he won’t be with you. You all are seventeen, for crying out loud.”

  “I know.”

  She gets up from the couch and lumbers into the kitchen. Pots and pans clank as she starts dinner. “Well, if you know,” she calls from the other room. “Then what the H E double hockey sticks are you doin’, Cookie? ’Cuz surely you must know that if you keep after that girl, you ain’t gonna have a boyfriend nor a friend. Mark my words. This too shall pass. Wait it out with a smile on your face. He’ll come around.”

  Her head of gray curly hair pops in from the kitchen. “You want some dinner?”

  I shake my head. “I’m doing Lean Cuisine.”

  She nods and ducks back into the kitchen. “Take the high road, Cookie.

  “And use that doodad to E-whatever your father,” she adds.

  “Hmm,” I say, noncommittally.

  “Heartbreak is a funny thing, Cookie. It does things to people,” Grandma says. “Your daddy, he’s doing the best that he can.”

  “So am I.”

  I go back to my room and open up my laptop. Sure enough, I see another message from Dad with the subject line Greetings from Gwabe. The messages he sends always read like personalized versions of his fund-raising newsletters, not letters that a father should send his only daughter. I move it into my “From Dad” folder without reading it. If Dad wants to talk to me, he knows where to find me.

  But I do give what Grandma said about Tommy some real thought.

  Her advice rattles around in my brain as I work at the SoScottsdale office the next afternoon. The phone in the bull pen rings. The caller ID displays Ms. Butterfield. Brittany makes a noise that’s part disgusted snort and part cough. I pick up the receiver.

  “Uh, hello?” I say. Kennes sits maybe ten feet from us and my left ear can hear her talking from her office while her snotty voice comes through the telephone into my right ear.

  “Good afternoon, Cookie. Could you please come into my office for a brief meeting?” This is what she says. Like a child impersonating her father.

  There’s a collective eye roll among the interns as I make my way across the room. Somehow the blog that has, in the past, been unable to work a bagel bucket into its budget can now afford a garish redecoration of Kennes’s office.

  Pink-and-black damask is everywhere. There’s damask wallpaper and a desk mat and a pencil cup and a bulletin board. Yes, there is a pink-and-black damask bulletin board on a pink-and-black damask wall. It creates this weird optical illusion that probably gives you a seizure if you stare too long.

  I’m surprised to find Marlene’s already in there, sitting across from Kennes in one of the room’s two visitor chairs. She’s nodding and laughing and examining a small statue of the Eiffel Tower. It’s one of many that clutter Kennes’s desk.

  “Because I love fashion, you know,” she tells Marlene. They both laugh.

  I want to say, What the hell does collecting tacky razzmatazz trinkets that would bring a smile to the face of Dolores Umbridge have to do with fashion? I’m the one who loves fashion. I have my own collection of designer paper dolls organized by decade and a set full of fangirlish scrapbooks devoted to all my favorite designers.

  Take the high road, Cookie.

  I say nothing and shuffle around with a bland expression on my face. Marlene waves to the chair next to her and motions for me to sit.

  Kennes takes in my dazed look. “Because Paris is the fashion capital of the world,” she says, like she’s explaining a basic fact of reality to a five-year-old.

  “New York,” I mumble under my breath.

  “What?” Kennes demands.

  Marlene turns my way. She’s still smiling, but her eyes are crinkling up in worry.

  “Um...I think Paris was the fashion capital of the world for most of the twentieth century. Now I think it’s New York.”

  Marlene cocks her head good-naturedly and Kennes doesn’t comment. I could quit there. But because I have a chronic case of foot-in-mouth disease or because I’m pathologically incapable of taking the high road, I add, “I guess I need to get a bunch of Statue of Liberty knickknacks to prove I love fashion too.”

  Kennes’s face shifts into a dark mask. Before she can speak, Marlene says, “Well, we were just having a discussion about new features we could add to the blog. We’ve got some good ideas and want to have you involved.”

  Kennes is glaring at me. I’m pretty sure the only thing she wants me to get involved in is a Cosa Nostra–style hit. Also, what is with her hair? It’s smooth and clipped like there’s a servant running around Butterfield manor whose only job is to keep the princess from the horror of split ends.

  “We have a great idea for a holiday feature designed to target younger readers. We’ll follow Kennes through the process of preparing for a winter formal. Dress selection, hair and makeup...” Marlene is waving her hand as she lists all the fabulous things the daughter of Jameson Butterfield will be doing as she goes to the dance with my...my friend.

  It’s my turn to glare as Kennes adds, “I’ll be partnering with a local designer for my dress for the dance.” Oh. Of course she will.

  “And best of all, you get to write it,” Marlene says, her voice getting loud and full of incredible enthusiasm.

  Oh. Of course I do.

  I’m choking on the idea of blogging about my archrival’s dream date and almost miss it when Marlene throws me a bone. “The presentation is on Friday, December 12. Do you think you can be ready?”

  Marlene and Kennes are staring at me again. “What?” I say.

  “Can you be ready with an idea to pitch to Jameson Butterfield? He’ll be accepting proposals at the meeting and there are some big promotional opportunities, big marketing bucks, up for grabs. We’ve always talked about you having your own feature,” Marlene says.

  We have always talked about it, but in the someday when I win the lottery kind of way. Sort of like, someday after the blog can afford two-ply toilet paper, we’ll also sink some money into promoting a new feature. For it to work, a new feature needs artwork, advertising and, ideally, a launch party.

  “So?” Marlene prompts.

  I can’t imagine what on earth I’d propose to Jameson Butterfield, but Kennes smirks at me from over Marlene’s shoulder. “Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be ready.” There’s no way I’m backing down from her silent challenge.

  “Great.” Clad in yet another fabulous outfit, Marlene rises and leaves Kennes’s gaudy office. Her little black dress has to be Lanvin, has to be silk and has to cost at least $3,500. She must have really cashed in on the blog sale.

  But Marlene is right. This is a huge opportunity. The comeback kind. The kind that could resuscitate my dream of a Parsons scholarship. If I could earn the backing of someone like Jameson Butterfield, well, that’s the kind of thing that people tend to notice.

  With our boss out the door, Kennes says, “Hey, Cookie, my dad and I are pretty close. If you need any tips on what he likes, let me know.” She’s doing a decent impression of a thoughtful person and I can see Marlene nodding at me as she walks to her own office. She’s grinning like someone who’s just set up her two favorite people on a blind date.

  I’m leaving too. Kennes follows me, standing in the doorway, talking loud so that Brittany and Shelby, who watch us from the bull pen, will be certain to hear. “Oh. Cookie. One thing. The local designer I mentioned, well, it’s you. I can’t wait to see w
hat you come up with. I’ll email you my measurements and my thoughts on the look.”

  She gives me a white, bright, razzle-dazzle smile. “I’d love to tell my father what a good job you did on this project.”

  The undertone is clear. No dress. No feature.

  I’ll be playing the part of fairy godmother to one vicious Cinderella.

  SKINNY: Days 780–781 of NutriNation

  “I’m not ignoring you. I’m cramming,” Piper says.

  I’ve been calling her and leaving messages for days. This is the first time she’s picked up the phone.

  “Brian is great and I was a jerk. I am a jerk. Can we just have lunch or something?” I ask.

  She gives me a do-over. We meet at 1020 and I finally get my pulled-pork nachos. They make the words I have to say almost worth it. “Brian is really great. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” What’s wrong is that Brian is a total douche. But I remember the advice Grandma gave me two years ago. Take the high road. This too shall pass. What if I had listened? Things might have turned out differently.

  I can be different now. I can pretend to like Brian. “I mean, pre-med? That’s impressive and tough, right?”

  Piper relaxes on her barstool. There’s a crack as someone in the back starts a game of pool. “He wasn’t having the best day when you met him,” she says. “But after you left...it wound up being positive. We talked, and he’s been different. I think he’s trying to manage his stress better.”

  “Well, don’t worry, I’ll be on my good behavior next time.”

  She pushes her thick hair back. “Living in New York is a big adjustment.”

  These are the lies that we agree to accept to preserve our friendship. Brian is not a know-it-all, controlling asshole and my attitude problems are due to the fact that New York has more big buildings than Phoenix.

  I point at Piper’s jeans and say, “My question is, what are you wearing?”

  She laughs. I’m still jealous of her teeth. “I only have a limited number of Cookie Vonn originals. You need to hurry up and finish those plus-size clothes you’re working on with Gareth Miller, so I’ll have something new to wear.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  After lunch, the Town Car drops me in front of Gareth’s redbrick building. I’m getting too used to special treatment, to the way the doorman says, “Good afternoon, Miss Vonn,” to the fact that all my expenses get charged to Gareth and I never hear about them again. A bit of my independence slips away each time I swipe Gareth’s Amex.

  I enter the apartment and forget about all of that as I hear the shower running. We’ve had tons of sex since that first time in Argentina, and yet there’s something about the idea of Gareth and skin and hot water and steam that makes me shiver.

  Creeping into the bedroom, I toss my black leather jacket on the bed, on top of Gareth’s camel hair coat, and follow the sound of the water. Visions of stripping and joining him in the shower do a hostile takeover of my brain. The old me wouldn’t have had the confidence to pull that kind of thing off and, honestly, I’m not sure if the new me does either.

  I’m headed that way when I spot something on the stainless-steel console table outside the bathroom door. A familiar set of eyes peers at me from a photo tucked underneath a stack of paperwork.

  My mother.

  Hot and flushing for a new reason, I rifle through the papers. I can’t believe it.

  With the stack of papers in hand, I throw open the bathroom door. “You’ve been seeing my mom? Behind my back?”

  Gareth’s wet head sticks out of the white, marble shower and the dickhead has the nerve to look startled. His perfectly plucked eyebrows arch up his forehead. “What? What are you talking about?”

  Now I’m thinking maybe I’ll jump in the shower and drown him, and I know I need to get out of that room. I stomp into the bedroom, glance at a Louis Vuitton case Gareth gave me, but instead start stuffing my clothes into the canvas tote bag I designed.

  Gareth comes in with a fluffy white towel tied around his waist, water rolling down his legs onto the beige carpet. He takes in what I’m doing and says, “What is happening here?”

  “We had a deal.”

  “Had a deal?” he repeats. “We have a deal.” He bites his lower lip and quietly adds, “And a relationship.”

  It’s his first verbal acknowledgment that I’m more to him than an intern he’s screwing, but I ignore this. I ignore the warmth that’s returning to my body at the sight of him pacing around as I pack. Filled with hot jealousy, I toss the papers at him and say again, “You’ve been seeing my mom,” in a flat voice.

  Gareth grunts. “I’m not seeing her, Cookie. I spoke to her for about two minutes. She needs a job. Needs money. I thought I’d help her out. Have her do a show. Maybe Fall/Winter.”

  “That’s just great, Gareth. You’re a real fucking Robin Hood.”

  “What exactly is the problem here?” he asks. He steps in front of me, stopping me from making it to the closet. “And what the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Cookie, for God’s sake. I didn’t do your mother in the men’s room or something. I gave her a job. For you. I thought you would...” He trails off. Like he expected me to greet him at the door wrapped in Saran wrap.

  O Gareth, my savior.

  “We agreed this wouldn’t happen.”

  He shakes his head. “We agreed your mother wouldn’t be involved in our capsule collection. I assumed it was because you didn’t want people crying nepotism.”

  “It’s not.”

  “She said she was going to lose her damn apartment.” He’s almost pleading with me. He makes a grab for the tote bag, but I swing it out of his reach.

  “She should lose it, Gareth,” I say. He takes a step back. I’m being really loud. The bedroom windows shake and vibrate. I force myself to lower my voice. “When I was eight, I broke my arm. I fell off the monkey bars. They took me to the hospital and...well...my teacher stayed as long as she could. They kept trying to call my mom. She never came. She’d run off that day with Chad Tate. Just took off. I don’t even know what would have happened if I’d gone home that day after school. That’s why I...” I suck in a deep breath and fight back the tears. “That’s when I had to go live with Grandma.”

  Gareth tries to give me a hug but I push him back. “She hurts people. Destroys everything around her. And there’s always someone running behind with a broom and dustpan. Sweeping everything under the rug. Making sure she never has to see the broken pieces. I’m tired of this world that says it’s okay for beautiful people to be careless and cruel.”

  “Cookie, I’m sorry. I thought I was helping you.” He waves his hands in frustration and stands in front of me.

  “When I want your help, I’ll ask for it.” I try to move around him.

  “Will you?” he asks. He reaches out, first grabbing me by the shoulders and then grasping my chin lightly in one hand. I’m forced to stare into his perfect brown eyes where gold flakes pulse and glow. “You give me a deer-in-headlights look every time I so much as buy you a sandwich. I have to read your blog to find out that you want to go to Parsons. Why don’t you ask me for help with that?”

  “Because you love it when people use you to advance their careers?” I’m trying to stay hostile, trying to pump up the anger draining out of me.

  And now I’m staring at his abs. He smirks at me. “Is that what’s happening, Cookie Vonn? You’re using me?”

  “Of course not,” I snap. Flexed arm muscles. Patches of dark hair on his chest. Full lips that turn up at the ends.

  He brings his hands to rest on my hips, feeling for the edges of my T-shirt.

  I put my hands over his to stop them from moving upward. “Gareth. Would you like it if I contacted your mother without discussing it with you?”

 
“No,” he answers. “I guess I wouldn’t.” Through the windows behind him, lights come on in the brownstones across the street. “But that situation is complicated.”

  “So is mine.”

  “Point taken. I just want you to be happy. I want to take care of you.” It’s a surprisingly frank statement.

  Imitating his gesture, I put my hand on his chin and tilt his face down toward mine. “It’s her or me, Gareth.”

  He doesn’t hesitate for even a second. “You.”

  I love him. In that moment. It’s real. He’s real.

  Dropping my canvas bag on the floor, I pull his towel off.

  He snaps off the light and whispers in my ear, “It’s you, Cookie. Only you.”

  The next morning, Gareth tries to take the contract, but I keep it. We agree that he’ll officially handle things with his manager, but that I’ll tell my mom.

  I spend the morning writing a series of truly crappy articles for my blog. They’re not good enough to post on a sanitation department website, and I drag them into the trash.

  Around noon, I call for the car service. My mom doesn’t tend to get mobilized until hours that end in p.m. While I don’t feel like I have to rush, I want this to be done. I want to close the file and get on with my life.

  It says everything about our relationship that I don’t even know where my mom lives. I have to get her address off the contract.

  She’s got a place on Charles Street, a short and squat glass tower with its back to the Hudson River. It’s about ten minutes from Gareth’s place and if everything is really all about location, then the Charles, surrounded by boutiques like Diane von Fürstenberg and Stella McCartney, is perfect for a shameless supermodel.

  There are only two apartments on Mom’s floor, so the place isn’t hard to find. I spend a few minutes knocking on the door. No sound coming from inside has to mean Chad Tate isn’t there. That guy can’t go five minutes without ESPN blaring at full volume.

  I turn to leave, both relieved and disappointed, and see Mom getting off the elevator. She joins me at the door to her apartment, overloaded with bags from Saks. Typical she’d plead poverty to Gareth even as she’s out charging up a storm.