Fat Girl on a Plane

by Kelly deVos

  As I walk over to him, a mixture of relief and apprehension crosses his face. “Nice shirt,” I say.

  “Nice dress,” he answers with a small smile.

  I start to read a million things into that remark. Like maybe it’s a slam for the whole thing with Kennes’s dress. My face is getting red.

  “Yeah...my Grandma made it. I didn’t ask her to...and...”

  He shoves the gift bag at me. “This is for you,” he says, sounding as nervous as I do. “But don’t worry. I bought it with money I got from my lawn-mowing business...and not from...well...you know.”

  I peek in the bag to find a new copy of the Fashionary sketchbook inside, which is awesome since every page of my old one is completely full.

  “Hey, thanks,” I say.

  We stare at each other for another minute.

  “The other day in the grocery store...the whole thing with... I just want things to be the way they were before,” he blurts out.

  “For things to be the way they were, we have to be who we were,” I say.

  “We haven’t changed. Things haven’t changed.”

  It’s a lie. We both know it. Everything is changing. Who we are. What we want. What we expect from life and from each other. It’s all in flux. Shifting.

  I want to ask about Kennes. If he’s still going out with her. Or if he cares about the way she treats people like Kleenex. Grandma shoots me a look of warning. This too shall pass. If I want to rebuild my friendship with Tommy, its new foundation might be shaky, less solid than before. But what’s the alternative?

  Tommy joins me at a table where Shelby and Brittany are replaying Piper’s video, grinning at the sights of the port and trying to copy Piper’s accent. “You’re one yee-ah older,” Brittany is saying as we sit.

  It’s fun. Easy. The way it used to be.

  “You look good,” Tommy says, before he leaves. “I guess NutriNation really works.”

  “Yeah. I guess.” For a split second, I think it’s still possible that my original plan might work. That I could have it all. That I could get skinny and get the guy of my dreams. Except the guy of my dreams doesn’t fat-shame people in the grocery store, doesn’t run some kind of retail return racket and definitely doesn’t hang off Kennes Butterfield’s arm.

  The original plan isn’t proceeding like I hoped.

  Grandma and I and a few ladies from the church clean up the hall. I drive us back to the yellow house and I’m that good kind of tired, the kind where you’ve spent your energy doing things you enjoyed.

  After my shower, I smell the coffee brewing. Grandma’s getting her decaf on. Like I expect, I find her at the kitchen table with a crossword puzzle and a hot cup. She motions for me to take the chair opposite her and pushes a stack of papers in front of me.

  It’s the stack from Parsons.

  “You’ve got a deadline coming up,” she says.

  Stay calm. Look happy.

  I slap a bland expression on my face. “Oh, I got a better offer. The Regents Scholarship. To ASU. Full ride.”

  Grandma blinks at me.

  “New program? Girl, you been talkin’ about Parsons since you had fewer candles on your birthday cake than fingers on your hand. What do you mean a better offer?”

  I get up. I can feel the tears coming and I don’t want Grandma to see them.

  She follows behind me as I make my way down the hallway. And then I’m guilty and sad. Grandma’s been working on my party all day and she’s hobbling slow as she tails after me, saying, “I’m not through talkin’ to you, girl.”

  “I’m really tired, Grandma,” I say in a choked voice. “Thanks for the party. It was—”

  “Spill the beans,” she orders. She grabs the wall for support and I have to say something. I can’t make Grandma mill around in the hall all night.

  “I didn’t get any financial aid from Parsons. I can’t pay for it.”

  The tears come.

  “I’m calling Martin.”

  “No. Don’t call Dad.” I wipe my eyes. “He’s busy.”

  “Busy doing what?” Grandma spits.

  “Curing disease in Africa.”

  “Charity begins at home, Cookie. He has a responsibility to you. You’ve been goin’ on and on about Parsons and Claire McCardell since you could talk. Your daddy is a doctor capable of earnin’ a living and sendin’ you there.”

  “Why don’t you call Mom? She’s capable. She’s got millions.” I feel bad taking this approach. I know Grandma’s got all kinds of guilty feelings about my mom.

  There’s a pause and Grandma shrinks down even smaller, older and sadder somehow. “Believe me, if I thought it would work, I would. I’ve had to reconcile myself to the fact that my daughter will never own up to her responsibilities. Your daddy, on the other hand, he might—”

  I’m sort of grateful for the anger that floods me. It helps me steady my voice. “I don’t know why you’re pretending he’s any better than she is. He ran away too. Ran away to Africa. To get away from having to deal with me.”

  “Cookie, that’s not true. He’s just...he’s just...” Grandma trails off, trying to put her finger on what my dad just is. It’s the first time we’ve ever said any of this stuff out loud. Acting like my dad is some big hero is a fiction we’ve both always felt more comfortable with. And from Grandma’s perspective, I get it. It’s hard to tell a kid that neither of her parents gives a damn about her.

  “All the other doctors come home. For Christmas. Or important birthdays. Or the summer,” I tell her in a low voice. “He stays in Africa. He’ll never own up to his responsibilities either. And I won’t beg him to.” I can’t ask him for help. What would I do when he said no?

  Grandma puts her hand on the wall to brace herself. “You don’t understand. You were a little girl and you couldn’t understand what happened. Leslie is selfish. But Martin loved her. She broke his heart and I don’t think he ever recovered.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” In a calmer, more pleasant voice, I go on. “Please. Don’t call Dad. ASU will be great. I can stay here. I won’t have to go to New York.”

  This has an impact. Grandma hates New York. “Well. Still...” She trails off.

  I’ve won.

  The preservation of the status quo is my reward.

  So I’m eighteen.

  Everything’s supposed to be different.

  But all I want is for everything to stay the same.

  All alone in my room, I make an entry in my blog.

  Roundish

  Title: Forever Fashion Finds

  Creator: Cookie Vonn [administrator]

  When people talk about fashion, they’re often thinking about change. Magazines show what’s coming next season. Stores show off the new stuff you can buy. There are makeovers and makeunders and total transformations. It’s true that fashion lets us continually reinvent ourselves; it gives us all that superpower. But there’s something to be said for the things that last. Wardrobe staples like jeans and turtlenecks and cardigans. That T-shirt that fits perfectly, that’s worn in all the right places. The favorite pair of shoes that make you feel confident. Let’s celebrate the new and remember the old. Let’s make fashion forever.

  SKINNY: Days 847–848 get even weirder

  Chad Tate.

  I’d never given much thought to what Chad Tate might be doing when not making my life miserable. I sort of imagined he went into cryosleep or something. That the Giants or Mom pulled his brain-dead body from the vault whenever the script required him to make an appearance.

  But here he is. Right at home in the hustle of New York. In his city clothes, black slacks and a tailored wool coat, which make him look refined and polished.

  “Cookie.”

  There it is. The toothy grin. The fake affable charm.

  “What ar
e you doing here?” I’m standing in this weird spot in front of Gareth’s building, between the car and the door with the tips of my heels touching the edge of the doormat. The doorman is trying to figure out whether or not to open the door. The Town Car driver is still there, eyeing Tate, seeming to wonder if I plan to beat a retreat into the sedan.

  “Cashing in my chips,” he tells me.

  I wave to the driver and, after giving me a small nod, he gets behind the wheel and steers the car off into midday traffic. “What are you talking about?”

  “Is he home? The doorman says he’s not usually home this time of day.”

  Chad Tate is watching me. Looking at me in a way that makes my skin crawl. That makes me want to take a very long shower.

  “I haven’t been home all day. I don’t know if Gareth is upstairs. If that’s who you’re talking about. And I don’t have anything to say to you.” I take a step closer to the building and the doorman pushes the door open a crack.

  Chad Tate grabs my arm. Hard. I don’t know what to do. I could get the doorman. But I don’t want some big melodramatic scene with my lame-ass stepfather. I don’t want that crap to be a part of the little world I share with Gareth.

  “Five minutes, Cookie. In private.”

  He tries to steer me toward the door but I know I don’t want to be alone with him in Gareth’s apartment. He’s got his hand way too low on my back.

  “There’s a coffee shop next door,” I tell him.

  “There’s an empty penthouse straight ahead.” He wags his dark eyes suggestively and this gives me the resolve I need.

  I shake free of him. “Coffee or nothing.”

  We take a table near the window of the shop. Ever the chauvinist, he orders me some kind of drink overloaded with whipped cream and caramel sauce that I stab with a stir stick. I don’t bother correcting him. I want to get out of here as fast as possible.

  “If this is about that thing with Mom—” I’m pretty sure he’s come to beg for Mom’s job. Chad Tate never likes to go without a meal ticket.

  He shrugs out of his ashen gray coat and it falls over the edge of the wooden chair. “She kicked me out,” he says. “This is about me. I need money.”

  “What? I don’t have—”

  He interrupts me again. “You have a boyfriend worth $100 million. From what I hear, you shake your ass in his general direction and you get what you want.”

  I hate that there’s a kernel of truth in this. I spend my nights wrapped in Gareth’s beige Sferra Milos $600 sheets and my days with his platinum Amex tucked in my purse. My face heats up and I ball my hands into fists. “What you hear? From who?”

  He ignores this. “I’ve got an opportunity to put a new bar in Vegas. Right on the strip. I’m looking for investors.”

  Something about this makes no sense. Even for Chad Tate. “Wait. Aren’t you going to have a baby?”

  He snorts. “Is that your way of saying nobody’s given you the birds and the bees lecture yet, Cookie? Because it’s the female of the species who—”

  “Go to hell. You know what I mean. Isn’t my mom pregnant with your kid?”

  He covers his hand with mine. I jerk it away and put it under the table in my lap.

  Chad Tate laughs. A false, harsh, imitation of a laugh. “I told Leslie a million times. I don’t want kids, and I certainly don’t want a bunch of lectures on how I need to step up to the plate from some dead-broke, over-the-hill supermodel. I told her to get rid of it. She wouldn’t, and that’s her problem.”

  Emotions are hitting me in waves, building into a tsunami of confusion.

  I’m vindicated. My mom’s being forced to reap what’s she’s sown, finally having to deal with the asshole mess that is Chad Tate. She appears to be reaching the limit of what she can con from people by batting her eyes at them.

  I’m mad. The nerve of Chad Tate. Taking all Mom’s money and then complaining that he’s not being supported in the manner to which he’s become accustomed.

  There’s this other part of me that’s worried and fearful and sad. The part that doesn’t hate my mom quite as much as I wish I could. The part of me that remembers Lydia Moreno’s face.

  Chad Tate licks his lower lip. I’m fresh meat.

  Situations like this have been one of the hardest things about losing weight. My body changed, and suddenly I became a player in this game where people are trying to get sex or approval or whatever from each other. It’s one more reminder that losing weight hasn’t worked out exactly like I thought it would.

  “What about your job?” I ask.

  He laughs again. “You’re not a sports fan.”

  No. I’m not.

  And Chad Tate’s jaw is tightening, his eyes narrowing in a way that says he’s losing patience. His good-guy smile is gone. “I haven’t been with the Giants in over a year. There was a regime change. New coach didn’t think I was worth having on the payroll. He said he’d prefer to, ah, invest in other areas.”

  Yeah, I can see that.

  “Hey. Cookie. Do I need to remind you that you’re sitting in that chair right now and not wearing pink underwear and eating veggie burgers at the Maricopa County Jail because I came through for you?”

  “You ruined my life, and you want a medal pinned on your chest for telling your stupid football stories to a bunch of guys clueless enough to be impressed by them?” I sneer.

  He leans forward and his coal-black sweater is pulled taut over his chest, still defined from all those hours at the gym. “Look, I was one of the best quarterbacks in the NFL. Ever. And I ruined your life? I was up front with your mom from the beginning. I can see why you needed me to be the big bad wolf when you were eight years old. But you’re all grown up now.” He stops for a second to look me over. “You gotta know that your mom didn’t need much prompting from me to walk out on her responsibilities. You really think I’m the reason she didn’t want to be a suburban housewife in Mesa, Arizona, kid?”

  He’s challenging the fiction I’ve always accepted. That Mom and Dad were happy until Chad Tate arrived.

  The whipped cream has sunk into the diabetic nightmare of a drink in front of me, creating milky white swirls that rotate and churn. “I have to go.”

  I stand up and Chad Tate rises, as well. “We’re not finished.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  Chad Tate has this look. Some weird mixture of fear and regret and remorse. “Cookie, I came through for you when you needed it. Now it’s your turn.”

  “Believe it or not, I can’t make Gareth give you a bunch of money.”

  I get up from the table and he blocks my path.

  He’s getting older. The hair on his temples has gone gray. “I’m going to Vegas for a couple of weeks to get the details buttoned down. When I get back, there’ll be an investors meeting. Make sure Calvin Klein Ken Doll is there. That’s all you have to do.”

  I want to throw up and I’m relieved I didn’t drink that sickly sweet coffee. “Fine. I’ll try. But I’ll eat my boots if you get Gareth to invest in one of your money-pit man caves.”

  Chad Tate sinks back into his chair and smiles. “You might want to start stockpiling ketchup to help you choke down all that leather.”

  I walk back to Gareth’s building. I have to pass by the coffee shop window where Chad Tate remains at the table. He’s resting his hand on his chin, staring off into space, like a male model in a fragrance ad.

  I head straight to the penthouse. It’s late in the day when I finally arrive, wound up like a toy top waiting to be released into wobbles and spins. Gareth takes one look at me and says, “Rough day, huh?”

  “Yeah. I guess. I just saw Chad Tate outside.”

  Gareth doesn’t know what to make of this revelation.

  “My stepfather.”

  He steers me into an oversize white armchair and rubs my sho
ulders. “Tell Uncle Gary all about it.”

  Gary. It’s the use of this little nickname that triggers the memory of my lunch with Dr. Moreno. That was a few hours ago, but the memory has already faded into a sepia-toned type of flashback.

  “Do you love alcapurria?” I ask him.

  “Cookie, I’m pretty sure you have a heart attack at forty if you eat too many of those damn things. Why do you—”

  I interrupt him. “Do you know Lydia Moreno?”

  He freezes for a second. “What does that have to do with your stepfather?”

  “Nothing. Lydia...Dr. Moreno is my faculty advisor at ASU. She’s in town and she wanted to meet with me today. She said she knew you. Quite well.” I try to keep my voice neutral but it sounds like the beginning of a jealous girlfriend routine, even to me.

  “We used to see each other. Back during my Parsons days.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a minute and neither do I.

  “Is she giving you a hard time?” he asks. He reaches into his pocket for his phone. “I’ll call her and tell her to—”

  I put my hand on his arm to stop him. “No. No. Don’t do that. I just think...shouldn’t we be doing something? Designing something?”

  Gareth rolls his eyes, sinks into a chair opposite me and checks his phone. “The design phase of the project is over. We’ve moved on to the production and marketing phases now.”

  “Yeah. I get that,” I say in voice that is high-pitched and weirdly desperate. “But shouldn’t we always be making things? Always designing something?”

  “Always designing something?” he echoes.

  “I mean, when are you sketching?”

  He lets his phone fall into his lap and regards me, chewing the inside of his cheek. “I have people doing that.”