This Book Isn't Fat, It's Fabulous

by Nina Beck

  He starts walking back around the minivan and I yell after him, “Make sure you return that picture!”

  “I’ll take good care of her,” he says, his hand up in the air in good-bye. He gets in the car as I pick up my bags and drag them inside. I hear him honk as the door shuts behind me with a resounding thud.

  * * *

  1 I know I keep throwing the word fabulous around—and it’s a word that should be used with care. Fabulous, in Riley-speak, is more than just what you wear, or who does your hair. Those things are obviously important, but fabulous is the way you hold yourself, the way you inspire others to treat you. You can be a fabulous circus clown. You can be an unfabulous heir to a fortune (Elizabitch). It’s all about the attitude. More on this later.

  HOW TO GET OFF ON THE RIGHT FOOT

  Let me get this straight, you simply got on the wrong train?” The program director, Gwendolyn Hotra, looks like everything you’d expect the head honcho of a fat-girl program to look like: a Pilates-loving Martha Stewart. Big. Blond. Hair. Everywhere. Probably vanilla-scented too—but I’d have to get a bit closer, and I’d rather not.

  “That’s right,” I say.

  “Why didn’t you call?” That’s my dad. Or rather, his voice coming from the speaker phone. Even the threat that his only daughter had been kidnapped or had gone missing wasn’t enough to get him away from his weekly poker game.

  “She never thinks, Richard. I’ve been telling you this for months.” Elizabitch. Conference calls suck.

  When I walked into the Victoria, within five minutes I was being whisked away to the magical land of the program director’s office. Of course I had to walk by the troll first (secretary), and only to be subjected to the spite of a program director who probably hasn’t sworn in the past decade.

  “I told you, my cell phone was stolen.”

  “Stolen? Or did you forget it in the car again?” (Dad)

  Someone snorts. (Elizabitch)

  “Either way, I think there will have to be some sort of punishment for this.” (Program director) “We cannot just leave this issue unaddressed. There were a lot of people inconvenienced because of…” She looks over at me.

  “Because of her irresponsible and completely self-centered behavior.” (Elizabitch again)

  “Right.” (Dad, with a long-suffering sigh)

  Suddenly I’m just really tired of trying to explain the entire situation. It isn’t such a big deal in NYC to be an hour late. People understand things like traffic and catching the wrong train. But I can tell when I’m outnumbered. I’ve been surrounded. Their aims are trained. Waiting. To. Pull. The. Trigger.

  If I had my phone, which I think Eric might have stolen since he hasn’t come to return it to me, I’d call a cab (if they had cabs…) and I’d be out of here.

  “I think a demerit is in order,” Mrs. Hotra says. “We work on a demerit system here at New Horizons. A demerit or partial demerit is given for an infraction against program rules or for inappropriate behavior. We feel like this allows the girls to see a direct result of their actions.”

  Kaboom!

  “While I believe this behavior merits one demerit, every girl at New Horizons gets two demerits before she has some privilege taken away, and after three demerits she is sent home…It’s all in the handbook,” she finishes off, smoothing the front of her pale blue suit that she probably bought at JCPenney.

  “I think that sounds entirely reasonable.”

  “If not more.”

  Mrs. Hotra turns to me. “Do you have anything you’d like to add, Ms. Swain?”

  I consider telling her where she can stick her demerit. But Dad’s still on the phone, it’s my first night here, and I’ll admit that I could’ve handled my MIA a little better. Plus, the PD could totally break every bone in my body without breaking a sweat. So I just say, “I’d like to be shown to my room, please.”

  I can tell from the look on the PD’s face that she was expecting something more. An apology? A full confession? Preferably in blood? Keep waiting, honey. I have nothing to prove to someone who has already decided—from the look on her face—that she hates my guts.

  I tip my chin up.2 I’m smart. I’m beautiful. And I’m more important than you. At the very least, tipping your head back helps keep tears from rolling down your cheeks.

  Day 1: New Horizons—1, Riley Swain—0.

  “You’re excused, Ms. Swain. I believe that my son showed you where your dorm was. Someone will meet you to take you to your room. I expect to see you first thing Monday morning after Pilates.”

  “Your son?” I ask, halfway out the door already.

  “Yes, Eric. My son. You are excused,” she says before slamming the door in my face. I practically have to jump back to avoid getting my toes stubbed.

  Summarily dismissed, ruined my fabulous exit, got a demerit, and am being stalked by the son of a fat-camp director. Life doesn’t get better than this.

  * * *

  2 Those wishing to learn how to be fabulous, please pay attention.

  CASE OF THE CRAZY EX-GIRLFRIEND—TAKE ONE

  You must be Riley.”

  My first impression of Jennifer Sylvan is that she’s too thin to be at a fat camp. I mean, she’s not twiggy, but she’s definitely an “after” picture. She’s slightly round but wears her thick hair in a sharp bob around her chin. She’s got some serious 1940s-hot-chick thing going on, or at least that’s what she’s trying for.

  She introduces herself and explains that she attends New Horizons all year round, has since her freshman year, that it’s a great place, great friends, the staff is so supportive—I tune out around here when she starts sounding like the brochure. Either she wrote it or she’s been drinking the Kool-Aid. I think it freaks me out all the more because of how she looks. She looks like she’s all about anarchy, but when she speaks she sounds very Connecticut. I wonder if this is a teen rebellion thing and for a moment think we could be great friends—especially if she hates her parents as much I hate mine.

  “So you like it here?”

  “Yeah,” she says, giving me a funny look. Like, Haven’t you been listening to my spiel for the last forty-five minutes?

  “I guess it’s not a bad place,” I say. “I mean, anything is better than being with your parents.”

  “Actually,” she starts, “I live locally and am a day student. Which is great, because I don’t think I could stand to be away from my family for too long. We live about ten minutes away from here.”

  Jeez.

  “But,” she continues, “during the spring breaks I do extra volunteer work around campus, so I stay in the dorms because they are basically empty. Most of the students go home to spend time with their families.”

  “Oh, um, that’s great,” I say. I have absolutely nothing in common with this girl. Volunteer work? Family? Feh.

  “So I hear that Eric Hotra gave you a ride here,” she says, her voice über-casual.

  “Um, yeah,” I say. She stands in front of me in the hallway and I peek around. We’re on the third floor of the Victoria Dormitory and the walls are made out of cinder blocks. They painted them this hideous blue color and stuck a strip of cork at the top so people can hang…ugh, is that a Backstreet Boys poster? Seriously, I’m in a foreign country.

  Jennifer fishes in her pocket for the key to my new room. I’m so ready to fall over dead, not only because I traveled to hell and back but because I’m carrying what must be forty pounds of clothing on my back like a pack mule. Jennifer is just standing there, waiting for me to say something.

  “He’s really nice. A bit weird, but really nice,” I say, hoping that will dislodge her from the front of my door.

  “Who?”

  “Eric.”

  “Oh?” she says, like she’s surprised I even brought him up. I can see this girl having some sort of crush on him; he seems like he’d be her type. “How so?”

  “Well, he’s not really my type,” I start. “But he’s kinda cute—in a charming,
punk boy type of way.”

  She doesn’t say anything, but it doesn’t matter. I’m beginning to warm up to the subject. “I mean, some guys you can tell you want them just by looking at them, you know? But I didn’t feel that way with Eric.”

  “No?” she says. And if her voice sounded a little choked, I didn’t notice it until later when I started thinking about it, my head buried under my pillow.

  “But he has a way of saying things that make you feel good, like he likes you or wants to really know you. Plus he’s got a great smile. But then again,” I say, trying to round off the conversation, “I don’t really know him that well. Just an initial impression.”

  “You’re right,” she says, and I turn around to smile at her. “You don’t really know him.”

  Whoa. What?

  “Huh?”

  “I mean, he’s nice enough,” she says. “A really great friend. But he’s charmed more girls here out of their pants than you can imagine.”

  “Really?” I ask. I’m a little more interested, but I can’t tell if I’m faking it because I want to go to bed, or because I want to know more about Eric. I can imagine him as a flirt. And that flirt still has my phone!

  “Yeah, basically everyone here has fallen for him at one point or another. He’s a player. It doesn’t hurt that he’s the only guy on campus, or that he’d never get in trouble because of who his mother is.”

  “I’ve never seen a player wearing nail polish,” I say helpfully. It’s become painfully obvious that Jennifer Sylvan is madly in love with Eric Hotra. Fucking fabulous. Five minutes here and I’m already stepping hip-deep in mud.

  “Yes. Well…I guess you’re next. There aren’t many options during the spring break anyway.”

  Erm. Thanks so much. Bitch.

  “Yeah…well, good-bye, then,” I say, smiling in a hopeful manner, turning the key in my door. And scurrying in and slamming the door shut. I’ll worry about Jennifer tomorrow.

  WHERE I AVOID SERIOUS (PHONE) CONVERSATION

  THEBIGUN17: Hey, I got your email and I called, what’s up? Why didn’t you pick up your phone?

  RILEDUP: It was stolen.

  THEBIGUN17: Left it somewhere again?

  RILEDUP: STOLEN.

  THEBIGUN17: Right. Well, what’s the big emergency?

  RILEDUP: I kissed D.

  THEBIGUN17:…

  RILEDUP: You can say that again.

  THEBIGUN17: So…you’re together now?

  RILEDUP: I don’t think I like him.

  THEBIGUN17:…after all that? One kiss and you know?

  RILEDUP: How much do you need?

  THEBIGUN17: Are you sure?

  RILEDUP: I’m not sure about ANYTHING. Except that he can’t find out that I’m here.

  THEBIGUN17: I thought we talked about this.

  RILEDUP: Don’t yell at me, I’m going to cry.

  THEBIGUN17: What’s your number in the room?

  RILEDUP: There’s a community phone down the hall.

  THEBIGUN17: Community?

  RILEDUP: Yeah, like we have to share it.

  THEBIGUN17:…

  THEBIGUN17: Bail, come here instead—you can live in my closet. I’ll sneak you bread crumbs and tepid water.

  RILEDUP: Add in an hour of pilates and you just described my fabulous new life here.

  THE POSSIBILITY HAS ARISEN THAT MY ROOMMATE COULD BE A KILLER

  I was dreaming that I was playing Elizabeth Bennet from Pride and Prejudice and Colin Firth was confessing that he admired me greatly and was begging me to put him out of his misery and consent to becoming his wife. Of course, I was like, “Totally”—because I’m not nearly as stupid (or stuck-up) as Elizabeth Bennet. It’s not every day that Colin Firth proposes. Hot, rich guy with a fabulous accent? SIGN ME UP.

  Then he was telling me how hot I was and we were about to start making out when this weird buzzing sound started coming out of his mouth. And then I realized that the buzzing sounded a lot like an alarm clock and poof—Colin was gone. Elizabeth Bennet, cool as England, pretty clothes, and a twenty-inch waist? Gone.

  I opened my eyes and went from a Colin Firth dream to a New Horizons nightmare. It was enough to make me cry.

  There was a freckled girl sitting on her bed in the corner, her long frizzy hair covering most of her face, her shoulders hunched…ohhh, bad posture. That’s a confidence killer. She was already dressed, just looking at me.

  Um. OK. I’m rooming with a psycho.

  What’s that thing you’re supposed to say to psychopaths so they don’t murder you? God, I have no idea. What’s the point of watching CSI and all those other stupid shows if you can’t even remember what to do when faced with your own murderer?

  “Good morning,” psycho-sleep-watcher says.

  “Good. Morning,” I say slowly. Oh, that’s it, you’re supposed to remind them of your humanity. Like, remind them that you’re human by talking about very human things. “I have to pee.”

  That surprised psycho-sleep-watcher. She blinked at me. “You’re not going to pee in the bed, are you?”

  “Um. No.” She obviously doesn’t know how much 600- count Egyptian cotton costs. Then again, all my sheets are crumpled at the foot of my bed because I hadn’t made the bed correctly last night. Because I was so tired, I simply laid them across the mattress (Note: mattress was lumpy, exactly what you’d expect from a boarding school in upstate NY).

  “Well, the bathroom is down the hall.”

  “WHAT?” I kick the covers off my right foot and jump into sitting position.

  “The bathroom is down the hall.”

  I give her a sharp look. I know I am not going to like the answer to this next question, but I had to ask anyway. “Exactly how many people are expected to use this bathroom?”

  “Just the girls in this wing.”

  I continue to stare. I need hard numbers.

  “Eight.”

  “Eight!?”

  “Well, usually it’s more, but there are only eight girls on this floor during spring break.”

  EIGHT? I jump off the bed and stride straight toward my Gucci bag that I had tossed on the one bare desk the night before. Potential psycho-killer forgotten, I pull out my little Hello Kitty notebook and begin scribbling a note to Aaron.

  “What are you doing?” fuzzy-haired-psycho-sleep-watcher asks.

  “Documenting evidence for my lawyer. Don’t leave this room, I’m going to need an affidavit from you.”

  “Saying what, exactly? That we use toilets?”

  “Wait.” I begin rummaging through my suitcases, which are stacked next to my desk, and pull out a small digital recorder. I walk over to my psycho-sleep-watcher/roommate and, after checking the batteries, press REC.

  “Could you please state your name, age, and occupation for the court?” I ask, holding the recorder under her nose.

  “Eh…”

  “Please speak up, the entire jury will need to hear you.”

  “Samantha Owens, sixteen, student.”

  “And can you please repeat, for the record, what you just told me?” She looks at me and I nod toward the mic. “Remember to speak loudly and clearly.”

  She nods at me and says loudly and clearly, “You’re not going to pee in the bed, are you?”

  I snap off the mic as she cracks a smile. “This could be considered tampering with evidence.”

  She begins to laugh.

  I sigh heavily and throw the mic down next to psycho-sleep…I mean, Samantha, and grab my towel, walking out of the room toward the COMMUNITY bathroom. Gross.

  SPOTTED DOGS

  After I brave a shower and a tooth-brushing in the skanky bathroom, Samantha tells me that it is time for breakfast. I stop myself from saying THANK GOD. I haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday morning when I shoved half a bagel in my mouth before leaving. And perhaps I bought a Snickers bar on the train. But that was LONG gone, and now my stomach is empty.

  We walk across the campus (which takes no
more than four minutes; this is NOT a big campus—“campus” might be implying something too collegiate, big, or impressive. Let’s just call it a lawn. Like, a backyard lawn).

  We walk across a backyardlike lawn toward the “Caf”—which apparently is short for cafeteria. I am about to eat food out of a cafeteria. I think I’m going to retch.

  Instead I get in line behind Samantha, who can’t stop chattering the whole time about who this and that is, and how she’ll be happy to show me around and did I see the library yet.

  Yes, I’ve been here and conscious for approximately fourteen minutes and the first thing I went for was the library?

  I am in a foreign country. A foreign country filled with geeks!

  But since she is the only person I know (except for Jenny the Eric-Lover Girl, who is nowhere to be found, although if I did find her, I’m not sure if I would sit with her), I follow Samantha to a small table that has three other girls of various fatness sitting at it.

  I look around me. The food is gross. The company is depressing. The room is cavernous and there are only maybe fifteen people in it. I am losing my appetite.

  “Is this it?”

  “What?” Samantha says, looking around trying to see what I am looking at.

  “Is this everyone?”

  “Um, a few people might’ve slept in.”

  Sleeping in was an option?

  “But, yeah…there are a lot fewer people here during—”

  “Spring break? Yeah, yeah, I know.”

  I sit down and the other girls say hello to Samantha but avoid looking at me, even when Samantha introduces them. There is one mousy-looking girl named Allie and a really short, really round girl who could totally use an eyebrow plucking named Julie.

  I just roll my eyes and concentrate on the food in front of me. Something on this tray has to be edible.