She looks up when we walk in. “Hey, Charlie!”
“Hi, Tess. Good to see you.” Tess and I have always mostly gotten along. Amelia would often try to kick Tess out whenever we were chilling, but sometimes I’d argue to let Tess stay. I’ve secretly always wished I had a little sister, so I didn’t mind her following us around as much as Amelia did.
“Amelia,” Tess says.
“Tess,” Amelia says through gritted teeth. Then she relaxes and smiles at Kira. “Kira, this is my little sister, Tess. Tess, this is Kira, who you will be nice to.”
“Calm down,” Tess says, rolling her eyes. “Hi, Kira.”
“Hi, Tess. Nice to meet you.” Kira walks over to Tess to shake her hand.
Tess can’t hide how excited she is by this, no doubt feeling like a grown-up, and enthusiastically shakes Kira’s hand. “Nice to meet you, too!” Tess says.
“Amelia, is that you?” Mrs. Jones calls out.
“Yes! It’s us!” Amelia replies.
Her mom, Beth, aka Mrs. Jones, rounds the corner into the living room and smiles. Tall, slim, and striking, she looks beautiful as ever with her box braids pulled back in a low, loose ponytail, wearing a simple cardigan over some slacks and flats. It’s easy to see where Amelia gets her good looks.
If I could be anybody when I grow up, it’d be Mrs. Jones. She’s always so poised and composed, and she’s also incredibly smart and driven. But it was kindness that was the first thing I noticed and loved about her. During my first-ever sleepover at Amelia’s, back when we were kids, she could sense my nerves, and at bedtime she tucked me in and gave me a kiss on the forehead as if I were her own daughter. It meant a lot to me.
She comes over and gives me a hug, which warms me to my core. “So nice to see you, Charlie.”
“You too, Mrs. Jones.”
“And you must be Kira?” Before Kira answers, Mrs. Jones has already enveloped her in a hug, too. “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you.”
“It’s wonderful to meet you, too, Mrs. Jones,” Kira says.
Mrs. Jones stands back and looks at Amelia wistfully, and I see the edges of Amelia’s lips twitch into a small smile. It’s a tender moment that I feel I’m not meant to see, but I do, and I can’t help but be simultaneously envious and touched.
“Well, are you girls ready for some dinner? Dad’s cooked up his famous chicken piccata!” Mrs. Jones heads toward the kitchen, us girls in tow, except for Tess, who rushes ahead of all of us and is already sitting in her designated seat at the dinner table, fork and knife in hand, by the time we get there.
“Eli, our esteemed guests are here,” Mrs. Jones calls toward the kitchen.
Mr. Jones—taller than Mrs. Jones, dark-skinned, muscular, with kind eyes—pops his head into the dining room.
“Ah,” he says. “There they are.” Then he spots the new face at the table, Kira, and walks over to her. “You must be Kira.” He puts his hands on his hips, towering over her. “And what are your intentions toward my daughter?”
Amelia practically chokes. “Oh my gosh, Dad!”
Mr. Jones laughs like he’s told the funniest joke ever, even slapping his knee. “I’m kidding, Mimi,” he says, using Amelia’s nickname. “Loosen up a little!”
“Yeah, Mimi, loosen up,” Kira teases.
Mr. Jones laughs again, pointing at Kira. “You. I like you.” He surveys the rest of the table. “Now, I hope you girls brought your appetites.”
“I sure did, Daddy!” Tess says.
He reaches to tug at her hair, but Tess ducks out of the way. He sighs like she’s gravely wounded him. “All right. I’ll be right back with the food.”
“Do you need any help, Eli?” Mrs. Jones asks.
“I’m all set, Beth, but thank you,” Mr. Jones says, disappearing into the kitchen.
Mr. Jones leaves and returns to the dining room several times, each time with a new component of the meal. He places a simple salad, heaping bowls of garlic mashed potatoes and sautéed spinach, and a plate of chicken piccata on the table, while Mrs. Jones busies herself by pouring each of us a tall glass of ice water.
“So, Kira, Amelia tells us you run track, too,” Mrs. Jones says. I give Amelia a small smile across the table, knowing what’s coming, and she returns it. “Did you know I used to run track back in high school? I was one of the most accomplished in my high school’s history.”
Amelia looks at Kira and rolls her eyes. I full-on grin. Mrs. Jones loves to talk about her time on the track team. We’ve heard these stories about a hundred times already. But here’s to a hundred and one, right?
“What are we talking about?” Mr. Jones asks as he settles into his seat at the table.
“My time as the fastest runner at Wakefield High.”
“Ah, yes. One of my favorite topics. Faster than a cheetah, this one!” Mr. Jones says with a laugh. “We may be in for a long night once she gets started—better dig in now.” Mrs. Jones playfully swats at her husband, and he grins at her.
We start to eat while Mrs. Jones regales us with her possibly embellished tales. Her storytelling has always reminded me of my dad, so I don’t mind, and now that Amelia is okay being on the track team again, the stories feel less riddled with pressure for her to succeed and more amusing in the parents-am-I-right? kind of way. Plus, the food is impeccable. Mr. Jones is not a chef but a pediatrician; however, I like to tell him he could be a chef if he wanted, and that always makes him laugh as if I’ve said something hysterical.
Once Mrs. Jones has finished telling us about the glory days, we fall into an easy rhythm of conversation. We talk about Tess’s upcoming play, where she’ll perform as the second lead. The field trip Amelia took with her public speaking class. Kira’s recent indoor track competition, where she placed. The plans for my birthday.
I catch Mr. and Mrs. Jones looking over at each other every so often, speaking to each other without having to say a word. It’s so dreamy.
Finally, the conversation turns to how Kira and Amelia met. Kira fell during a meet and was convinced she’d sprained her ankle, and Amelia insisted on taking her to the nurse and staying with her until Kira’s mom could come pick her up. The adoring way Kira looks at Amelia as she tells this story makes my heart skip a beat.
It’s the perfect dinner with what I view as the perfect family. It doesn’t even matter when Tess starts to test Mrs. Jones’s patience by begging for a cat—a crusade she’s been on for months now and to which the answer is always no—because it feels just like any other night at Amelia’s, which is to say that Kira fits in like a missing puzzle piece.
I leave the house feeling pleased that I could be part of a night like that. Amelia and Kira drop me off at my house, and I hug them both, congratulating them on a job well done. I even gloat a little about being right that Mr. and Mrs. Jones are so wonderful.
Yet back in my quiet room, with my mom gone on another date and not a sound in my home, I can’t help but feel a little lonely.
Chapter Twenty-Six
My birthday is less than a week away.
My mom is convinced we both need to go shopping for new outfits, and she offers to pay, so I’m not about to say no—especially because I ended up buying a few items from some online stores and not loving them. They’ve officially fallen to their untimely death at the bottom of my closet, may they RIP. So I don’t really have an outfit and the clock is ticking.
We go to the mall, the faraway one that still has most of its stores in business and not the sad one close to our house that’s essentially an empty shell of what it once was (it’s too depressing to shop there). After a few last-minute looks at the #fatfashion tag on Insta for some inspiration, I make a vow to step outside my comfort zone and try some things on that I might not have before.
So I’m a little disappointed when our first stop is in my mom’s favorite straight-size store. She knows I can’t fit into anything here, and as soon as I walk in, I feel like the salesgirls are all looking at me.
Mom starts browsing through a rack of tops, while I start to wander over to the accessories.
“Where are you going?” Mom asks.
“I’m going to head to the purse section.”
“We’re not here to buy a purse,” she reminds me.
“I know, but…”
“But what?” she asks.
I don’t want to say it, especially with people around.
“You know,” I say.
Mom puts a hand on her hip. “Know what? We’re trying to find you a nice outfit for your party.”
I sigh, then pretend to be looking through the racks of clothing, too.
“There we go. Let me know if you see something you like.”
I can’t tell if my mom is purposely being hurtful, or if she genuinely doesn’t realize that literally none of these things will fit me. It’s not worth it to argue, though. I try not to focus on the fact that each screech of the wire hanger against the rack is a running count of all the items of clothing I can’t fit into. One, two, three, four, five.
Mom’s already got a stack of clothes draped over her arm and slips off to the dressing room for round one. Shortly after she disappears from sight, an employee wanders over.
“Can I help you with something?” she asks. She’s tiny and beautiful and I kind of hate her because I feel like I know what’s coming next.
“No. Just looking.”
“Oh, okay. Just to let you know, the biggest size we go up to here is twelve.”
I start to get hot. “Oh, yeah, okay. I’m here with her. So.” I point toward my mom, who has stopped near the dressing rooms to look at a dress. “She’s shopping, not me.”
“Ohhh, that makes sense. Well, if your sister needs any help, just let us know!”
I could die. How will I survive this afternoon?
After a few other stores (all unsuccessful for me), my mom suggests we try Old Navy and I feel a surge of hope. Sometimes I can wiggle into their clothes. We both select a few items to try and then head to the fitting rooms. I bring in a fitted midi skirt (similar to the one Amelia and I ogled a few weeks back), a V-neck top that would match, an A-line dress, a few pairs of jeans, and a blouse.
Mom grabs one dressing room and I snag the one beside her. I decide to try the jeans first and save the skirt for last.
As I’m taking off my clothes, I hear my mom loudly say, “So.”
“Yeah?” I respond, holding up the first pair of jeans and pulling on them to see if they have any stretch. They do. Jackpot.
“I told you Jen and Becca will be coming to your birthday party, right?”
I make a face, and I’m glad my mom’s not there to see it. “Jen and Becca from the gym?” I ask, pulling on the first pair of jeans. They fit, but the legs pool around my ankles. Too long. Why can’t fashion designers ever get the proportions on jeans right?
“Yes. I thought you liked them?”
I tug the jeans off. “I do,” I say, barely wiggling into the next pair.
“Good. They just want to swing by and say hello. They like you, too.”
“Okay. Sounds good.”
“Obviously I invited Titi Lina, Tío José, Titi Isabel, Roxy. And of course your cousins. I also invited Tío Armando.” We haven’t seen him in years. “And his wife, Amanda. You remember Amanda, right?”
“How could I forget Amanda?” One time, she made a snide comment about how my mom shouldn’t set such a bad example for me. If she lost weight, Amanda said, I’d probably follow suit. I have no desire to see Amanda.
“A few others will be coming, too,” Mom says. “Eva, Sarah, Lynn.”
“Who?”
“Oh, you know them! The girls. Remember? I used to hang out with them all the time.”
“The girls,” I repeat.
“Yes. From…you know. The group I used to meet with.”
It takes me a moment before I realize she’s referring to the weight-loss group she used to attend. Eva, Sarah, and Lynn were part of that group. Mom would talk about them sometimes when she got back from her meeting.
“Oh” is all I say.
“Yeah. It’s going to be great.”
The third and final pair of jeans don’t fit, either, so I leave them in a heap on the floor and grab a top. “That’s kind of a lot of people, Mom.”
“I know, I know. I got a little carried away,” she says. “You don’t mind, do you?”
What can I say to that aside from “No, it’s fine”? I mull over my response while trying on the blouse. It fits, but it makes me look like a shapeless box. Pass.
“No.” I pull the top off and let it fall to the floor beside the jeans, even though that means I’ll just have to pick it up and hang it afterward. “It’s fine.”
“Good. It will be so nice to see everyone. It’s been too long.”
I pull on the dress, which is a little snug in the armpits. Ugh.
“Oh!” Mom continues. “And Fernando will be coming as well. I can’t wait for you to meet him!”
Fernando is the guy my mom has been on a few dates with recently. And suddenly, I understand what this is all about.
My mom wants to show off in front of all her old friends.
New man, new body…it’s all wasted unless everyone else can see it.
I yank the dress off, saying nothing. I will not respond. I will not let her get to me.
Instead, I take a deep breath and try to calmly slip into the T-shirt and skirt combo. Miraculously, both fit, but when I turn to the side to inspect the look, I feel my heart sink. It just doesn’t look the way I’d pictured in my head. And that feels like a gut punch.
I begrudgingly put all of the clothes back on their hangers, leave the dressing room, and bang on my mom’s door.
“We done here?” I ask.
“Jeez, you scared me,” she says, pulling the door open. “Yes. Nothing’s doing it for me.”
“Great.” I put the clothes on the return rack and turn quickly on my heel, speed-walking out of the store.
“Wait,” Mom says. I ignore her and keep walking. I’ve had enough of pretending I can find something to wear in these stupid stores. And I’ve had just about enough of this shopping trip.
Once I’m outside the store, I start to head toward the mall exit. I can hear my mom rushing up behind me, her shopping bags rustling. “Charlie! Wait!” I stop and turn to her. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
“Oh, I heard you,” I say.
Annoyance flickers over her face. “Then what’s the problem?”
“What gives you the right to invite all of these people to the party, Mom? It’s supposed to be my birthday party, not yours.”
My mom seems startled by this. But then she stands up straighter. “I’m the one paying for the party, and it’s my house, so I’ll invite whoever I please.”
“Whomever.”
“Whatever!” Mom snaps. “You’re so ungrateful sometimes, Charlotte, I swear to God. I’m trying to do a nice thing here by taking you shopping.”
“Yeah, at stores where I can’t fit into anything!”
“Well, I didn’t know!”
I find that hard to believe, given that when she was fat, she would always talk about how shopping for special occasions was particularly stressful. She lamented that it was hard to see some who could waltz into any store they pleased and buy anything, knowing it would fit, while she’d have to go to specialty stores and try everything on. But maybe it’s been so long since she’s been fat that she doesn’t remember. And anyway, I’m tired, so I just say, “Okay, well, now you know.”
Her face softens, and so does her voice. “Do you want to keep looking? We can try a different store.”
I shake my head.
“Okay,” she says. “We can go.”
We’ve started to walk toward the exit when I think I spot Brian coming out of a video game store. Cue tummy flutter. The boy looks up and yeah, it’s definitely Brian.
“Brian!” I say, a little more enthu
siastically than I intend.
He breaks into a big smile. “Hey, Charlie! Hi, Mrs. Vega!”
“Hello, Bryant,” Mom says.
“It’s Brian, Mom,” I correct, trying not to sound too offended.
“Oh. Sorry.” But she doesn’t sound like she means it. I shoot Brian an apologetic look, and he just laughs.
“Good finds?” he asks, motioning toward my mom’s bags.
“Yes,” she says, and leaves it at that.
“My mom had a very successful shopping trip,” I say. “Me, not so much. We were looking for an outfit for my birthday party, but I didn’t find anything. You seem to have had some luck, though!” I point at the bag in his hand.
He pulls the game out and shows it to me. “Yeah, it’s this new video game I’ve been waiting for! I mean, I was happy to wait because the first one was perfect—it was set in medieval times, but apocalyptic, with a super-creepy alien invasion. Story, combat, crafting—ten out of ten. In this one, you actually play as the sidekick from the first game, except she’s grown up now.” Then he stops talking and looks sheepishly at me. “I’m rambling. I’ve been reading about it for months and it’s finally out. Picked up the collector’s edition.”
“Of course,” I tease. “It sounds fun.” I’m not super into video games, but the excitement in Brian’s voice is enough to intrigue me.
“We’ve got to get going, Charlie,” Mom says.
I give her a look.
“Oh, sure,” Brian says. “Well, good running into you, Charlie. I’ll see you at school on Monday.” He looks at my mom and waves. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Vega.” She nods in reply and starts walking toward the exit.
“See you at school, Brian,” I say, smiling and following her.
When we’re out of earshot, my mom says, “You mentioned your birthday to him.”
“So you can speak.”
“What?” she asks, irritated.
“You didn’t say a word when Brian was around.”
“He was talking about a video game!”
I ignore that and ask, “Why does it matter that I mentioned my birthday party?”
Fat Chance, Charlie Vega Page 17