by Liza Palmer
Domenic and I pull into the Nishikawa Auto Service parking lot near Fair Oaks Boulevard. The legendary Taco Truck is parked parallel with the street. The smell of the carne asada wafts into the car as we inch into the tiny parking space. The Taco Truck is famous for having the best chicken and steak tacos this side of the 101 freeway. There’s no sign to mark this truck; it’s simply a magically reappearing carriage of happiness for all who seek it. A small woman takes orders at the window. She’s fast and efficient. Domenic and I quickly get to the front of the line and order.
“Two chicken tacos and a large diet cola, please,” I say, and move aside for Domenic to order. I’m proud I didn’t order chips.
“Three carne asada tacos, please, and a regular cola,” Domenic orders.
“Okay, two chicken tacos, three carne asada tacos, a large diet cola, and a small regular cola?”
“Right,” he says.
“That’ll be five seventy-nine.” Domenic puts his body in front of mine and hands the girl a ten-dollar bill.
“Allow me,” he says. I giggle uncontrollably. I start choking on my own spit. Domenic pats me on my back and asks if I’m okay. I nod and try to get myself together.
“Let’s just get our food,” I finally wheeze.
The girl calls our number and sets my basket of two chicken tacos next to Domenic’s three carne asada. The cook walks out and asks, “Which one gets the large drink and which one gets the small?”
“El grande es para la gordita,” she says.
I stand there frozen. The man looks right at me and hands me the large diet soda.
Most of the Spanish I know is purely for survival. The word gordita is at the top of my list. Loosely translated, it means “little fat girl.” People have tried to convince me that it is actually a term of endearment—like describing someone as “cuddly” or “chubby”—but I don’t buy it.
I take the soda and stare at the man. How dare you pick me out of this crowd? How dare you look right at me and hand me this soda: the gordita’s soda. So I have this amazing epiphany about blue buckets. What if I didn’t act quickly enough, and this is the universe’s way of teaching me the hard way? What if I finally decide I’m not going to be invisible anymore, and right out of the gate someone starts shoving me back in? Fucking blue buckets. Solo was right. Stay away.
Maybe I’m not working as hard as I should to lose weight. For the love of God, I’m not actually doing anything at all except obsessing about how shitty it is to be fat. How many epiphanies is it going to take to finally get me to do something? I get why I eat. I get why I stay this way. Now I have to decide if I want to continue to live like this. Not because of this bitch calling me out tonight, but because of the way I’m living my life. Or rather, not living it.
Domenic and I find a seat on a nearby wall and balance our dinners on our laps. Sitting there on a tiny wall with a basket of unhealthy chicken tacos and my goddamn large soda mocking me from the ground, I finally get it. Peregrine and her huge, monster-size ego were right again. Those two seconds where she betrayed herself and lied to her grandparents is exactly how I live my life all the time. I constantly hide the person I really am under this disguise I’ve been wearing for far too long. Enough. Blue bucket my ass. This stops now.
“I forgot a straw,” I say. Domenic asks me to get him one, too. I stand and walk toward the window. I cut to the front of the line. It’s something I should have done fifteen years ago.
“Do you need napkins?” she asks.
“Napkins? No. I understand Spanish. I know what you said, la gordita?” I am pointing at her. My finger is so rigid it is arching upward.
“So?” she says.
“That’s fucked. You’re fucked. It’s fucked up to say that,” I say.
I grab two straws from the cup on the counter, give her the middle finger, and turn on my heel to walk past the line of people waiting for their food. My back straightens a little. Domenic is waiting at the wall completely oblivious to the entire goings-on. I approach him with a wide smile. The line continues to move as the girl takes orders. I have never stood up for myself. I’ve never made myself visible. My enemy has always had the ultimate weapon: They might call me fat. Or so I thought. I thought if I fought back the insults would multiply, and so would the insulters. But no one is laughing at me. No one gives the girl at the window high fives for calling a spade a spade. Instead, I said what I had to say. If I’d known this earlier, maybe I would have lived by another code.
But I know it now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
An Engraved Invitation
I have a picture of me when I was about four years old. I was standing on the top of a jungle gym on some playground smiling down at my mom as she snapped the picture. I’m wearing this teensy light blue dress with red knee-high socks and the ever-present navy-blue Vans. The older I get, the more I realize that this little girl knew more about me than I do now. So here it begins. I will find that jungle gym and start climbing. I have to believe that no one is going to point and laugh at me as I stand on top of it.
Back at home, I put on a random CD that’s not random at all and toss the chocolates Domenic gave me in the trash when he’s not looking. I feel like a filter has been peeled back on how I view life. The clarity I have tonight is unprecedented. Domenic plunks down on the couch, moving various pillows and decorative throws out of the way. Solo is sniffing and jittery, but she’s not barking. I think she’s taking to him. I ask if he wants something to drink. I even have a leftover bottle of white wine in the refrigerator from when Russell tried to teach me how to cook some kind of fancy chicken. I still can’t cook the chicken, but at least I’ve got this here wine. Domenic says the wine would be wonderful. I pour him a glass and one for me as well. I sit next to him on the couch.
It’s the reality of Domenic that gets me. The way our bodies and minds fit together in the simplest of ways. Long sentences twirling around a shared perspective. Complete ease with each other mixed with the awkward flutters of unknown goings-on. It’s nights like this that make those illogical jumps that much easier. I can see us curled up on the couch night after night in front of a crackling fire. His body makes my fantasy more real. There’s an odd familiarity about him. Like he’s the embodiment of someone I’ve been looking for even longer than I knew it was Domenic.
The hours roll by, and soon the clock reads a.m. We finished the bottle of wine hours ago. His arm is now resting on the back of the couch. His hand is inches from my shoulder. I keep itching my ankle because then I bend forward just enough to brush his fingers. In my mind, I’m throwing myself at him.
Even with all the epiphanies and blue-bucket moments of the night, I find myself uncomfortable and terrified. I’m good at being the fat, jolly sidekick. I’ve perfected that role. I have no idea how to be the ingenue and I certainly don’t think I could fit into any of her clothes.
“Can we talk about what you said earlier?” Domenic says as he puts our wineglasses in my kitchen sink. I panic and think he’s talking about my little run-in with the girl at the Taco Truck.
“What did I say earlier?” Domenic makes a face like I’m being coy. Trust me, I’m really just trying to clarify here.
“About Erin. You know, the party. The outfit. You know?” Oh.
“Yeah, what about it?”
“I felt bad that I left her at the party, you know? So . . . but you don’t even know why I was at the party with her in the first place. Right. I don’t know. She is a cool girl, but . . . I just . . .” But? But? Solo puts her head on Domenic’s lap, and he begins to pet her.
“But what?” I calmly ask. Once again, I relegate myself to prying friend. I am oddly comforted.
“Christina set us up that night at Peregrine’s birthday party. She seemed like a nice girl. Her friends were idiots, but she seemed like she had her head on straight.”
We’re silent once again. Solo is nudging Domenic to pet her. I wonder what he’d do if I crawled over and put my he
ad in his crotch, too.
“Sometimes . . . it’s just easier, you know, when you know for sure how someone feels. Does that make sense?” Domenic looks up.
“Don’t you think bringing another girl to a party would send a pretty clear message?” I want him to rise above the ranks of Target Practice. If he really wants to be with me, I have to believe I’m worth getting outside his comfort zone. Lord knows, I’m way the fuck out of mine.
“Do you still have the CD I gave you?” Domenic asks.
“Yes.”
“Did you listen to the whole thing?”
“Yes.”
If I don’t pass out in the next couple seconds, I’ll be shocked. Domenic stays silent. Should I mention the hidden track? Should I mention that night? No.
“I’d better get going.” Domenic quickly stands and pats his pockets for his keys. My heart chokes.
“There’s this internship,” I blurt.
“What?” Domenic pulls his keys from his pocket.
“The Getty is restoring this sculpture of Marcus Aurelius from AD ninety-five, and they need a gap filler and an in-painter. Do you know what that is?” I ask.
“Yeah . . . yeah. You do that?” Domenic puts his hands and his keys in his pockets.
“I have a master’s in museum studies with a focus on the conservation end. It just clicked. My sister discovered this internship at the Getty. I’m going on an interview this Monday.” I can’t look at him. If you lean over and kiss me right now, Domenic Brown, I swear I would kiss you back.
“You’ll do great.” Domenic smiles and walks toward the door. I walk behind him.
“I had fun tonight.” Domenic looks over at me. I feel tingles all over my body. It’s frightening and new but I could definitely get used to it. Shit, if I can handle Sam . . .
“Me, too. See you later?” I can feel the sadness already crawling up my throat. He’s leaving.
“Well . . .” Domenic leans in and gives me a full two-armed hug. I breathe in. I don’t think about anything, I just hug back. I can feel every inch of our bodies together—not one of those LA hugs where you look like a couple of conjoined twins who are connected at the shoulders. I nestle my head in the crook of his neck. He’s warm yet there’s something so . . . hot about him. It’s that thing. The carnal connection you have with someone that can’t be explained. There it is. He squeezes me tighter . . . tighter. I reach up and feel the hair on the back of his head. It’s so soft. The flips of black hair. Can I reach up and bite them? Time is lost. But I pull away first. I can’t bring myself to be pulled away from.
The next day I call the local gym and ask to speak with the next available trainer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Could Eric Gagne Save Me, Too?
I have forgotten who I am. It’s that simple. I have forgotten what it feels like to be me. I just tasted the real me—the girl who stood on that climbing structure in the teensy, light blue dress with red socks and blue Vans tennis shoes. This apologetic, mediocre substitute is growing increasingly tiresome.
“If Olivia doesn’t want to register anywhere, give me that consideration, then I won’t show her any, either,” Kate announces at EuroPane before my big Getty outing.
I’ve confirmed my meeting with Ms. Beverly Urban and already faxed her my résumé. I’ve put another copy of it in a classy navy-blue folder along with recommendations from my professors and the museum curators I worked for in the last year of my master’s. I put pictures of all my restorations, awards, and commendations in a photo album. I also included photos of my final project for my master’s—a sculpture of a woman with a pitcher. When it first got to my corner of the studio, it was a woman, an arm, and a pitcher. My adhesions were so perfect that she is now the centerpiece of a private gallery in Pacific Heights. I’m nervous, but excited. I feel like I just got strapped into a roller coaster and we’re climbing that first big hill. I hear the clicks beneath my chair, but I can’t keep myself from looking down.
“You could think about what Olivia and Adam would want, not what some little radar gun picks for them,” I say, sipping my coffee and playing tic-tac-toe with Emily. Bella is peeling the outside of her cinnamon roll off and licking just the cream. If only all of us could do that . . .
“Registering is not just about being greedy with the radar gun,” Kate says.
“Guns are bad,” Emily says.
“I know, sweetie. This gun isn’t really a gun, it’s like a little laser that remembers what presents you would like people to give you when you get married,” I say as my stomach flutters around.
“Oh.” Emily has managed to squeeze in an extra turn during my guns-are-bad discourse. I have been bested. She writes a big E over our game and draws another tic-tac-toe grid. I sip my coffee and pick at a strawberry. The days are closing in fast until Mom and I have to walk into the gym and let some strange man named Gabriel “train” us. Mom has decided to join me on my path to freedom. She says she doesn’t like how weak she feels now that she’s a woman of a “certain age.” I picture some medieval torture device that pulls your shirt up over your Area while this Gabriel clown makes you do it ten times for three sets. Of course, there are mirrors everywhere and the entire gym is staring at you. One blue bucket at a time.
“It’s not about being greedy. What about your grandmother and great-aunt way back in Margate, New Jersey? They haven’t seen you since you were ten years old, but they want to get you something nice. Something they know you’ll not only like, but also need. That’s where the consideration thing comes in,” Mom explains.
“And maybe thinking about someone besides themselves,” Kate adds.
Kate hasn’t been a big fan of Olivia’s for a while. Always the protective older sister, she has been around for too many months without calls or visits and too many hurt feelings. In Kate’s mind, Olivia has not stood the test of time. She thinks Olivia has become snobby, arrogant, and ever more neglectful of her devoted childhood friend. I wonder where she would get that idea?
When I heard that Olivia was marrying her first boyfriend and having the fairy-tale wedding we had always dreamed of, I was ecstatic. I told and retold the romantic proposal story to all who would listen and shared in the happiness of Olivia’s family and friends. But a part of me felt I knew a secret. Adam and Olivia weren’t this perfect couple. On the contrary, Olivia was marrying a man who could never give her enough and never make room for her properly. Dr. Adam Farrell is the third man Olivia loved but the only man to know Olivia existed. Since she never had an actual conversation with Ben Dunn or Shane Presky, Dr. Adam Farrell is the sole manifestation of her lifelong fantasy.
Olivia asked me to be her maid of honor at El Coyote on that infamous “Napkin Night.” Maybe I felt it was finally my turn to cash in all those neglected friendship chips. When I felt myself growing apart from Olivia, I selfishly wanted to stick around because I hadn’t had my trophy moment yet. Olivia’s wedding would be just as much my moment as hers. Our friendship had turned into a souvenir book filled with history and cool childhood-friend stories that we trotted out at parties. It was the envy of all our new acquaintances. It was like an old set of company china—carefully set out to be viewed and shown off, but no one actually eats off it. The friendship hadn’t been functional for some time.
I knew this truth in the dark of the night. I tried to think around it or rationalize it. Surely this lack of communication could be explained away as a horrible side effect of our busy lives. We were the perfect friends. We sound like each other. Our mannerisms, our inflection—we finish each other’s sentences. I see it in the faces of people around us. They need us to stay friends because it makes them believe in friendships that last a lifetime. Am I fighting the good fight to remain Olivia’s best friend or am I just, once again, afraid of being alone?
I went to Washington, DC, the summer after Adam proposed to Olivia at the Washington Monument. I purposely chose a weekend Adam was going to be at a cardiology symposium in Flags
taff, Arizona. While I understand that the significant other comes first when you’re in a relationship, I always felt I was intruding on Adam and Olivia’s time together. So I made the trip when I thought Olivia and I could have some time alone.
I called Olivia from Dulles Airport, a little drunk and a lot hysterical from the bumpy flight. She wasn’t at the gate as we had arranged, and I became concerned. I had forgotten my cell phone, so I called Olivia from a pay phone by baggage claim. When she finally answered, she announced excitedly that Adam hadn’t gone to the symposium after all and, wasn’t it great, we could all hang out for the weekend together. There went my plans for some time alone with Olivia.
Worse yet, she had apparently forgotten that she had promised to meet me at the airport and drive me into DC. Instead, she asked me to meet them later at a bar near their apartment for drinks and dinner. She made a pathetic effort to make this right by offering to pay for the airport shuttle.
As I hung up the sticky, greasy pay phone at Dulles, I knew the elephant in the living room could no longer be ignored: Our friendship was in trouble. I stopped and browsed in the tiny airport bookstore, picking up several magazines for my weekend with the happy couple. I then bought myself a draft beer and watched the tail end of a Dodger game on one of the million televisions in the bar—holding the cheers back as Eric Gagne saved another one. Looking back, I should’ve gotten right back on the plane and flown home.
The airport shuttle took a detour through Virginia, and after approximately three hours cramped in a tiny van, I finally arrived at the bar. Olivia and Adam had long since finished dinner and were now nursing their glasses of red wine. Adam was still in his scrubs from the hospital and looked exhausted. Olivia looked upset and stressed. I sat down across from them as a waiter handed me a menu.
