Fat Girl on a Plane

by Kelly deVos

  Gareth returns a few minutes later and wraps his arm around me. “Merry Christmas, Cookie.”

  “Merry Christmas,” I say.

  Then, “Gareth, what’s the best thing about Parsons?”

  He yawns. “The best thing? About Parsons? It is the best.”

  That’s not much of an answer for someone whose career was launched by the school. A few minutes later, when he’s asleep, my mind won’t shut down. I’ve always had to do everything myself, but now things are happening with a momentum I didn’t create. My life has taken on a life of its own.

  Piper and Grandma are here in the city. My temporary life intersecting with my permanent one.

  I can’t sleep, and I curl up with my laptop in a white armchair near the window. It’s snowing again and occasionally I catch a glimpse of flakes falling past a lit window in the building across from Gareth’s.

  In my blog email box, I find a familiar name. I open a message from Dr. Moreno.

  Dear Cookie:

  I’ve been emailing you at your university account and am concerned you haven’t received my messages. I notice you have not completed your spring registration and haven’t contacted me about finishing your work from last semester. As I’m sure you know, you will forfeit your Regents Scholarship if you don’t register for the spring semester.

  There it is. The thing that Grandma warned me about. And let’s face it, the thing that has been nagging at me since Fred LaChapelle turned up at the door. In going to Parsons, I’d be giving up my ability to pay for my own education. I’d be at the mercy of Gareth or LaChapelle. I’d be right back in that airport, hoping for a seat on the plane.

  I’ll be in NYC next week and would like to meet with you to discuss these topics. Can you get back to me with a day and time that works for you?

  Dr. Lydia Moreno

  Fashion & Costume Design Chair

  Honors Faculty

  Arizona State University

  I’m going to Parsons. I’m living in the city of my dreams with the man of my dreams going to the school of my dreams.

  No. I’m staying at ASU. I imagine the campus. Outside the art building, there are rows and rows of succulent plants. The smooth scallops of green and purple echeveria. The spiky stalks of agave. I love to sit back there on the concrete as it cools in the evening, dreaming of collars that jut up like the mountains behind campus, skirts that twist into cactus forms.

  I haven’t seen anything like that in the city.

  I haven’t seen Gareth design even one thing since we’ve been in New York.

  I’m ignoring Dr. Moreno. No. I’m emailing her. It’s curiosity that gets the better of me. Makes me want to find out why my teacher would go to all the trouble of seeking me out while on vacation. I email her a date and time for the following week.

  They say curiosity killed the cat.

  They also say cats have nine lives.

  I hope this last part is true. In fact, I’m counting on it.

  Mr. Miller takes Grandma to JFK a few days later. Before she leaves, we’re alone in the building lobby for a couple of minutes.

  “Your fella ain’t too bad,” she says, squeezing me into a hug. “But it don’t change things none. Finish your schoolin’. Invest your time in things that will last.”

  Yet again I chicken out and don’t tell Grandma what’s going on.

  “I’ll be expectin’ you back at home shortly,” she says.

  I nod and smile and watch as she walks through the glass door.

  Dr. Moreno and I meet on Wednesday. She picks the place, a dive in Spanish Harlem called Cuchifritos. Even before I get my butt off the Town Car seat, I can smell the sizzling pork. There’s a service counter that faces the street and it’s loaded with food deep-fried beyond recognition. They say you can eat anything on the NutriNation plan, but I suspect they’ve never seen the frituras at Cuchifritos.

  I barely recognize my teacher. Every time I’ve ever seen her in class, her dark hair has been tied back in a neat bun and she’s been wearing some variation of a Diane von Fürstenberg wrap dress. Today, she’s got spiral curls that explode in every direction. She’s dressed in a pair of 1980s vintage Guess jeans and a worn-out Echo & the Bunnymen concert tee.

  The conversation doesn’t go the way I expect it to.

  I’m expecting some rah-rah ASU is the best school ever speech. Or possibly a request to meet Gareth Miller and get free samples.

  Dr. Moreno’s taken a small table for two right up front, just a few feet from the register. The cash drawer slams closed. People call out their orders. I get a plate of something that I know I won’t take a bite of. The fried and refried thing is probably more addictive than meth and won’t fit in my food journal.

  I have to lean way in to hear Dr. Moreno over the restaurant noise. I think I’ve misheard when she says, “Did he tell you about this place?”

  My face must be blank because she shakes her curls and continues.

  “Gary. He used to come down here all the time. In the early days. Back when Mr. High and Mighty wasn’t scared to leave Manhattan. He would even take the bus. He loved the alcapurria.” She points at something that looks like a cross between a corndog and a burrito on her plate.

  “Gary?” I repeat. “Who’s Gary?”

  For a minute, I’m worried she emailed the wrong person. That she has me confused with another student.

  She almost chokes on a bite of breading as she barks out a laugh. “Miller. Gareth John Miller. GM. Today’s top name in fashion.”

  “You know Gareth?” I ask. My insides spin in confusion.

  The skin around her brown eyes crinkles as she laughs again. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s around the same age as Gareth. And I know she went to—

  “Parsons.” She nods as if reading my thoughts. “He graduated a year faster than me, though. And...he didn’t mention me? Yeah, well, shacking up with some Puerto Rican broad living in Spanish Harlem probably doesn’t make his bio these days.”

  The way she says all of this. It’s not bitter. It’s more wistful. Like she pities Gareth. Or remembers him from better, bygone days.

  She drops her fork and watches me. “You’ve changed a lot since the first time we met. No longer that scared high school student, huh? And you look a lot like your mother.”

  If I weren’t so flustered, I’d probably be enraged. But I kind of sputter. “Dr. Moreno...I...uh...I’m not...”

  “I keep telling you, it’s Lydia. And I know. You’re not your mother. Believe me. I get it. For the past three years, I’ve been paying seventy-five bucks a week to some Freud wannabe in Scottsdale trying to avoid a future where I shrink six inches and spend my evenings cursing out all my relatives in Spanish.”

  I frown at her. “Well, Lydia, I don’t understand—”

  “What we’re doing here?” she interrupts with a wide grin. It fades into a Mona Lisa smile as she adds, “Sorry. I have this annoying habit of finishing people’s sentences. My grandmother was a bruja fortune teller.”

  “Yeah...okay...” I’m back to stammering and staring.

  Finished with her food, Dr. Moreno pushes her plate away. “I know Gary—sorry Gareth—is encouraging you to stay here in New York. I need you to understand that this would not be the right move.”

  “How do you know—”

  I haven’t spent much time with Lydia Moreno outside of class. She must have taken interpersonal communication classes with Piper’s boyfriend, Brian. Neither he nor Lydia can allow other people to speak in complete phrases.

  “LaChapelle called,” Dr. Moreno says. “Asked about you. Sort of wanted a reference. I told him you were the brightest up-and-coming designer I’d ever seen. Told GM’s people the same thing when they called a couple months ago.”

  This rings a bell. I remember that it was Dr. Moreno who sent Darcy pic
tures of my work.

  I’m a jumbled mess of emotions. Upset that Dr. Moreno understands Gareth way better than I do. Angry at being caught off guard by this whole conversation. And afraid. That Gareth’s had a lot of other women. The kind of women who don’t struggle to come up with coherent sentences.

  Dr. Moreno waves to someone behind the counter and a few seconds later a plate of food lands at her elbow. She cuts into yet another deep-fried dish, releasing the fragrance of banana and nutmeg.

  I’ve never been more jealous of absolutely anyone in my life. Dr. Moreno is sitting there in a pair of thrift store jeans and a twenty-year-old T-shirt, chomping down on this thing that oozes oil and spice and probably has a zillion calories. I’m in a $2,000 GM floral print shift dress and suede ankle books, and there’s no comparison. Lydia Moreno is not only the kind of woman I want to be, she’s the kind of woman who makes me want to make clothes. Worry begins to gnaw at me, because I suspect that someone like Dr. Moreno would never find a happy ending with someone like Gareth.

  She smiles. “Gary doesn’t know how to teach you what you need to learn. He needs you. Not the other way around.”

  My anger starts winning the emotional battle. “He’s considered one of the best American fashion designers of all time. Parsons is the best school.”

  “Oh, you and your Parsons.” There’s a pause. Dr. Moreno appears to be thinking carefully about what she says next. “When you think of great fashion, do you imagine the collection Gary put together last season? When you think of the life you want, do you picture yourself living in that residential version of the Apple Store my friend Gary calls an apartment?”

  “All designers make a bad collection at some point,” I say coldly.

  She sighs. “I know you want to be like Gareth Miller. So did I. But what you want, what I wanted, was to be him like he used to be. Back when he was just some kid from Montana who made clothes that were fun to wear. He isn’t that person anymore, Cookie. He’s changed. Gotten cynical. He can only teach you how to become what he is right now. And you don’t want to be that.”

  “You don’t know what I want to be.”

  Dr. Moreno smiles again. “All I’m saying is, think about it. You and Gareth are alike in many ways. He took the path you’re considering. See where it got him and ask yourself if that’s where you want to be.”

  I open my mouth to protest. Tell her I’m a New York City kind of girl. That Gareth isn’t swimming in a river of complacency.

  In other words, say a bunch of lies.

  Dr. Moreno taps my arm, breaking me from my zoned-out trance. “The struggle makes us, Cookie. Getting off the bus with ten bucks in his pocket, eating his dinner in dives like this,” she says with a wave, “that’s what made Gary.”

  My stomach drops even further because I don’t even know Gary.

  She’s finished with her banana dessert and pushes herself up from the table. “I’m putting you on the spring schedule and adding a pre-semester meeting to your calendar. I hope you show up. I’m expecting you to show up.”

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask.

  “I need you as much as he does, Cookie. Gareth is a designer in search of a muse. I’m a teacher who wants good students. You’re my best student by a long shot. Oh, and hey, don’t forget, at the end of the year, I get to send a student to work with Stella Jupiter for the summer. It should be you.”

  Stella Jupiter. The queen of designer cashmere. Oh. Fuck. I had forgotten.

  Dr. Moreno is almost to the door when she turns back. For an instant, a motherly expression crosses her face. “Listen. I know this kind of stuff is hard to hear, and the heart wants what it wants. All I ask is that you do some serious thinking about what’s right for you. Think about where you want to be in life and how you plan to get there.”

  I want to pick something up and throw it at Dr. Moreno. But she blends into a crowd on the sidewalk before I can get my hands on anything. My body pulses with a desperate energy I can’t get rid of.

  As I wait on the curb for Gareth’s driver, I try to hate Lydia Moreno. Except she hasn’t really done anything except be blunt about a bunch of stuff I ought to already know. She’s a personification of an unknown part of Gareth’s past. A part I’d brushed aside since the day his lawyer had me sign more paperwork than you do when you buy a car. She told me she wanted to help me. My heart screamed to forget all about this lunch from hell. My brain believed her.

  On the way back to the apartment, I think about my blog. I’m supposed to be writing articles about how, thanks to NutriMin Water, all my dreams are finally coming true.

  But I can barely figure out what my dreams even are.

  Distracted, I almost miss the hulking figure milling around in front of Gareth’s apartment building until he calls my name.

  The opposite of my dream.

  My nightmare.

  Chad. Fucking. Tate.

  FAT: Days 119–122 of NutriNation

  A lot of people don’t buy into all that astrology stuff.

  I’m a Capricorn. I guess we’re supposed to be all about hard work. A lone goat climbing to the top of Success Mountain.

  A glance at my homework planner makes me question that idea. I owe Mr. Smith a paper on the presidents. I need to work on my blog for Mrs. Vargas. We actually got homework last week in PE—keeping an exercise log. I already have to do this for NutriNation, but I’m still pissed Coach didn’t get the memo that Phys Ed teachers aren’t supposed to assign homework.

  And my Donutville shift starts in fifteen minutes.

  I’m not sure I believe that your birthday can determine your entire personality, but there’s no denying that I’ll be turning eighteen on Tuesday. This is the birthday that’s supposed to mean you’re an adult. You can get your own Mastercard. And vote. And get tattoos. You can make permanent choices and your decisions won’t be corrected by some authority figure. Like writing your name on your underwear in black Sharpie. After Tuesday, some things won’t come out in the wash.

  I dig around through a pile of messy clothes on my floor until I find my cleanest brown work apron. It’s a lot easier to tie the apron strings around my waist than it used to be. This is one for NutriNation and Amanda Harvey’s list of non-scale victories.

  Keys in hand, I head for the door, silently praying the old Corolla will make it downtown and that I’ll get enough in tips during my shift to refill the gas tank.

  I pass Grandma on the way out.

  “I got everything all set,” she says.

  “What?” I ask. I kind of think maybe she’s referring to her hair, which is wrapped up in more foam curlers than I can count.

  “For Tuesday. Your party. They’re lettin’ us use Father McKay Hall.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I’m not sure if I missed the discussion where we agreed to have a party at the church. I sort of hate my birthday. And birthday parties. They feel like nothing more than a reminder of everything that’s missing in my life.

  Grandma thinks these kinds of things are unskippable rites of passage. She’s watching me and clearly expects a better response.

  “Oh. Cool. Thanks. Thanks for setting that up.”

  She smiles at me. “Don’t work too hard, girl.”

  At Donutville, I frost extra fast, making trays and trays of chocolate and sprinkle-covered pastries. Out front, there are a few regulars at the kidney-shaped counter who don’t mind if I set up my homework. I refill coffee cups and Google for examples of presidents behaving badly. Mr. Smith’s in love with the idea that all leaders abuse their power, and I’m sure this tactic is the clearest path to an A on the essay.

  I make a few bucks, get some gas. Monday comes whether I like it or not.

  Then my birthday.

  I wake up feeling, looking, acting exactly the same as on any other day. Except now everything that happens is going on my permanent
record.

  Grandma’s put together a nice party. It’s sort of old-fashioned, with a punch bowl, pink streamers and a sheet cake. But nice. A bunch of people from church come, but so do all the girls from my Clothing class. And Shelby and Brittany from SoScottsdale. There’s a video from Piper, and they play it on a screen. She’s there in front of the Sydney Opera House, yelling “Happy birthday.”

  Steve from Donutville shows up with another birthday cake formed from pink, powdered doughnuts. He’s a man of limited interests, I guess. But it’s the thought that counts.

  Grandma even made me a dress. In yet another quasi-hilarious, eye-roll-inducing bit of irony, it’s made from the scraps of crepe de chine left over from the holiday dance debacle. She’s made a simpler version of the dress I designed for Kennes, one without the bulky hip panels.

  I’m having fun. But here’s what’s missing.

  Tommy.

  The dress. The party. It all underscores the fact that my best friend is missing this big milestone in my life. I wonder if he remembers it’s my birthday.

  He does.

  Tommy shows up looking more like himself than he has in ages, wearing a Carl Sagan Is My Homeboy T-shirt and clutching a black-striped gift bag.

  I’m cutting my cake into tiny bites, trying to make the small slice into an epic eating experience, when I see him come in.

  We stare at each other from across the church hall.

  Awkward.

  “I guess you’re eighteen and I can’t make you go over and say anything,” Grandma says. “But you should. Friendship’s important. If you can save it, you should.”

  I stay glued to my chair. Grandma sighs and points at a portrait of Father McKay hanging on a far wall. He was a priest, although I’m not sure when or where or why he has a hall with his picture in it. “Cookie, the church says we reach an age of accountability, where your parents or your grandparents aren’t responsible for you anymore. These choices are yours. And the consequences are too,” Grandma says.

  The snarky part of me wants to tell Grandma that she hasn’t been to catechism in a while. That the church now says the age of accountability is seven years old. This is when you need to start worrying about going to hell in a handbasket. But she’s gone to a lot of trouble to throw me a party, and she’s probably right. I won’t get too many more chances to bury the hatchet with Tommy, and I’m the one who won’t have a BFF.