Conversations with the Fat Girl

by Liza Palmer

  Is he making fun of me? Did he just use the Christina Dahl tone of voice?

  “Well, it is Fourth of July weekend.” I try to convince myself that I’m getting more comfortable.

  “That it is. What do you have planned for today?” I hear Domenic tapping a pencil on a table.

  “I’ve got some packing to do. You know, the onesies. I plan to put together an entire box of nonrelated items in a haphazard fashion and label it with an unintelligible title.” Am I trying too hard?

  “Well, make sure it’s off balance and the box isn’t taped well. Then we’ll really have ourselves a party.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that.” My voice is rising in tone. I resolve to calm down.

  “Well, I don’t want to keep you. I’ll see you at Peregrine’s party tomorrow, right?”

  “Absolutely!” Once again with the shrieking. Domenic and I sign off.

  I can’t remember a time when I just did something without unremittingly second-guessing myself and finally opting for the road more traveled. I let every opportunity walk right by instead of grabbing it by the collar and bringing it in for a long, sweet kiss. Once again, Peregrine is right—what am I so afraid of? What’s worse than sitting here now—alone and tormented by my own safe and comfortable life? If I am forever cast as the fat, jolly sidekick, it’s my own damn fault.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  No Kids, Kay?

  I wake up the next morning with a start. All of my clothes are packed and I have nothing to wear to Peregrine’s birthday party tonight. I put in a call to Mom. She has left for work, Russell says. I’ll call Kate.

  “Hello, who is it?” It is Bella.

  “It’s Maggie,” I say, in my craziest voice.

  “Hi, Maggie,” Bella says.

  “Is your mommy there?” I ask.

  “Yes.” Bella is holding the phone so close to her small cheek I can hear every exhalation.

  “Can I speak with her?” I ask.

  “Yes.” Bella holds the phone even closer to her mouth.

  “Do you think I can speak with her now?” I am smiling. I want to be in the warmth of the home Kate has created.

  “Yes.” Bella still holds the receiver.

  “Thank you, baby,” I say.

  “Wait.” Bella pauses.

  “What is it, sweetie?” I ask.

  “I like you.” Bella drops the phone on the table and yells for Kate to come to the phone.

  “What’s going on, Bobo?” Kate asks.

  “Nothing much,” I lie.

  “You sound a little . . .” Kate trails off.

  “I need an outfit for this stupid party tonight. A party this twenty-eight-year-old busboy is going to be at—so I can let him walk right by me and never ever grab anyone by the collar. Not once, Kate!” I can barely get a breath out.

  “Sweetie, why do you think you need to grab twenty-eight-year-old busboys by the collar?” Kate asks.

  “He made a CD for me. I didn’t want to like it, but I did. There was this one song . . . but he’s a busboy at Joe’s. How do you do that? Twenty-eight years old?”

  “Okay, you’re a little vulnerable right now so I won’t remind you that you, too, work at that very same coffeehouse. No, you’re not twenty-eight, but you will be in a matter of weeks. How come I haven’t heard about this guy?” Kate is much more distracted about not being in the loop than by Domenic’s career choices.

  “Yes, but I have a master’s,” I say.

  “Sweetie, I know you’re going to find your way back to the museum of your dreams. So for now, why don’t we talk more about why you haven’t told any of us about him.”

  “Because . . . I’ve just been . . . I don’t know, kind of embarrassed.”

  “About what?”

  “That he’s this guy who still buses tables at a coffeehouse and Adam Farrell is Dr. Adam Farrell. Soon to be Mrs. Dr. Olivia Farrell.”

  “Mrs. Dr. Olivia Farrell is about to make one of the biggest mistakes of her life. That guy doesn’t know who she really is and couldn’t care less.”

  “I know, I know. I just . . . I think I’m having a hard time looking at this realistically, if that makes any sense.”

  “It does. Maybe this is a good thing, you looking at all of these factors you never thought about before. You know, Texas Steven was a complete loser, but you never even gave that a second thought.”

  “You thought Texas Steven was a loser?”

  “Honey, he was a loser.”

  “He was golden.”

  “Well, then he was a golden loser.”

  We are silent as I mourn Texas Steven. Kate sniffs.

  “So what’s going on with you?” I change the subject after crossing myself.

  “I got Olivia’s wedding invitation in the mail today.”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s this classless handwritten note on the bottom that says, ‘No kids, kay?’ Is she kidding me?”

  “At least you got an invitation.” I haven’t received mine yet. I have a sinking feeling I might not get one at all.

  Kate and I go on to cattily discuss those quiet, intimate moments before Dr. and Mrs. Adam Farrell initiate some kind of sexual intercourse. We picture them in two huge, queen-size beds. They yell sweet nothings across their respective beds as Olivia romantically plucks the bright orange earplugs from Adam’s ears. He stops. Drops. And rolls over to his beloved. Some nights he keeps the black sleeping mask on; other nights he pulls it off in a fit of passion, only to catch a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror behind the door. I am officially cheered up after several minutes of imagining these scenarios and dissolving into fits of laughter about what Dr. Adam Farrell’s tiny hands really mean.

  “We’ll go shopping with you. What about Mom?” she asks.

  “She’s at work.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to go it alone.”

  I close my door and leave Solo in the House of Emptiness. She has become more and more ornery since we have decided to move/been evicted. The lack of a routine and the fact that all our belongings are in boxes have been just the recipe to turn my dog into a raving lunatic. So I called around and found this huge dog emporium that grooms dogs and has obedience classes as well. I thought I would take her to get groomed the day of the move and, if things go well, sign her up for obedience classes. I rub Solo’s ears as she leans into me.

  I drive over to Kate’s house lost in thought. I find myself somewhere on Colorado Boulevard and can’t remember how I got there. I’ve been driving for a full five minutes and can’t remember one turn or one red light.

  Because I’ve never had an actual relationship, my family treasures these little crushes as the crumbs they can feed on until the real thing comes along. So naturally I worry what Mom will think of this newest crush. Does she ever look at the man Olivia snared and wonder why I can’t reel in one like that?

  I pull up to Kate’s house and once again the Bat Daughters run out to greet me. Kate saunters out behind them.

  “You ready?” I say.

  “Mom is on her way,” she says.

  “Oh.” Bella and Emily stare at me and wonder why their Aunt Maggie isn’t excited to see their precious Grammy.

  “What’s going on?” Kate asks. She continues, “Emily. Bella. Can you go inside and get whatever you want to take to the mall with you?” This is the battle cry of moms everywhere. Sending the children away. Not only that, but sending them inside to search for unspecified items to take with them to a mall. This is a precedent-setting offer.

  As soon as the girlies leave, I begin. “I don’t think Mom is going to be as gung-ho about Domenic as you are. Her little grandchild light is flickering as it is.” I’m speaking quickly. I shouldn’t really put so much stock in what Mom thinks of the men I like, but I just can’t lie or keep anything from her.

  “Honey, we just want you to be happy. For pete’s sake, you don’t have to marry the boy.” In a moment of horror about what she has let the girlies
do, Kate turns to the house. Then she turns back to me. “His name is Domenic?”

  “Domenico,” I breathe.

  “How could she not like that? Look, at some point you just have to bring someone home and not worry so much.” Kate becomes distracted again by the time that has elapsed since the girls ventured into the house in search of the ill-gotten booty. We hear a crash from inside and quiet shushes.

  “She just wants what’s best for you. That’s all we’ve ever wanted.” Kate starts walking inside, calling the names of her lovely daughters. I follow her and decide to try one last point of debate.

  “Did Mom approve of Vincent when you first brought him home?” I ask.

  “Of course she didn’t and he’s not a stray I found on the side of the freeway, you know.” Kate is walking into the girls’ room.

  “I know. So what did you do?” I ask quietly, now in the presence of the girlies.

  “What Mom saw was a work in progress: the long hair, the loud music. He wasn’t husband material . . . at that time. But he had a good heart, and we adored each other. It stops being about the loud music and it starts being about wanting not to let go of what you now know is the best thing that’s ever going to happen to you. It has to start with you.” Kate calls to Emily and lets her choose just one doll and one Matchbox car. She is satisfied and proudly slings her backpack over her tiny, wise shoulders.

  “I wish I could bring Domenic anywhere, Jesus.”

  Bella begins to emerge for her turn to choose. “Are you guys talking about the Baby Jebus?” she asks.

  “She calls Jesus, the Baby Jebus. Vincent and those Simpsons—he thinks it’s cute.” Kate shakes her head and opens Bella’s backpack. Bella chooses a diamond tiara and a hot pink feather boa.

  “It’s the Baby Jesus, Bella. Mom, are we about ready to go?” Emily floats back into the room. She has added a strand of carnival beads to the journey. Mom honks out in front of Kate’s house. The girlies rush out to greet her. Kate and I follow behind. We all climb into Kate’s minivan.

  The doors slam behind us. The silence is deafening.

  “I like a guy who buses tables at Joe’s and wants to be a sculptor,” I whisper.

  “You like someone?” Mom is fiddling with her seat belt again and can’t make out one word I’m saying. My plan is working. Emily and Bella are quieter than they’ve been in years. Kate adjusts the rearview mirror. I hear Bella whisper, “What’s a sculperr?” Emily shushes her, knowing that the grown-ups will stop talking if they notice the little ones are on to them.

  “His name is Domenic and he works at Joe’s.”

  “Well, what’s this Domenic’s story?” Mom asks.

  “He works at the coffeehouse and wants to be a sculptor.”

  Once again, Bella whispers in the back to Emily, “What’s a sculperr?” Emily flounces in her chair in complete indignation. Bella whispers “Gosh” and begins combing her Molly doll’s rat’s nest of a head of hair. Emily rolls her eyes. Kate lets out a laugh.

  “What kind of sculptor?” Kate flips on her turn signal.

  “It’s the family business. They’re actually dollmakers. He works with his grandmother making the feet and hands in porcelain. His mom sews the clothing. They’re pretty famous . . . in the doll world.”

  “Well, it sounds like a good beginning,” Mom nudges.

  “That sounds fair.” I secretly fear that a good beginning is all any of my relationships are.

  Bella whispers to Emily knowingly, “Sculperrs make dollies.” She leans proudly back in her kid seat, pointing at her Molly doll. Emily sighs and flips open her diary.

  I splurge a little and buy a long brown leather skirt and a crisp white shirt. I also purchase what I refer to as a “tightener.” This is a magic undergarment that shoves your entire body into a spandex casing and smooths out where there were once rolls. I get a small. My thought process: If I buy a small, I will become a small. When I finally writhe my way into the tightener, my middle is now a “small.” Even if in the end, I look like a slug caught in a straw.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  There’s Always an Erin

  I’ve been on so many diets, I’ve forgotten what eating without a calculator and judge and jury in my head feels like. Whether for comfort or out of boredom, I reach for food rather than a brisk walk or a long hot bath. When I am not overeating, I ruthlessly deprive myself of food. I’ve never looked at food as nourishment or fuel. Instead, I look at it as a savior or a taboo. Maybe I’m feeding some other hunger.

  Getting ready for Peregrine’s party, I brush out my hair. I keep it down, instead of going for my usual ponytail. I stand back and look. Nice hair. Nice “exotic” eyes. Must close the mouth so as not to unleash the Chiclet teeth. The V-neck of the crisp white shirt draws the eye to the cleavage. The leather skirt is oddly slimming.

  It is around ten o’clock as I park outside the Pasadena Museum of California Art. Looking in the rearview mirror, I try to pull myself together. I want to go home already. Every second I’m here is just one second I’m not at home with my dog in my black terry-cloth pants and gray men’s tank top. As I’m getting out of my car, I notice Cole walking toward the museum, too. There is a large sign announcing that Peregrine’s birthday party is on the roof. Cole and I climb the stairs together.

  “You two together?” the bouncer growls, stamping the back of Cole’s hand to ensure there will be alcohol consumption tonight.

  “Hell no, brother.” Cole physically moves away from me and huffs off. The bouncer stamps the back of my hand and waves me through. Great start.

  The Pasadena Museum of California Art is situated one block east of the Pasadena City Hall. As I walk into the event, the number of people here strikes me. There must be close to five hundred partiers on this roof—all in costume and all waiting for the birthday girl to spend a little time with them. There is a DJ over in the corner playing all-retro hits as people crowd the dance floor. There are hot pink and black lanterns dotting the entire roof along with an open bar complete with bartenders in Ronald Reagan masks. I make a beeline for the bar.

  “What will you have, young lady?” ex-President Reagan yells. I’m not that big a drinker, but I am a genetically thirsty person.

  “Can I have an Amaretto Sour?” I try to make my voice sound high and feminine. The bartender waddles off. I stare at the back of the bar. I don’t want to see Domenic yet.

  “There you go, young lady.” I leave him a two-dollar tip and begin to scan the room for a familiar face.

  “Maggie!” I whip around to see Peregrine in a kid’s party hat and an early-1980s pale blue sateen prom dress, complete with tacky wrist corsage. Her blue-black hair is up in a snazzy chignon updo with pale blue carnations dotting her hair. Her makeup is all hot pinks and blue eye shadow.

  “Happy birthday!” I kiss her on the cheek and hand her the card I made earlier in the day.

  “Your boy is here. Brought some bitch named Erin or Errol. Should have been named Acne. She’s got issues with the complexee-own, if you catch my drift. Inez is here. She’s been dying to meet you!” Peregrine hugs and air-kisses a group of people who have just arrived.

  I can’t breathe. He brought someone? Why would he bring someone? And her name is frigging Errol? For once I want Peregrine to be right.

  She is still excitedly talking. “Your party bag is in the back room, there’s a raffle later on for a day shopping with me. Presents are being opened at midnight—oh, and I got a male stripper to pop out of the cake, don’t tell, okay. Oh! Here’s your hat!” Domenic brought someone? That’s it. I’m officially in the pits of hell.

  The group of well-wishers is still huddled around Peregrine. They tell her she looks fabulous, and she twirls for them. I’m now feeling claustrophobic. This hat is trying to suffocate me. Peregrine directs them to the bar and gives them a rundown of the evening’s activities. We then noisily begin chatting about the stripper when Peregrine’s girlfriend walks up.

  “Inez, this is
my Maggie.” Peregrine downs her drink, smearing her hot pink lipstick.

  Inez Dawson is a smallish woman with long, wavy black hair. She is dressed in an exact replica of the dress Molly Ringwald wore to her prom in Pretty in Pink. I know Peregrine made it for her to wear tonight—that’s all she’s been talking about for the last three weeks. Well, that and humming the theme song nonstop. Inez looks stunning. I notice only then that Inez has a bit of a potbelly. And it’s not a little belly, either. But it’s sexy. Peregrine can’t stop staring at her. Shit, I can’t stop staring at her. What does Inez have that I don’t? She got a belly. I got a belly. She got a lover. I got a belly. I take her hand and shake it, but I get thrown off when Peregrine bunches us all up in a group hug. I begin to panic realizing how liquored up Peregrine is. Where is Domenic and how can I get out of this hell? This is not what I meant by having fun with people.

  “There, there, sport. Enough of that, you crazy birthday girl.” Cole is the only one big enough to break up Peregrine’s ruckus. After being mistaken for his girlfriend, I’m surprised Cole allows himself to touch me, let alone be seen in the same room with me.

  “Aw, Coley, but this is my Maggie!” Peregrine wraps her arm around me and snuggles tightly. She is greeted once more by a pack of admirers. They say she looks fabulous. She twirls for them as well. Cole continues.

  “I know. I know. She just needs to put her purse down and maybe get herself another drink so she can catch up.” Cole whisks me away to a table in the corner of the museum’s roof.

  Cole and I walk silently over to the table. And then I see her.

  I now suspect Peregrine’s antics were a distraction technique. This is classic Peregrine: the ultimate hostess. She must have wanted me to be in a great mood when I saw the man I love and the girl he brought with him. I turn back around and see Peregrine. She is fighting every urge to throw herself between this girl and me. I make some kind of face that conveys I will be fine, or at least that’s what I hope I’m conveying. Peregrine smiles and mouths that she’s sorry. Birthday guests engulf her once more. I turn back around.

  The girl is pale and thin with thick brown hair. She does have bad skin. Even drunk, Peregrine can nail down a flaw. Domenic is speaking with Dre, the distractingly tall busboy, and doesn’t even look up as we approach.