It Was Me All Along

by Andie Mitchell

  After brunching on Belgian waffles with home fries and maple sausage links at the diner, the three of us headed to the high school lacrosse game to say hello to friends. By the time we arrived at the field, the game was half over. Our friend Alexandra, a striking, leggy blonde, stood across the field, waving for us to join her. I squinted to make out the faces of the rest of the circle, realizing Mike Oppel was among them. Walking over, I felt that familiar fat girl dread. In my head spun, Of all days to forgo makeup, this had to be the one, huh? Suck it in.

  I hated the feeling of walking toward people, and of walking away from them even more. I was aware of my rolls, the way the elastic waistband of Nicole’s pants cut into my fifth layer of love handle. I thought of Mike’s eyes—everyone’s eyes—watching, running up and down my body, seeing the flabby parts of me that I would kill to photoshop in real life. The indigo undereye circles that Dad had genetically gifted to me. The extreme roundness of my face, only made more moonish by the fact that I’d not yet deeply side-parted and straightened my hair that day.

  I was unprepared. I couldn’t have been further from the ideal I’d like to present to anyone, much less Mike Oppel. The field seemed threatening now—to me and my quite unhelpful mauve sweatshirt.

  As we approached, the group turned to welcome us. Of the six that stood before us, I was casually friends with each. Alexandra let out a sweet “Hey!” and we returned a chorus of weary “Heeeyyys.” Chatting about the night before and the now half-over game, I began to feel less uneasy. By that point, I’d reconciled with the fact that there was no more that I could do to make myself look better in that moment than smile and be kind. We’d only be there for a few minutes anyway.

  Nearly back to the car, I felt the pat of a hand on my shoulder. I swung around to see Mike; he’d jogged to catch up to us, trying to get my attention. I let go of a small giddy squeal and smiled wide before panicking at the realization of what an overeager weirdo I’d just been. I was altogether too exhilarated to be stopped by him, considering he probably just had some question about class.

  “Andrea!” he said. “Hey! How’s it going?” He stuffed his hands into his pockets.

  “It’s going pretty good. A little slow moving today.” What is this? “How about you?”

  “Good. Things are good.” He looked down, searching the ground as if to find another topic of conversation, and when he spotted one, he looked up again. “So, I was wondering—are you going to the prom?”

  “Um … well … yeah. I mean, I don’t know … but I’d like to,” I said hopefully.

  “But you’re not going with anyone yet?”

  “No.”

  “Cool.” He nodded and paused, thinking on it. Well, this is an all-time low, I thought. I wished I could have sprinted off the field, done anything to escape the awkwardness of not only admitting to Mike Oppel that I was dateless but also showing him how gross I could look on random Saturday afternoons.

  “Will you be my date?”

  I flatlined.

  I jolted back to life just in the nick of time to answer his question with the most mortifying three words: “Are you kidding?”

  The confusion on his face introduced me to my own absurdity. “No … ha. Why would I be kidding about that? I want to go to the prom with you.”

  I scanned his expression, picking it apart for a hint of an impending smile that would expose the ruse. My head whipped around to look across the field, certain this wasn’t actually happening. I felt a curious mix of vulnerable and high. As the tiny hairs on my arms stood up with a tingle, I lost the ability to control the deep smile that made its way from my belly to my heart to my head. Completely disarmed, I looked down at my sneakers, wiggling my toes before raising my eyes to meet his once more. “Uhh. Y—yeah. Of course. I’d love to.” My face flushed rosy.

  “Great. Awesome.” He smiled.

  I bashfully tucked my hair behind my right ear and made one last pitiful error in playing it cool. “Thank you,” I said, sincerely. He laughed while shaking his head. “No, thank you. It’ll be fun.”

  I pivoted on my left leg, swiveling around to face the parking lot, where my friends sat in Nicole’s car, anxiously waiting. I walked to them in a dreamy, bouncy stride. My whole body felt warm and fizzy like a shaken bottle of soda. My smile continued, unrelenting and uncontained. What had just happened was outrageous, a little too high-school-coming-of-age-film to feel true.

  For the month leading up to that sunny May prom day, I went about my life in pure, almost transparent delight. I moved through the halls of Medfield High with a new level of confidence.

  Yes, there were moments of panic, times when I second-guessed and self-sabotaged and stalled my own happiness. Mike Oppel’s asking me to be his prom date brought all sorts of insecurity to the surface. Is he sure about this? Do you think he regrets it? Have his friends teased him or made jokes about the date he chose? It was easy to pick apart.

  But I chose to feel lucky. I lingered on my high. I felt lustful just imagining the possibility of more joy than I was already experiencing. A month before the big day, Mom and I headed out to a bridal shop that sold plus sizes forty-five minutes away from home in a small town on Boston’s North Shore. After finding not one forgiving fit at Macy’s, Filene’s Basement, JCPenney, or David’s Bridal, this was our last hope.

  We walked into a tiny store jam-packed with gowns in every shimmery shade standing tightly in single-file lines along every wall. Rows and rows of taffeta and tulle snaked around us, ranging from hot-tamale-red silk to jade-green satin, and all manner of sparkle and sequin.

  The owner emerged through a draped door at the back of the shop. Warm and smiling, standing a petite five feet tall, she looked me up and down, nodded, and said without hesitation, “We find something, my dear.” Her thick Italian accent, her reassurance—they rubbed the back of the hopeless girl in me. I smiled.

  She and Mom sent me to the dressing room—which was more of a sewing room, with barely a suggestion of a door—with three dresses in tow. I eyed each and stopped immediately, gasping at the blue silk one. Floor length and strapless, the dress flowed smoothly, gradually changing from a sapphire hue to indigo to topaz to where the hem flared into an icy blue A-line. I set aside the other two dresses, not even noticing color or cut, and took my clothes off. The weight of the dress Hula-Hooped around my head, swirled down my neck and back, and then settled at my waist. It was two sizes too big—a twenty-two when I’d normally worn an eighteen. Still, I loved it. I knew it would be perfect.

  Before I could even spin to see all sides of me in the mirror, the shop owner had flung open that whisper-thin door, took one look at me, and tossed her hands up in the air. “Thee one,” she cooed, tilting her head to the side in contentment.

  I pivoted back to the mirror, beaming. I took in the image of me in that blue. “Yes. The one.”

  Mom wrote a check for the dress without even blinking. At $250 before significant alterations, it meant three weeks of overtime and sleep deprivation just so her baby could be the belle of the ball. When I hesitated at the register, swallowing the price like a handful of rocks, she took my face in her hands. “You can’t put a price on feeling beautiful.” I looked into her eyes, so loved and in love with her, and smiled through tears. She pressed her plum lips to my right temple and whispered, “You are worth every penny I have, baby. Every last one.”

  The drive to prom with Mike felt seconds long. Our chatting, laughing, sparring back and forth with playful jabs was effortless, comfortable. I was myself and he, himself, regardless of social status. And what I won’t ever be able to forget is the feeling of strolling into the prom venue, arms linked with Mike Oppel, the Mike Oppel, and for the first time experiencing exactly what I’d wanted.

  To be seen.

  To be seen as beautiful.

  It was a strange feeling. Foreign. The heads—polka dots of slick crew cuts and hairsprayed updos—turned as we walked past. Friends ran up to say giddy hellos, eac
h leaning into my ear to whisper “You are gorgeous!”

  Our entrance and pure kindness from everyone we encountered as the evening began sent me spinning. We ate dinner, danced, and then, just as the lights dimmed, our principal took to the microphone at center stage to announce who had been voted prom queen. Our class nominated only a queen, and whoever her date was became her king. All of us gathered on the dance floor, whispering in anticipation. I looked around, pausing to admire all the girls in my junior class—each absolutely radiant in some shade of spring. I wondered which would be crowned queen, grinning as I eeny-meeny-miny-mo’ed my way through them. Turning to Mike, I leaned into his ear. “Who do you think it’ll be?” He leaned back, looking me in the eye, his pupils scanning mine back and forth as if to answer silently. He let out a sweet laugh. I narrowed my eyes, searching his for more information. Did he know already? Could he know? I felt jealous if he did. I returned my gaze to our principal, my mind trying to select someone immediately so that I’d at least be a betting woman before the announcement, even if only with myself.

  “I’m thrilled to announce that this year’s junior prom queen is …” Our principal pulled a thick card from the envelope. Eric Clapton strummed the first few chords of “Wonderful Tonight,” and I heard it.

  “Andrea Mitchell.”

  Ahem … Excuse me?

  I looked around at the others, clapping and cheering, looking straight back at me. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. Who?

  Clapton crooned, his voice dragging, sultry, across sweet lyrics. “I say my darlin’ …”

  As the principal crowned me, my face stained beet red. Mike took my hand and pulled me toward him. He rested his hands at my waist, and I brought my arms to his shoulders, intertwining my fingers at the nape of his neck. My cheek brushed his. “You look beautiful,” he whispered into my ear. I felt my blood coursing through all the veins that led to my heart as it swelled. Pressed together, we swayed to the music. I squinted from the spotlight directed at us and saw the hundreds of faces that encircled us—each adorned with a smile. It was a scene cut from a movie.

  And I—for the four minutes of that song, that sweet slow dance—was not just the fat girl.

  I was beautiful. I was prom queen. I was accepted. I was weightless.

  The song softly faded into the next, and the clapping resumed once more. My friends rushed over to hug me. People I’d never spoken to came up to congratulate me. The outpouring of kindness was dizzying.

  My high lasted for five hours of dancing and laughing. Five hours of feeling as if I were floating. Five hours of pure, boundless euphoria. Five hours until my rational mind brought me back to reality.

  At our all-night after-prom party, many people stuck close to their dates, but Mike and I floated around the crowd separately. I saw him from across the room talking to another girl—a strikingly beautiful girl. I noticed the way he smiled as he talked to her, as he flirted with her. And I realized that none of those smiles were ones he used with me. I saw that none of his actions—the way he stood, the way he brushed arms with her—was anything like how he was with me. I did my best to shrug off the realization and moved into the adjoining room to chat with friends. Over the next few hours, I had so much fun playing drinking games that I’d all but forgotten about Mike and the girl. He had come over to me a few times to see how I was doing, and, with an arm wrapped around my shoulders, he’d asked if I was enjoying the party. I’d light up at his touch, at his sweet concern. I couldn’t help but adore him. “Yes, I’m having the best time!” I’d enthusiastically reassure him. He’d smile, relieved at my contentment, and then he’d leave me. Each time he walked away, my heart grew heavier. Knowing that there was another girl in the next room pained me. I’d look down into my beer cup, watching embarrassment float to the top, as unwanted as foam. Did I think he liked me? Did I really allow myself to think that Mike Oppel had any romantic feelings for the fattest girl in our grade? How had I deluded myself into thinking he invited me to prom for any reason other than wanting to be generous, kind, even?

  I left the room and found my way to the bathroom. There, in quiet solitude, I felt silly. I was a good deed done by Mike Oppel. An ironic prom queen. I wondered if my win was meant to read as Let’s do something nice as a grade and vote for this big girl. Let’s give her this one. I felt as if my whole class had secretly nominated me for a makeover and cheered as I came onstage transformed and oddly confident. Charity, for which I should have been grateful.

  And I was. The boost in self-esteem, the elation—they were crowned upon me. Even if they came with their own sad interpretations, I was just glad to have them at all. The choice to view the night in a positive or negative light was up to me.

  When I was finally able to leave the bathroom, it was because I couldn’t bear the thought of reducing my happiness to tears. I walked outside to refill my drink. Seated on the grass surrounding the beer cooler was a big group of people. I found an open spot and sat down beside my friend JJ, our class president and also the guy I’d had a crush on since the fifth grade. He turned his body to face me. “Hey!” His massive grin could make me forget that I’d been upset mere minutes earlier.

  “Hi!” I returned, equally as enthusiastic.

  “Congrats on prom queen. That’s really great.”

  “Thanks! Yeah. It’s—it’s strange. I don’t know how that happened.” I laughed.

  “I do. I counted the votes, and it was pretty much unanimous. Everyone wanted you to win.” Hearing him say that made me feel good. I smiled.

  For the remainder of the night and well into the morning, the two of us sat in those grassy seats and talked. Our only pauses were the minute-long laughs we shared, reminiscing about all the years we’d gone to school together. It was intimate, the kind of lengthy and meaningful conversation I’d had with Kate. I didn’t fear saying the wrong things; I didn’t waste precious mental energy worrying whether he was silently wishing he was talking to someone else; I didn’t spend time wondering how disheveled I looked in the morning light. Candid and a little irreverent, I was myself.

  By eight a.m., it was clear we should head out. I placed my palms flat on the ground at either side of me, preparing to stand up.

  “You know, I’ve thought about telling you—,” he started. I stayed seated, looking him in the eye. “I had wanted to ask you to prom.” He looked serious, vulnerable, and my pulse quickened.

  Blushing, I cast my eyes downward. “Oh.” I paused, shifting nervously in the grass. “Well … thank you. That’s really nice.”

  He released a small laugh. “No, nothing to thank me for. It’s just—you’re great, and it would have been fun.”

  A rush of exhilaration surged through me. “The good news is that we kind of spent the whole party together.” We both laughed.

  “You’re right.” He nodded. “And it was fun. We should do it again sometime.”

  I grinned, revealing how happy what he’d said had made me.

  The next day, he called to invite me to the movies. The day after, we spent the better part of an evening driving around aimlessly in his car, talking in the same way we had a few nights earlier. Our friendship grew fast, my liking of him building quickly and intensely.

  After a month of hanging out daily, we had a conversation that revealed how deeply we liked each other. And on our second “official date,” I had my first kiss. It was everything I’d imagined it could be. Fireworks and an encore of Dave Matthews Band. An overabundance of perfume and braces. He was wonderful. Sensitive and kind, outgoing and funny enough to make everyone enjoy his company. For six blissful months, including an amazing summer, I was happy. As continuously content as I’d ever been. He wrote me love letters and poems. He made me mixed CDs—the second-surest sure sign of love. He never once made mention of my appearance, save for calling me beautiful.

  And the best part? I had someone. Finally, someone. I was validated. I was worthy of love. All 210 pounds of me.

  One week b
efore my birthday, in January of my senior year, the two of us went out for a drive. It was just a normal outing until tears began to fall down his face. He turned to me, and I anticipated exactly none of what he said. I was horrified thinking that perhaps someone he loved had died, that he didn’t get into his number one choice of schools. Instead, he broke up with me.

  And my love, everything I had handed over to him in moments of intimacy, felt lost. He cried as I did, there in his car, assuring me that he still loved me and that he always had. It was just that he didn’t want to be in a relationship. Stripped of security, I couldn’t hear a word. I knew it was me he didn’t want. It was all a kinder, gentler way for him to say he wanted out.

  My heart was broken. I spent three weeks tearing apart our relationship, hoping that there had been a misstep that could be corrected, like fixing a measurement in a faulty recipe. All the conclusions I came to pointed directly at me. I was fat. Maybe it was my size that had outgrown our relationship. Maybe he was getting teased for dating the fat girl. Maybe he’d begun to find me gross. The more time I spent dwelling on these theories, the more solidified they became. And when graduation came, several months later, I thought of myself as being as unattractive as I’d come to believe he’d found me when we’d broken up in January. I’d gained 10 pounds in those months, bringing me to 220.

  Not until late that summer, ten days before we’d each be leaving for colleges on opposite sides of the country, did he and I meet up one last time. Driving together, late one night, I felt the comfort of our old relationship. We talked, familiar and smooth like vanilla ice cream. Just as the sun began to rise, he told me what he hadn’t been able to tell me in January. He told me what he hadn’t told anyone. He told me what he barely wanted to say aloud to himself. He was gay.

  I’d never before felt the way I did in that moment. Shock swirled with relief mixed with a quarter cup of heartache. There was a knowledge that it would never work between us, that it simply couldn’t work between us, and with that came sadness. There was an acknowledgment that it wasn’t me who he found unlovable, and with that came relief. And suddenly it all made sense. Why we never quite made it past second base.