Plus

by Veronica Chambers

  “Nah, I never drink that diet stuff,” she said.

  I thought, Of course not. Consuela was curvy but curvy thin, like Salma Hayek, which I think is the cruelest anatomical joke of all. How can someone have boobs and hips like Jessica Simpson and still fit into a size-six dress? It’s like all the fat cells in their bodies automatically mutate to the right places.

  “I came by because I’m going salsa dancing at the Copa. Want to come?”

  “Uh, no,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  What I should have said was, “Because you’re a crazy stalker girl.” But instead, I replied, “It’s Tuesday night; I’ve got to study.”

  “Well, just come for an hour. It would be good for you to get out.”

  “I just ordered Chinese food.”

  “MSG, baby. It’ll keep.”

  “Why are you being so insistent?”

  “Because I told you, we should be friends.”

  “But you didn’t tell me why.”

  “Just a feeling.”

  The doorbell rang, then rang again. Definitely Dewei. I buzzed him in.

  Consuela looked at me and said, “You know, this is New York, snowflake. You should really ask who is it before you buzz somebody in.”

  I opened the door and breathed a sigh of relief again that it wasn’t an ax murderer.

  Dewei said, “Oh, tonight, you have company. It’s very good for Bee to make friends.”

  Consuela raised an eyebrow.

  I paid Dewei with Dad’s credit card and signed the receipt. It was all I could do not to stiff him on his tip. Nice of him to let Consuela know that I had no friends and ordered in every night.

  The minute he was out the door, Consuela stood up. “Even the delivery guy knows how sad and pathetic you are. You’re definitely coming with me. Let’s go look at your clothes.”

  “I haven’t had any dinner. I’m hungry, Consuela,” I said. I was whining like a baby, but I didn’t care.

  “First of all, everyone calls me Chela,” she said. She took the bag of food away from me and looked inside. “You can’t be this damn hungry,” she said. She handed me an egg roll and left the rest of the food on the counter. “Eat this,” she said.

  “So now you’re putting me on a diet?”

  “Nah, Bee,” Chela said. “I’m putting you on the clock. Ladies get in free before nine p.m., so we gotta roll. Where’s your closet?”

  I showed her.

  She decisively reached for a black tank top and a red skirt. “Put these on,” she said, tossing them at me. “You got some black pumps?”

  I nodded.

  “Good.”

  An hour later, we were on the dance floor. Chela said the old guys were the best ones to dance with and quickly found us a pair of grandpas. I was a little dubious of the five-foot-two man in the immaculately pressed black suit, but the minute we started dancing, he put one arm on my shoulder, one arm on the small of my back, and that was it. He made it seem like I’d been dancing salsa my entire life.

  “Just follow me, cariña,” he said. “ I’ll take good care of you.”

  We danced song after song until my forehead and back were dripping with sweat.

  A couple of times, Chela caught my eye and winked at me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had so much fun. But I also couldn’t shake the fact that we’d both gone out with Brian and now we were hanging out. What was up with that? I didn’t know exactly, but I knew that going out dancing was much better for my head and my hips than sitting at home crying about Brian and eating like there was no tomorrow.

  The next day, I met Aunt Zo for a quick dinner at Joe Allen’s. It was Wednesday, so she had a matinee performance that ended at five, then another performance at eight. I told her about how Consuela had come to my apartment and insisted that I go dancing with her. I told her about Adán, the old geezer that I danced with all night. And I told her how Consuela had been there when Brian told me off in the dining room and how she kept insisting that we be friends.

  “Why is she so interested in me?”

  Zo shrugged. “You’re bright, you’re beautiful. You’re interesting.”

  “Spoken like a true auntie. I mean really, what’s her angle?”

  Zo said, “You know who you sound like right now, don’t you?”

  “Who?”

  “Your mom.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “This is one of those moments, Bee,” Zo said. “When you decide whether you’re going to go through life with an open hand or a closed fist. What your mom did was look around and say, This is my life, this is everything I’ve got, and I’m going to hold on for dear life. She holds on tight to everything she loves—me, you, your dad—but she doesn’t realize that she’s got a closed fist. Nothing can get out, but nothing can get in either. If you have an open hand, then people are going to take from you. People like Brian. But if you keep your hand open, it also means that people can give to you. People like Consuela. It’s up to you.”

  Friday night, Chela and I hit the Copa again. She was dancing with a guy named Alejandro. He was cute, baby faced, dressed in a suit—which was kind of a nice touch, since most of the younger guys just wear slacks and button-down shirts. The guy I was with dancing told me his name was Quintan. He didn’t speak a lot of English, he just kept whispering in my ear about how he wanted to “toca su guitara.” When we left, Chela and Alejandro exchanged numbers. But I told Quintan that I didn’t have one. A lame lie, but he got the picture.

  Walking down Thirty-fourth Street to the subway, I asked Chela what “toca la guitara” meant.

  She burst out laughing. “Is that what he said? Oh, Quintan had game!”

  She explained that a woman’s body, especially one like mine, is shaped like a guitar. She made an outline with her hands. Toca means “to play.”

  “He wanted to play your guitar, chica,” Chela said mischievously. “You know, that may be the way to get over Lyin’ Brian once and for all.”

  “How’s that?”

  “There’s an expression in Spanish: un clavo saco otro clavo.”

  “Meaning?”

  “One nail takes out another.” She made a slightly lewd gesture.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “You know, the best the way to get over someone is to get under someone.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s not happening,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ve got the goodies on lockdown till I graduate from med school.”

  Chela stopped in her tracks. “You’re going to med school?”

  “Well, not if I don’t get it together on the grades front. But that’s the plan.”

  Chela stood on the corner of Thirty-fourth and Eighth and smiled. “I’m going to med school.”

  “Get out!” I said, punching her on the arm.

  “No, you get out!” she said.

  We went back and forth with our “get outs!” for about five minutes.

  We’d never actually talked about school. So far, our conversations had been limited to Brian, boys, and salsa dancing.

  “I’m going to be an ob-gyn,” Chela said.

  I was impressed. “I want to be a pediatrician.”

  “I’ll birth ’em. You’ll keep ’em healthy,” she said. “I told you we should be friends.”

  And just to prove that the stars were perfectly aligned, even though it was after midnight, we didn’t have to wait two minutes before a number-one local train came pulling into the subway station and we were on our way home.

  On the subway, Chela turned to me and said, “Bee, I know it seems like I’m cool with the Brian stuff now. But when I found out he was cheating on me freshman year with some girl who worked at Beyond Borders, I nearly lost it big time. But I have to tell you, Brian’s a boomerang. You can throw him away, but he always swings back. When he’s between girlfriends, he’ll call you because he can’t bear to be by himself.”

  I was fighting to keep this stupid grin
from creeping up on my face. Brian might actually call me? I might have a second chance at getting things right? I was so happy,

  I could’ve started doing the chacha right there in the subway car.

  Luckily Chela didn’t seem to notice. “He’ll come back when he’s bored or lonely, but he’ll only dump you again, and trust me, it’s going to hurt even more the second time.”

  I nodded. He wouldn’t dump me again. The next time I went out with Brian, I’d know just what to say and do and wear. I was going to win him back, and this time, it was going to be for real. He was everything I wanted: someone cute, smart, who cared about the world and was going to make a difference. He hadn’t cheated on me like he cheated on Chela. He’d broken up with me because I’d been too immature. It was on me, not him.

  “You know what they say, Bee,” Chela said. “Men come and go, but homegirls are forever.”

  Is that what they say? Or is that what girls who’ve been dumped tell themselves so that they feel better?

  “Let’s make a pact,” Chela said, putting out her pinky finger. “We won’t have anything to do with Lyin’ Brian ever, ever again.”

  I reluctantly hooked pinky fingers with Chela. Then I very subtly crossed my legs at the ankles so that God would know that I didn’t really mean it. I liked Chela. Ever since I got to college, I’d been hoping to meet a friend like her: someone pretty and smart and fun that I could do crazy stuff like salsa dance with. But I also wanted Brian back in the worst way. I’d have to figure out some way to stay friends with her and be with Brian. Like Aunt Zo says, it’s all a question of getting my timing right.

  7

  Are You Kidding Bee ?

  Chela and I started meeting for lunch almost every day. She worked part time at Balthazar, so we usually met downtown. That was cool with me: the farther away from Brian I was, the better. I was waiting for Chela at the Dean and DeLuca on Broadway and Prince when I saw this woman coming up to the counter. She was super-cool looking, around forty, wearing a pink shearling coat, diamond-studded heels, and skinny dark blue jeans.

  “I’m sorry, I’m saving this seat for somebody,” I said.

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you look a little like Savannah Hughes?”

  She had this really fancy British accent, and even though I’d never heard the queen of England speak, I wouldn’t be surprised if it sounded exactly like that.

  I rolled my eyes. Yeah, right. Savannah Hughes was a big-time model, a supe. She used to be really skinny, then she almost went into cardiac arrest on diet pills and did the whole talk show circuit about her eating disorder. A year later, she was back in the game as a plus-size model. She still got all the same bookings as before: Glamour, Lucky, Domino. I’ve got dark hair and full lips, but I look nothing, I mean nothing, like Savannah Hughes. That’s like saying Rosie O’Donnell and Demi Moore look alike ’cause they have the same coloring.

  But the woman wasn’t going away. “Have you ever modeled before?”

  I looked down at my chocolate chip muffin and subconsciously sucked in my stomach—no luck there. I was past the point of sucking my stomach in, unless there was a lipo hose involved. Who was this woman? And where did she get off making fun of slightly chubby girls?

  “Look,” she said, taking my silence for a no. “I’m a modeling agent, and I’m looking for a plus-size girl to star in the new Prada campaign.” I didn’t know what to think. It seemed like those words—plus size—was just hanging in the air like a flag made up of granny panties.

  “It’s a great campaign, very Sofia Loren meets Roman Holiday. Are you Italian?”

  I shook my head no.

  “Can you ride a scooter?”

  I shook my head no.

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re perfect for it. Call me, today. I’ve got to get this booked by Friday. Here’s my card.”

  She handed me a card. Leslie Chesterfield, creative director, Chesterfield Modeling Agency. A phone number and an address on Bleecker. Then she walked out, and I still wasn’t sure whether or not I’d just met my fairy godmother or I was being punked.

  I was staring into space, trying to figure it out, when Chela came bursting through the door.

  I handed her the card and said, “You’ll never believe what just happened to me.”

  What I wanted to do was take the subway all the way up to 116th St, lock the door of my room, and call Brian. Wouldn’t he want me back in two seconds if he found out that some modeling agent wanted to hire me and had compared me to Savannah Hughes? I was just about to call him and try to drop the modeling news into the conversation ever so slightly when Chela showed up.

  I love Chela, but it kind of sucks not being able to talk to her about Brian. It’s like God is punishing me by giving me the coolest best friend but to keep the friendship, I can’t go anywhere near the guy I’m still in love with. I think the Latin term for this is damnera ifae doit, damnera ifae dontas.

  “She’s right around the corner, Bee,” Chela said. “Let’s just call her and see if she can see you now.”

  I shivered involuntarily. “Maybe I should go to Bergdorf’s and get my makeup done first. Or maybe I should run a few laps over to the Chelsea Piers, see if I could lose a few ounces first.”

  Chela wasn’t having it. “She knows what you look like, and she knows what size you are. She thinks you’re gorgeous, or she wouldn’t have given you her card.”

  “At least let me run into Zara and get something cute to put on,” I said.

  Chela shook her head. “You look cute. Like Nanook of the North.”

  I was wearing this Inuit parka that my mother had gotten me at some global village conference, jeans, and a pair of Ugg boots. I debated taking off my hand-beaded Navajo earrings, but I wasn’t sure it would actually make a difference. I was so nervous. It had all of a sudden occurred to me that if I got an honest-to-goodness modeling gig, Brian might actually take me back.

  “At least let me run into Duane Reade and get some Chapstick. My lips are all cracked up from the cold,” I begged Chela.

  She reached into her bag and handed me her lip gloss. “Lip gloss is always cute on you.”

  I was about to say something about it not being hygienic, but I thought, What the hell?

  I was staring out on Broadway when I noticed that Chela was on her cell phone.

  “Hello, may I speak to Leslie? This is Bee Wilson; she gave me her card at Dean and DeLuca.”

  I tried to grab the phone, but she shooed me away.

  “Okay, I’ll be there in an hour. Should I wear anything special?”

  Chela was quiet for a second.

  “Okay. I’ll see you then.” She hung up the phone.

  It was just like Chela to pretend to be me.

  “What the duck?” I said, half mad and half relieved that she was taking charge.

  Chela said that at her Catholic high school, all the girls said “What the duck?” instead of the word that rhymed with it. I thought it was so funny that I had started copying her.

  “Come on, Bee,” Chela said, with a big grin on her face. “Stop tripping.”

  “But you were pretending to be me.”

  “And? She just met you. She doesn’t know your voice.”

  I simmered down. She was, of course, right.

  “So what did she say?” I asked.

  “You’ve got an appointment in an hour. No makeup, no new clothes. Just come as you are.”

  “An hour. That’s plenty of time for me to at least get some cute shoes.”

  Chela looked more ready for a modeling shoot than

  I did. She was wearing this cool rasta cap, and her jet-black curls tumbled out from underneath the cap just so. She had on a black ski jacket, skinny stovepipe jeans, and cool motorcycle boots. She looked at me and said, “I’m going to give you some advice and one day, when you’re a rich and famous doctor/model/whatever, you’re going to thank me. Do you. That’s the only way you’re going to get anywhere, be anybody, do anything.
Don’t worry about everybody else, just do you.”

  It was good advice. The only problem was, how could I “do me” if I didn’t even know who that was?

  An hour later we walked into Leslie’s office, and it was like walking into one of those fun house mirrors you see at the county fair. Every girl in there looked like me—some were fatter, some were skinnier, some were taller, and some were shorter. But we were all variations on the theme: vaguely ethnic-looking, pleasantly plump white girls with long dark hair.

  “Do me?” I whispered to Chela.

  “Just do you.”

  I walked over to the receptionist, who was this East Village punk girl looking like the entire scene just bored her to pieces.

  “Um, I’m Bee Wilson.”

  She nodded and wrote my name down. “Take a seat in the corner.”

  So I did, and for an hour and a half, Chela and I just sat there as each girl was called into the back office, stayed for about ten minutes, and then walked back out.

  I watched their expressions, and I began to feel like something terrible must be happening in that back room. One or two of the girls walked out with a big smile on their faces, but most of the girls looked devastated afterward, as if they were trying not to cry.

  I almost dashed out a dozen times. If Chela hadn’t been there, I would’ve never stuck it out. But she kept me entertained with stories about her new guy, Alejandro.

  “So did I tell you that he’s been painting my portrait?” she said.

  “That is so friggin’ romantic I could scream,” I said.

  She grinned. “I guess I’m a model too. Except when I pose for Alejandro, I have on a little less clothing than I do now.”

  I raised an eyebrow; I’ve been practicing how to do it since I was twelve. But it wasn’t until I got to college that it started coming in handy.

  “What does ‘a little less’ mean?” I asked.

  “How about none?” Chela giggled.

  “Get out!” I said it so loud that the snooty receptionist gave me a dirty look. Another girl exited the torture chamber, and then the receptionist called my name.