And at that, I feel a little choked up. “That’s so thoughtful. Thank you. So much.”
He smiles big at me. “Yeah, of course. I’m just happy you like it.” He lingers for a minute, then does a little knock on our table and heads back to his.
Suddenly, I don’t care so much that Brian and I didn’t quite see eye to eye on the dance earlier in the week. And I’m reminded why I found myself daydreaming of slow dancing with him, too.
I’m truly moved by this gesture—by the time and the effort that went into creating this, an idea he said was inspired by me—and I swear I’ll remember it forever.
Chapter Eleven
It’s finally Friday and the dance is here and everything about me is all wrong.
My legs are suddenly too stumpy. My boobs don’t look even. My glasses are nerdy. My arms are too wobbly, my belly too round, and all I can hear in my head over and over is Tony calling me an elephant. I’m not sure how I ever could have believed this dress was the One.
I start to voice these feelings to Amelia, but she won’t hear any of it.
“Stop! You are stunning. Like, drop-dead gorgeous. Cal’s gonna flip,” she says firmly. “And tonight is your night!”
I look at myself in the mirror again. We’re in my room and I’m getting ready for the dance. Amelia did my makeup—cat-eye, which I don’t tell her is inspired by Divya, but it totally is—and my hair, which is curled beautifully and pinned back on one side.
I try to see what Amelia sees. Objectively, my dress is beautiful. Objectively, my makeup is impeccable. Objectively, my hair looks amazing. But it’s still me.
And I guess it’ll have to do.
“You ready to go?” Amelia asks.
“I’m going to barf,” I say.
“You won’t.” She hands me a small silver clutch she’s letting me borrow, then wraps a balloon I picked up for Cal around my wrist. (It says CONGRATS! on it because there’s no way Cal isn’t getting an award tonight.) She squeezes my shoulders. “You’re going to be great.”
I smile at her. “Thanks, Amelia.” The alarm on my phone reminds me it’s time to get moving. “I guess I’m ready to go, then. Wish me luck.”
Amelia throws her arms around me dramatically. “Good luck, beautiful. This is your night!”
I repeat variations of this sentiment to myself over and over on my way to school.
When I arrive, the parking lot is overflowing with cars. I see couples dressed in their finest arriving in beat-up Suburbans, and I find the contrast a little amusing; others are dropped off, while still others arrive in limos. I briefly wonder why Cal didn’t offer to pick me up like all the other football players seem to have done for their dates, especially because the lot is so full of the cars of attendees and their families that it’s hard for me to find a spot. By the time I do, I’m running a little late, so I have to walk-run inside. I’m out of breath when I get into the gym, but the lights are dim and I hope no one notices.
The space has been transformed from a stinky, run-down, wood-floored gym to a stinky, run-down, wood-floored gym with beautiful decorations strung about in our school colors. A few rows of folding chairs are set up in front of the stage (the same one they use whenever graduation has to be held indoors), and they’re reserved for the football team and staff. The rest of us will watch from the bleachers.
Unfortunately, the only empty seat I see is a couple of rows up and a few people deep…which means I need to hoof it up there and say “Excuse me” a bunch as I clumsily climb over my peers with my gigantic body. Sure. No problem.
It actually takes me a second to work up the nerve to walk up the bleachers and my anxiety brain even considers leaving, but I eventually muster enough courage to walk to the correct row.
“Excuse me,” I whisper to the girl sitting at the end of the bleachers, and she looks over at me. “Can I squeeze by?” I see her eyes flit over my body and she elbows her friend, who looks over at me, too. “Can I sneak past?” I ask again.
“Sure,” the friend says, and then they both stand up, like I wouldn’t be able to just scooch by like most people if they just drew in their knees. (Fine. I probably couldn’t.) I don’t think they mean it in any kind of way except helpful, but it still bugs me, especially because most of the other people I ask to move have similar reactions.
Eventually, I have a seat, and after a few minutes of obsessing over the fact that I just had to do that, I can take in my surroundings. I mean, it’s the gym. That isn’t exactly the venue I’d have chosen for the awards ceremony portion of this event, but our actual auditorium is closed due to asbestos. (Seriously.)
But so what?
And so what if I had to ask a bunch of people to move out of my way so I could get to a seat?
And so what if most people seemed super inconvenienced by the fact that there was a Large Woman Coming Through?
Because I’m about to go to the dance with Cal.
This is my night.
I refocus. The ceremony itself is as exciting as these ceremonies usually are, which is to say, not at all. But the football players seem to be enjoying themselves. They cheer and yell every time a teammate is called up for an award, and they look nice in their suits—a big change of pace from their regular football gear. They seem much less intimidating, far more approachable—almost human-like.
Their families cheer loudly, too. I giggle at the fact that moms and dads are jumping up and down for their sons, even though they’re all gussied up.
I even find myself getting into it, yelling and cheering for players along with everyone else (except for Tony—no thanks). Once I let myself loosen up a little, I realize how nice it feels to relax and be part of something.
When Cal is called up for the final award—he’s MVP—I yell and wave like a fanatic. He scans the crowd for a few seconds, then notices me and gives me a smile. He turns and focuses on receiving his award, which he promptly puts on the floor, then grabs it with his feet as he goes into a handstand. Show-off. His friends eat it up, and so do I.
I’m so tempted to turn to the girl sitting next to me and say, “I’m here with him.” But I refrain.
Then all at once it’s over, and families are reuniting with their kids and I’m being jostled around. It takes me a bit, but I eventually find Cal in the corner of the gym with two people I can only assume are his mom and dad. Cal is a lovely mix of them both, I notice: he has golden hair and piercing green eyes like his mom, and a smile accented by deep dimples like his dad.
I make my way over, unwinding Cal’s balloon from my wrist and holding on to the string so I can hand it over to him.
I’m nervous; I’m going to have to meet his parents, like, now, and I bet they’ll wonder why Cal asked me to this thing. Hell, I’m still kind of wondering the same thing.
But I try to channel Amelia, and I walk with my head held high. I will be confident, I remind myself. This is my night.
As I get closer to Cal, he spots me and says something to his parents, who step away from him.
“Hey,” he says once I’m within earshot.
“Hey!” I say back, and smile. “You look great. Really great. I loved the handstand.” I’m gushing.
He chuckles. “Thanks. Give the people what they want, right?” He pauses, as if hesitating. “So, uh, where’s Amelia?”
I’m confused. I can feel my face show that. Slowly, I say, “She’s probably out. Why?”
Now he looks confused—maybe surprised. I don’t know. “Out?”
“Yeah, of course. She’s usually out on Friday nights. Well, not always, but a lot. I rarely get her to myself on Friday nights anymore,” I say. Rambling. “Why?”
I see annoyance flicker across his face. “Well, Charlie, I did ask you to bring her along with you tonight. That’s kind of the whole point.”
“What?” I ask. My heart is pounding in my ears as I wait for his response.
Cal looks behind him at his parents, as if making sure they’re out of earsh
ot. They are, but he still lowers his voice. “Charlie, come on,” he hisses. “This isn’t funny.”
“No, it’s not,” I say. “I don’t understand? You asked me if I was free…”
“Yes, and then I asked you to do me a solid and bring Amelia with you to the dance. I knew she wouldn’t come without you. I mentioned all of this to you last Friday. You said it sounded great!” He’s getting mad, I can tell. “You even said a couple of days ago that you were so excited about it!”
I feel my face getting hot, and there’s a lump in my throat.
So. That must have been all that extra stuff Cal had been saying to me when I was off in dreamland imagining him kissing me.
But the rose? The ribbon with my name? It doesn’t make sense.
“Yeah,” I manage to choke out, forcing a laugh. “Yeah. I’m just messing with you. She, um, couldn’t come. At the last minute. Sorry.”
His shoulders slump. “Not cool, Charlie. You should’ve told me before now,” he says, shaking his head. “I thought you could get her to change her mind about me, but clearly you weren’t up for the task. Now I look like an idiot.”
“Right. Sorry.” I can feel my eyes sting as I hold back tears. “I didn’t mean to disappoint.”
He sighs. “It’s whatever. Fine.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again, because I can’t think of what else to say. “I should go.”
“Yeah. You probably should,” he says, and he turns away from me.
I let go of the balloon and walk quickly out of the gym. Once I’m in the hall, I sprint all the way to my car. I barely make it inside before I start crying. Loud crying. Ugly crying. The kind of crying where my makeup is off in seconds and gets right in my eyes and stings. That makes me cry more, and my face is wet, and there’s black mascara and eyeliner and sparkly eye shadow all over.
I can’t even go home and curl up in my bed, even though that’s all I want to do. My mom will know what happened. I can still hear her laugh of disbelief when I told her about Cal. I shudder remembering it.
I can’t go to Amelia, either, because I don’t want her to know—not yet. In fact, part of me hates her right now, even though none of this is her fault.
So I drive.
I have to stay out until at least midnight. That’s when I told my mom I’d be home. I drive really far with my music blasting, and I sing loud until my throat gets scratchy. Sometimes I’m just plain screaming along with the songs. I think about driving forever, but eventually I need to get gas (I feel like a freak getting gas in my dress). That sobers me up enough to turn the car around and go home.
By the time I get there, the house is dark. I rush toward my room, hoping my mom is already asleep.
Behind the protection of my locked door, I start to cry again. I drop my clutch on the floor and rip off my dress, shoving it directly into the trash. Then I take the rose Cal gave me—the one I thought was so special—and stuff that in the trash, too.
Cal didn’t even say I looked nice.
He didn’t even see me.
I cry harder at the thought of how wrong I was, at how wrong I’ve been. I thought Cal said hi to me because he saw me as a person, but he only says hi to me because I’m a way for him to get close to Amelia. I’m an idiot. An unlovable, sad excuse for a person.
I kick my stupid shoes across the room, I rip the stupid bobby pins out of my hair, and I toss my stupid earrings on the dresser so recklessly that they bounce straight off and skid across the floor.
Then I force myself to stare in the mirror. I don’t bother rubbing my makeup off, even though there are black streaks all over my face. I look feral. I am feral. I stare at my fat, round belly and grab it violently with my hands and shake it. I don’t even know why. Then I grab at my arm fat, and my leg fat, and my face fat, and it takes everything in me not to scream. I stare at myself until I’m so overwhelmingly disgusted that I can’t handle it. I want to rip my skin off.
On the floor, I can hear my phone buzzing. I know it’s Amelia. She’s probably checking in, wants to know everything.
But if I pick up the phone I’ll start sobbing. I’ll tell her I hate her, when I totally don’t, and ask her why she has to ruin everything, which she totally doesn’t.
Boys do.
So instead, I throw myself into my bed, burrow into my pillows, and wish the ground would swallow me whole.
Chapter Twelve
I wake up the next morning with such a headache that I imagine this is what hangovers are like.
The idea of staying in bed forever appeals to me, but my temples are throbbing so badly that I need a cool shower. I look outside to find that my mom’s car is gone from the driveway, so I feel safe going into the bathroom. I avoid my reflection in the mirror as I get into the shower. I can’t quite handle the sight of me.
When I’m done, I put on my comfiest pajamas, climb back into bed, and drift in and out of sleep, my TV humming in the background.
It must be hours later when I hear a knock on my door.
“Yeah?” I say.
“It’s me. Are you still in bed?” Mom asks.
“Yes.”
“Don’t you think you should get up?”
I grunt in response.
“Fine, then. How’d the dance go?”
I say nothing. I don’t want to tell her the truth, but I don’t have it in me to lie.
“Charlie?” she asks, a little louder. “I asked how’d it go?”
“Please leave me alone.”
I hear her sigh. “Oh, Charlotte,” she says, more to herself than to me. Her footsteps pad away from my door. I pull the blankets up over my head.
It’s not long before there’s another knock on the door.
“Just go away—please,” I say.
“Charlie, it’s me.” It’s Amelia on the other side of the door. “Can you let me in?”
I do, and when I see her, I’m not mad or jealous or frustrated anymore; I’m just glad she’s there. I don’t know how she knew to come, but that doesn’t really matter. Amelia pulls me into a tight hug and I cry into her shoulder.
“He didn’t want me there,” I manage to say.
“He’s an asshole,” Amelia says, rubbing my back. “Come on. Let’s close this door.” We do.
I climb back into the bed and Amelia sits beside me. She strokes my hair and doesn’t make me say anything. Instead, she says, “You are amazing, you know?”
But that just makes me cry more.
I cry until I can’t, and then I fall asleep. Amelia is there when I wake up, and I notice my phone is now on my charger, and the clutch and the earrings are arranged nicely on my dresser; the emerald dress is no longer in the trash and instead hangs over my desk chair.
I look at her. “Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” Amelia says, keeping her voice soft. “You wanna tell me what happened?”
“There isn’t much to tell. Cal didn’t want me at the dance with him.”
“But why? What happened?”
“He didn’t want me to be his date,” I say, and when I do, my voice catches a little.
“I don’t understand. He asked you to be there. He gave you that rose.”
“I know.”
“So what, then?” she asks. Her voice is really soft and her eyes look glassy, like she wants to cry for me. Like maybe she already knows.
“He didn’t want me there,” I say. I know I’m being difficult, but saying it all out loud feels like…a lot.
“Did he say that?”
“No.”
“Then what? Please, Charlie.” Amelia is practically begging.
“Well, he did ask me to come and all, but there was an agenda. One I somehow missed.” I swallow hard. “You.”
“What?”
I take a deep breath. “I mean…he asked me to the dance. He did. And I went. I got there a little late, but it was fine, whatever. The awards went well. Cal won MVP, of course. But after…I don’t know. It was clear he wasn’t excited to s
ee me…like, at all. He was standing with his parents and I walked up to him and he barely acknowledged me. He just asked where you were.”
“Why would he ask where I was?”
I shrug one of my shoulders and toy with the edge of my comforter. “He said—” My voice breaks off and I feel my lip quiver, but I continue. “And this is so stupid, but…he only invited me to the dance because he thought I could get you to come with me. He was after you, not me.”
Amelia’s face drops. “Charlie.”
I laugh, and the sound is a little sharp. “Yeah, I mean, of course, right? Of course he’d want you there, not me. I was an idiot for thinking otherwise.”
“Charlie, no,” Amelia says. She takes my hands in hers and looks right into my eyes. “I’m so, so, so sorry. That’s awful. So, like, what was his grand fucking plan, anyway? Invite you and just hope I tagged along? God, what an idiot.”
The embarrassment of the whole thing hits me all over again and a few tears escape. I take my hands back from Amelia’s and wipe my eyes. “No, not exactly. I hate to share this—like, I’d almost rather die than tell you this part because it’s so embarrassing, but…Cal was actually up-front with me about this plan. I just—I guess I was just so excited by him asking me to go that I”—I hesitate—“I wasn’t really listening when he said it. How’s that for screwed up? I did this to myself.”
“No. You did not do this to yourself. Cal is the bad guy, no matter how we look at it. Even if he was up-front about his nasty plan, it’s still a fucked-up thing to do! He should never have asked you to get me to come! He knows that you like him and that I have a boyfriend and that I hate him and it’s just messed up. And he gave you a rose, Charlie, a rose with your name on it—your name, not mine!” She’s wringing my pillow. “No. Not okay. Screw Cal! I’m going to cut his dick off!”
“No. Amelia. It’s fine,” I say, even though it’s not.
“I’m just so sorry,” she says, in a voice that sounds desperate, as if her apology can make up for everything that happened.
I nod. “I’m sorry, too. You’re right. It was messed up of him to use me to get to you, especially since you’ve made it pretty clear you’re not into him. But honestly, that’s part of why I’m so upset. I knew he liked you. I mean…this whole time. I knew that. You knew that. And I still liked him. How pathetic is that?”
Fat Chance, Charlie Vega Page 8