Teenage Waistland

by Lynn Biederman

  Jen’s smirk melts and she looks down at her fresh French manicure and slowly shakes her head as she shrugs.

  “I’ve always been uncomfortable in social activities involving food—except now I’m involved in more social situations than I was before. I still order as much food as everyone else and I mostly push the food around on my plate. Still, it’s a little uncomfortable and weird to not be able to even pick at your plate ‘normally.’ And until I lost half my body, everyone probably assumed I must be bingeing at home. Like most addicts, I’ve always tried to hide my addiction, so hiding the fact that I have a Lap-Band, well—I’m still a professional hider.” Everyone’s staring at Jen, riveted—even me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so vulnerable before. Bitsy’s nodding her head slowly. Jen’s still examining her nails when there’s a rap on the door and someone unmistakably related to Geek Olive sticks a neckless head in.

  “I’m sorry—it’s past six and we need—”

  “Oh! I’m so sorry!” Bitsy says, all flustered. “We’re out of time, everyone. Let’s thank Jennifer for sharing her Lap-Band experience with us, and remember—holiday or not, keep up with your food diaries.”

  Jen leans against my shoulder and whispers, “Saved by the beach ball.”

  “C’mon, let’s blow this Popsicle stand before everyone starts asking for your autograph,” I whisper back as everyone gets up. “Where’s this friend of yours who drove you all the way from Boston?”

  “Oh, that’s Tom,” Jen giggles in this suddenly alien, vomity, girly voice. “He just dropped me off and went back home.” I stare at the tiny miniskirted girl with the breast implants and puffed-up lips who’s now engulfed in a crowd of fawning fatties, and I’ve never felt more alone in my entire life—this isn’t my Jen. It’s a complete stranger.

  The crowd evaporates toward the door and Jen emerges with her trademark WTF eye roll. “If that’s Rich Ronny’s limo I saw out front, we’d better hustle,” a familiar voice says sharply. “That girl just invited me to her quince party. Get me out of here before someone asks me to marry them.” And just like that, the world goes back to normal.

  Jen’s telling me about her new fitness column in the Fuller Review and rifling through the minibar when Carlo turns right on Seventy-second Street instead of left.

  “Shoot me now!” I moan, and slump down into my seat. Jen whips out her finger gun and fires a round off at my head. “Maybe he just took a wrong turn,” I say, then undo my seat belt and hop across the limo and rap on Carlo’s window—just as he pulls in front of Gran’s apartment building. “Ugh!” I scream. Jen fakes terror and grabs a bottle of Dewar’s and pretends to suck it down.

  “Oh my God—remember that time your gran came with us to the Cape that weekend? The three of us were crammed in the backseat of your dad’s Saab—her in the middle—and she kept telling me what a pretty face I had? Like for the whole ride?”

  “Yeah,” I mutter. “Granspeak for ‘You’re a fat slob, Jen.’ ”

  “Not the subtlest person I ever met. Must be where you get it from.” Jen laughs, and I lean over and whack her.

  “Well, at least you won’t be in the hot seat this time.” I hop back to Jen’s side of the limo and buckle up as Carlo opens the door for Gran—and her luggage. The whole weekend? Jen and I glance at each other as Gran daintily steps into the car and gently seats herself in the middle seat across from us.

  “Oh my goodness, Jenny! Every time I see you, you get more and more beautiful,” she rasps, and puts out her cheek for Jen to air-kiss. I’m thumbing through my idiot food diary as if it’s my favorite novel.

  “Hello, darling,” Gran says to me expectantly, but I don’t do air-kisses and her lipstick is the kind that stays on the victim’s cheek, not on her artificially plumped lips. She quickly turns her attention back to Jen. “You must be fighting them off with a stick,” she says, shaking her head admiringly. Jen freaking blushes.

  “Well, I have to say, Mrs. Lipsky—there are a couple of guys …” Jen says a little too giddily—she’s inviting conversation rather than our standard whatever it takes to shut that woman down.

  “Jen and I were just talking about the new column she’s been invited to write for our—her—school paper,” I try, but it’s more to myself than anyone. Jen is already gushing on about her new Boston–to–New York shuttle guy, and when she realizes I’m not listening, she gives her attention completely to Gran, and I throw myself back into my food diary for the duration.

  Jen shows up in my room at least fifteen minutes after we get home—long enough for me to curl up on my bed and pretend to be absorbed in a random book from the top of my library pile. “What’s with you, girl? I have to say hello to your family, don’t I?” She drops her bag on the floor and jumps onto the bed with me. “You know, you’re going to be a lot happier once you lose weight, Marce.”

  “Really? Will I be getting all sorts of cosmetic surgery too? Because then I’ll be extra extra happy, right? Just like you.”

  Jen elbows me and sighs. “I like feeling good about myself for a change.”

  “But Jen, if you feel the need for plastic surgery on top of being thin, how good about yourself can you really feel?”

  “Okay, Marcie, I’ll tell you what happened, and then we’re going to drop it, because your attempt at dime-store psychology pretty much sucks. When I lost all the weight, I had lots of extra skin that had to be removed. So, while I was under anesthesia, I had a couple of other things done too. Anybody would.” My mouth flies open. I turn over to lift the bottom of Jen’s shirt to look for scars, but she slaps my hand and I turn away from her again.

  “You know, Jen,” I mutter, “kids typically don’t need excess skin removed after major weight loss, because their skin is more elastic than adults’ and it bounces back in time. I guess you just couldn’t wait. And that’s why you didn’t bother to tell me.”

  “You’ll understand when you get here.” Jen sighs. “It feels nice, not being angry at the world anymore. The world, like your grandmother, is nicer to me—fair or not fair. Everyone just treats me differently now, and so I treat them differently. You’ll see. Soon enough, we’ll both be giggling about boys—and deconstructing the universe as usual. Starting when we’re roommates at Harvard and ending when, well, when we’re way past your crazy grandmother’s age.” Jen leans her head against mine on my pillow and we lie like this until Abby calls us down to dinner.

  11

  Filling Boxes

  Sunday, July 5, 2009

  Bobby (−0 lbs)

  Syosset clears out for the summer. Kids do teen tours, work at sleepaway camps, and take classes on college campuses. I don’t do stuff like this. My parents would let me and all. I just don’t like the idea of living with other kids. I’ve never liked sleepovers, even at Zoo’s, where we mostly hang out. Up until a few of us got our driver’s license, I was the only one who didn’t crash at his palace. But Dad was cool about picking me up late. Usually about the same time Zoo would buzz Oswaldo on his intercom and order more fettuccine Alfredo or O’s signature taquitos. “Rápido, dude!” Zoo would yell. He’s not a jerk, though. It’s just the way he’s grown up. Zoo’s parents are like billionaires or something; his dad is some international financial whiz. So O is like their cook and he thinks we have this special fat-guy bond.

  A couple of years ago, when I was waiting in the front hall for Dad to pick me up, the guys were watching Ali G reruns and O was bringing down this sick platter of dessert. He went back to the kitchen and handed me a wrapped paper plate to go.

  “For you, my friend,” he said. “Not as bueno as my panqueques, but you no here in the morning. Yo comprendo, my friend. I understand,” he said.

  “Understand qué?”

  “The big man,” he went on in his funny Spanglish, neck jiggling. “Our secreto. You no like it to fart in front of the other niños.” My dad beeped and I nodded and rushed the hell out of there. Oswaldo, my fat compadre. He was right, though. Is r
ight. I don’t puff. Even when they all do. MT and Craig are insanely proud of their output, and we all laugh about it. I deny holding mine back, but I do. Because I wouldn’t be like them. I wouldn’t be Refrigerator-Man with my brand. Just a fat kid farting toxic fat-kid farts. Same reason I don’t munch out mad in front of the guys. I’d never even eat a chip in front of a girl.

  The guys took bets on whether MT or me would lose our V-cards. It’s our summer assignment. Zoo says his money is on MT. As Craighead rightly said, if an ugly bastard like him could get with a girl, anyone could. He may have acne, but it’s not the same as fat. Not many of my boys took me, the fat horse, to place first. MT went on a Fire and Ice Alaska-Hawaii teen tour. That’s why they all said odds were in his favor—the only ass I’ll be scoping this summer, they said, will be hairy butt cracks at the lumberyard. Still, I don’t think it’s just the lack-of-opportunity thing.

  Anyway, MT wrote on my Facebook wall yesterday: How’s the wood, dude? 26 girls and 18 guys here and the babes are ripe. Get your blubbery butt on a plane. Operation Seminal Summer already has a target. His message sent me diving into a gallon of Edy’s cherry vanilla. “The only cherry you’ll get,” Zoo would say, and he’s probably right. I’m lying in bed even though it’s already after noon. Even though it’s barely the second week of summer break, I have homework—this annoying piece of paper with all these boxes I have to fill in for the next six days.

  “Preoperative homework” is what Betsy Glass calls it. I have to fill in squares. Write down what I eat for each meal and snack. The way the sheet is set up is stupid. Their expectation is that you’ll have three meals, with two snacks in between. Six boxes. Like it’s only six times you’re eating. If whoever designed this had a clue, they’d put it in a database format where you could add spaces for breakfast, snack, snack, snack, lunch, snack, snack, dinner, and a string of snacks up until around midnight. It’s not like the trial is for people who have gland problems—they’re regular fat kids like me. All girls too, except for that one dweeby guy who wears shirts buttoned up to his neck. After the first group session at Chow Fun House (a sloppy greasefest Char suggested we not record in any of our food boxes), this girl Marcie said he reminds her of a big olive. Like his head is the pimiento peering out of his soft round body. If Char hadn’t convinced me to join them, these seven fat girls—Ms. Lip Ring and Geek Olive didn’t come—might have been talking about the friggin’ moobies poking out of my jersey.

  But Char’s this mad funny blond chick, even if she’s as big as a John Deere. She whispered that she and her friend ate a whole box of Cap’n Crunch on the train into the city. On the way to group! The surgery idea was hers, she said. She made her friend, East, sign up for it with her. I don’t think she had to work it much—the chick clings to her like a barnacle and doesn’t say a thing. That Char can talk, though! First, she tells me she’s the type who will try anything. “I’m not just talking food either,” she says, and flicks my arm. She said there was once this guy she partied with a lot, but now she’s basically straight-edge. But in case I was thinking otherwise, she could most definitely Captain Morgan me under any table. Next, she’s rambling about this bratty five-year-old girl she babysat for until the perv father, who finally gave up hitting on her, came up with some phony story about missing weed, so now she has like nothing to do all summer. This went down in the time it took the busload of girls to take a leak and her barnacle friend to make a call and scurry back to her side. But I can’t for the life of me see any normal guy hitting on Char, not even with those mammoth boobs flying in every direction whenever she laughs. Which is like most of the time.

  So at group, Betsy said I’m what you’d call a grazer—I’m always at the trough, even between regular feeding times. We’ll all have to share more about our eating choices and behaviors next session with these sheets. So each time I eat anything I’m supposed to rate my degree of hunger on a scale of one to ten, then fill out New Behavior Practiced and Reaction & Feelings—the last two columns on the page. For every bite. This is not the kind of information I want people to know about me, not that I care what a herd of fat girls and one Geek Olive think. All of this stupid crap is killing my appetite anyway. And using these sheets is pathetic. Scary that doctors can still be in the dark ages when it comes to computer technology.

  I go to MT’s wall on Facebook before shutting my laptop and rolling over. I like my profile photo. In uniform, all padded up, I look more big than fat. Tough lineman. Not like some pussy keeping track of a leaf of lettuce.

  My WOOD is good! Solid top-grade hardwood, Pencildick. Just b/c girls are ripe over there doesn’t mean you’ll be picking any fruit. And dude, I’m mapping my options out here too. Gonna be filling in a lot of boxes, I write, knowing the guys would never think I’m talking about damn homework sheets.

  Maybe a miracle will happen and a giant vacuum will come under these covers and suck off my boobs and fat butt. Maybe I’ll fall back to sleep, into the dream I was having of fooling around with this girl Roxy. Yeah. That would be a dream assignment.

  12

  Teenage Waistland

  Friday, July 10, 2009

  East (−5 lbs); Char (−3 lbs)

  Char notices my shirt immediately. “Whoa! Is this a non-Shroudity?”

  “Whaaat?”

  “ ‘Whaaat?’ You insult me. You bought clothes without me.” Char steps back to take me in.

  “You’re being ridiculous. It’s nothing, from the Gap.”

  “Yeah? When’d’ya get it, then?”

  “I don’t know. A while ago?” I tell her. I bought it online yesterday and had it overnighted, but what does it matter when I bought the stupid shirt?

  “It’s not black. And you have flesh showing. Are you transforming before we’re transforming?” Char shoves me. “Sistah, sistah, who are you?” She’s cracking herself up.

  I shrug. “It’s just a shirt.”

  “I think someone is trying to be noticed by someone,” she says all singsongy.

  “You’re wrong, Char. I’d tell you.” I say this a little louder than I should.

  “Okay. Relax. Thought I was just picking up on a vibe.”

  We jam our way onto the uptown 4 train and grab the steel bar in the middle. At Fifty-ninth, it’s clear that we’re blocking people from getting out or pushing further into the train. Unlike Char, I’m supremely aware of who’s watching us. She’s two parts oblivious and eight parts doesn’t give a crap, and is busy digging into her leather backpack for her iPod anyway.

  Char’s wearing a gauzy white peasant blouse, her black lace bra clearly showing through. Again. And she’s tied the thin red string at the top of the blouse in a way that draws your eye to her ample cleavage. Now I’m sorry I bought this top. Why this boatneck? So Bobby can think of me as a tanker?

  “This is ugly.” I pull at my shirt.

  “I like it. Stop adjusting!” She’s swinging her wavy blond hair over her shoulder and stuffing her earbuds in. “Chill,” she orders.

  “Hey.” I nudge Char. She unplugs one ear.

  “Those boys are talking about that TV show, The Biggest Loser,” I whisper. “That show is bigger than Idol.”

  She shrugs, sticking her earphones back in. A second later, she pulls them out again.

  “They should so do a reality show about our Bandster group!” she exclaims. As if it’s an actual possibility.

  “Yeah, what are we going to call it—Bigger Fatter Losers?”

  Char’s scrolling through songs.

  “Teenage Waistland! W-A-I-S-T-land!” she shrieks. I elbow her as people turn to look at us.

  “Miss Clever, the clinical trial is supposed to be private. We’re not allowed to disseminate information about it.” I guess Char is right. I’m always raining on her wacky parades.

  “No matter!” Char says, undeterred. “We’ll call our Bandster group Teenage Waistland!”

  I mutter something about finding custom T-shirts to fit us all, but she’s hi
gh on her idea and not listening. I just know she’s going to announce this at group tonight, and everyone is going to be all over her even more.

  At Eighty-sixth Street, we push our way out of the subway. Char’s leading with her breasts. They seem to cut a path through the crowd like a machete in high grass. If I didn’t love her, I swear I’d hate her. We have two blocks left to walk and we need to do it in a hurry. It’s five of five, and group starts promptly at five p.m. “Walk faster,” I say.

  “Did you just see that guy? The Puerto Rican one. Cute. And him.” She’s throwing her head toward this muscle-bound European-looking guy.

  “Char! He’s probably like twenty and Turkish or something. You’re crazy.”

  “No. Crazy, my friend, would be what we’re doing after group tonight.”

  I turn to look back at Char. “We’re going down to Fifty-third Street to buy a dildo,” she announces. I stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk.

  “We are not—”

  “Yes, we so are. Marcie needs to get her slutty stepsister a graduation gift, and a dildo sounds like just what she needs.” Char pulls on my arm and we’re moving again.

  “This was your idea, right?” I say. “No one normal thinks of this stuff. Remind me not to let you take me shopping for Julius’s wedding gift.”

  Now Char comes to a halt. “Julius is getting married? When? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I thought I did. You probably forgot.” I yank on Char’s arm, but she stands firm. “Char? What’s the big deal?”

  “Hey,” Bobby says from behind us. His voice is unmistakable. I’m in a panic now.