by Kelly deVos
“People? Designers besides you?”
His gaze drifts to the cold glass window panes.
Seeing Chad Tate and Dr. Moreno on the same day was like being visited by the ghosts of Christmas Past and Christmas Future. I’m so uncertain about what I used to be and what I want to be in the future.
“Gareth, if I stay here in New York, what’s going to happen?”
“Happen? If you stay in New York?” he repeats.
“To us. In our relationship. Will this be my apartment?”
Gareth’s face pales. “You want me to give you an apartment?” His tone is icy.
“No. It’s just... I want to know I have somewhere to live... I think that’s a normal concern...” I stammer. His black eyes intimidate me.
He nods a couple of times, his face tense with anger. “Oh, okay. So here we go. You saw Lydia this morning and she told you a bunch of shit about me. How I can’t fucking make clothes anymore on account of the fact that I don’t want to chase cows round Lonesome Dove Ranch. How I’m an asshole who fucks everybody over. Well, let me tell you, Cookie, my relationship with Lydia didn’t work out. And that says as much about her as it does about me.”
I want to figure out a way to get out of this emotional shithole I’m digging for myself. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I—”
Whatever storm is inside of him passes quickly and he gets up and kneels beside me. “No. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t get so upset. There’s something about you that I can’t quite... You make me feel something when, for the longest time, I thought I couldn’t feel anything at all. Cookie, I’ll take care of you. I promise,” he says, squeezing my hand. “We can talk about this later. But right now, you need to get ready.”
The tension drains out of my shoulders. “For what?”
He smiles at me in a way that’s a bit subdued and reaches behind the chair for a small gift bag. “Tell me why I have to find out from Facebook that it’s your birthday.”
Oh. Yeah. I’m twenty today.
I check my own phone for the first time in hours. There are a bunch of texts from Piper. Several messages from Grandma and a ton of “Happy Birthday” notifications from social media.
“I forgot,” I tell Gareth.
“We need to celebrate the arrival of Cookie Vonn in style,” Gareth says, standing and giving my back a final pat.
“Arrival? I didn’t land on the planet’s surface in a UFO.”
Gareth smiles at me, waiting for me to open the gift. There’s a long, velvet jewelry case inside. A single strand of Mikimoto pearls, graduated as they approach the clasp.
“Beautiful.” It’s a wardrobe staple. The classic kind of thing that passes from mothers to daughters.
“Yes. You are.”
I get ready and do my best to forget about the day.
Gareth somehow gets all twelve seats in the tiny, but trendy Chang’s Noodle Bar. We eat gourmet ramen with Piper and Brian and a bunch of people from G Studios. Nobody asks me for ID as I’m served glass after glass of expensive, warm sake.
I can’t remember much of what happens after that. I end up snuggled against Gareth’s chest, dreaming of fabric that spools endlessly off a massive loom.
It’s mostly dark when Gareth wakes me by poking me in the rib cage a few times. “Come on. You said you want to work. So let’s go.”
He nudges me a few more times so I know he’s not being ridiculous. I throw on leggings and a sweater and meet him in the kitchen. He’s in there in a normal pair of jeans, a Toad the Wet Sprocket T-shirt and is carrying a backpack.
I can’t even believe Gareth John Miller owns a backpack.
He slides into a leather jacket as he says, “Let’s go.”
We take the subway. “I didn’t realize you knew where the station was,” I say.
Reaching into the backpack, he hands me a thermos of coffee. “Keep your strength up, funny girl.”
I assume we’re going to the Brooklyn Bridge since we get off at that stop. But instead we walk to where the Williamsburg Bridge extends over the East River. Its steel trusswork glows gold as the sun rises.
Gareth finds a grassy area and produces a thin blanket from the backpack. He spreads it on the ground and hands me a sketchbook as we sit. “Okay,” he says. “Describe the bridge in three words.”
“Um. Silver. Straight. Long.”
Gareth snorts. “Very creative.”
“It’s six in the morning!”
He nods. “Okay. Now there’s a woman coming across the bridge. Sketch something for her to wear that could be described with those three words.”
I start making scratches with the pencil he’s given me, but he stops me immediately. “First rule of design, Cookie. Always ask who the woman is.”
With a smile, I ask, “So who’s the woman?”
“Let’s say midthirties. Professional. She’s got money for the clothes we want to sell. But she’s got kids at home. Likes to look good. Comfort is key.”
I pick up the pencil again. This time Gareth says, “Second rule. Ask where the woman is going. Is she headed to Pilates? To a cocktail party? A funeral?”
“We’re making funeral wear now?” I roll my eyes even though he’s right.
“Nah. Let’s say our gal is having breakfast with her boss.”
I snort. “Very funny.”
This time I do get to sketch. Gareth is drawing something too, but it looks more like a take on the lattice pattern of the bridge. He leans over my sketchbook. “That’s good. But you have to think about proportion. Especially if you want to do plus-size.”
I’m taking stabs at a pantsuit that would be made from a gold and silver ombré fabric, the colors reflected across the metallic surfaces of the bridge. “This is your process?”
“Sometimes.” He kisses my forehead.
We’ve been at this for about an hour when my phone rings. Gareth passes me the beeping and buzzing rectangle.
One more surprise.
A gravelly voice travels through the speaker. “Cookie? I need to talk to you.”
It’s Dad.
He’s calling from a Phoenix number.
For the first time in ten years, Dr. Martin Vonn has returned from Africa.
FAT: Days 265–266 of NutriNation
Graduation Day.
It’s a hip-hop song. A rite of passage.
Another occasion celebrated with food.
Of course there’s cake. Usually with a cheap, plastic version of a mortarboard cap plopped in a pile of buttercream icing. Somehow every party involves cake and me saying, “Just a tiny, tiny slice, okay?” Somehow, I always end up with a ten-thousand-calorie serving that weighs down the thin paper plate it’s being served on.
This is yet another one of the ironies of being fat.
People assume you love food. And they really want to help you out with that.
In the windup to graduation, I’m actually feeling good. I’m down seventy-five pounds and I celebrate by treating myself to a Banana Republic T-shirt.
My blog is doing better than I thought it would. Carson helped me set it up so that promos of my articles get posted to Twitter and Instagram. He told me I have to go on a couple times a day and tag people with a lot of followers. I’m following his instructions and it’s working. So far this month, Roundish has gotten twenty-five hundred page views.
Tommy and I are okay. We hang out. We avoid any mention of Kennes. It’s like his life has two separate realities. The one where he’s a Monopoly-loving astro-doofus, and the other one where he’s a reanimated Dream Date Doll.
Kennes is now one of the most popular girls in school.
Yeah.
Sometimes I think high school needs a new vocabulary. One that explains how a girl nobody can stand to be around can be defined as popular. But she is. The kids w
ho probably wouldn’t bother tossing her a life preserver if she fell off the back of a boat flock to her parties and jockey for a seat next to her at lunch.
She’s also the head of the student committee managing the graduation ceremony.
Kennes Butterfield is the head of the committee handing out and collecting the cap-and-gown order forms.
She personally delivers the forms to the vendor.
This fact is important.
The other fact that’s important is that Grandma is running seriously low on cash. She doesn’t get her Social Security check until the twenty-fifth of the month, hasn’t had much sewing work since she finished all of the prom dresses, and I suspect that whatever extra money she’s got is going toward my graduation party.
At Donutville, Steve decides to “accidentally drop” a large bag of decaf coffee so Grandma doesn’t go bonkers without her usual daily pot. I can tell Mr. Kraken doesn’t buy it, but Steve is the best baker he’s got and the only one willing to work holidays. Kraken doesn’t say anything as I lug the big bag to my car.
The graduation ceremony is on Saturday. If it doesn’t rain, it’ll be held on the football field. It seems weird to worry about the weather in Phoenix because it’s sunny here, like, 364 days of the year. But my iPhone says 70 percent chance of scattered showers for Saturday.
On Friday, I head to the office where the caps and gowns we’ve preordered are being distributed. And this happens.
Me: “This gown is the wrong size.”
Cheerleader and Friend of Kennes: (fiddles with gown order form) “It’s what you ordered.”
Me: “No, it isn’t.”
Cheerbot2000: “The gown matches the form.”
Me: (checks form, finds it’s not in my handwriting) “That’s not mine. Why would I order a medium?”
Cheerbot2000: (grins) “Maybe you got a little too optimistic about your diet?”
Me: (growls, bares teeth) “I need a gown that fits.”
Cheerbot2000: (huffs, rolls eyes three times) “We have extras in each size. But you’ll have to pay for it. That’ll be $54.20.”
Me: (clenches teeth) “Fine. Refund me for the one that’s too small.”
(Several more minutes of arguing)
Enter Mrs. Vargas.
I like Mrs. Vargas. But still she says: “I’m really sorry, Cookie. You have to keep the robe you ordered. Sales are final to the school. If you need another one, you have to pay the additional fee.”
(Several more minutes of smug looks from Cheerbot2000)
I should have seen it coming.
I should have realized Kennes wouldn’t let me walk away from that fucked-up scene outside SoScottsdale unscathed. That she wouldn’t let me keep my portion of the proceeds from the war between us.
It doesn’t seem to matter to anyone that the handwriting on the yellow carbon copy doesn’t match mine or that most of the info, like phone number and address, is missing. I own that medium gown. No amount of debating will change things.
I don’t have $54.20 for another set and I don’t have anywhere I can go to get it. I won’t ask Tommy. Somehow, asking him for money feels like it would turn me into Kennes. I spend the next twenty minutes roaming the hot Mountain Vista campus looking for her. But the lawns and hallways are empty. The year is coming to a close and people are moving on.
At home, I unwrap the gown and measure it. I can fit my arms into the sleeves, but when I do they look like sausages hanging off my body. I might be able to cut the sleeves on the underside and add a couple inches of elastic.
The gown itself is the bigger problem. It needs at least eight inches of additional fabric to be able to zip up. Even more than that to drape properly.
I’m screwed.
There’s not too much I could do to fix the gown even if I wanted to. I could maybe rip out the side seams and add fabric. But what kind would I add? Where would I get it? And there’s no telling that I’d be able to get the thing back together again. The $50 gown is made of disgustingly cheap acetate. Designed for single use. Not for tailoring.
Kennes Butterfield screwed me.
I take to the internet and Google my problem. It turns out I’m not alone, which is sort of reassuring. But no one has successfully resolved the problem either. The best advice is to wear something of a similar color and leave the robe open in the front.
Great. I’ll just start searching for everything shiny and royal blue that I own.
I have to do something, so I cut the sleeves and add strips of elastic every few inches. It takes hours. The acetate bunches and gets stuck under the presser foot a billion times. But I do it. The sleeves fit, and as long as I don’t lift my arms over my head like the girls in the deodorant commercials, no one will ever know.
That leaves the gown.
I have a plan, and I stay up all night.
Around two in the morning light rain drizzles. It stops, but the morning sky is overcast, the kind of thing most people would describe as gloomy. But it’s special. Rain. Water. Weather. It means change and birth and rebirth.
The next afternoon I show up to the graduation ceremony. My history teacher, Mr. Smith, has been given the thankless job of organizing us into our rows. Like usual, I’m sandwiched in between Luke Vaughn and Chris Vonne in the line waiting to be seated. We’ve had four years of this and I know we’ll be happy not to see each other again after today.
And this happens.
Mr. Smith: “Cookie, I’ll need to ask you to zip up that gown.”
Me: (telling myself to keep a calm, even tone) “I can’t. It doesn’t fit.”
I’ve got the full attention of Vaughn and Vonne and a few other kids.
Mr. Smith: “Um. Well. The dress code says...”
Me: (feeling bad that Mr. Smith is in this position—he’s a nice guy; but no retreat, no surrender) “Kennes Butterfield deliberately changed my robe order form, forcing me to buy one that clearly wouldn’t fit. I didn’t have the money for a second one.”
Mr. Smith: “That’s a serious accusation.”
Me: (face turning red) “It’s the only explanation that makes any sense. I would never have ordered this robe. I’ve been making my own clothes since I was ten. I wouldn’t mess up my size.”
Mr. Smith: (face also turning red and lips pressing into an embarrassed white line) “You’re a good student, Cookie. But you can’t walk if you don’t conform to the graduation dress code.”
Me: (keep calm, keep calm) “Through no fault of my own, I have a gown that doesn’t fit. If you want to tell me I can’t walk, that I’m too fat to walk, then okay. Just let me get my phone out so I can get video of it for Twitter.”
Mr. Smith: (face now angry red) “You’re not too fat. You’re out of dress code. If I make an exception for you, I’d have to make one for everyone.”
Me: (iPhone in hand) “You should make an exception. For me. And everyone in the same situation as me. I’m tired of being part of a world that tells me I have to be a victim of people like Kennes Butterfield. And I’m tired of people saying they won’t help when they see something wrong. You’ve known me for four years. Have I ever lied? Have I ever accused anyone of anything? I’m telling you. Kennes changed my form so I’d either have to look or feel fat. If you don’t let me walk, you’re doing the same thing.”
Mr. Smith looks at me. Really sees me.
I get the whole thing out. The entire speech exactly as I practiced it in front of the mirror. There’s a bunch of people crowded around me. Whispers are traveling up the line. Up to the front where they will surely reach the Bs.
It gets back to the Ws even faster.
Tommy Weston is about fifteen people behind me. Staring with his mouth open. Like I’ve just punched him in the face and left his jaw inoperable. He steps out of his place in line and moves toward the front, where I’m sure Kennes
is waiting.
I didn’t plan for this.
For collateral damage.
A bunch of things hit me fast. Why Grandma says to take the high road. What Father Tim meant that afternoon when he said you can’t seek vengeance.
But it’s too late. My plan is in motion.
Mr. Smith is back with a bunch of teachers and someone I think might be the vice principal. They’re murmuring and whispering and huddling.
They have a decision.
I can walk.
The world will see the T-shirt I spent all night screen-printing by hand. The one that reads, We Are All Roundish.com.
Mr. Smith straightens out our line formations and when “Pomp and Circumstance” plays, we take to the football field. The ceremony itself is unbelievably boring. Tommy’s seat, which is at the end of my row, sits empty for the whole thing.
Some mean old lady lectures about consumerism and youth culture and how everyone who graduates today needs to avoid gobbling up the world’s resources the way our parents and their parents have. Some nice old lady talks about how promising the future is. Some kid I’ve never seen before says YOLO over and over. By the end of his speech, I sort of hope the Hindus are right and that you only live once is a bunch of crap. I sort of hope we live a thousand lifetimes and that guy keeps coming back as a blob fish.
When blob fish is done, we wait. Because my last name is Vonn, I’m waiting awhile. There are awkward pauses when they read Kennes’s and Tommy’s names.
As it turns out, we’re waiting for nothing. Well, for an empty vinyl diploma holder, anyway. I smile and get a picture of myself holding a note that reads, “Your diploma will be mailed to you over the summer.”
Awesome.
But as I pass by the rows of other students who already have their empty holders, I see quite a few phones out. I see my blog loaded up on several screens. My plan is working. In the way that I intended. And a couple ways I didn’t.
I later find out, I got more than six hundred hits during the ceremony itself, and a bunch more later on. Here’s what people see:
Roundish
Title: Independence Day
Creator: Cookie Vonn [administrator]