BIG FAT
DISASTER
Beth Fehlbaum
F+W Media, Inc.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Note to the Reader
Acknowledgments
Copyright
For all of us,
who wish to be loved just as we are.
I desire the things which will destroy me in the end.
SYLVIA PLATH
Chapter One
Who in their right mind thought it would be a good idea to put our family portrait on my dad’s Senate campaign postcard? Why is my face covered by the address label? Shouldn’t it be on the other side of the postcard?
I grimace as I peel away the label, imagining what it would be like to find these five people grinning like idiots in my mailbox. I mean, if I wasn’t me, and I didn’t know the truth about these people.
Us, that is.
Do people actually see us as Dad’s “package deal”? He says that when people vote for him, they’re getting the “whole package.”
What does that even mean, anyway?
I hold up the postcard to the light, as if being able to see through it would change the way I see us. But the colors are too dark, and, anyway, a photo can’t tell the whole story. No one who gets one of these stupid postcards has any idea who we really are.
I toss the postcard onto my father’s desk and stare at the address label stuck to the end of my finger. Package deal, my fat butt.
My dad, Reese, played college ball for the UT Longhorns. He was a linebacker then, but he’s an investment banker now, and he’s running for the U.S. Senate. My mom, Sonya, used to teach fourth grade, and she was Miss Texas twenty-two years ago.
My oh-so-perfect-in-every-way older sister, Rachel, is about to leave for college (pause here to praise Jesus), and my little sister, Drew, like Rachel, looks like a carbon copy of Mom. They’re all overly concerned with what they look like, I guess because they like what they see when they look in the mirror.
Sadly, I did not escape Dad’s Incredible Hulk–like genes or his weight problem. My mom, sisters, and the mirror do a fantastic job of reminding me that I am The Fat Girl.
As if I could ever forget.
Last week, Drew took a break from admiring herself in the full-length mirror at the end of the hall when she noticed that I was eating ice cream in front of the TV. She flipped her hair back over her shoulder like Mom does, and sounded like Mini-Mom, too: “Do you know how many calories are in that? Where, exactly, do you think it will look best on you?”
As Drew turned back to the mirror, she dropped her hair brush. Lucky for her, she bent to pick it up at the exact moment that I rocketed the bowl through the air—Slam!—a direct hit to my arch nemesis, the mirror! That sucker broke into about a hundred pieces, and about the time that Drew recovered enough to start bawling, the frame fell off the wall.
Totally worth losing my iPhone. Totally.
Sometimes I hear the old lady campaign volunteers whisper about how good-looking my dad is—like, he’s in his late forties, but anybody can still see the UT Austin football star he once was. He’s unmistakably my father, but the qualities that make Dad attractive even though he’s a big guy are the same ones that make me consider myself genetically doomed.
When a women’s magazine profiled the Senate candidates’ wives, the reporter and photographer came to our house to take some photos. They were about to leave when the reporter said, “Sonya, would you mind just one more photo? We’d like to have one of you and the children.”
Drew called me out of my room. I stepped into the living room, and the photographer took me by the elbow and guided me right back out. “Sorry, this one’s of immediate family only.”
Drew giggled and said, “Colby’s my sister, too, silly!”
We took the pic and as the reporter was wrapping up the interview, Mom leaned in and said, “Um, your people can Photoshop Colby, right? Make her look a little more like she belongs with us…?”
Sure enough, when the article ran, I still didn’t look like I could be the spawn of a former Miss Texas, but I also didn’t look like the person I see in the mirror.
Too bad that the person in charge of Dad’s campaign postcards stuck with reality instead of Photoshop.
Rachel appears in Dad’s campaign office doorway. “Colby, what’re you doing? Let me sit at Dad’s desk. The Young Conservatives choir just arrived. You need to go get ready.” She doesn’t look up from texting on her phone as she moves toward me.
I don’t budge from the chair. “I don’t feel like singing today. I’m not going.”
Rachel sighs. “Yes, you are. You know Mrs. Hamlet will pop a blood vessel if you’re not in place for the national anthem. Move it.”
“I still think it sucks that you don’t have to sing anymore. You’re not leaving for college until Saturday.” I align the address label vertically over Rachel’s image, leaving only her spindly legs visible on the postcard. I rub it, trying to smooth the edges.
“Don’t you think Mrs. Pendergrass and her crew of Dad’s groupies put those stickers where they did for a reason?” Rachel whips the postcard away from me and tosses it atop the others in the box on the floor. “They’re trying to attract voters, not repel them. Now heave yourself out of that chair and go put on your tent.”
I imagine the suffocating heaviness of the American flag–sequined choir robe in the midsummer heat, and I nearly scream.
I jerk Rachel’s phone out of her hands as she settles into Dad’s chair before I’ve even cleared it completely.
“People think you’re sooo sweet. If they knew the real you…” I tap Photos on the phone screen. Rachel lunges for my hand. I jerk it away and knock over Dad’s tall mug of coffee. It pours onto his desk pad calendar and spills over the edge of the desk onto Rachel’s skirt.
“You idiot! Look what you’ve done!” She bolts from the chair and yanks the phone away. “I’ll be so glad to get away from you. You’re an embarrassment to all of us.”
“Run to the bathroom and grab some paper towels, will you?” I’m frantically moving stacks of papers, books, and Dad’s knickknacks from the growing coffee puddle, and a framed photo of us on our spring break hiking trip sails off the side of the desk onto the floor. “Shit!” I look up at Rachel. “Please? Help me? I mean, this is partly your fault, you’re the one who…”
She shakes her head and smiles smugly. “Nope. I was never here. I don’t know a thing. You’re on your own.” She squares her shoulders and wrings the coffee from the hem of her skirt, then rotates the skirt on her waist so that the stain is in the back. Unflappable, just like always. “I’m going to the rally now. Hear that, Colby? The music’s started. You’re late.”
I grab a box of tissues from the bookcase and sop up most of the coffee. I sing the first few words of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” as if I’m where I’m supposed to be: sandwiched behind super weird Candy Geary, who never seems to shut up, and in front of super stinky Ron
ald Maynard, who smells like canned cat food. He wears a Friskies-scented cloud the way some guys wear Axe body spray. But I can’t do so much as make a face, because I have to be nice to everybody. It’s part of being Reese Denton’s daughter.
I shove the coffee-soaked wads into the empty tissue box, toss it in the trash, and look around for another box, but my eye catches on the campaign postcard and my big fat face staring back at me from the center of my otherwise perfect family. Was it true? Did Mrs. Pendergrass purposely place the address labels on the wrong side just so that she could cover my face? I thought that she and all the other geezers liked me. I lean down to the box on the floor, pull out a handful of postcards off the top of the pile, and quickly thumb through them.
Rachel wasn’t kidding. Every one of the postcards is identical. I swallow hard and dump the remaining postcards onto the floor, then spread them out with my toe. I plop back into Dad’s chair and nearly fall backward. I throw myself forward; my stomach clenches, and I remember Dad’s snack stash in his lower left desk drawer.
Seconds later, I’m ripping the foil off one Ding Dong after another. I think I’ll only eat one more; I don’t even taste the chocolate-covered cupcakes as they go down. I plunge my hand to the bottom of the wastebasket and bury the wrappers beneath the trash. I’m kind of surprised when the box is empty; I stomp it flat with my foot and shove it to the bottom of the trash, too…Maybe Dad’ll think he already ate them all.
I can’t leave the evidence here. Dad eats too much, too, but he has no problem with lecturing me about the importance of appearance to voters. “It’s not just me who’s running for Senate, Colby. It’s all of us. If you were a boy, people would assume you play football, like I did. What do you think they assume when they see you?”
If Mom finds out about the cupcake raid, she’ll give me her disappointed look and say, “What you eat in private, you wear in public.”
As soon as I feel less queasy, I’ll take the bag to the dumpster. Seeing what I’ve done makes me feel even fatter. I just won’t eat anything else today. It won’t be that hard.
I sigh heavily at the coffee-saturated calendar. The month of July is ruined; at least it’s almost over. I tear off the page and see Dad’s handwriting on the first Saturday in August: Move Rachel to school. The page is too wet to add Praise Jesus! under his words. I lift the pages one by one to see how far into autumn the coffee soaked. By Election Day in November, the pages are perfect again. I lift the desk pad and flutter the calendar pages to make them dry faster, and I notice initials and codes, like LW 400.5. Strange. There are names of banks and long numbers, too.
I toss the calendar atop the postcards and my eye catches on the damaged picture frame on the floor. I gingerly lift the frame and slide the broken glass into the wastebasket, then sit back in Dad’s chair and carefully remove the spring break hiking trip pic that we took just before Dad broke his collarbone and we had to cut short our vacation. When I see another photo beneath it, taped to the frame’s cardboard backing, it’s as if all the blood rushes from my body and pools in my feet.
It’s a picture of my dad.
And he’s kissing a lady. I mean, he’s really kissing her, and it looks like he was holding the camera to take the picture.
But it’s not my mom. This lady has brown hair, and, anyway, I’ve never seen him kiss Mom that way. It’s as if the photo burns my fingers; I throw it down and stumble back, knocking over my dad’s chair. My heart’s pounding in my ears and it feels like my chest is going to explode. I realize I’m holding my breath and I let it go, but it comes out really loud like a sob and I clap my hand over my mouth, then run to the doorway and look down the hall to make sure no one is there. I tiptoe back to the desk, retrieve the photo, and stare at it. Do I know her? Dad’s wearing the sling from when he broke his collarbone. So…this was taken a few months ago.
I hear voices in the hallway. A door opens…footsteps…my dad’s campaign manager, Patrick, is calling the staff together. I look around for somewhere to put the photo. I peel it off the cardboard backing and slide it down the front of my dress, into my bra.
I’m frozen, and the bookcases that line the office are closing in. I feel like a stranger looking for the first time at the framed photos lining Dad’s office in chronological order. My parents’ wedding photo…the two of them with Rachel…and me…then Drew came along. Every election season, we’ve had a family photo taken: a visual representation of Dad’s “family values” platform.
I’ve been standing on stages and waving at crowds ever since I can remember, starting with Dad’s campaign for the local school board. Then came the race for city councilman, and a year after that, state representative. My father has been trying to get everybody to love him ever since he was in middle school: A framed photo of him as eighth grade student council president hangs on the wall in his study, just above his Eagle Scout badge.
I go to the door, close and lock it, then pull the photo from my bra. Who is this woman? I plop into the desk chair, carefully lift the coffee-drenched calendar onto my lap, and go through the pages one by one, looking for the woman’s name, but except for Rachel’s on moving day, there’s just the mysterious initials, names of banks, and numbers.
I turn on Dad’s computer, but it’s password protected. I frantically go through his desk drawers, study the books on his shelf, and even look behind the paintings and framed photos on the wall. I don’t know why her name would be behind Dad’s framed photo of him and George W. Bush when they met at a hardware store in Dallas, but I’m not exactly in my right mind.
I hear people cheering outside. Dad’s campaign theme song—it’s called “I Can’t Hold Back,” by this ’80s band called Survivor—is blasting, so the rally must be wrapping up. I slide the photo back into my bra, then run my hands around the rim of my mouth just in case there’s any crumbs there. My tongue is greasy, my teeth taste terrible, and I wish I had some gum.
I place the broken picture frame in the center of the calendar, awkwardly bend and fold it over as if I’m wrapping a gift, crease it, and shove it on top of the trash.
I scoop the postcards back into their box and straighten Dad’s desk so that it looks normal. He’ll notice if the spring break photo is out of the frame, so I pull the snack stash drawer all the way out, place the pic under the metal sliding mechanism, and close the drawer.
Then I upright Dad’s chair, move to the doorway, and try to see his office as anyone else would: anyone who hadn’t, of course, just seen my father—“the family man”—with his tongue down some stranger’s throat.
I tie off the trash bag and head to the dumpster with it. I keep my head down and hope that no one recognizes me—but without a big white address label over my face, what are the odds?
I sneak away from the dumpster like a rat, tiptoe in through the back door of the building, and move to a window near the stage outside. I part the blinds ever-so-slightly to spy on my parents. My father stands at the top of the platform steps, shaking hands with people and smiling. Mom’s at his side, just like always.
“I Can’t Hold Back” starts up again. Dad grabs Mom by the wrist, pulls her into an embrace, then whirls her away. It’s supposed to look spontaneous, but they do this to end every rally. Dad says it’s a positive picture for voters to leave with, and, besides, it’s an easy “out” from having to keep talking to people. They end the dance with a kiss, then he and Mom wave at the crowd and descend the steps. Just like always.
Rachel and her two best friends from The Young Conservatives catch me being a peeping Tom. I jump when she speaks. “The coast is clear, Colby. I told Mrs. Hamlet that you have a raging case of mono, and that’s why you didn’t show up to sing.”
I noisily release the blinds and spin back to her, my mouth gaping open. “You did what?”
She strikes a thoughtful pose: eyes to the ceiling and an index finger to her chin. “Wait a minute; no, I didn’t say that, after all. See, mononucleosis is the kissing disease, so no one w
ould ever believe that you could catch it.” Her friends laugh, and they high-five each other.
I roll my eyes. “For your information, that is a myth. Anyone can catch mono.”
She mocks, “Anyone can catch mono,” then strides to the desk my mom always uses when she’s in the office. “Where’s Mom’s purse?… Oh, never mind. I found it.” She pulls the Coach handbag out of a drawer, dumps the contents on the desk, and pulls some cash from Mom’s billfold.
I fold my arms over my chest. The photo’s sticky against my skin; I’m sweating so much that I wonder if the image will stay on later, like a rub-on tattoo. I’m tempted to lift it off my skin so that it won’t, but I’m afraid Rachel will notice. “Does Mom know you’re going through her stuff?”
Rachel glances at the other girls, and they smirk in unison. “Just tell her I needed twenty bucks. Chris has his mom’s Suburban. We’re going to a late lunch and a movie. I’ll be home by ten.”
“I want to go, too.” I stand. Maybe I can get Rachel alone and show her the picture. Maybe she’ll explain it away and tell me how stupid I am to ever think that Dad would cheat on Mom. I sure hope so.
“I want to go, too,” Rachel mocks. She gives me the You’re an embarrassment to all of us look. I get it. I know I don’t fit; she doesn’t have to remind me all the time. “No freshmen.”
“But school’s about to start. I’m a sophomore now—”
“It’s only for graduates. It’s our last Young Conservatives outing before we all leave for college.” She shoves the billfold back in Mom’s purse, gives me a withering glance, and gestures to her friends. “Let’s go this way.” She leads them to the side exit.
The building’s empty except for Dad, Mom, and Patrick. My little sister, Drew, and Mrs. Pendergrass’s grandson, Bobby, are on the plywood stage outside, putting on an imaginary concert for the volunteers who are folding up the chairs in the parking lot.
Big Fat Disaster Page 1
