This Book Isn't Fat, It's Fabulous

by Nina Beck

  “Oh?” she says, pulling out her cell phone. “What’s the name of the place you’re staying at again?”

  “Dahlia’s, Marley. Really, if your memory is so bad, I hope you’re not depending on your SATs to get you into any good schools. You’ll forget how to fill in those little circle thingies…and then where will you be?”

  “Buying my way into Columbia, same as you, I suspect.”

  The best part is, this entire conversation is said in these sweet dulcet tones. Best enemies, remember? Nothing but jokes and lighthearted banter. If anyone had overheard us speaking but didn’t hear what we were saying, they’d assume we were having a sweet BFF chat. Ah, girl-speak.

  “Look, call them and check, if you must,” I say, pulling out my cherry lip gloss.

  She looks at me for a moment, trying to decide if she should call my bluff or not, and at the last minute dials 411 and when she is connected to Dahlia’s spa, she tells the receptionist that her BFF is scheduled to stay there for some time and she wants to join her but isn’t sure what day I am leaving (and at this point even I have to admit that her acting is somewhat impressive), could she confirm my departure date?

  “Are you sure?” she says, blinking into the phone. I know exactly what she is hearing. The receptionist is telling her that I am confirmed to depart the spa on Friday, just shy of one week from today.

  ALIBI IOI: IF YOU’rE GOING TO GO THROUGH ALL THE TROUBLE OF FINDING A FOUR-STAR SPA TO LIE TO YOUR FRIENDS ABOUT WHEN YOU’rE REALLY STAYING AT A NEARBY FAT CAMP, THE LEAST YOU SHOULD DO IS BOOK A STAY THERE IN CASE ANY OF YOUR “FRIENDS” FEELS THE NEED TO CONFIRM YOUR ATTENDANCE.

  Marley is such an amateur.

  Although at $1,200 per day, booking a stay at a spa that I wouldn’t even be attending is a risk. I mean, eventually I’ll have to explain the expenditure to my father, and when I made the reservation two weeks ago I didn’t even know if it would be necessary, but it obviously is and since my dad is set on ruining my life, the least he can do is pay to protect my reputation.

  I look out the window at the passing awnings with the numbers written on their faces. We are only a block away from Marley’s apartment building, thank God. Another minute and I am in the clear.

  “They said you had a reservation booked there until next Friday.”

  “Really, Marley, do we need to have this conversation again? Exactly where do you think I’m going? What else is there in upstate NY?” I laugh like she’s stupid and for a moment she looks completely unsure of herself and I feel like I’ve won.

  “I can’t wait to tell D that you’ll be coming with us to Mexico, then.” She smiles triumphantly at me.

  I’M SERIOUSLY SCREWED

  I take a deep breath. The girl is really thick. Another example of rich people inbreeding.

  “Marley, we’ve already been through this…”

  “Riley, your reservation is for one week. If that’s what your reservation is for and that’s where you really are going to be,” Marley says as the car slows to a halt, “then you’ll be home in time to go on the trip with all of us. Especially as we’re not leaving until Sunday.”

  “Um…”

  “I’m so glad,” she says, all smiles now. She is practically batting her eyelashes (fake). “I was worried that I wouldn’t really have anyone to talk to on the trip.”

  I still don’t know what to say. I can’t believe I was so stupid. I did all the prep work and I missed it by one day. One day! How can I fix this? How can I cover this up without—

  “I was telling D that I would be really lonely without you there, and he was gallant enough to promise to stick by my side the entire time if necessary.”

  I bet.

  She opens the door and has a foot out before she glances back at me over her shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re coming, Riley. D and I would’ve really missed you” (BITCH) “and now you’ll get to see my brand-new bikini!” (Double BITCH)

  I sit numbly in the backseat, nodding like an asshole, while she slams the door shut and prances her size-2 body (fake) up the walk to her building. Before I even have time to recover, before I even make it to the train station, I have a text from D:

  M SAYZ UR GNG ON TRP. :> WE ND 2 TLK SN, K?

  I flop over in the backseat and wish for a fast and easy death. The love of my life is going to Mexico with my best enemy, everyone else thinks I am going to Dahlia’s Day Spa with my parents, and now that I am going to be on the trip, and…and I am headed to fat camp. Lies, lies, lies.

  Swell.

  I HATE NATURE, NATURE STINKS

  Nature smells funny. I’m trying to get it into my head that this is called fresh air and it’s the trees and all that, but honestly, it smells funny. I want to hold my nose, but I look around and nobody else is holding their nose, which makes me wonder if it’s all in my head. But I swear, nature smells funny. Kind of like…dog pee. Or something rotting.

  “It’s not you.”

  I look up and there is a boy, a very odd-looking boy, standing in front of me. In the city, everyone knows you don’t stare at odd-looking boys. I stare off into the distance right above his shoulder so he doesn’t feel like it’s really an invitation to interact. He doesn’t notice and settles onto the bench right next to me.

  I glance at him out of the corner of my eye and he’s got his hair growing in a sort of weird floppy Mohawk. I think he’s wearing nail polish and he’s wearing bracelets that I suppose are meant to cover up the tattoos on the underside of his wrists, which I can see even if I can’t tell what the tattoo is of. When he smiles, his eyes scrunch up a little (he’s wearing eyeliner) and he looks a bit like Pete Wentz.

  I slip my hand into my bag and finger my pepper spray. The kid doesn’t even notice; he actually slides in closer until I can feel my thighs bump against his a little. Personal space?

  “What’s not me?” I ask him.

  He points a hand up to the beautiful trees I’m sitting under. Remember, almost everything is context. If you can sit among beautiful things, you will appear more beautiful (unless it’s girls—when you sit amid beautiful girls, you shouldn’t expect much). I saw these trees off to the side of the rail station where I was supposed to call and wait for my ride.

  I was only two hours late (I missed the first train, having forgotten my cell in the car and made it turn around and come back for me) and by the time I called the school, the secretary seemed pissed off—but that might just be because she lives in upstate NY and is a secretary. Seriously, I’d be pissed off too.

  People who know me know I have a habit of losing my cell phone. I’m on my seventh one this year, and Dad told me that if I lost this one, that was it. I was done and he wasn’t going to replace it, so I’ve been wayyyy more careful with this one. Whenever I lose it, I even look for it before thinking about buying a new one.

  Despite having to take a later train, I am in a pretty good mood, so I let the secretary’s evilness slide (really, who is paying whom here?) and figure I’ll wait the “fifteen to twenty” minutes for my ride (seriously, what—they’ve never heard of cabs before?) under these trees that have these gorgeous white flowers. It feels very upstate NY and, I figure, do as the locals do.

  “It’s the trees,” the boy beside me says.

  “What’s the trees?”

  He looks at me like I may be stupid. Why is everyone looking at me like this lately? I did freakin’ fab on my PSATs! I’m in honor classes!

  “You don’t smell that?” he asks.

  “Smell what? I smell…” I take a big whiff and scrunch up. I smell something. But am I smelling the same thing he’s smelling? He’s looking at me funny. I look at him funny back.

  “It smells bad. Like cat piss.”

  “Yes!” I say before I can stop myself.

  “It’s the trees.”

  “The trees smell like cat piss?” I look him over, trying to decide if he’s crazy—actually, I glance around to see how many people are around who could save me if he decides to t
ry pulling me into the woods to murder me. Not that I think he could. I think he’s barely my height, perhaps even shorter. But he looks like he’s got some muscles under the loose blue shirt he’s wearing with his baggy jeans. And he’s definitely wearing nail polish. This is so Midwest punk. God save me from upstate NY.

  “Yeah, it’s the pollen. I’m surprised you can’t smell it,” he says, smiling at me in a way that makes me flush a little. He did something weird to his eyebrows, looks like he shaved a line into them. For a second I feel like smiling back until I realize that he’s the exact opposite of D in every way imaginable—except maybe the shoulders. This kid…er, guy…has great shoulders.

  “I can smell it,” I say, feeling a little tense. “I just thought it was—”

  “Cat piss?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “I haven’t spent a lot of time smelling cat piss, so I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  “What did you think it smelled like? Eau de toilette?” I think he’s making fun of me, probably because he’s smiling (great smile), but I can’t be sure.

  “Actually, I thought it was just nature.”

  “Nature?”

  “Yes,” I say, waving my hands around—pointing at grass, leaves, smelly trees, air. “Nature?”

  “You think nature smells like cat piss?”

  “I think nature in upstate NY smells like cat piss, yes. Nature in Manhattan smells like homeless dudes and dog piss.”

  And then he starts laughing. Oh boy. I feel this weird warm flush when he laughs. I look away, start searching my bag for my phone, suddenly nervous.

  “No, no, sorry. I’m not laughing at you,” he says, pulling my hand away from my bag and patting it with his right hand. Is he seriously holding my hand? Do they have no sense of personal boundaries up here?

  “Actually,” I say, yanking my hand back, “I’d love to stay and chat but I’m waiting for a ride.”

  I stand up and begin to walk away.

  “I’m your ride,” he says, coming up behind me.

  I turn. “Are you flirting with me? I mean, is this the way guys pick up girls in upstate New York?”

  He looks at me and quirks a half smile. He smiles too much.

  “Look, you’re cute…” I start, to which he raises his eyebrows. “I’m not even so much into guys who wear nail polish. And I like tall guys. With dark hair. And kimonos. But you’ve got something, I can admit that. But this probably isn’t going to happen.”

  He’s still smiling. A full smile. I want to smack him.

  “What?” I snap.

  “Kimonos?”

  “I’m thinking of someone in particular,” I say, tucking my hair behind my left ear. Nervous habit. I watch as he turns around and walks back to the bench under the smelly trees and picks up my bag.

  “I’m your ride. To New Horizons. I assume you’re Riley. They told me that I’d find you here,” he says.

  I feel my face flush. I’m beet red—of course he knew it was me because there are only so many fat chicks at the station. Jesus, he could’ve been a little circumspect about it. What if I wasn’t Riley? Or does he just go around corralling all the fat girls who happen to meander into the area? I’m starting to feel like I should be offended.

  “Look, how do you know I’m Riley? I could be anyone. I could be Joanne.”

  “You’re not Joanne,” he says, putting the bags down between us and rubbing his chin. “Definitely a Riley. You have a certain sophistication about you—very New York City. Something about your eyes. They’re very honest.”

  “Really?”

  “No. But not a lot of people stop at this station, you’re alone, you appeared to be waiting for someone. I’m here to pick up someone. You think nature smells…Plus, they gave me your picture that came with your application.”

  Picture?

  He pulls a piece of paper out of his back pocket, unfolds it, and shows it to me. It’s a photocopy of my sophomore-year picture. Not the worst picture of me, but it could’ve been better. I liked my hair that way, at least.

  “Oh,” I say, reaching out for the picture. He pulls it out of my reach, shakes his head at me, and folds it up carefully before putting it back into his pocket.

  “You’re not going to do weird, perverted things with that later, are you?” I ask.

  “Definitely,” he says, picking up my bag again and motioning to the left where a minivan is parked. We walk toward it together, neither of us moving very fast. “I’ve already got a bath running, scented candles, and some classical music. It’s going to be very sensual. I’d actually like to get back to it sooner rather than later…”

  He holds the door open for me, and I slide into the seat.

  After a few moments he’s climbing into the driver’s seat—if anyone doesn’t belong behind the wheel of a minivan (and I mean, besides me…I wouldn’t be caught dead driving a minivan), it’s this guy. I want to say something as he starts the car. I’m not used to not knowing what to say. I always know what to say. I’m fabulous1 , dammit!

  “I don’t even know your name,” I finally spit out.

  “I know. Romantic, isn’t it?”

  I pause for a moment, but he doesn’t continue. “Seriously, aren’t you going to tell me your name?”

  “How about this—you get to ask me three questions,” he says, his eyes flicking over to meet mine. I turn to face the road. Someone should be watching where we are going. Goodness, I can’t even remember the last time I was in the front seat of a vehicle. “And I’ll get to ask you three questions.”

  “Deep, for a driver.”

  “Perhaps,” he says, raising his eyebrows.

  “Fine. What’s your name? Why nail polish? And when did you lose your virginity?”

  He gasp-laughs and I feel better about myself, like he’s finally feeling as off-kilter as I am. And I suspect that he’ll never answer the last one, if he’s even straight. (Although I figure he is. I mean, it’s just…well, I don’t think a gay boy would ever look at me quite the way this boy is looking at me. Is that weird to say?)

  “Eric. I like it. Fifteen, with my girlfriend who was older, wiser, and more experienced but loved me enough to deal with the fact that I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. But then again, who could blame her? I’m irresistible.”

  “Wow…”

  “My turn,” he starts.

  “Wait! ‘I like it.’ That’s not a real answer,” I say, turning in my seat a little to face him.

  “Well, I don’t know. I think it looks good. I like it. Why not?”

  I don’t say anything. Put that way, it makes more sense than any reason I can come up with not to do it. I let it go.

  “OK,” he starts again. “What do you have in your bag, what’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever done with a stranger, and…how do you like to be kissed?”

  We are driving along a two-lane street that doesn’t even have sidewalks. In fact, it seems like nature is bumping right up against the side of the road. It’s like this: grass, asphalt, grass…and these big trees with big green leaves are branched over the street like a canopy. The sun peeks through, leaving a sunshine pattern on the roadway before us. Every once in a while there is a small house set off the road a little, usually with a crappy-looking car in the driveway and a really sad, mangy-looking dog out front. I wonder if the dog is a requirement if you live in upstate NY; it seems like every house has one.

  I open the window and let the wind mess my hair up. Nature. How lovely.

  “Let’s see, I have my wallet, my Starbucks card that’s empty. A makeup kit with two tampons and a condom that I’ve had since freshman year—the condom, not the tampons. Breath mints. Cherry lip gloss. My cell. A digital recorder. Two pens,” I say, rifling through my bag. “And a Hello Kitty notebook.”

  “Hello Kitty?”

  “Nail polish?”

  “Touché.”

  “This is probably the weirdest thing I’ve ever done with a stranger. And well.”
r />   “Well what?”

  “I like to be kissed well.”

  “Cop-out.”

  “Nothing too wet. Lots of lips. Let it evolve naturally. Hands in the hair.”

  “Nice,” he says. Eric slows down and signals left, before we start pulling into a long drive, with NEW HORIZONS written on an arch above us. The campus looks like the New-England-style college campuses you are always seeing in movies. It’s clean and manicured; there are trees everywhere and big brick buildings with pillars that are trying to look important. I’m starting to feel nervous so I finger the fringe on my purse.

  “Do you work at this place?”

  “I’m sorry, but you are over your three-question allotment.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “As a heart attack,” he says and smiles again. I turn to look out the window so he can’t see that I’m smiling back. He pulls us up in front of one of the larger brick buildings and I’m itching to pull out my New Horizons map to see which building this is, but that is so tourist. In less than five minutes, Eric has my bags out of the car and on the stoop (the building gets larger and uglier up close) that he tells me is the Victoria Dormitory.

  It sounds a lot nicer than it looks. I want to ask him another question, perhaps only to find out if I’ll see him again while I’m here. Which would be nice. I mean, knowing someone. So I cry that I forgot a bag in the car (which I didn’t). Instead, while I’m searching for this mysterious bag (and Eric is standing on the stoop looking adorably confused), I toss my cell phone in the backseat.

  HINT: CONVENIENTLY MISPLACED CELL PHONES MAY NECESSITATE A CONVENIENTLY TIMED CALL BACK.

  “Sorry,” I say, shrugging. “I don’t know what I’m thinking. I must’ve decided not to take that bag. I must just be really nervous.” I smile a big, charming Riley smile.

  “You’ll be fine, Riley with the Hello Kitty notebook,” he says, taking my hand and shaking it.

  “I’m sure I will,” I say, hoping to be a bit huffy about it. Like he should even question whether or not I would be OK. Instead he just laughs and gives my hand a little squeeze.