Fat Girl on a Plane

by Kelly deVos

  There’s my first clue, Sherlock.

  I’ve also got a huge block of time designated for me to “get ready” at Gareth’s apartment. GM sends a hairstylist, a makeup artist and wardrobe stylist as well as a massive rack of clothes from Gareth’s Fall collection. For most of the day, I’m basically living through a reality TV makeover segment. All that’s missing is some montage music, like “Eye of the Tiger” or “Walking on Sunshine.”

  It’s around four in the afternoon by the time I take the car over to the Morgan Library. Darcy meets me at the entrance.

  She leads me into “Mr. Morgan’s study.” In our short, GM black dresses, we both contrast sharply with the plush Victorian-style furnishings of the red room. After sitting on the velvet sofa for a few minutes, I pace the room and wait for Gareth. I try to imagine life as Pierpont Morgan, whom the museum describes as a banker of vast wealth who divided his time between hunting down rare books and having dinner with Thomas Edison. I notice that someone has left a half-crumpled brochure on one of the low bookcases.

  There’s a picture of a blond-haired, size-two model on the front with the caption, Poción de Amor. Love potion in Spanish.

  It’s my mom. On the cover. Wearing a slightly sexier version of one of the skirt-and-blouse designs Gareth and I patterned together.

  I quickly flip through the booklet. It’s all the same. Standard-size versions of the clothes I helped design with the words Also available in plus-size in tiny letters underneath. There’s a huge picture of Gareth in the inside jacket, but my name isn’t mentioned once.

  To see our work that way—the indigos and umbers of our nights in Salta, the verdant greens and dusty browns of the days at Camino a Seclantas—is worse than a slap in the face or a punch in the gut. It’s like someone reaching into my chest and digging their fingernails right into my heart.

  Suddenly, the brochure is made of needles. I drop it and turn on Darcy. “This isn’t a presentation of the plus-size capsule collection, is it?”

  She fidgets with her purple hair and tucks a loose strand behind her ear. “We’re doing everything we talked about, Cookie. All the models you chose are walking. The music. The backgrounds.”

  And suddenly everything makes sense. “My mom’s doing the show.”

  Darcy doesn’t answer.

  I leave Mr. Morgan’s study. Everything in the room is red, but even in the white halls, everything I see is still red. Darcy’s heels click on the tile floor as she runs behind me. I’ve got almost a foot on her, and her tiny little legs are in overdrive.

  “Cookie. For God’s sake,” she huffs from behind me. “Try to see it from our perspective. We already sold through the plus-size merch you guys created.”

  “When you say ‘we,’ are you referring to yourself and the guy that’s supposed to be my boyfriend?” I call back.

  “The editors...the buyers...they were in love with the stuff. It only made sense to launch it in all sizes, to do a fuller collection.” We’re nearing the museum entrance, where crowds of people are clustered together, waiting for the doors to the auditorium to open.

  “Cookie. Cookie,” Darcy is whispering frantically and puffing, out of breath. “Please. Stop for one minute. One minute.”

  I whirl around to face her. She jumps back, taken a bit off guard by the intensity I can feel radiating from my body. “This collection was supposed to be about something. About showing people who usually get treated like crap by the world of fashion that they really do matter. Instead, it’s...it’s...” It’s people like my mother getting everything they want at other people’s expense.

  I’ll say one thing for Darcy, she keeps her cool. Her face stays neutral. Even as I’m towering over her, she puts her hands on her hips and delivers this speech.

  “It’s not about you. Or even Gareth, for that matter. We’re taking a financial bloodbath on that last collection. We need a hit. Or we’d be talking layoffs. Store closures. This sets us up nicely for Resort and Spring.”

  “And my mother?” I ask.

  Darcy’s hands fall slack by her side. “Nathan said it was too late to cancel the contract. We would’ve had to pay her anyway. Might as well use her. And after Tate’s death...the PR value...”

  I can’t figure out if I want to laugh or cry or throw up. My brain is so busy processing emotions, I probably have sparks coming out my ears. “Use her? You used me. I am such an idiot.”

  As I resume walking, she calls out, “No. No, you’re not.”

  We both know that I am and so I don’t stop. “I hope you got what you needed,” I say to no one in particular. Darcy doesn’t follow me any farther.

  I run through the bright and airy court in the center of the library, passing Gareth, who’s deep in conversation with Par Donna editor Celine Stanford. I move through the glass doors facing Madison Avenue.

  There’s a beautiful, dark-haired girl crouching down near the entrance, crying into her hands. I almost trip over her as I leave the library building.

  “Sorry. I’m sorry,” the girl says, trying to stifle another sob.

  The voice is familiar. Way too familiar.

  Of course it’s Kennes.

  “What are you doing here?” I’m pretty sure God has sent Kennes as one final fuck you. She’s probably about to hand me a wedding invitation and tell me that she and Tommy will be getting hitched on Richard Branson’s private island and riding off in his personal submarine.

  I can’t take it. Not today.

  Kennes looks up at me for a second in her normal, snotty way, but that expression fades immediately, replaced by a mouth that sags downward and squinty eyes with tears rolling out of them. With her perfectly shaped bob hairdo and glossy nails, she looks like a super sad little doll.

  I don’t know why, but she gives me a real answer.

  “Um...SoScottsdale. I’m supposed to... Marlene told me to come here and ask you for tickets to the show... I was too embarrassed... I tried...I tried to sneak in... I’m such a total screwup.” She breaks into another round of sobs.

  I’m startled, shaken for a minute from my own self-pity and I find myself saying, “No. No, you’re not.”

  Kennes rubs her eyes, trying to stop the waterworks. “You’re a terrible liar. You know, nobody...nobody expects me to do anything. I’m supposed to be polished up like a trophy, trying to figure out how to marry a Mellon or Rothschild. Even my own father...he wishes you were his daughter.”

  “I seriously doubt that,” I say with an indignant grunt.

  “‘There’s a girl who knows what she’s doing,’” Kennes says in an imitation of Jameson Butterfield’s baritone voice. “That’s what he said. He thought you were right. To stand up to me. That day at the office. You’re a lot like him. When he was young.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. And I’m sure your dad loves you, Kennes.” It’s weird to be in this position. To be offering aid to the enemy. But I do. Because I’ve never seen anyone quite so lost and pathetic.

  She stops crying. “You and I both know there’s a difference between liking someone and loving them.”

  Yes.

  Yes, we do.

  I reach into my GM by Gareth Miller handbag and fish out the two plastic tickets from Darcy. “Here.”

  She stares at them and doesn’t reach out.

  “They’re tickets. To the show. At least you can cover it for SoScottsdale.” She still doesn’t take them, so I roll my eyes. “Or don’t. I won’t force you to take them.”

  I’m about to tuck the tickets back in my bag when she takes them.

  “No. I do. I want them.” There’s a pause. “Thanks.”

  Kennes rises from where she’s kneeling on the concrete steps. “Why are you helping me?”

  I shrug. I’m not sure I even understand myself. Maybe because I don’t wan
t to be trapped in one, big, never-ending cycle of what goes around, comes around. Maybe because, at some point, I have to get out of the revenge business. “You seem like you need it.”

  I’m about to turn toward Madison Avenue when she says, “About what I said. What I did. I’m sorry. I was mean. I was...going through something and...”

  “It’s okay, Kennes. It’s going to be okay.”

  This is what I tell myself. It will be okay.

  “Cookie, about the internship at Stella Jupiter. I’m sure you’ll get it.”

  I think for a second. “May the best designer win, Kennes. And if that’s you, I’m okay with it.” As the words come out, I hope they’ll be true.

  She smiles and moves through the library door. Behind me, I hear it close with a quiet click. It opens as I’m walking away, and Gareth calls, “Cookie!” He catches up with me a few paces later.

  “Cookie.” He grabs me by my shoulders. There’s a strange mixture of anger and fear on his face. But it’s not the right kind of fear. He’s not afraid of me leaving. He’s afraid of being exposed as a fraud. Or being alone. “It’s business. That’s all. It doesn’t mean anything. It has nothing to do with you and me. I need you. Come on. Stay.”

  I shake free of him and resume walking.

  “Where the hell are you going? The show starts in five minutes.”

  I stop and turn around. I feel certain that this is the last time I’ll be seeing his perfect, chiseled features, his dark moody eyes, his thin lips, somewhere other than in the pages of a magazine.

  “Home,” I say.

  I’m going home.

  FAT: Day 737 of NutriNation

  Certain things are strangely hollow.

  Like cheap chocolate Easter bunnies.

  Like achieving a goal that doesn’t seem to get you any closer to what you really, truly want.

  I lost 199 pounds. I made my goal weight. I like my classes at ASU. I have a job that pays good money. Grandma’s arthritis isn’t bothering her right now. Even old Roscoe doesn’t bark as much at night as he used to.

  NutriMin Water hooked me up with a massive opportunity. A personal interview with my fashion idol, Gareth Miller. I leave for NYC in the morning. They’re flying me first class.

  What the fuck is my problem?

  It’s Friday.

  My last meeting as a paying NutriNation customer.

  Rickelle, Kimberly and Dave have more balloons. I get a certificate and a special card that lets me come to any NutriNation meeting for free for all the rest of eternity. There’s more hugging and crying. There’s talk of more running and walking and food journaling.

  I miss those nights in Tommy’s backyard. In late November. When the air is cool but not cold. When the winter grass is full in. Telescopes. Star wheels.

  The night sky. It never looks the same. It never really changes.

  It’s over.

  And it’s only just begun.

  SKINNY: Day 866 of NutriNation

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was...well, it was never I guess... I mean I had to confess as part of confirmation...but I don’t think I had anything specific to say at that point and...”

  I hear a deep grunt through the screen that divides the confessional booth. Then the door to the booth swings open and I’m face-to-face with Father Tim.

  “Cookie, what the hell is the problem now?” he asks. He motions for me to sit alongside him in one of the pews. It’s a Monday morning and the chapel is empty except for the two of us.

  I’ve been home for two days. Gareth hasn’t called. Or texted. Or emailed.

  I know I shouldn’t be surprised. But I am.

  The horrible irony of the situation isn’t lost on me. The fact that everything my mother said to me that day on the elevator was true. I allowed myself to be used. I couldn’t even say if Gareth had any real feelings for me. I would have done anything to avoid being like my mom. But here I am. Like my mom.

  My meeting with Dr. Moreno, the one she scheduled with me that day at Cuchifritos, is on Wednesday. I’ve got two days to figure out if I really can go home again.

  “I’m...I’m mad,” I spurt at Father Tim as I slide in on the bench. It’s only anger that gets me out of bed these days. If I stay mad, I can stop crying.

  He bites his lip, fighting off a smile, and leans forward, facing the stained-glass mural at the front of the church. “At?” he prompts.

  “God.”

  Father Tim rests his hands in a prayer formation on the pew in front of him. “I see. Because things aren’t fair. Because life should be one run-on episode of Leave It to Beaver. Because experiences should be strung up like beads on a necklace, neat and orderly, each event preparing you for the next.”

  I face the stained glass too. Red and orange light is streaming into the chapel. “You’re too cynical. If God is so powerful, why can’t he make things fair?”

  He doesn’t say anything. Then he turns to me. “The world isn’t perfect. But things might be a little more fair than you believe. All that stuff you think you want or need, how much of it do you really need God to deliver? And how much could you do yourself if you really tried?”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes. “Aren’t you going to forgive me? Or give me penance or something?”

  Father Tim rolls his eyes. “I’m going to advise you.” He gets up and makes his way across the pew, straightening out the hymnals as he passes.

  “And here’s my advice, Cookie. Go back to school. Stop worrying so much. You’re young. Not every problem has to be solved right this minute.”

  The tears squirt from the corners of my eyes. I hurry to blot them with the edge of my long-sleeve, black GM tee. “Look at me!” I blurt out. “I look exactly the right way. I’m a size six, sometimes even a four. I have the right hair. The shoes. This outfit is probably worth $5000.”

  “Then you should sell it and put the money in the collection plate next Sunday,” Father Tim says. He replaces the hymnals on the holder in front of him and returns to his seat beside me on the bench.

  I half laugh and half sob and keep going. “I did everything I was supposed to do. Things are supposed to be perfect.”

  He pats me on the back for one short, awkward second. But he smiles. It’s a real smile. Not the fake one he uses when he invites everyone to the church picnic. “Cookie. You were never supposed to be anything. You’re supposed to live your life the way you want to live it. Nothing is ever perfect, but what makes people happy is that they make choices they feel good about. Sure, you lost weight. That’s fine, I guess. But the real weight that you carried around, that you’re still carrying around, is the attitude that what is on the outside means more than what is on the inside. Lose that and you’ll be happy. I promise. You have it in you to accomplish great things.”

  Father Tim gets up again and moves toward the altar while I stay seated, staring at the golden light streaming into the chapel through the stained glass.

  He turns back. “Yes. You’ll do big things. And when you do, don’t forget that the Lord says to tithe 10 percent.”

  Back at home, I think about Father Tim’s advice. I box up my GM wardrobe and put it in the trunk of my Corolla to take to St. Vincent de Paul’s.

  Grandma finds this amazing pineapple-print, mint-green knit fabric and I spend the rest of my day making myself a new dress, adapting a design from one of my old Claire McCardell patterns.

  I’ll be wearing Cookie Vonn originals from now on.

  When I’ve cut the last thread, I take to my blog.

  Roundish

  Title: Why Fashion Is Power

  Creator: Cookie Vonn [administrator]

  Okay, here’s the real deal about how money gets made in fashion. Most fashion brands—the Pradas, Ralph Laurens and D&Gs of this world—make less than 2
5 percent of their money from actually selling clothes. So where does the rest come from?

  Generally, from accessories (bags, shoes, jewelry, etc.) and licensed goods (fashion brands slap their logos on everything from bedsheets to vodka). And designers have a special place in their hearts for things like fragrances and eyewear. A handful of companies manufacture the vast majority of perfumes and sunglasses. The designer shows up with a few notes about what he or she thinks their brand looks or smells like. The company’s experts go to work and—bam!—store shelves get stocked and designers get royalty checks.

  But who is buying all of this stuff? Because unless the size-two women of the world are taking daily baths in Marc Jacobs Daisy Dream and wearing four expensive watches on each arm, someone else must be joining them at the sales counters.

  Here’s the dirty little secret of fashion: most designers hate fat people but love fat wallets.

  It’s plus-size women who are buying the lion’s share of these handbags and home goods.

  And we need to stop doing it.

  STOP. Right. Now. Quit. Cold turkey.

  Yes, I know it’s hard. A lot of designers make nothing over a size fourteen and make their best pieces only up to a size eight. If you’re bigger than that, the only way to have any kind of fashion brand experience is through accessories and other goods. You can’t dress like the cool kids, but they might let you sit at their lunch table if you have the right bag or shoes.

  There’s a perfume I love love love. I won’t mention its name, because the blog doesn’t make enough money to pay a lawyer. But it’s musky and floral and fashion magic. My grandma got a small bottle for me once for my birthday. I picked up that iconic glass square and imagined myself in the party, the glamor, the conversation of fashion.

  I love this perfume.

  And I will never ever buy it.