Fat Girl on a Plane

by Kelly deVos

  Today, we graduate. We’re independent of our school. Less accountable to our families. Everyone wants to talk about the future. Everyone wants to leave their failures behind and take their successes with them. Are you weird or wired? Fat or skinny? Gay or straight? Jock, emo, wannabe, loser, skater, punk, stoner, geek, loner, nerd? We need to leave those labels behind. They’re in the past. Like those old spelling bee ribbons you won’t be hanging in your dorm room. But let’s also leave behind the desire to be labelers. Let’s have more important things to do than sit around and judge each other. Happy Graduation! Here’s to us and whoever we want to become.

  * * *

  The ceremony ends, and the clouds that have patiently waited all day release their water onto the dry grass of the field. People root through their bags for umbrellas. AV guys run around covering and packing equipment.

  I want to stand there forever. To roll into the gutter with the rainwater.

  But in a way, we’re all like planets in a solar system. We’ve got certain trajectories. An emotional gravity that can’t be resisted.

  Grandma’s throwing me a party right after the ceremony. At the church. Father Tim gives a sort of weird lecture on how the cap-and-gown outfit was inspired by Catholic clergy. There’s something about an increase in vocations to the church. I’m not sure what the point is. I’m not cut out to be a nun.

  Tommy doesn’t show up to my party.

  Shit.

  We’re cleaning up and Grandma says, “Mrs. Weston called. Wanted to make sure you’re still headed over there tonight.”

  “Tommy didn’t come here,” I say, desperate for any reason not to have to show my face over there.

  “And I suppose you didn’t have nothin’ to do with the fact that they called his name and no one showed to take his damn diploma?”

  I don’t answer and devote all my focus into wiping a school cafeteria–style table.

  Grandma stuffs the remains of the cake into a white garbage bag. “You’re lettin’ that girl get the better of you, Cookie. It’s gonna cost you your friendship.”

  I frown. “He’s not the same as he was.”

  She pats me on the back. “Maybe you’re becomin’ something else too. Either way, you said you was gonna be at that party. You’re gonna be at that party.”

  The last-ditch effort of a coward. “He said he was going to be here.”

  “Cookie...” Grandma’s tone carries a warning. There’s no more arguing. I’m going to the Westons’ house.

  I drive over in my old Corolla and park between two nicer sedans. Tommy’s house is one of the smaller ones in Las Sendas, the fancy community on the north side of town, but it’s still nice. It’s got the usual suburban trappings. The marble countertops. The hardwood floors.

  Tommy’s mom lets me in and I stand in the foyer making small talk with her for a few minutes, my sweaty hand wrapped around the string of a gift bag containing an antique brass gyroscope. Mrs. Weston takes the gift bag and disappears into the kitchen.

  The party is out by the pool, which glows with blue lights and clear, floating beach balls. I see Tommy standing on one side of his backyard, talking to Kennes. They see me. She squints and turns away, and Tommy stays focused on her.

  There’s a DJ who’s probably friends with Tommy’s dad. The guy is playing the kind of stuff you hear at weddings. Sister Sledge. Kool & the Gang.

  Mrs. Weston breezes by and hands me a drink. “Tommy’s party punch.”

  My gaze drifts over the custom cup that has Tommy written on it in gold glitter letters and a striped paper straw sticking out.

  She’s watching Tommy with a soft, unfocused smile. “He’s probably getting too old for the glitter.” Her face sharpens as she turns back to me. “But you know I love my Pinterest boards.”

  Yeah, I’ve seen Mrs. Weston’s massive online collection of craft ideas.

  There’s a break in the music, and Mrs. Weston shoos me toward the DJ booth. “We were hoping you could say a few words.”

  I make a big show of picking at a hangnail. “Oh. Um. Me?” I stammer. “I think Tommy might rather have Kennes...”

  Mrs. Weston takes me by the elbow. “You’ve known him longest, Cookie.”

  And then I’m standing next to the weird DJ with a bunch of kids from school surrounding me, a cheap microphone in my hand. Kennes glares at me.

  Take the high road.

  If there was ever a moment to heed Grandma’s advice, this is it.

  Think about it. Think about Tommy.

  “Oh. Hi...” There’s feedback from the mic. A few people groan. I keep going. “I met Tommy at camp. I...uh...wish I had a bunch of hilarious camp stories to share, but the truth is, Tommy’s never done anything even remotely embarrassing.”

  No. He let me take the hit at Toys“R”Us. He let me staff the PB&J table.

  “Tommy’s been the best friend, the best student and the best son. Even though we’re going on to different things, I know we’ll always be there for each other. And no one’s future is brighter than Tommy’s. He’s always loved the stars, but really, he’s the one who’s out of this world.”

  It’s horrible and corny.

  There’s a quiet “Aww” from the small crowd. Tommy’s parents beam at me. I guess this means I have, in fact, taken the high road. Grandma failed to mention that doing this would be as unsatisfying as doing the wrong thing.

  I hold the mic out to the gray-haired DJ and head through the sliding glass doors. I’m almost to my car when Tommy catches up with me.

  “Thank you for that,” he says. He steps in front of me, leaning against the Corolla door. I think he wants to say something, but he’s focused on the asphalt sparkling under the yellow streetlights. “The speech,” he mumbles into his collar. “It was nice.”

  “I have to go.”

  Tommy puts his hand on my arm. “Cookie. Did you have to start that shit with Kennes at the ceremony today?”

  I grab his chin and force him to look at me. “You know she did it. You know she screwed up my gown order, don’t you? And you don’t care. We’re supposed to be friends. Best friends.”

  “Jesus, Cookie. Why does everything have to be such a fucking cartoon with you? You’re the sheep dog. That makes Kennes the wolf. And the world’s full of fucking anvils dropping from the sky and birthday cakes with dynamite inside.”

  He shirks out of my hold, but his face is only inches from mine. Orange Tics Tacs. That’s what I smell as he keeps going. “I told her that thing with the gown totally sucks and she really is sorry. But you’ve dished out as much crap as you’ve taken here. Your take-this-job-and-shove-it routine caused Kennes plenty of trouble. At the office Brittany and Shelby made you their personal Norma Rae complete with a shrine of coffee mugs and Post-it pads next to the copy machine. I don’t know if she was deliberately out to ruin your graduation day. But you ruined hers. And mine.”

  My defiance surges up. “It was your choice to go. It was your choice to stand by her even though you knew she did something totally shitty to me.”

  His eyes plead with me. “What kind of choice did I really have? I’ve got two friends trying to rip each other apart.”

  Kennes means as much to him as I do, and that really, really hurts. “Whatever. I have to go,” I say again, motioning for him to move away from my car.

  He shakes his sandy hair. “This is it? You’d rather end our friendship than try to get along with Kennes? You won’t even try? Try for me?”

  No.

  No, I won’t.

  No retreat. No surrender.

  He shoves his hands into the pockets of the suit I made for him. The memory of hemming those wool pants belongs to another life. Or to another person. I want to be anywhere else but here. And I’m not going to cry.

  “I’m not going to move until you answer me,” he says.
r />   I guess I could try to yank him off the door. For a second, I have a vision of me lifting him over my head like a misshapen barbell and tossing him into his neighbor’s gravel yard. But that seems like it might be going too far, even for me. So I answer. “People like me can’t get along with people like her.”

  I won’t cry.

  “Cut the crap,” he says. He knows I haven’t made every fat-shaming, mean girl in school my nemesis. He knows there’s more to this than Kennes making me feel like a fat girl on a plane.

  I glare at him. This is why it’s easier to fight your enemies than your friends. Friends know your weaknesses, your vulnerabilities. They know when you’re not being real. And honestly, what do I have to lose? Our friendship is gone or about to go into long-term hibernation.

  I decide to go for it. “I thought...I thought...things would be different. I thought, if I lost weight, you would see that...I...I liked you. Liked everything about you. The way you always forget to tuck your shirt in on one side. The cowlick that makes your hair stick up when it gets too long. Your weird Lego robots. That you actually think ‘Backpack’ is a good song. The way you always buy Boardwalk even though I never land on it. I—”

  “You liked me? Liked me?” Tommy’s voice is laced with thick, hard sarcasm. I can’t remember him speaking to me like this before. “You think I would only have liked you back if you were stick skinny? You think I’m like that? Or maybe you’re only saying this now because I’m finally with somebody.”

  I’m grateful for the hot anger bubbling up in my blood. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  He grabs me, placing one hand on each of my shoulders, and jerks me back and forth a couple of times. “I did everything. I took you to every school dance. Spent hours and hours watching TV with your grandma. I was there for you. I waited. And waited. And you...you...all you could do was be mad as hell at the world. And now...now you want to tell me that you liked me? Past tense? You liked me? Well, you never did one fucking thing to show it.”

  I take deep breaths to keep myself calm. This would be that moment in romantic comedies when the hero says, Wait here, goes back into the party to break up with his horrible girlfriend and comes back to kiss the girl-next-door. But this is real life, my life, and this won’t end like an old episode of Friends.

  We stare at each other like opponents on opposite sides of a chessboard. It’s suddenly so, so obvious that Grandma was right about everything. I started this bullshit war with Kennes, and I’m its real casualty. But it’s too late.

  “And for the record,” Tommy says in the same harsh voice, “I liked you exactly as you were. As you are. Everything about you.”

  I have to do something or in seconds I’ll be bawling my face off. I push myself up on my tiptoes and press my lips against his. At first, he’s motionless, frozen with closed lips. My face flushes and I sink back down.

  His eyes dart back and forth as my heels hit the pavement.

  I expect him to move out of the way and go back inside.

  But he grabs me, swirls me around so that my back is against the car door and wraps his arms around me in a way that would have been impossible a year ago. This is the romantic scene I’ve been taught to expect. This is what the Hollywood ending looks like.

  An electric energy jolts through me. His tongue is in my mouth, at first, swishing awkwardly, then moving with purpose along my lower lip.

  He’s into it.

  And then.

  “We can’t.” He steps back.

  A coolness fills the space between us.

  “You know, you could have said something too.” I unlock the car. I won’t cry.

  “Yeah. Well. Maybe we’ll...um...see each other on campus.” He turns to go.

  “Yeah,” I whisper as his curly blond head vanishes through his front door.

  I won’t cry.

  They show you pictures of the heart in Biology class. A powerful mass of muscle, pumping lifeblood, in and out, all day, day after day. The human heart never rests, never takes a day off. And yet, in that instant, my heart has no volume or shape or substance. It’s like a glass ornament that has fallen from the Christmas tree. It’s been reduced to shiny, scattered pieces you could brush away with your shoe.

  I drive to the yellow house and I’m beginning to think there’s no upside to this whole becoming-an-adult thing.

  At home, Grandma’s waiting at the kitchen table. She pours me my own cup of decaf, pushes a regular-size envelope across the worn wood surface and gets up. She’s making a plate of food for Roscoe, the giant Labrador barking in the backyard.

  It’s a strange thing. But the fact that time is passing, that things are becoming different, hits me full on. Especially about Grandma. There’s no one else who serves their dog sandwiches on a porcelain plate. Who covers their windows with aluminum foil. Who still plays with paper dolls. The lines on her face have grown thick and deep. Time is running out. She won’t be at the table forever.

  She turns from the stove, where she’s flipping a grilled cheese with a spatula. “Open it,” she says with a wave at the envelope. “You’re a good girl, Cookie. You deserve something nice. To spend a nice summer with your friend.”

  I open the envelope and immediately understand why we’ve been so broke.

  It’s a plane ticket. To Sydney.

  Australia.

  I burst into tears.

  SKINNY: Days 848–855 of NutriNation

  “Dad? Where are you calling from?” I wish Gareth would have brought more coffee to this little picnic of ours. Or maybe eight or ten shots of espresso. More caffeine would definitely improve my ability to handle this situation.

  “I’m at Edna’s,” he says.

  I shove the phone hard against my face. “At Grandma’s? You’re back from Africa? What’s wrong?”

  Pause.

  “Didn’t your mother call you?” he asks.

  “Mom?” I snort. “Are you serious? I haven’t gotten so much as a Christmas card from Mom in two years.”

  Pause.

  “Chad Tate is dead.”

  Pause.

  “So?” I ask in a heated tone. My blood pressure is rising. The situation dawns on me. Something’s happened to Chad Tate, and Mom went running to Dad. Like she wants to press rewind on the men in her life.

  Pause.

  “So?” my dad repeats in that stern tone he used when I was five and wouldn’t eat my broccoli. “So there’s going to be a service next Thursday. I’ll email you your plane ticket and then we can figure out—”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Pause.

  “Well, I guess if you’d prefer to make your own reservations, then—”

  “I’m not coming.”

  “Cookie. Your mother’s quite upset, she needs us to—”

  “She needs a lot of things, Dad. If you want to help her, good luck with that.” I press the red end-call button on my phone. Let him spend some time wishing I would call for a change.

  It feels strangely empowering.

  I get up and pace around the park, kicking at the corners of our picnic blanket, muttering, “The nerve of him. The nerve of him,” over and over.

  I’m not even sure which him I mean.

  There’s Chad Tate, who’s managed to die on a schedule that both deprives me of reaching the high point of my life and looking down on him and puts pressure on me to feel pity for my mother.

  There’s my dad, who didn’t step foot on this continent for my sixteenth birthday or my high school graduation, but returned the instant Mom called him.

  There’s God. Everything is really his fault anyway. He could have given me Mike and Carol Brady as parents, but instead I got the disappearing doctor and the supermodel who shows up just long enough to make me feel like shit.

  Screw them.

/>   Screw.

  Them.

  Gareth leads me back to the train. I pay very little attention to how we get home. I keep thinking screw them, screw them over and over. We arrive at the penthouse, where Gareth spends half an hour rubbing his chin and trying to get a coherent set of facts from me. Right then, there is no fashion impresario. Only a good guy from Montana. When he understands what’s going on, he puts his arm around me and guides me to the sofa. He turns on the TV. ESPN is covering Chad Tate’s death.

  The New York Giants’ publicist deserves an Academy Award.

  She gets on TV and acts shocked. “We’re deeply saddened at the loss of one of the NFL’s all-time greats.” She manages to say this with a doleful expression.

  I guess after he corralled me into having coffee with him, Chad Tate did end up in Vegas, where he got bombed and wandered into traffic. Trolls on the internet have a field day. “Ex–NY Giant Chad Tate stumbles out of nightclub and tackles minivan,” one blogger posts. “NFL Hall of Famer Chad Tate learns bar is out of Pabst Blue Ribbon and rushes Las Vegas Boulevard,” writes another.

  They show the poor lady who hit him. She’s got tears squirting out her eyes, and she wrings her hands and keeps saying, “I couldn’t stop in time.”

  I want to tell her it’s not her fault. That Chad Tate is, or was, a useless asshat. That when you spend half your time drunk off your ass, accidents are bound to happen.

  They put Mom on TV. She’s in a tasteful, black Calvin Klein sheath dress and a strand of pearls. She cries and whines, but her emotions don’t impact her waterproof mascara and airbrush foundation.

  “You sure about this?” Gareth asks. “About not going to the funeral? You know, Chad Tate’s not gonna die twice.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “Once’ll have to be enough.”

  There’s just one problem.

  God gave me one person on whom I can’t wish a plague of locusts.

  Grandma.

  She calls about nine New York time. “I expect you know why I’m callin’.”

  I do.

  “Girl, I suppose there ain’t no love lost between you and your momma and, yes, you’re entitled to be disappointed at the hand you’ve been dealt. But there are times in life when we have a duty to do right, to stand with family even if we don’t wanna, even if they haven’t stood by us. You need to be at the service on Thursday. Not for Martin or your momma or even me. You need to be there for yourself. Because you’re a person who’ll rise to the occasion and do the right thing.”