The ceiling is covered in pink and white balloons with dangling pink and silver streamers. “Bat mitzvah, Mexican style,” I mumble as I trail Char and Marcie through the doors of Coco Rosa. Marcie laughs and hits Char’s arm.
“Told you she could be funny,” Char says without turning around. Great. Char had to convince her I could be funny. Big endorsement, Char. I leave it. She’s a little tense and I wonder what’s up. There’s a mariachi band blaring off to the side in the front entryway, and we stop at a little table strewn with tent cards to find the ones with our names and table numbers on them.
“Cool,” Char says. “Check this out.” She hands Marcie and me our cards, but there’s no table number on the inside. Instead, it says Teenage Waistland.
“Great,” I mutter. “It might as well say ‘Fat Surgery Table.’ ” Char spins around and punches my arm.
“None of that Shroud stuff today. It’s Coco’s special day and she’s so psyched we’re all coming. Plus, as you may remember, we’re also celebrating the initiation of Teenage Waistland. A big day all around.”
I shrug, but Char has already turned back around to scan the rest of the cards. “It looks like Bobby’s the only one to arrive so far.” She takes off to find him, and Marcie and I quickly follow in the space she’s opening in the crowd.
“With those boobs of hers, it’s like Moses parting the Red Sea,” Marcie whispers loudly, and I giggle.
Char, Marcie, and I have been together since yesterday morning, except for last night, when Marcie slept at Char’s and I didn’t because Mom doesn’t like to be alone at night. Jen was supposed to spend the weekend too—a “best friends double date,” but Marcie met us at Grand Central alone—something “important” came up, so Jen decided she’d “catch up with us” at the party tonight.
None of us had anything dressy enough to wear to Coco’s quinceañera, so we went shopping—the Three Mooseketeers. I was the last to find anything I could stand, but by then I wasn’t even embarrassed to try things on in front of Marcie. When Char was in the fitting room and Marcie and I were ragging on the plus-size selections, I explained our whole Shroud thing. She loved it. “The Shroud Shtick,” she’d say whenever Char and I debated which acre of black fabric looked best on me.
There are maybe two hundred people here, and it seems like everyone speaks Spanish except for us. And Bobby, whom Char finally spots sitting at the bar. Bobby straightens up and waves when he sees her. He’s wearing black chinos and a loose-fitting white linen shirt, and his hair is neatly combed. He looks seriously handsome.
“Drinks, señoritas?” he says with a big smile.
“Oh yes!” Char shrieks above the music. “Three sangrias.” Bobby relays this to the bartender and reports back with bad news.
“Virgin sangrias,” he says. “Coco’s father left strict instructions that Teenage Waistland is not to get wasted. Something about valuing his liquor license.”
The drinks arrive with floating orange slices and little cocktail toothpick umbrellas. Char grabs one and puts it between her teeth like it’s a rose and she makes this tango move with one palm against her stomach, the other wiping a window in a circular motion. Bobby laughs at her as he passes the drinks around.
“Hold it,” Char orders, and swings her large shoulder bag onto Bobby’s lap. “Pull out the water bottle and spike them first,” she says. “Marcie, East, and I will block everyone’s view.”
“Let’s have yours later,” Bobby says. He pulls a flask of tequila out of his pants pocket and pours some into each of our sangria glasses. Char laughs.
“Great minds think alike.” She holds up her glass.
“No. Actually, the opposite,” Marcie injects. She’s about to explain why that is, but Char just rolls her eyes and goes on with her toast.
“To Teenage Waistland. May they get wasted after all.” We clink glasses and drink to that. Marcie and Bobby throw theirs back like old pros. Char too. Even a little sip tastes bitter, and I put mine down on the bar to find my cell phone. Another check-in call to Mom. As our home phone rings, I wonder what’s with Char sneaking liquor and why she didn’t tell me earlier.
“Marcie, doesn’t this quinceañera thing signal a sexual coming-of-age?” Char says.
“Liselle would be the expert there.” Marcie’s quick like Char.
“Ouch. Tsss.” Char makes a sizzling sound when her finger touches Marcie’s arm. I laugh and my eyes meet Bobby’s for a split second before I quickly whisper into the answering machine.
“Get it? Coming-of-age?” Char asks Bobby, but answers for him first. “Ladies, this guy gets it.” Bobby squirms a little, but he really seems to like Char being all over him.
Suddenly, though, Char’s no longer my competition. Jen is making her way through the crowd toward us, and she’s wearing this amazing black minidress that matches her hair and hugs her tiny waist. The stiletto heels on her shoes have to be at least five inches—if I even tried to wear anything like them, I’d puncture the floor. She’s absolutely gorgeous.
“Jen!” Marcie screams, and then the two of them rush over to each other, hugging and jumping up and down and rambling on a mile a minute. I feel a pang of sympathy for Marcie. Jen can barely get her arms all the way around her, and wrapped around Jen, it’s as if Marcie’s an elephant gobbling up a peanut. Then, Marcie takes Jen’s toned bare arm and drags her over. Bobby jumps up and insists that Jen take his stool. I glance at Char and then at Marcie to see if they have any reaction—Bobby didn’t offer his seat when any of us arrived—but Marcie is still blabbering away with Jen while Char pours herself another shot of tequila.
“Great to see you all again,” Jen says in a deep, throaty grown-up voice as she wiggles her little butt on Bobby’s barstool to find the right position. “I love texting, but chatting in the flesh is much more fun.” I didn’t realize everyone has been texting with Jen!
“Totally,” Char gushes.
“Yeah,” Bobby says.
“Has anyone seen Coco?” Marcie asks while Bobby is ordering a second round of virgin sangrias. I’m the only one who hasn’t said anything to him yet. I pick up my glass again and struggle to think of something clever before he turns from the bar to hand out the drinks. I might as well have had my vocal chords removed.
Lots of Coco’s school friends are here and a bunch of people in their twenties. Coco must have one of those families with a zillion cousins. My family wouldn’t need a restaurant to celebrate anything. Just a table for two, assuming Julius wouldn’t be joining us.
Giving up on finding something unidiotic to say to Bobby and at this point, not even able to hear a word of the Char/Marcie/Jen gabfest over the music, I wander toward the dining area to find Coco. Tables set with white linens, hot pink napkins, and white and pink balloon centerpieces surround a large parquet dance floor. The DJ is on one side of the dance floor, and long buffet tables with empty silver hot plates are lined up along the other. Everyone’s starting to sit, and people are already dancing. I wonder when they’re going to start serving—I’m totally starving. I head back into the bar area as everyone pours out, and Coco and I spot each other at the same time.
“Wow. You look beautiful. Your dress is incredible,” I tell her. It doesn’t matter that she’s huge and her bubble-gum pink dress looks a size too small—she’s glowing. Her thick, wavy brown hair is tied loosely back with a pink bow that matches her dress, the napkins, the balloons, and her lip gloss, and she’s got that big beautiful thing going on, just like Char.
“I’m so happy you came,” Coco yells above the DJ bellowing the same thing over and over in Spanish. “He’s asking whether everyone’s ready to party,” she translates.
Not quite. I take another sip of my not-so-virgin sangria. Coco’s wearing an unusual antique garnet cross necklace, and I take it in my hand for a closer look.
“It’s been in my father’s family for ages,” Coco gushes. “My dad gave it to me this morning.”
“It’s beautiful,”
I whisper. I feel tears welling up and look away.
“C’mon.” Coco grabs my hand and takes me to the dance floor. “Once I get the waltz out of the way, I’ll be able to hang with you guys. The father-daughter dance is an important quince tradition.” Her dad is on the dance floor holding his arms out to her and everyone’s forming a circle. I watch Coco and her father cling to each other as they swirl around to the music for a while, then suck down the last of my drink and return to the others.
Marcie and Bobby are still in the same spot, Bobby staring into his drink and Marcie glaring down the bar at Jen, who is laughing and doing shots with some tall, handsome older guy. Char, though, is nowhere to be seen. I turn around and head to the ladies’ room.
Char’s white pumps are under the last stall, but they’re facing the wrong way—toward the toilet, as if she’s puking. Which wouldn’t be surprising. The Char I know never drinks. I knock on the door. “Char, are you sick?”
“No,” she says. She unlatches the door and tries to pull me in, but it’s tight and she has to cram up against the toilet to make room, nearly spilling the open Aquafina bottle in her hand. I see that her eyes are a little red.
“It’s a good thing we’re not lesbians, East. We’re too large for the sex-in-a-public-bathroom thing,” Char says once we manage to get the door shut.
“In a few months, we’ll be able to squeeze into a locker if we want,” I say.
Char sniffles. “Actually, there’s a problem about that.”
“A problem about being lesbians in a locker?” I laugh.
“No, East. A problem with my surgery. They’re postponing it.”
“Why? What’s going on? And when did this happen?” I grab the water bottle with the tequila in it and take a swig. It tastes awful. I’ve hardly drunk anything, but I’m seriously queasy. Char gives me a weak smile.
“Take it easy, East. Not a huge deal, just an annoying paperwork issue. When you mentioned my appendectomy in group, it tipped Betsy off to the fact that I’d had an operation and she didn’t have any of the hospital records on file.”
“Char! I’m so sorry—it didn’t occur to me that she might not know about it,” I say. “The application asked if you were ever hospitalized—why didn’t you say you were?”
Char stares into the toilet and shrugs. “It was stupid, I know. We never bothered including the appendectomy stuff in the application because we knew it would be a pain to get the hospital paperwork and it’s completely irrelevant to this surgery anyway. Betsy’s only making a big deal about it because I call out and make her stupid sessions fun.” Char takes a long swig from her Aquafina bottle. I pull her arm to stop her and she yanks it away from me. Tequila spills all over her dress. She glares at me as she tries to wipe it off.
“Stop drinking and talk to me—you’re going to get sick. I still don’t understand why it’s a big enough deal to put your surgery on hold. Just have the hospital fax her the stupid paperwork,” I say.
Char shakes her head. “My mom faxed the hospital permission to release medical info like last Monday, but when Betsy made me stay after group on Friday, she told me she never received it and said that if the file doesn’t show up by tomorrow, they’ll have to reschedule my surgery.”
“Okay, so what makes you think they won’t get the records by tomorrow? And even if it’s like one day late, maybe it’ll be okay?” I say, trying to control my panic. It’s not like Char to get tripped up by something as stupid as paperwork, and I can’t understand how faxing or e-mailing medical records from one county to the next can be such a big deal.
“Stop giving me the third degree, East. There’s going to be a little delay in my surgery, okay?” Char barks. “As I said, no big deal, just paperwork.”
“Char! I’m not doing this without you. Forget it. This was all your idea to begin with and I—”
“Stop it, Shroud. You’re so doing it. Besides, it’s better this way—I can take care of you when you get out of the hospital.” Char seems back to her regular self now, all confident and ordering me around. I start feeling calmer.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. My mom will straighten those paper pushers right out,” Char says. “Let’s keep this between us, though. I don’t want anyone else worrying about it.”
“But won’t they be able to tell you haven’t had the surgery because you won’t be losing as much weight?” I say.
“It’ll probably only be a few days. And I’ll be dieting and exercising the whole time, so no one will know the difference.”
“Okay,” I agree. “I won’t say anything.”
“I know,” Char says. “You’re my girl. Now let’s get the hell out of here. We have eating to do. Eating and dancing. And drinking.” Char caps her water bottle and rams it back into her bag. She squishes herself against the toilet so that I can squeeze out around the door, and then she follows.
“There you guys are, thank God,” Marcie says, barging into the ladies’ room and leaning against the sink. “Jen’s letting some smarmy jerk get her drunk—she brushed me away like a gnat when I tried to get her out of there! Uh, do you guys pee together too?”
“Yes,” I say. “We’re inseparable.”
“Or lesbians?” Marcie suggests. Char and I look at each other and laugh.
“Not,” we say together. It’s the first time things feel normal between us since this Teenage Waistland thing began.
The restaurant is alive with loud, rhythmic thumping as we go back to find Bobby and Jen. Bobby’s sitting by himself and looks happy to see us. Jen is still whooping it up with one of Coco’s guests. The guy puts his hand on her ass, and I’m thinking that maybe she’s too drunk to realize how old this guy is—twenty-five, at least—and that we should just get her away from him and give her some cofee or something. Jen can’t show up at Marcie’s house wasted.
“Buffet table’s open,” Bobby says. Char is bouncing her head and shimmying to the beat. More than back to normal. Back to Char Gone Wild.
“Char …,” I say. I want to ask her if we should do something about Jen, but Char is too busy horsing around with Bobby to respond.
“Not so fast with the buffet.” She’s grabbing his hand and then Marcie’s and dragging them past the DJ, toward the dance floor. “You too, East! I don’t have three hands.” She finally yanks them onto the floor and shrieks, “Conga!” She places Bobby’s hands on her hips and yells at me to grab Bobby’s. While I’m shaking my head in violent protest, Marcie takes hold of Bobby and starts kicking out her legs, following Char’s lead. Coco and her father grab on next, then some older ladies wearing pink straw sombreros. In about two seconds flat, there’s twenty of them in the line, shaking, kicking, and shrieking, “Ba-ba, ba-ba, ba ba,” to the beat. Char is the only one with free arms as the big pulsing snake winds around the dance floor, and she’s waving them over her head, laughing like a hyena.
“C’mon, East,” she screams as she tries to pull me in when the line comes around, but I wriggle out of her grasp. Her bag is banging against her leg and Bobby’s holding her tight and cracking up. Coco’s got her dad behind her and he’s nuzzling her. I didn’t even know Char knew how to conga.
I head over to the Teenage Waistland table. It’s empty except for a few gifts and sweaters left on the chairs. I sit down, nibble on a tortilla chip, and try not to look at Coco and her father. And I especially can’t look at Char and Bobby. His long arms are fully around her waist and her head is against his chest. A rush of anger flows over me, and I try to push it away by thinking about how bad Char must feel. She’s the one who made this whole Teenage Waistland thing happen, and now her surgery is on hold. But I just can’t let go. As incomprehensible as the idea is, the only thing my mind can focus on is that if not for her, Bobby’s arms might be around me.
16
The Last Supper
Monday, July 13, 2009
Marcie (−5 lbs)
There are few things in life more poignant t
han a heifer’s final gorge on the eve of gastric surgery. Even the last meal of a death-row serial killer can’t compare. See, the killer’s last encounter with food is beside the point—he’s got his impending demise to deal with. (Though chicken-fried steak smothered in mashed potatoes and gravy, with a side of slaw and chocolate pudding, certainly must ease the pain somewhat.) For the heifer, however, the appetite-dampening properties of being dead aren’t going to kick in for many years; she faces decades of craving and longing before it’ll all be over.
It’s the night before my Lap-Band surgery, and Jen’s gone. She spent last night puking in my bathroom after being a drunken slob at Coco’s and then announced this morning that she was so hungover, all she wanted to do was go back home.
“But my surgery’s tomorrow!” I shrieked at her. “You can’t abandon me when I need you most. Eat something, or just go back to bed. You’ll feel better soon.”
“C’mon, Marce,” she groaned. “I was here all last weekend—I spoke to your group because you wanted me to, I showed up at Coco’s party because you wanted me to, and right now I just don’t feel well and I want to go home to my own bed. Not such a big thing to ask.”
“I went to Mexico with you,” I grumbled.
“And got a great suntan. Big sacrifice,” Jen snapped, and then held her hand to her head—her hair is freshly blown out and her makeup’s perfect. “Please, Marce. I’d never leave you like this unless I was really sick.”
“You don’t look so sick,” I said under my breath, and if Jen heard it, she chose to ignore it. I let her wrap her arms around me, and then she picked up her bag and headed down to meet Carlo in the driveway.
“I’ll call you tonight, Marce—and I’ll be there with you via text until the minute you go under,” she yelled from the steps.
Gran was the second-to-last person I wanted at the table tonight for my last supper before surgery, but when I complained about it this afternoon, Abby exploded. “She’s your grandmother, and you’re her only grandchild. I’m sorry she says things that hurt your feelings, but she only wants the best for you. Gran’s sick, and when she’s gone, you’ll feel horrible about how you treated her. So I beg you—for me: act like a human being.” Okay, maybe Gran is looking thinner and frailer than the last time I saw her, but I’m sure her big trap is still working just fine.
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