Fat Girl on a Plane

by Kelly deVos

  He stares at the ground. “They’re always looking for volunteers.” Tommy’s not wearing his usual T-shirt and cargo pants. He’s got an expensive polo shirt with an enormous logo on the pocket area and a pair of designer jeans.

  Volunteer some other time, I’m about to say.

  Tommy speaks first. “Cookie. Come on. I’m—”

  “Sorry?” I finish. “I’m sick of hearing that.”

  “I wasn’t going to say that,” he says, raising his head. “I was going to say that people can disagree. Okay. So you don’t like Kennes, so...”

  I never get to hear the rest of Tommy’s speech or point out that he kissed me and then blew me off to take Kennes to the dance. A woman with a tween daughter approaches our table and adds several jars of peanut butter and loaves of bread to our stash. “Say hi to Father Tim, okay?” she says as she and her daughter leave the store.

  I hear a familiar voice.

  “Hey! Tommy!”

  It’s Kennes.

  Oh. Perfect.

  Tommy’s face turns red but the situation has left him with no option other than to join Kennes where she’s standing in line at the Starbucks inside the grocery store. The barista calls, “Iced skinny vanilla latte,” and Kennes picks up the cup.

  Julie’s making her way back to our table pushing a cart loaded with boxes of peanut butter. She and I are about the same size, which is to say that she’s another person society would classify as fat.

  As Julie passes, Kennes says loudly, “Yeah, if they need food for the homeless shelter, that girl ought to skip lunch a couple days a week. They could probably feed half the city with the leftovers.”

  Julie’s face turns red and she pushes the cart faster. Maybe we can combine our powers and disable Kennes with our death glare.

  Tommy joins Kennes near a display of coffee mugs and, a second later, is smiling and nodding along with her. Then he’s walking with her, and they’re holding each other’s tanned hands and bouncing with light steps like a Ralph Lauren ad set in motion.

  The Lean Cuisine spring rolls I ate for lunch creep their way up my throat. I’m doing volunteer work to pay for Tommy’s fancy Ken-doll outfit. I wonder what the hell has happened to my best friend. I wonder if there’s still time to rat him out. I wonder what the punishment is for face-punching.

  Kennes puts her arm around Tommy’s waist as they pass me at the table. “What do you think, hon? You think if we donate a few jars of peanut butter at least one will make it to the shelter?”

  Hon.

  What the hell?

  “I’ll walk you to the door.” Tommy maintains a bland face and an even tone.

  “Yeah. Good call. I don’t think they’d make it either.” Kennes laughs again.

  Tommy comes back as I sit there with my blood boiling and my face frozen in shock and rage. He faces me straight on. For a second, he isn’t laughing or smiling, and he’s that same real guy from the first night in Wyoming. For a second, I can see the old Tommy in his slouch and seriousness.

  Julie’s back, and her eyes are watering like she’s about to cry. I silently pray that she doesn’t. Not that there’s anything wrong with releasing your emotions or anything. But girls like Kennes thrive on their ability to make people feel like dirt. Crying gives them their power.

  Julie’s barely holding it together.

  “Don’t let her get to you. She’s just really...” I trail off.

  “Having a hard time,” Tommy says in a quiet voice. “Her parents’ divorce. It’s been really rough on her. She doesn’t mean to...” He trails off. Like even he can’t figure out what Kennes doesn’t mean to do.

  “I was going to say horrible,” I say through clenched teeth.

  Julie laughs but asks, “Mind if I cut out early?”

  I shake my head, and she takes a few steps toward the door. “Julie. Hey,” I call. “What happened here today...don’t think about it. It’s what’s inside us that counts.”

  She glances at Tommy. “We may be the only ones who think that.”

  “No, no, you’re not,” Tommy sputters. But the damage is done. Julie eyes him skeptically and then disappears through the store’s sliding doors.

  “Twenty bucks says she’s in tears by the time she hits the parking lot,” I say.

  Tommy squirms in his seat. “Cookie—”

  “Don’t. Just don’t.”

  He sits there with me for the rest of my shift, a tense silence between us.

  Afterward, I drive the bags full of supplies over to St. Vincent de Paul. Father Tim is there, and he helps me unload the Corolla. As we stock the kitchen cabinets with bread, I say, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “You think Jesus was serious about all that turn-the-other-cheek stuff?”

  He brushes the dust off his black shirt and leans against the counter. His gray hair is a total mess. “Do I think he was serious? Oh no. See, Jesus said, ‘When someone strikes you on your right cheek, turn the other one to him, as well,’ and Matthew forgot to write down, ‘Just kidding.’”

  Yep. Note to self: Father Tim doesn’t like to talk.

  He surprises me when he continues, “But that quote is taken out of context all of the time. People think it means Christ intended for everyone to make doormats of themselves and allow others to mistreat them. But it’s really a warning against retaliation, especially when reacting in anger. The Old Testament permitted a certain amount of vengeance. An eye for an eye. Jesus is saying that’s no longer possible.”

  I frown in confusion. “So what does that mean? In terms of behavior. If someone hurts you, what do you do?”

  He snorts. “Has someone hurt you? Out of professional obligation, I’m required to ask and also to hint with subtlety that you’ve missed Mass a few times lately.”

  “This is hypothetical,” I say, rolling my eyes at the Mass comment.

  He resumes stacking jars of grape jelly in one of the cabinets. “Well, hypothetically, it’s more about what you can’t do. You can’t get revenge. You have to try to love your enemy.”

  “What if it’s your friend that hurts you?”

  Father Tim turns back to me with his piercing blue eyes, and I get the sense he knows what I’m talking about. “You should forgive your friend. But also realize that when we offer forgiveness, we don’t need to keep putting ourselves in a position to get hurt. Just because you love someone doesn’t necessarily mean being around that person is good for you.”

  We finish our work in silence.

  “Good work,” he says when we’re done.

  I turn to say goodbye to Father Tim.

  “Cookie, your father doesn’t know about any of this stuff, does he?” Father Tim sighs. “He’s asking about you again. I’m a simple man. Once in a while, I’d like to get a mission report that doesn’t end with Martin asking me to track down his kid. Is there some particular reason you can’t manage to squeeze in a couple emails between your toy heists and doughnut frosting?”

  “Ha ha.”

  Father Tim frowns. “That’s a real question.”

  My shoulders tense up. “I told you, he knows where I am.”

  He doesn’t press any further, and says, “Hypothetically speaking, Catholics aren’t supposed to miss Mass. I’m sure I’ll see you Sunday.”

  I smile at him. A fake sort of smile.

  As I drive to Grandma’s yellow house, I think about the situation I’m in.

  Tommy sends me a couple of text messages. Call me when you’re ready to talk. We’ll always be best friends. I delete them so that I’m not tempted to answer.

  Grandma says, “This too shall pass.”

  Maybe the time will come when I forgive Tommy. Maybe the time will come when I will have Grandma’s faith that everything works out in the end.

  Right now, I
can take only one part of Father Tim’s advice.

  Tommy isn’t good for me.

  That night, I make the first entry on my new blog. It’s my mission statement.

  Roundish

  Title: Welcome to Roundish

  Creator: Cookie Vonn [administrator]

  There’s a certain very famous designer who’s been quoted as saying, “No one wants to see roundish women.” For this guy, fashion is a world of dreams and illusions where only certain people are welcome.

  Of course, it’s true that fashion mocks and humiliates fat people relentlessly. But the real deal is that we’ve all been Roundish at one time or another. We’ve all been made to think we’re less than we ought to be. We’ve all faced superficial shaming about our sizes, shapes, skin tones, hair or age and have been led to believe that our value is based only on what we see in the mirror.

  Yet this designer is totally wrong about fashion. He’s completely missed the point. It’s not an illusion or a dream. It’s a tool that should help people feel good about themselves and achieve their dreams.

  The Roundish are the thinkers, dreamers, doers and believers. Your heart, your spirit, your hopes—these are the things that matter.

  This blog is for the Roundish in all of us, full of fabulous fashion finds from sizes two to thirty-two designed to empower you to be the best version of yourself.

  SKINNY: Days 824–847 of NutriNation

  “Going to JFK is a nightmare, Cookie.”

  Gareth hires cars and drivers to pick up my grandma and his father from the airport. I imagine a grim man with a mortician’s face holding a sign that reads “Edna Phillips,” and leading Grandma to a creepy car that resembles a hearse.

  Grandma and John Miller arrive at the penthouse within minutes of each other. Mr. Miller is what you’d expect. His skin has the leathery, saddlebag texture of a man who has spent most of his life in the Montana sunshine. He wears Wranglers and a threadbare plaid Pendleton button-up shirt he must have purchased sometime during the Carter administration.

  Gareth makes drinks and Grandma mentions the “fancy” driver several times, which I suppose is her way of voicing her dissatisfaction at the impersonal pickup. Her answer to Mr. Miller’s cliché Western wear is an olive green polyester pantsuit that I’m sure she’d describe as her “traveling clothes.”

  Gareth has two drinks, one in each hand, and he gives one to Grandma.

  “And this is?” she asks.

  “Eggnog,” Gareth answers. “With Rémy Martin Cognac.”

  “I don’t indulge, sonny,” Grandma says with a deep frown.

  Without missing a beat, he takes the foaming glass from her and replaces it with the one from his other hand. “Shirley Temple,” he says. He gives the spiked eggnog to his father.

  Mr. Miller and Grandma treat each other with suspicion. Their attempts at making conversation are loaded with suggestions. That Gareth is a cradle robber intent on subverting my education. That I’m a teenage gold digger trying to leverage my sex appeal into a ten-figure fortune.

  Round 1

  Grandma: “Well, Gareth. Do you do a lot of entertaining up here? I expect that all the white surfaces make cleaning up after affairs a snap.”

  Mr. Miller: “My son’s success has made him very popular, and I’m not just talking about with the ladies.”

  Round 2

  Mr. Miller: “Cookie, how’re you enjoyin’ New York? Is my boy showing you the finer aspects of the city?”

  Grandma: “We sure are grateful for your son’s hospitality. I hope this little internship will be beneficial when she comes back home to finish her schooling.”

  Round 3

  Mr. Miller: “I understand that your mother is a fashion model? I guess you sort of hit the jackpot in the looks department, eh?”

  Grandma: “Her father is a doctor. And Cookie was a straight-A student in school. I’d say she’s pretty lucky in the brains department, as well.”

  They keep going but I get stuck.

  My dad. I haven’t thought about him in ages. Every once in a while he goes into Kumasi or Sunyani, where they have internet access, and posts stuff on Facebook. He’s given up on emailing me except on my birthday or major holidays.

  Mr. Miller’s voice breaks through my thoughts. He poses a direct question. “So, Cookie. What’s your ambition?”

  “To make clothes that anyone can feel good wearing.” I blurt this out and as I do, I realize that it’s true. My personal manifesto. Real and from my heart.

  This shuts both of them up for a minute. I guess the fact that I have an ambition or haven’t lost my ambition is enough to calm them down.

  Then Grandma says, “These big ole buildings make me nervous. But I suppose we can hide under all this stainless steel if there’s a fire or somethin’.”

  Mr. Miller laughs. This forms some kind of truce between them. It suggests that there’s some kind of a way for Gareth and me to merge our lives together.

  I help Gareth finish making dinner and when we come back out, Grandma is “indulging” in fine brandy and swapping old ranch stories with John Miller.

  “My daddy kept a few cows,” Grandma says with a small hiccup. “And good thing too. My girl, Leslie, almost died as a baby. Spit up every kind of milk and formula I tried to give her. She was so weak. It was just pitiful. My daddy said the girl needed milk from a Jersey cow. He brought it down from Buckeye in a little glass bottle.”

  “Rich in butterfat. Good choice for a finicky baby,” Mr. Miller agrees.

  “You keep Jersey cows?”

  Mr. Miller shook his head. “I’ve got Simmental. Imported them in the ’70s. From Switzerland. I was one of the first American ranchers to do it.”

  “From Switzerland?” Grandma repeated in an impressed tone.

  Gareth and I exchange a look. I guess Swiss Miss cows provide a common link.

  This chatter carries us through dinner. It’s sort of funny to watch Mr. Miller poke with skepticism at his butternut squash ravioli. “This is some fancy eating, son,” he says. “But when will you be serving the main course?”

  “Funny, Dad. As per your cardiologist, this is the main course.” Gareth gives me an appealing wink.

  “That quack. I keep telling him. I raise beef. I eat beef.”

  During the next couple of weeks, Gareth pulls out all the stops. It’s fun to watch him have so much fun. I’m not sure whether he’s trying to impress his father or Grandma, but he succeeds on both counts. He buys killer seats to the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular and The Nutcracker. He takes us on a tour of the city and somehow gets Big Top Toys to open early so Grandma and Mr. Miller can dance on the store’s famous, giant piano.

  Their favorite part winds up being the Holiday Train Show at the New York Botanical Garden, where they spend hours watching a model train roll over a miniature Brooklyn Bridge. “It looks so lifelike,” Grandma says over and over.

  Christmas day is very Norman Rockwell meets IKEA. Gareth’s got all the traditional trappings of the holidays crammed into his sparse and trendy, white apartment. He hangs rich green holly all over, ties red bows on all the door handles and even sprinkles silver tinsel liberally around his living room.

  Gareth’s appearance contrasts sharply with his father’s. He is clad in a thick and luxurious black turtleneck sweater and his usual worn designer jeans while his dad wears an old chambray shirt, Wranglers and a bolo tie.

  I’m stunned by all the effort and thoughtfulness Gareth puts into personally shopping for and wrapping presents. He bought me almost everything I’ve even mentioned since I got to New York. I feel like I’m unwrapping for an eternity, ending with a huge collection of vintage fashion books, hard-to-find patterns, cool sketching pencils and pads and a million pairs of sunglasses.

  I got him a few things. Mr. Miller has a ranc
her buddy in town who makes frequent trips to Cuba and hooked me up with expensive cigars and bottles of rum. I ordered a custom-made wallet from a shop in London, which they produced at the speed of sound the instant they found out it was for Gareth.

  But still, the gifts are unbalanced in a way that makes me a bit uncomfortable. “You got me too much stuff,” I say.

  “Never,” he says with a wide smile.

  Grandma and Mr. Miller are in the kitchen, cooking an old-fashioned prime rib roast dinner. Gareth says, “I have something else for you. For later.”

  I assume he means lingerie or something. But that night, after my grandma and his father are snoring in their beds and I’m snuggled under his massive white comforter, he hands me a glossy white envelope.

  Inside, I find two pieces of paper. The first is a G Studios accounting statement of the preorders from our capsule collection. It’s all been presold and will launch as an exclusive in ten key stores across the country.

  The second piece of paper is a tear sheet. A page from the February issue of Par Donna magazine. It’s a review. Gareth taps his finger on a prominent block quote.

  “Gareth Miller’s capsule collection, a collaboration with fresh-faced, girl-power blogger Cookie Vonn, delivers big on its promise to offer wonderful whimsy and fabulous flair to the plus-size woman. Following the snoozer that was Fall/Winter, GM is back with game-changing looks that are gorgeous and, dare we say, even fun. Get in line now, for these pieces are sure to sell out fast.”

  Celine Stanford. She just mentioned me in print.

  “It worked?” I stare at Gareth.

  He laughs. “You’re on the map, Cookie Vonn.”

  I grin back at him.

  He ruffles my hair and heads for the bathroom. The water runs as he brushes his teeth. “Oh. LaChapelle called. He needs that paperwork by next week. I had Reese fill most of it out. But you need to add your Social Security number. And sign it.”

  “Okay.” I’m glad he’s in the bathroom and not sitting next to me as my insides become mushy with indecision. I turn off the lamp on my side of the bed.