He furrows his brows. “What? Did it not go well?”
“Are you messing with me right now?”
“I’m genuinely asking.”
“Oh.” I swivel back and forth in the chair some more. “I thought you might have heard what happened. Especially in art class?”
Brian shakes his head. “I missed art class today. Dentist appointment.”
“Oh, yeah.”
He chuckles. “Gee, you didn’t even notice I wasn’t around?”
“No, no. I’m sorry. On any other day, I would have noticed. I swear. Today was just an exceptionally bad day.” I look over at Brian, and he’s turned his body to face me completely, giving me his full attention. I can’t not share what happened with him. “I guess I’ll start with the dance? Spoiler alert: it was awful.”
Brian frowns. “I’m sorry. What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“So, in one of my most embarrassing moments yet, it turns out that Cal didn’t exactly intend to invite me to the dance as his date. He only invited me so I’d bring Amelia.”
“What?”
“I know. Apparently, in my excitement, I didn’t hear that part, which sounds more unbelievable each time I say it. So then, when I got there, Cal just kept asking me where Amelia was. He couldn’t have cared less about me. It was awful. He was sort of envisioning the dance as the moment he finally got the girl—Amelia, not me.”
“My God,” Brian says quietly. “That’s brutal.”
“Yeah. I just feel so stupid. I was just so caught up in the thrill of being asked out by Cal Carter that I couldn’t see the truth: that he’d never in a million years date someone like me.” I bury my face in my hands.
“Hey, no.”
“I fell for the whole thing without question,” I say, looking up at him. “I guess…in fairness to me…he really turned the charm up to the next level, especially leading up to the dance. He even gave me a stupid rose with my name on it to ask me to be his date—or fake date, whatever.”
“Honestly, Charlie,” Brian says, concerned, “it sounds like he led you on. How is that your fault at all?”
I groan. “I don’t know. I should’ve known better. But it makes perfect sense, you know? Everyone prefers Amelia.”
“That’s not true at all.”
“I mean, yeah, it kind of is. It’s been true since I’ve known her. If you knew how many times guys have picked her over me, you’d pity me. If you knew how many times my own mom has picked Amelia over me, you’d lose it. Literally my mom’s job once had a Take Your Daughter to Work Day and instead of just taking me, she took me and Amelia. Who does that? But, I mean, I get it. Amelia is this perfect, beautiful, ethereal being, and I’m just…” I refrain from letting all the adjectives I think about myself spill out and instead motion toward myself. “I’m just me. Honestly, given the choice between the two of us, I’d pick Amelia, too. Every time.”
Brian looks taken aback. He emphatically says, “Don’t say that.”
I double down. “Well, it’s true. And on top of all that, in art class today, Cal waltzed up to me and sat at our table. He asked if he could have my history homework. Like nothing happened!” I laugh, a little bit to keep from crying. I feel like I want to, so I look away from Brian. “So stupid, right?”
“Shit. I’m so sorry, Charlie. What an asshole,” Brian says, a tone to his voice I haven’t heard before. I look over at him. His jaw is locked, nostrils flared. “I could punch him.”
“You and me both,” I say. Then I take a breath, regaining my composure. “Anyway, the good news is I got to yell at him publicly. That felt pretty good.”
“I bet,” Brian says with a small smile. “But still…fuck. That is…a lot.”
“Yeah,” I say, sighing. “And you were right, you know. He is a doorknob.”
His expression softens. “I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t been right. You deserve better.”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure I do.” Against my wishes, I feel a tear squeeze out and roll down my cheek. “You know, even my mother had suspicions about the fact that Cal asked me to go with him.”
“That must’ve felt terrible,” Brian says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I’m really sorry this all happened, Charlie.”
I dab at my eyes with my fingers and sniffle. “Thanks, Brian. I’m sorry I unloaded on you like that.”
Brian waves a hand “Don’t be. It’s clearly been a hell of a few days for you. You can’t keep that all bottled up.”
“I really appreciate it,” I say. “I’m sure nothing as horrifically mortifying has ever happened to you.”
“Well, I’m not the kind for one-upping, but I did wet my pants in the first grade,” Brian says, and it’s so unexpected that I laugh.
“But you were just a kid! That really doesn’t seem so bad.”
“You weren’t the one that peed in front of your classmates while giving a presentation on bears.” Brian laughs. “But truthfully, I’ve had my fair share of mortifying moments. Maybe not like what happened to you, necessarily, but I did once try to shoot my shot with an older girl—Marissa Thompson—and it was awful. I was in ninth grade and had somehow ended up friendly with her and her friends and decided the absolute best thing I could do was ask her out in a big way. A public way.”
I suck in a breath through my teeth. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, no, indeed,” Brian agrees. “I was inspired by all those football players asking their dates to the dance and decided to just go for it. She was obsessed with really old movies and loved this one called Say Anything…where apparently this guy in, like, a trench coat holds up a boom box and plays a song to get a girl. Cut to me, also in a weird trench coat, holding up my phone, playing that same song in the parking lot as I waited for Marissa and her sophomore friends to get out of class.”
My eyes go wide picturing this. “Oh, no.”
Brian’s cheeks flush a little red. “Oh, yes. They show up, I literally fumble with my phone before I can even get the song to play, finally get it to play, and Marissa and her friends just bust out laughing. One girl even made a crack about how the guy in the movie wasn’t Asian.”
“Seriously? A nice, healthy dose of racism on top of everything?”
He sighs. “Yep. Totally crushed my spirit.”
“That’s terrible, Brian. I’m so sorry!”
“I was, too. But I’m still here, right? And Marissa Thompson is…God knows where.”
“Well, who cares?”
“Exactly. Who cares?” Brian looks over at me. “All I’m saying is that even though it feels horrible now, soon it won’t. Soon Cal and his shitty behavior won’t matter and anyone who might’ve witnessed what happened will forget and you won’t feel so bad for putting your heart out there. Most people refuse to give things a shot, but you tried, Charlie. That’s something.”
I smile at him. “I don’t think you understand how badly I needed to hear that.”
In response, he smiles back with that crooked little grin, and I can’t help it: my heart—my broken, torn-up, never-going-to-feel-again heart—flutters a little.
Chapter Fifteen
I’m grateful when it’s the weekend again.
A week of emotional turmoil has left me feeling really raw, so I’m very much looking forward to spending some time being an introvert in my room—scrolling through Insta, writing, maybe snacking on food that’s not super great for me.
Imagine my surprise when I check the fridge and pantry to find that they contain chicken, spinach, cottage cheese, seltzer water, and my mother’s beloved shakes, but barely anything else. Can’t a girl just indulge in some stress eating? It’s been a week!
I want to ask my mom what’s going on and end up finding her down in the basement doing Zumba along with a YouTube video she’s pulled up on the downstairs TV.
“Everything okay, Mom?” I ask.
She turns to look at me, then goes back to her workout. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
&
nbsp; “I don’t know. Just asking.”
Mom turns the question on me. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say slowly. “But I am pretty confused about what happened to all the food in the house. We barely have anything.”
My mom stretches. “We have plenty of food in this house.”
“Not sure you and I share the same definition of plenty, but all right.”
“Lots of healthy, delicious things to eat. Spinach, arugula, kale, chicken…”
I sigh. “I want Pop-Tarts.”
She looks at me and wrinkles her nose. “Really, Charlie?” Then she returns to her workout. “How about a shake?”
I make a gagging noise. “I’m good.”
“I had a feeling. Found the shake I gave you earlier this week in the trash, poured out. What a waste.”
“Oh,” I say. “That.”
“Yeah. That.” In between air kicks in time to the Zumba music, she says, “I pay good money for those shakes and I don’t appreciate you throwing them out like that. If you don’t want to drink them, fine, but no need to waste them.”
“All right. It’s just that I didn’t really appreciate you leaving me a shake to drink after what I thought was a nice night, but okay.”
“The company was nice. The food was not.” Mom shakes her head. “I can’t believe I let myself eat like that, let you eat like that. We put so much garbage in our bodies that night. It’s gross.”
“Right. So gross.” I turn around and start heading upstairs. “Okay, Mom.”
“Okay is right,” she calls after me. “We’re turning over a new leaf in the Vega household! I’m calling it Fitness First!”
I walk away before she can continue.
Only, the next day, I realize my mom is not letting this turning-over-a-new-leaf thing go. She comes home from a shopping trip with a giant whiteboard calendar. She puts it on display in the kitchen and writes Fitness First across the top, then her name in one color and mine in another.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
“We’re going to keep track of our weights!” Mom says. “We’ll weigh ourselves each day and we’ll write it down.”
“No,” I say.
“Yes!”
“Absolutely not.”
“Charlie, yes. It will keep us accountable,” she insists. Then she reaches into her bag and pulls out a scale. “I even bought a new scale to go with it.”
I can feel my heart thumping just looking at it. There is no way in hell I am going to subject myself to this humiliation. What, so my mom can have concrete proof that I’m not losing weight and throw that in my face? No way.
“You can have fun. But I’m not doing it.”
By the look on her face, I can tell she’s annoyed. “You’re doing it. We’re not going to just keep eating poorly and not working out. Not anymore.” She pulls the scale out of its box and puts it on the ground. “I’ll go first.”
“No,” I say, trying to keep my voice firm, but I can’t look away from the scale as it reads her weight, and I feel gutted when I realize she weighs less than my (secret) dream weight.
She shakes her head. “Not where I want to be.” Sighing heavily, she looks at me. “You see? We both have work to do.”
I feel queasy watching her write the numbers on the whiteboard.
“You can take care of that work on your own,” I say. “I’m not going to be part of this.”
“And why not?”
“This feels like a sick mind game.”
“Mind game? What do you even mean by that?”
I scowl at her. “I’m not going to be part of this weird routine where we display our weights publicly to shame ourselves. Are we supposed to wear scarlet letters, too? That’s messed up, Mom, and I’m not going to do it!”
“Why do you always have to act like this, Charlie? You always overreact. Always!” She crumples up the plastic bag and aggressively shoves it into the weird collection of plastic bags we have hanging from the pantry door.
“I’m overreacting?! You’re the one freaking out because you ate a fucking mozzarella stick! Jesus, Mom, live a little!”
She shoots eye daggers at me. “Language! Show a little respect here!”
“I don’t really feel like you’re respecting me right now, so I’ll pass.”
“Oh, you’ll pass, huh? I’m so sick of that mouth on you.”
I give her a sarcastic smile. “I’m sick of literally everything about you, so great. We’re even.”
“You think you’re so goddamn smart, Charlie, but I’ve had it!” she says. “I’m trying to do something nice. Something good. And this is how you repay me?”
“Nice? Good?” I laugh, and it comes out like venom. “You just want to embarrass me! You’re delusional.”
“And you’re in denial! You try to pretend you’re happy, but I know you’re not. You’re not doing well.”
“I’m not sick, Mom, I’m just fat!”
Mom visibly recoils at the f-word. “Don’t say that.”
“But I am! I’m fat!” I gesture toward my body. “And it’s okay, Mom. I’m allowed to be fat!”
“No, Charlotte. It’s not okay. It’s not healthy. I would know.”
“Don’t you dare try to lecture me about what’s healthy. You peddle weird pyramid-scheme shakes for fun. You don’t eat actual food and you try to force your messed-up views about bodies on me, too! All I ever hear from you is that I look wrong, eat wrong, dress wrong! You didn’t even believe a boy would ask me to a dance! You’re the one who’s not happy with me! So congratulations! You’re a terrible mother!”
The silence that falls between us is deafening.
My mother takes a breath. “I think you need to go to your room,” she says.
I try to protest. “Mom, I didn’t—”
“Now. Go.”
Chapter Sixteen
I’m grounded. Understandably. I want to apologize to my mom—I went way too far—but it’s not really the kind of thing we do.
Instead, she lays out the rules of my punishment and I quietly listen.
No going out—except to my titi’s upcoming gender reveal party, which I wasn’t planning on going to but am now being forced to attend.
No internet, except for homework. Ugh.
No phone. So I can’t even sneak on the internet! Or talk to anyone! Or do anything!
And no work. That one makes me mad. No work means no money, and absolutely zero time away from the house (or Mom) except for school. It feels mean. What does she even gain from that? Does this qualify as cruel and unusual punishment?
But I suck it up, and first thing on Monday, I call my boss…using the landline. I need to tell Nancy I won’t be in the next day, or maybe the next few days. I’m unable to come up with a good excuse, so my plan is to keep it vague. When I tell Nancy I won’t be in for a while, she gets incredibly concerned and starts asking me if something happened at work, so I end up telling her that I’m grounded, and for whatever reason, I start crying. Thankfully, Nancy is endlessly kind to me and tells me not to worry and she hopes I’ll be back soon, but to take as much time as I need.
I have to wait to tell Amelia what happened until I see her at school. Like this is the goddamn 1900s or something. I rattle off my punishments, counting them off on each finger. Amelia gasps at each.
“No phone?” That elicits the loudest gasp. Obvi.
“No phone,” I repeat, shaking my head. “And lastly, no work.”
At that, her brows furrow. “Wait, what? Seriously? No work? Charlie, that’s weird, and…well, fucked up. Like, really fucked up. Jobs aren’t for fun. You shouldn’t be grounded from a job. It’s not normal for parents to do that.”
I sigh. “Don’t get me started.”
Her face doesn’t clear, but she says nothing. She knows when I’m done talking about my mom.
In study hall, we get on the topic of movies and we struggle to remember an actor’s name, so Amelia tells me to just Goog
le it and I have to dramatically hold up my empty, phoneless hands.
“Oh my God. I forgot!” she says. “God, what’s it like?”
“Terrible,” I say. “You know, my mom is actively keeping me from becoming a more knowledgeable person.”
“I can’t believe she’s doing this to you. No phone? Why not just murder you and call it a day?”
“I know.” I pick at my nails. “I do wish I hadn’t called her a terrible mom.”
“Yeah, well, she’s not innocent, either. She said some incredibly hurtful stuff, Charlie. Stuff that’s not at all true.”
“I guess,” I say, unconvinced.
“No, I mean it.” She lowers her voice and leans closer to me. “The way she talks to you sometimes—you know that’s not okay, right?”
I don’t look at her but shrug. “That’s just how she talks.”
“It doesn’t matter. My mom would literally never say that stuff to me—ever!”
“Your mom is also one of the sweetest people on the whole planet,” I say, busying myself by flipping through one of my notebooks. Amelia thinks families do things like “communicate” and “be kind to each other” and “show mutual respect,” because her family (and her whole life!) is freakishly perfect.
“No one’s mom should talk to them the way your mom talks to you. Moms are supposed to, like, build you up. Make you feel good. At the very least, they’re not supposed to make you feel worse about yourself.”
“Can we just drop it, please?” I ask.
“I’m just saying it’s not okay, and you should know that.”
“Yeah, it’s not okay,” I say briskly. “But it’ll be fine.”
At lunch, Brian flags me over to his table, and I’m grateful that we saw each other so I can let him know he won’t be seeing me at work. He’s surrounded by guy friends who smile and greet me warmly.
“Got a sec, Brian?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah, for sure,” Brian says. “Want to go for a quick walk to the vending machines?” There aren’t a lot of places we’re allowed to go without a pass, but the vending machines just outside the cafeteria offer one option.
Fat Chance, Charlie Vega Page 11