Fat Girl on a Plane

by Kelly deVos

  His voice shakes. “C-C-Cookie. I’m sorry. I didn’t know... I’ll tell them—”

  “You can’t tell them what you don’t know. Go home.”

  Mr. Darren Smith watches with interest. Maybe he’s got a shoplifting quota and one more arrest equals a bonus. He’s disappointed as Tommy walks back to his car. I am too. But I know it’s better this way.

  Smith calls the cops. We wait for them outside the front of the store.

  It’s actually the Mesa police who come to arrest me, although there’s some talk of jurisdiction issues as they try to figure out exactly which Toys“R”Us stores the stolen Lego belong to.

  They’ve got me in yet another small, gray room and they’re discussing if, when and how to book me.

  Then the cops call Grandma. Grandma calls Mom.

  Mom sends Chad Tate.

  Instant fraternity.

  Chad Tate. The Chad Tate of the New York Giants. Yeah, the quarterback. The one who made that pass that one time. The one who scored that touchdown. The one with the $65,000 Super Bowl Ring.

  Somehow in the span of about five minutes Chad Tate convinces the police I’m a mindless schoolgirl who could be talked into anything at any time by anybody. He signs autographs, poses for pictures and tells the story of that one time he threw the football.

  I’d almost rather be in juvie than have Chad Tate’s sophomoric antics be my Get Out of Jail Free Card. But Grandma’s there too. And the look on her face.

  I don’t say anything.

  They charge me with a misdemeanor and I get to go home.

  Yep. I’d prefer jail to having Grandma look at me like that.

  “Let’s go, girl,” she says.

  We’re in the parking lot and Grandma decides to wait on the bench out front for Chad Tate to bring the car around. I’m about to wait with her when Chad Tate says, “Come on, Cookie. We need to have a little talk.”

  “You in town for a game?” I ask as we walk through the parking lot.

  He nods. He’s got a completely sucky personality, but there’s no getting around the fact that he’s gorgeous. He’s tall, has an almost comically chiseled jaw and spends eight hours a day lifting weights. After he retired from playing, the Giants gave their star player some kind of coaching job. From what I can tell, it consists of pacing up and down the sidelines during games.

  “Yep. Giants versus the Cards. Sunday at the University of Phoenix Stadium.”

  He opens the passenger door of his white, rented Mercedes. “And it’s lucky for you that I happen to be in town. Otherwise you’d still be back there with the cops trying to figure out how many different cities they could have you arrested in.”

  I probably should be relieved. I probably should be grateful. But I’m not. “Yeah. Well, thanks. I’ll consider this my Christmas gift for the past ten years.”

  Chad Tate gives me an appealing grin. “Funny.” He pushes the start button of the car but doesn’t drive. “I think we need to get a couple of things straight right now.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Please don’t tell me you plan to give me some lame ‘I’m your stepfather’ authority figure lecture. That really seems like a waste of time.”

  He ignores my comment. “First, you look good, Cookie.”

  Great. Another gross “compliment.”

  Plus, it’s totally out of character, because Chad Tate’s never had one nice thing to say about me in his life. He squeezes my arm in a super creepy fashion.

  He’s still smiling as if he expects the Channel 3 News Crew to show up any minute. “Second, whether you like it or not, I just saved your butt, and now you owe me.” Chad Tate backs out of the parking space, stops the car in front of the station and waits for Grandma. “Sooner or later, I’m gonna want something from you. And you’re gonna give it to me.”

  My face turns red in embarrassment and shame and anger. I’m pissed at Tommy for getting me into this mess. For putting me in this position with Chad fucking Tate. I’m mad as hell at Mom for being married to such an ass.

  Chad Tate winks at me as I move to clear the front seat for Grandma. No one says anything else as we drive to the yellow house.

  Tommy’s outside sitting on the curb.

  Grandma passes him without saying a word. She glares at him and yet again, I know she understands what’s happening without me having to tell her.

  I stop in front of him. He’s been crying.

  Chad Tate stares at the two of us for a second and pulls away.

  “I’m sorry, Cookie. I’m sorry.”

  “You have been saying that a lot lately.”

  He gets up and grabs my hand. “I know. I’m sorry. I would have stayed. But you told me...you told me to go. I will... I can go back to the cops and...”

  I stamp my foot on the sidewalk. “You’re not going anywhere. There’s no sense in both of us getting arrested. But what the hell is wrong with you? You’re part of a shoplifting ring? Why? You have money. Your parents have money, and you’ve saved almost every dollar you’ve ever made from your lawn-mower business.”

  He bursts into tears.

  This startles me, and I forget how mad I am.

  Dropping my hand, he covers his face and sobs. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  I sigh. “Come on.”

  I yank on his shirt and pull him through the carport, into the backyard and past my old tetherball pole. Roscoe barks a couple times as we go by. I keep walking, through the oleander bushes blooming with pink flowers and into the alley.

  “Okay. Talk,” I say.

  “I...I started out selling my extra Mindstorms on eBay. I had a few that were damaged. I decided to try to exchange them at the store so I could sell them. It seemed harmless. Then I met these people and they said that...”

  “They had extra sets too?” I guess.

  He nods. “I didn’t realize they were stolen. The store didn’t tell me that last time. They said I was bringing too much stuff back... I figured that...well, it’s obvious in retrospect that they...”

  I grunt in frustration. “What are you doing with all the money?”

  The wind picks up, scattering pink flower petals across the alley. Tommy turns away from me.

  “Tommy. What are you doing with the money?”

  “Kennes. She comes from a really wealthy background and she’s used to...” He trails off and stares into space.

  “Are you fucking kidding me? That girl isn’t good for you.” It’s taking all my self-control not to jump into my car, hunt Kennes down and beat the snot out of her.

  “I know.”

  “You can’t steal to buy shit for Kennes.”

  “I know.”

  He’s now pacing around the alley. He grabs me by the shoulders, and all of a sudden his lips are on mine. He’s kissing me. His lips are firm and soft, his breath warm. The very tip of his tongue moves against my upper lip. My first real kiss. I’ve been dreaming of this. With Tommy. My Tommy. A shot of adrenaline explodes inside my veins and my heart soars. I’ve been waiting for this for so long.

  It’s too much. It’s not enough.

  He releases me and I stumble back. A cold settles over me.

  We’re silent for a few seconds. It’s awkward.

  I shake off the numbness. “You have to tell her, Tommy.”

  “I will.” His voice is sincere, and he leans over to kiss me lightly on the cheek.

  Somehow, this feels off too.

  “Thank you, Cookie. Thank you for today.”

  I nod but then tense up again. The sun is setting behind the alley. I’m missing my shift at Donutville. “Shit. Shit. Shit. What time is it?”

  Tommy smiles. “I called Steve. He’s covering for you.”

  I relax. Sort of. I feel like I’ve done a hundred loop-the-loops on a roller coaster.
>
  A dull confusion sets in as I wonder what this means for the future.

  Tommy pats my back like things are going to be okay.

  I hope they’ll be okay.

  SKINNY: Days 816–822 of NutriNation

  Winter in New York.

  In all of my fantasies about Parsons, I always had a bolt of fabric in one hand and a pair of shears in the other. I pictured myself in the classrooms shown on the school brochure. I never got around to thinking that going to Parsons would mean living in New York. I never imagined that reality.

  I never imagined winter in New York.

  I go with Piper to the lighting ceremony for the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. Thank God Brian’s out of town so we don’t get stuck with him, but he did tell us “...exactly what you need to do to see the tree. It’s a mess down there if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  I hate to admit it, but his advice turns out to be spot-on. He told us to check into the Jewel Hotel and head up to the Terrace Club. “Miller can afford it,” he explained, “and his name will get you the best room and table.”

  They seat us at a table for two right up against the glass that surrounds the terrace. On the center of our white table, a small, golden candle glows. From where we are, on the balcony sipping Diet Cokes, we can sort of see the Rockettes and hear a Christian singer belt out “All I Want for Christmas.” A huge crowd gathers below and every once in a while I spot a glow stick or light-up hat.

  It’s exciting to have an excuse to wear cute hats and gloves and the expensive green plaid wool coat Gareth gave me. When the lights on the tree pop on, there’s the sound of “Oh!” from the crowd below. Something special has happened. I wonder if it’s possible to capture the twinkle of the red, green and blue lights, the magic of the sparking crystal star and the collective dreams of the crowd into a garment. I snap a few pictures and make a mental note to blog about this idea.

  Piper grins at me from across the table.

  We watch the tree for a while. Her smile fades and she says, “Tommy called.”

  “He called you?” I haven’t spoken to Tommy since his graduation party. Part of me wants to keep it that way. The other part doesn’t want him talking to Piper and not me. The childish part, I guess.

  “He knows about Gareth.”

  “So?”

  “He doesn’t like it.”

  I push my empty glass toward the edge of the table, hoping for a refill. “Good.”

  Piper’s mouth hangs open for a split second, as if she intends to challenge me. Instead she asks, “What’s Gareth up to tonight?”

  “Some kind of a meeting.”

  The waiter takes the hint and pours more Diet Coke from a glass pitcher for me. We’ve got one of the better tables on the terrace, one right in front of the Christmas tree. Two tables over, some guy who looks like a banker and his Russian mail-order bride keep checking us out.

  They must be wondering who we are, because as our waiter heads over there to take their order, I hear him whisper, “Gareth Miller’s girlfriend.”

  “The fashion designer?” asks Mr. Banker.

  “She’s young,” Mail-Order Bride replies, which is pretty rich since she can’t be a day over twenty-five and her date could easily order off the seniors’ menu.

  “And...blonde,” adds Mr. Banker.

  As I turn to glare at Mail-Order Bride, Piper asks, “So are you?”

  My head snaps back around to our table. “What?”

  “Gareth Miller’s girlfriend?”

  I snort. “I don’t know. I mean, I am so blonde.”

  Piper laughs. Even her laugh has an Australian accent. “And young.”

  The truth is, I don’t know what, if anything, Gareth and I are to each other. My work for G Studios will be over in three weeks. All Gareth’s planning seems to stop at Christmas. He hasn’t mentioned any timeline beyond. And neither have I.

  “I hope it snows before I go back. I want to see it snow in New York.”

  Piper becomes serious. “It probably will. But sometimes there’s no snow until January. You could stay here, you know. For the snow. And...Parsons is here. Maybe this is your chance. What if you gave up too quickly before?” I don’t answer, so she says, “And, I’m here, so there’s the BFF factor.”

  I smile at her. “That’s a big check mark in the pro column, for sure. But I didn’t even apply to Parsons for the spring. And where would I live?”

  “You got into Parsons before,” Piper points out. “I’m sure you’re an even better prospect now that you’ve worked with Gareth Miller. And if anyone could work out the details, it’s him. Why don’t you just ask him?”

  I roll my eyes. “You mean sort of like, ‘Hey, can you pull some strings at Parsons and also can I live here while I go to school?’”

  “You don’t have to live there. You have the NutriMin Water money. You could stay with me until you find someplace.”

  “In the dorms at Columbia?”

  She shrugs. “My roommate goes home to South Dakota for semester breaks.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Piper tosses her dark hair over her shoulder. Below us, crowds from Rockefeller spill into the streets. “You’re afraid to ask him?”

  “I’m not afraid,” I say quickly. “I just don’t want to...” I don’t finish my thought.

  But Piper does. “Be like your mom? Shagging a guy to advance your career? You’re not like that, Cookie.”

  I suck down the last bit of my second Diet Coke and can sense the waiter becoming annoyed as he moves to refill it again. “I know,” I say. “But in relationships, if things become unequal, that can lead to manipulation or hurt feelings or—”

  “Not in relationships in general,” Piper interrupts. “You’re talking about your mum and Chad Tate. She’s using him for status and fame. He’s using her for money. They’re both constantly giving each other shit because each of them thinks that the other one is getting the better deal. My parents have been married thirty years, and they’re not totting up a scorecard of the favors they owe each other.”

  I sign. “It’s not only that. Here. I feel the rhythm of my life is off. I guess.”

  She almost chokes on the last bite of her steak. “‘The rhythm of your life’? You do realize that sounds like a bad song title from an iTunes new-age playlist?”

  I nod and take one last look at the giant Christmas tree off in the distance.

  We leave the Terrace Club. Piper decides to stay in the room rather than go back to the dorm, where her roommate “won’t stop clicking her damn pen while she studies.”

  “Hey. Your parents... Are they happy?” I ask.

  “Yeah. As much as anybody ever is.”

  She walks me to the curb where Gareth’s car is waiting. She’s dressed in a sparkly black miniskirt and a light blue sweater with a Pac-Man ghost on it. I’m glad to see she only wears her Reagan-era Republican uniform of slacks and polo shirts when Brian is present.

  But what if she marries the guy? Will sassy, surfer girl Piper become a generic doctor’s wife with two bland children and a schedule packed full of golfing and hospital fund-raising dinners?

  Do the people we love change us?

  “Think about what I said,” she tells me as she gives me a hug.

  “I’ll call you when I get home.”

  We exchange a look. I’ve just called Gareth’s penthouse my home. An uneasy feeling settles inside me. I think I’ve answered my own question.

  The next morning, Gareth sleeps in, but I’m up on the treadmill at seven as usual.

  He walks by his home gym on the way to the kitchen. “You ever think about taking a day off once in a while? Someday I’d like to wake up in my bed and find you’re still in it next to me,” he calls.

  I want to laugh at his sort of ridiculous ap
pearance, but laughing takes air and I need my air for running. Gareth is dressed in what could only be described as a smoking jacket, the kind Hugh Hefner used to wear at the Playboy mansion in the ’60s.

  He lounges in the doorway of the exercise room as the treadmill’s timer beeps.

  I’ve done my time. I slow the machine to a cool-down pace and answer him. “I have to do my sixty minutes on the treadmill each day. That’s the plan.”

  “I see,” he says in his familiar drawl. “You think you’ll blow up like a puffer fish the instant you decide to get an extra fifteen minutes of shut-eye?”

  Spoken like someone who has never struggled with weight issues.

  Climbing off the treadmill, I say, “Routine is important.”

  He’s about to say something else—and judging from the smirk, it’s another wiseass remark—when I blurt out, “Am I your girlfriend?”

  This wipes the lighthearted look off his face. “Are labels important?”

  I answer a question with a question. “You’re saying there’s something wrong with wanting to know where we stand?”

  “I suppose not.” He runs a hand over the dark stubble on his cheeks. “But where we stand is that I suck at romance and you’re an inexperienced nineteen-year-old.”

  That hurts. It hurts that he can hurt me. I try to keep my expression neutral. “I’m going to take a shower. I’ve got a meeting with Darcy at ten.”

  Gareth sighs and grabs my hand. “But, Cookie, that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t give this thing our best shot. Because you’re the first person in a long time that I’ve wanted to give a label to.”

  It’s not exactly a Shakespearean declaration of love, but it’s something. I grin at him and kiss him gently on the cheek. He tugs me into the kitchen and opens one of the white drawers, full of neatly stacked mail. “I was saving this for later, but under the circumstances...”

  He places an envelope with a travel agency logo on the front in my hands. Inside, there’s a copy of a plane ticket. “Omigod. You got Grandma to come to New York? For Christmas?” I’m grinning from ear to ear.

  “Well, it is the most wonderful time of the year,” he says. “And my dad’s coming too. So you’ll get to spend the holidays with all the Miller men.”