Conversations with the Fat Girl

by Liza Palmer

  “So?” Kate comes up behind me with a diet cola in her hand.

  “So, what?”

  “Jesus, Maggie.” Kate stomps her foot.

  “Did you just stomp your foot?” I ask.

  “He’s a little pale. Tall. Supernice, though. Pretty eyes. The girlies love him. They won’t leave him alone,” Kate says.

  We look to the porch where Domenic is now playing Rock, Paper, Scissors with Bella. Bella only throws Paper. Domenic switches back and forth between Paper and Rock. He never throws Scissors. He’s squatting in front of Bella so they can have an equal playing field. I can see his boxers. Hula girls.

  Kate calls to the girlies and tells them they are leaving. They throw the expected tantrums and Kate tells them after choir practice they can go to a special dinner because they were such big helps today. The girlies gather their toys, and the exodus begins.

  “Bye, crazies.”

  “Butterfly kiss?” Bella asks.

  I buzz as close to Bella’s face as possible and “land” on her smooth face with a kiss. Her giggles and laughter are what make me know what true love could be like. Bella doesn’t care about my stupid Area. Bella just wants her aunt to give her a butterfly kiss.

  “Octopus kiss?” Emily asks.

  I sneak up on Emily and pucker her face over and over. She is writhing with delight and that open, Emily belly laugh. Kate and Vincent wave from the minivan. I walk back to the house. Domenic is on the porch leaning over the banister. My breath catches, and I trip over some stupid plant I will later sacrifice to the gods of social retardation.

  “I’d better be heading out.” He puts his pizza plate in the sink and drains his soda.

  “Thank you so much for everything. You were absolutely amazing. Thank you.” I feel myself blushing. Damn involuntary bodily responses. “Do you need a ride back to my house?” I still have to take this moving truck back, and the company would be nice.

  “No, my grandmother is on her way. We’ve got a load of dolls in the kiln, but thanks, though.” Domenic looks down and is, I believe, snapping his fingers.

  “I’d love to meet her.”

  Domenic and I wait the next fifteen minutes in one of our worst attempts at idle chatter. We talk about everything except what we’re both dying to talk about—what happened the other night. I can’t believe some of the comments that come out of my mouth. I’m apparently now a big fan of reality television and nature hikes. I don’t watch television and I hate hiking. I don’t mention the Getty internship or the Marcus Aurelius. Domenic, more than anyone else, would think this internship is exciting. I just can’t. I packed that paper in with the Pandora’s box of pictures. He continues snapping his fingers and rarely makes eye contact with me. I feel so muted and embarrassed. He’s probably as embarrassed as I am and grateful I don’t remember or think that night meant anything. Just then, Domenic’s grandmother pulls in front of the green Craftsman archway, saving me from any more humiliating lies. He waves her over.

  She is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Her white alabaster skin is made even more stunning by a shock of black wavy hair dotted with flecks of porcelain. She wears an oversize flannel shirt with grubby jeans, also flecked with porcelain.

  “Gram, this is Maggie.” I know by now the thrill really should be gone, but Domenic just said my name.

  “My actual name is Genevieve, but I go by Gram most of the time.” Her hands are strong and rough, and her voice is rumbly. “We’d better get going, Domenico, we have a batch in the kiln. It was wonderful meeting you, Maggie.” Genevieve looks to Domenic. Now I know the one person who calls him Domenico.

  “Thanks again.” I wave.

  “No problem. See you later?” Domenic follows his grandmother to the car.

  “Absolutely!” I yell, just that much louder than I should.

  He did everything right today. And for once I didn’t seem to mess it up.

  I watch them drive away, lock up the house, return the moving truck, and head over to the dog emporium. Solo is incensed. I have left her there the entire day. She wants me to pay for it. I look at Solo and decide to go ahead and sign her up for obedience classes even though it’s money I can ill afford. I nervously babble on about her genetics and how she’s always been nervous. The woman behind the counter winces as I fill out the necessary papers and pay the tuition. She then nods and tells me we need to come in for an evaluation first. I schedule a time and walk to the car feeling like a proud and responsible pet owner.

  I drive home and don’t know what to feel first. Peregrine is right. I drop the key on my filing cabinet that sits right next to the door. Solo is wandering around among the boxes smelling the old scents. I wish I could just talk to Domenic about that night. Ask him what the hidden track means. Ask him what he was thinking bringing another girl to Peregrine’s party. Ask him to be honest. I feel like so much of my life is spent hiding what I really feel. That’s an exact quote from Peregrine. I hate that she’s right. I hate that even as she stared in a bathroom mirror thinking up trivia questions about herself—she hit the nail on the head about my entire life.

  Why can’t I just thank Domenic and, in a breezy tone, ask him if he’d like to see a movie. Or ask if I could take him to dinner as a thank-you. Maybe I can make that a goal for this week.

  I need my best friend. I want to tell her all about Domenic, the guy who just sounded fine to her. I put in a call to Washington, DC. The machine picks up.

  “Hey, Olivia . . . it’s meeee . . .” No one answers. I keep talking into the answering machine.

  “Well, I am officially moved. I thought I would give you my new number . . .”

  “Hello? Hello?” It’s not Olivia.

  “Hello?” I question.

  “It’s Gwen! Where are you? This is Maggie, right?” There’s that tumbleweed again. I can hear the saloon door swinging behind me as I reach for my six-shooter.

  “Yeah, where’s Olivia?”

  “Oh, she’s here. We’re all here. Girl, you are missing out. Olivia? Olivia? You want to talk to Maggie?” Does she want to talk to me? Who the hell is she? Gwen puts her hand over the receiver and I hear talking and laughing. I should just hang up.

  “Is this Maggie?” It’s still not Olivia.

  “Who’s this?” How many people are going to get on this phone before the actual person I called is able to speak to me?

  “This is Shawna. Shawna Moss. Olivia works in the office next to me. Oh my God, she does sounds exactly like Olivia. Olivia? Olivia? She sounds just like you!” Shawna Moss drops the phone in a fit of laughter. I wait with my head in my hands.

  “What did I tell you, girl! You are missing out. We have champagne and it is flowwwing!” Gwen toasts the receiver.

  “Hey, Gwen?”

  “Yeah? What is it, girl?”

  “Hey, can you put Olivia on the phone, please?” Girl?

  “Oh. Sure. But you are missing out. Oh, and by the by, we chose the Bellagio in Las Vegas for the bridal shower. We’re planning on tons of shopping.” There are gales of laughter in the background. Gwen continues, “Can you make the reservations? Olivia and I in one room. Shawna, Hannah, and Panchali will share another. I hear you’re bringing your sister?”

  “Kate?”

  “Whatever. You can stay with her. Can you make the reservations?”

  “Yeah. Can I talk to Olivia now?” She sets the phone down, and once again there is distant laughing and talking.

  “What up, girl?” It’s finally Olivia.

  “Hey.” I relax.

  “Is everything okay? Everyone can’t wait to meet you. I can’t believe you couldn’t make it.”

  “I just want to give you my new number.”

  “Oh, just call back and leave it on the machine.” There is an explosion of laughter in the background. “Hannah? Hannah? What the fuck are you doing? Gwen! You get that girl under control. Shit, Maggie, I’ve got to go.” I hear Olivia swigging her champagne.

  “Oh, ok
ay.” Should I have gone out to DC?

  “Call back and leave your new number, kay, and can you make those reservations? Congratulations on the move. Talk to you later.” Olivia hangs up. She might as well have said, Dismissed. I sit there among my thirty-six boxes, wringing my hands. Paralyzed by confusion.

  I stop staring off into space and find my sheets in a box marked KITCHEN UTENSILS. I make my bed and set out all of my sundries in the bathroom, the brush and the toothbrush trying to create some kind of homey feeling. I look in the mirror of the medicine cabinet and smooth on my moisturizer. I stare some more. I shut the light off and hear Solo jumping on the bed. She’s ready for bed and is finally calming down. I’ll make the reservations for the bridal shower tomorrow.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Texas Steven

  The alarm has been going off for twenty-two minutes. It’s amazing the math you can do on such depleted brain capacity. It is now 9:47 a.m. I have to be at work by 10 a.m. I should have left two minutes ago. I brush my teeth and throw my hair, once again, into a ponytail. I’ll stick with the glasses today and forgo the extra mile with my contact lenses. Some days you’re Superman and some days you’re Clark Kent.

  “Hey there, Maggie.” Cole’s voice is soft.

  “Hey.” I rush past him and scoot to the back room for an apron and a peek at the schedule so I can plan my invitation to dinner with Domenic. Christina is bending over the sink washing her newest batch of dirty dishes.

  “What happened to you the other night? At Peregrine’s party, you know? On Thursday?” Christina asks.

  “Yeah, I know which night and which event. I went home.”

  “You were taken home . . . what’s, like, up with you?” Christina inches up her pants.

  “Nothing. What’s up with you?” A little reverse psychology and she’ll be talking about herself in 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . .

  “I met this guy over at this frozen yogurt place in Old Town the other night, well, it was like Thursday night. Funny, huh? We left the party pretty much right after you did. It was pretty fun, but then it wasn’t, so we decided to leave, you know?”

  “You guys left right after me?” I ask.

  “Erin stayed, but me and Cheyenne left. That’s where we met up with these guys at the yogurt place. It was perfect because there were like two of them and like two of us. It totally worked out.”

  “Erin stayed?”

  “Her and Domenic totally hit it off. Which is cool, but I think Cheyenne might have liked him first. I’m not sure Erin really should have gone for him, you know? Anyways, she, like, waited around for him, and . . . well, you know, he never came back.”

  “Cheyenne liked him first?” I ask.

  “Oh, yeah. She met him the other day out in front. You know, of the coffeehouse?” Christina points toward the front of the coffeehouse. She waits for me to acknowledge. I nod. She continues, “She thought he was cool. He’s not all that hot, so I don’t know.” Christina still uses the word hot. She tends to drag the o out like a Canadian adolescent.

  “Yeah, he’s not that . . . hot.”

  “I guess Domenic and Erin went out again last night.”

  “Last night?”

  “Yeah, Erin called me first thing. She couldn’t call Cheyenne, could she?”

  “No. No, she sure couldn’t. I’d better get out there, you know Cole.” My stomach lurches.

  The rest of the day is a blur of downward spiraling and knocking my head against any hard surface. How could I have thought for one instant that Domenic would actually be interested in me? This is classic Maggie—falling so hard and falling so fast and never asking any serious questions. It’s me on the monkey bars again. I jump from an offhand glance in my direction to marriage and babies. I had convinced myself that Domenic had a “nervous energy” around me. Then I ran with the “nervous energy” idea and concocted whole scenarios about him liking me and the fantasy was born. In reality, he’s dating this Erin girl and we’re just friends . . . again.

  I should be spending my time finding someone more suitable for me. Someone more mature and ready to be in an adult relationship. Someone who is not already dating shredded-wheat-haired girls named Erin.

  Texas Steven.

  I could be spontaneous and call him right now, out of the blue. I’ll show Olivia and her fantasy theory and Domenic and his misleading nervous energy. It’s been months since we spoke, and Steven called me last. Why didn’t I think of this before? I don’t care what Kate says about Steven being a loser; I just don’t want to be waiting around when Domenic and Erin send out their wedding invitations.

  On the way home from work, I dig my cell phone out of the bottom of my purse. The battery is dead as usual. Why do I even have one of these things? I find the charger, plug the lifeless phone into the power outlet, and scroll through the saved phone numbers to find Texas Steven’s. Ahh, that’s why. A cell phone really is just an expensive address book.

  What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll have a harmless dinner or a meaningless drink with an old friend. No, the worst that can happen is I call this number and leave a funny, heartwarming message and never, ever get a call back. He would just never get around to it. Okay, back to the best that can happen. Sparks. Fireworks. Exploration. Slow dancing with my head on his chest in the city hall gardens under strands and strands of Italian café lights.

  “Hello?” Steven answers quickly.

  “Steven? It’s Maggie.” I hold the cell phone to my ear with my shoulder as I park in my assigned space.

  “Heeeeeeyyyyy.” His voice is warm and happy. That twang makes my knees weak every time.

  “What have you been doing with yourself these days?” Just being breezy.

  “I started another internship. This one is at a production office over in LA. Nothing big. What about you?”

  “I just moved into a fabulous little cottage,” I say, fumbling with the key to the front door.

  “What are you doing right now?” Besides being in my fabulous little cottage?

  “Nothing.” I need to stop saying the things that come naturally to me. I need to rethink every single word that comes out of my mouth. Nothing? You can’t say nothing. You’re burning CDs with hidden tracks and calling them albums. You’re in the middle of your book club and it’s your turn to discuss theme and symbolism. You’ve hired a stripper for the evening on a whim and he’s standing naked and aroused before you.

  “I was about to head out to a late movie. You up for something like that?”

  “What time?”

  “The movie starts at ten fifty. Can you get there in time?”

  “I’ll meet you out front.”

  We work out the details and as usual he signs off by saying, “Late.”

  “Okay, bye!” I beep my cell phone off and look at the shambles of my house, dishes and everything still in boxes. The only art I’ve hung up are my three favorite pieces over the fireplace. Everything else is blank. I think of Domenic moving all my furniture into this tiny space. He looked so right in this house. He played Rock, Paper, Scissors with Bella and never threw Scissors. What am I doing here? Why am I not calling Domenic and asking him to go to a movie? Why aren’t I lying to Domenic about strippers and book clubs? Because, I remind myself, he’s probably out with Erin again.

  I try to put together some kind of outfit. Have I gained or lost weight since I’ve last seen Steven? Who can really tell anymore? Have I gotten to the point where I’m so far from my Goal Weight that I’m now making deals with myself that I just won’t get any bigger? I put on a pair of linen pants and a white T-shirt. I grab a wine-colored cardigan as camouflage. I plan on feigning cold spells like I’m a fifty-year-old woman embarking on The Change throughout the night.

  I pull up to the theater parking lot and check the rearview mirror. I apply a little pink lip gloss, suck in my gut, and crawl out of my Fancy New Car. Steven is standing in front of the theater waiting. He stands out from the crowd. His golden hair has grown a bit sh
aggy since the last time I saw him. His eyes are squinty, and his smile makes them almost disappear. He is wearing cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a navy-blue, pocket T-shirt. Steven is the kind of guy every woman wants to have waiting for her outside a movie theater. He is naturally good-looking and has every bit of that Southern Charm. He smiles at passersby and holds doors open for women of all ages, whom he later addresses as “ma’am.”

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey, yourself,” Steven says.

  We hug, and I feel his arm nestle into my Area. At the midpoint of the hug, Steven’s arm has officially nestled. I can’t bear one more second and break the hug, smiling and checking my Area to get some kind of idea what Steven has just felt. Steven holds the back of my arm and leads me over to the theater line.

  “I bought your ticket. You ready to go on in?” Steven asks.

  His twang is barely there. If he could hold his vowels a little longer, deepen those R’s a little more like good Texas Boys love to do. I think I might not be able to breathe while watching such regional mouth contortions. Texas Steven motions for me to go through the turnstile first while he gives our tickets to the waiting theater worker. I panic. Walking in front of anyone is against my code. I walk quickly while maniacally making small talk to throw him off looking at my ass. Steven barely touches the small of my back as I pass through. Tingles?

  I buy a large diet soda. Steven passes on the concession stand. We walk to the theater and I already feel different. Texas Steven is exactly equivalent to Dr. Adam Farrell. He even has grown-up man hands. I think he mentioned he reads some kind of newspaper every morning. I think it’s the New York Times—which trumps the Washington Post, I’m sure. Proof enough. We’re early for the movie, so we have time to talk in the dimly lit theater.