But mostly, I just sort of watch as Amelia is a perfect hit with everyone, picking right up where we left off like no time has passed since we were last here. My girl cousins dance with her like there’s no tomorrow. My boy cousins laugh at her jokes and sneak her booze. Junior hits on her and she giggles.
I’m miserable and sad and envious and all too grateful when we finally leave. I have to drive us home (I’m the only one sober), and after I drop Amelia off, my mom turns to me. “Well, that was fun, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I say, backing out of Amelia’s driveway and into the street. “A blast.”
Chapter Eighteen
Titi Lina’s party aside, there isn’t much excitement in my life these days. By week three of being grounded, I’m bored. Really bored. Mind-numbingly bored.
The days pass by well enough, but the nights are slow. And the weekends kill me.
I can’t talk to Amelia—not that she’s home much, anyway. She’s been casually dating a few people, including my cousin Junior, because of course a person that perfect doesn’t stay single for long.
I can’t go anywhere, except for walks around the block, which I do, often, especially now that the weather is warming up and we’re inching closer to spring. (Forty-degree days definitely feel like spring after months of frigid New England temperatures.)
I can’t even kill time by messing around on the internet, which depresses me because I love the internet and I know I’m just missing so many good jokes on Twitter. So my riveting Saturday afternoons mostly consists of me lying on the couch watching Kardashian reruns.
I’m rewatching one of the old episodes—back when Kylie and Kendall were just kids—when my mom walks into the room.
“Hey,” she says. After the party, we’ve resumed our routine of barely uttering a word to each other, so I’m surprised by this.
“Hi.” I sit up.
“I’m heading to the gym. You wanna tag along?”
Normally, I’d be offended by this. We did just get in a fight about my weight, after all.
But I’m bored. So bored.
“Okay,” I say.
“I’m leaving in ten minutes. Think you can be ready?”
“Absolutely.”
I turn off the TV and go into my room, where I change into a sports bra, leggings, a T-shirt, and some sneakers. I also grab a water and my ancient iPod, which I haven’t used since I was a kid, just so I can have something to listen to while I work out.
By the time I’m ready, my mom’s already in the car. She’s wearing pink athletic gear, all of which matches, and she looks amazing, which makes me second-guess my thrown-together outfit.
We don’t talk much on the way to the gym. As we walk inside, two women my mom’s age wave at us.
“Hi, Jeanne!” the shorter one says.
“Hi, ladies!” my mom says in a chipper voice.
“Is this Charlotte?” the taller one asks.
“Yes, it is! Charlotte, this is Jen.” My mom points at the tall redheaded lady. “And that’s Becca.” She points at the short blond woman. “Becca got me into the shakes.”
My eyes narrow at her, but I say nothing.
“So good to meet you!” Jen says, shaking my hand.
“We’ve heard so much about you!” Becca says.
I give them a smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you guys, too.” It’s not exactly true, but I do know of them. Jen and Becca are my mom’s gym buddies. They meet there a couple of times each week, and they help motivate one another to work out. I think my mom knows Jen from work, but I have no idea where she met Becca. Probably Facebook. The three of them love yoga and Zumba.
“You ladies ready to dance?” Jen asks, smiling over at me.
“Oh, no, I’m just going to work out on the treadmill for a bit,” I say. Workout classes sound like gym class, only with silent judgment from adults rather than noticeable giggling from classmates, so it’s a hard pass from me. “But thank you.”
Becca looks surprised by my answer. “But you have to join us! It’s so much fun!”
“Yes! It’s such a great workout, and they play the best music,” Jen says. “I used to be terrified of Zumba. The instructor is fabulous, though. She’s all about getting moving and keeping your heart rate up, which is great for me, because I’m awful at dancing.”
“It’s a nice class. But no pressure,” Mom says.
I look down at my iPod, which I’m not even certain works anymore. Then I look up at the three women, who are staring at me with hopeful eyes.
“Okay,” I say. “Sure.”
Becca claps her hands excitedly, and my mom breaks into a smile. “I think you’ll like it.”
“Let’s do this, ladies!” Jen leads the way to the class.
I regret my decision the moment I see that there are mirrors lining the room. Literally who thought that would be a good idea? Why would you want to watch yourself work out?
But I don’t want to disappoint my mom, so I stay. A few people in the class start by stretching, and my mom, Becca, and Jen start that way, too. I follow their lead.
Then a young, lithe, dark-haired woman bounds to the front of the room and asks if everyone’s ready. The cheers back indicate that yes, they’re ready (and remind me that no, I’m totally not). I steal a glance around the room and it feels like everyone is much thinner than I am, except for one woman in the corner who’s maybe my size. All right. If she can do this, I can do this, I tell myself. Secret solidarity.
The music starts and we follow the instructor’s lead. Everyone else in the classroom seems like they know exactly what to expect, but I’m watching the instructor like a hawk, a full two or three seconds behind everyone else, who already knows the routine. The instructor is so bubbly and energetic, yelling out instructions like “Left!” and “Right!” and “Spin!” and “Back!” to help us along. I’m so caught up in trying to get the moves right that I (thankfully) hardly have time to look at myself in the mirror.
Jen’s right that at least the music is good. She’s also not super great with the dancing and she giggles a lot, which helps put me at ease. We’re basically Zumba kindred spirits.
The forty-five minutes pass, but not easily. By the end of the workout, I feel sweaty and gross, and I’m relieved we’re done.
“See? That was fun!” Becca says, glowing.
“Yeah. Fun.” I take a big swig of water, and my mom hands me a towel from her bag. “Thanks.”
“Did you like it?” Mom asks.
“It was exhausting,” I say, still out of breath. “I can’t believe you guys do that three times a week.”
Jen laughs as we walk out of the classroom. “We sometimes opt for yoga instead. Much more relaxing.”
“I need to run to the ladies’ room. Can you hold my stuff?” my mom asks me. I nod and take her bag as she scurries off.
“I’m glad you came, Charlotte,” Jen says. “Your mom is always talking about you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah! We heard you just went to the George Washington High dance with the most popular boy in school. Good for you!”
“Totally jealous,” Becca says. “I went to George Washington High growing up, and I’d have died to go to that dance! Your mom also tells us you’re an amazing writer.”
“Oh,” I say, flushing. “I don’t know about that.” I’m trying to think of when Mom would have even read my writing, and all I can come up with are the old stories I wrote as a kid with Papi and maybe some of my book reports.
That would’ve been ages ago…but still.
“Nonsense! Your mom says you’re great. What kind of writing do you do?” Becca asks.
“Nothing really. A little fiction here and there,” I say, but I’m smiling. I can’t believe my mom has talked about me, and in what sounds like a positive way. I didn’t even know she liked my writing, let alone thought I was good.
“Well, I’m impressed. Great student and great writer. That’s pretty fantastic!” Jen says.
By then, my mom is making her way back to us. I smile at her, and she smiles back.
“Ready to go?” she asks. I nod, and she looks at Jen and Becca. “I’ll see you two on Monday, then.”
“See you then. And so good to meet you, Charlotte!” Becca says.
“Yes. Come back sometime!” Jen says. “We’d love to have you.”
“I will. Nice to meet you both.”
Mom and I walk out to her car. She puts her key in the ignition and starts the car. Although we aren’t exactly chatterboxes on the ride home, we do listen to the radio and sing along when an old-school Mariah Carey song comes on. (We both still have a soft spot for Mariah. We used to play her old albums over and over in the car until my dad begged us to pick something else.)
Back at the house, I take a shower, and when I get out, my phone is sitting on my nightstand. I carry it to Mom’s room, where she’s folding laundry, and hold it up to her, grinning.
“Does this mean I’m not grounded?” I ask.
“It means you can use your phone. And go back to work. But let’s not push it,” she says, though she’s smiling. Progress.
“She’s back!”
It’s what Brian says when he runs into me in the parking lot on my first day returning to work.
“I’m back!” I say, grinning at him. He grins, too, and I realize how much I’ve missed seeing him outside of school.
In school, you’ve got to keep all the social politics of your classmates in mind as you behave. I’m too self-conscious to be my full self when I’m surrounded by people who’ve known me since I was five years old, already have an idea of who I am and where I fit, and can be pretty judgmental. I’ve seen what’s it like to be a true outcast, and I just don’t want to give anyone ammunition to make that my reality, so I only let them know a perfectly controlled version of me and my life.
But hanging out here and there with Brian means I let him in a little, more than I would the rest of my classmates. He knows things about me I haven’t shared with anyone except for Amelia. Like, he knows that The House on Mango Street is the first book that made me feel seen. He knows I cry when I listen to the Hamilton soundtrack. He knows life with my mom can sometimes be tough, and he knows how hard I am on myself. Brian knows these things and he still enjoys being around me, and that’s something.
And I know things about him, too, things I wouldn’t have known if he was just that guy in my art class. I know that he thinks he’s a bad writer but he enjoys writing anyway. I know that one of his life dreams is to watch all of Star Wars in machete order but that he hasn’t done it yet because he’s worried it’ll disappoint him. I know that he’s really into gaming with his friends and—he even sheepishly admitted—sometimes plays Dungeons & Dragons.
“Not sure I could have handled another day without you,” he says, holding the office door open for me.
At that, I smile even bigger as I walk through the entryway. “Then I’m extra glad I’m back.”
“Me too,” he says, following me inside. “Maybe I’ll see you later?”
“Yes. Definitely,” I say.
In the office, I’m welcomed cheerfully, and I feel a little bad that I didn’t miss them more, especially given how kind they’ve all been to me.
“So good to have that smile around again,” Dora says, giving me a hug. “Hope things are better,” she adds in a whisper.
I nod. “Much, much better, thank you.”
But not everyone is excited to see me. My natural-born enemy Sheryl simply points at the giant pile of filing that hasn’t been done in my absence.
“When you’re done with that, you can get us ready for our next trade show,” she says.
“Happy to,” I say, even though I really just want to roll my eyes at her and her dumb face.
The projects keep me busy, but I get to replay the conversation I had with Brian over and over. He missed me! Hearing that made my pulse quicken, and I find myself daydreaming about walking out of work, just the two of us, me asking if he’d like to hang out sometime.
I think I could do it. Maybe.
Unfortunately, I don’t get to find out. By the time I’ve finished up with my work and rushed to the warehouse, Brian’s already gone for the day.
It’s probably just as well. I know what happened last time I let my daydreaming get the better of me.
But when I get to my car, there’s a Post-it note tucked under my windshield wiper. I pick it up to see a tiny doodle of Brian, with a word bubble over his head, saying, Missed ya today!
I smile to myself, and it’s then that I realize:
I might have a crush.
Chapter Nineteen
I know things with my mom are good again when she casually mentions that we should have a party for my upcoming seventeenth birthday.
I joke that it’ll be a little hard to have a party while I’m still grounded, to which she rolls her eyes and tells me it’s fine, I’m not grounded anymore, did she forget to mention that?
On a sheer high from the newfound freedom, I agree to the party. My mom says I should start thinking about who to invite and that she’ll take care of the rest, but I decide to focus on something more important first: What will I wear?
I’ll want something less formal than what I wore to the dance, of course, but I still want to look cute. I turn to the #fatfashion community on Insta for inspiration.
Since the fight with my mom, I’ve been trying even harder to immerse myself in the fat acceptance community, both on Instagram and on Twitter. Something about the fact that my mom and I always seem to have the same fight over and over about diet and bodies and happiness has made me see that I desperately need to start thinking about it all in a new way. I can’t let her rile me up as she has, and I think part of why I get so heated is because deep down, my mom has something I yearn for deeply. So maybe if I can start to apply some of these principles from the fat acceptance movement to myself, I’ll be a whole lot happier. If the body she has becomes less of the ultimate status symbol, perhaps it can’t be used as a weapon against me.
I’ve started by following a ton of women who post photos of themselves proudly and free from Facetune. They are not apologetic about their bodies; they don’t hide beneath a million layers. Some wear fatkinis and crop tops. Others don’t necessarily show off skin but embrace the kind of beautiful, high-fashion looks I’ve always coveted. I do my best to participate, too. I comment with others who are active in the movement and, at the encouragement of one, have been trying to take and post more pictures of myself on my own Insta when I can, hoping to normalize what my own body looks like. It’s been nice to follow some people who have bodies that look like mine, especially when they’re often the first to leave an encouraging comment on my posts.
It’s a slow process. But I’m trying.
During study hall one day, I’ve fallen deep down the rabbit hole of #plussizefashion posts when suddenly Amelia leans over and peeks at my phone screen.
“Whatcha looking at?” she asks.
Instinctively, I pull my phone toward my chest so she can’t see the screen, as if she’s caught me doing something I shouldn’t be doing. Then I realize I should probably share this with her. My body is not a secret, right?
I try to play it off by teasing, “It’s not polite to look at other people’s phones.” She sticks out her tongue at me as I turn the screen toward her. “But I’m looking for some outfit inspiration for my birthday party.”
“Ooh, what are you thinking for it?”
I pull up a few of my saved posts and hand her the phone so she can scroll through. “Not sure yet. Just kind of looking for something that might look nice on me.”
“I feel like everything looks nice on you,” Amelia says without hesitation.
“Oh, please.”
She scoffs. “Your complexion, those curves? Come on.” My cheeks flush at the compliment. This is probably the first time she and I have really had much of a conversation about my bo
dy, which is…weird to think about. But it doesn’t feel shameful or wrong or anything. Just feels normal. Why haven’t I tried this before? “Oh, this!” Amelia hands me back the phone and points at the photo she’s pulled up. It’s a lovely brown woman, a little smaller than me, wearing a fitted, high-waisted midi skirt and a simple white tee, with mustard-yellow heels.
“That was one of my favorites, too!” I exclaim, earning me a “Shh” and a stern glance from our study hall teacher. I wave my hand apologetically at him.
“You would look awesome in that,” Amelia says. “When do we go shopping for it?”
I read the description of the outfit and realize, sadly, that most of the pieces are really expensive. “Never. Pricey, pricey.”
“Well, we’ll keep looking then. Nothing says you have to get those exact pieces. But if we have an idea of the look, we can easily find some similar things, no?”
I nod, though I’m not so sure. Shopping can be such a source of frustration. I just wish I had as many options as everyone else. “But, I mean, before I dive headfirst into what I’m wearing, I guess I should come up with a guest list.”
Amelia points at me. “Right. That would help.”
I tuck my phone away and pull out a notebook, splaying it open on my desk so she can see. At the top of the page, in calligraphy, I write:
Guest List for Birthday Party
I’m Not Interested In
“So? Who do I invite?” I look over at Amelia, expecting her to have the answer. She sees what I’ve written on the page and rolls her eyes.
“Seems like you are kind of interested in the party, given how much time you just spent on outfit inspo.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Maybe I’m just really into cute clothes.”
“Well, we already know that,” Amelia says with a grin. “You could just buy some cute clothes and tell your mom you’d rather skip the party?”
“And risk getting my phone taken away again? Yeah, right,” I say. “Let’s just be rational and tackle the invite list.”
Fat Chance, Charlie Vega Page 13