“Great part—” Char tries to gush, but I cut her off at the pass.
“We were just wondering when you’re going to open your gifts,” I say as sweetly as my DNA will allow.
Liselle smiles dreamily. “Sometime tomorrow, probably.” But she must catch my kill me now, God expression, because she straightens up and adds, “What kind of party do you think this is?”
20
Least
Monday, July 20, 2009
East (−9 lbs); Char (−7 lbs)
“Did you order the Cream of Wheat?” I call over the TV. It’s eleven a.m. and I’m lying in bed. I check my phone again—Char still hasn’t texted. She, my supposed best friend, probably stayed up late with Marcie.
“Mom? Did you place the order?” I yell again. She said she was going to do it online last night, but I probably should have done it myself. Though I don’t see why I should be the one to order all the groceries when I’m mostly on water, broth, juice, and skim milk for another three days. Blended yogurt and hot cereal are the only foodlike things I can eat.
“East, we have the instant Quaker Oats. Do you want me to make some for you?” Not at all. Why should you be taking care of me? I’m just your only daughter who just had surgery. What happened to being with me “every step of the way”? Even the steps to the recovery room were too difficult for you—and you were already in the hospital! And the only steps I’ve seen you take since I got home from the hospital are the ones leading back into your bedroom. You were so engrossed in your precious TV that when Char helped me to the front door, we had to ring four times before you answered, even though I called from the car to say I’d be home in five minutes.
“No, Mom. I’ll get it. You want some?” I say, my voice flatter than even her spiritless tone. I slip into my bathrobe and kill my stomach bending for my slippers. “Owww!” I scream.
The TV clicks off. “You okay? What happened?” Mom comes in, the stupid remote with CH and VOL worn off the buttons still in her hand.
“Stomach’s a little sore, that’s all.”
“C’mon downstairs with me. I’ll make the cereal,” she says.
“Not too much. I’ll probably only be able to eat a couple of mouthfuls.”
“That’s all?” Mom says. Yes. Most mothers would know. But that was part of the post-op instructions and … What is the point?
“Yes, a few mouthfuls eaten very slowly,” I tell her.
“Why don’t you come down and order what you want while I make the oatmeal?” she calls over the clatter of cabinets opening and closing.
I want Cream of Wheat. If Char wasn’t at Marcie’s, I could have asked her to bring some over, and yogurt or something. Of course, she also could have asked if I needed anything. But no. When she called yesterday morning, it was to say she was off to Marcie’s for Liselle’s party.
“Whatever,” I said.
“C’mon, East. Marcie needs support.”
“What about me?”
“I’ll be home tomorrow. I’ll come over and support you all you want.”
“No, I mean about going to Marcie’s.”
“Shroudness, you’re not back to that again? Besides, you said you feel like crap.”
I said nothing.
“Look, you won’t be missing a thing. I’ll text you the scoop on Liselle’s little surprise as it goes down. It’ll be just like you’re there,” Char said.
I’ve had enough with this stupid dildo already, but I didn’t want to fight. So I don’t tell Char how she could always come back from Marcie’s tonight and sleep over here. In my room this time. Or that she should have tried to include me in her plans whether I wanted to go or not. And I definitely don’t touch the fact that I’ve been wondering, with all the flirting she’s doing, if she’s purposely not noticing my crush on Bobby. Char knows me better than that—I know she’s always catching me staring at him.… At them.
“Whatever. I’ll hold my breath for the transcript.”
“Love ya, Shroud.”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay,” I said again, and we hung up.
It’s now almost seven p.m., and I send Char another text—the eighth one, counting the four yesterday afternoon and three last night. Starting with Tell Marcie hi from me and How’s the party? and ending now with Char, where ARE you? Nothing back. Complete radio silence. Just like I was there. I decide to call Char’s house—maybe there’s a problem with her cell. Crystal answers.
“Hi, Crystal, it’s me. Is Char home yet? I can’t reach her.”
“East! How are you feeling, honey? Still a trouper?”
“I’m good—a little sore, that’s all,” I say.
“Haven’t spoken with Char since I dropped her at Marcie’s. I’m sure she’ll reach me when she’s ready to come home.” She chuckles. I don’t. “Maybe there’s no cell service at Marcie’s—her house is practically its own state,” Crystal says brightly.
“So I hear.” It’s as if Crystal’s trying to make me feel better for being abandoned by her daughter. A thought strikes me: “So, how soon do you think Char will be able to get her surgery? I mean, the hospital records finally got there, right?” I say, hoping to sound totally casual. Crystal hesitates—I hear her other line beeping.
“I’m not sure,” Crystal finally says, “but hon, I’ve got to take this call. Char’ll talk to you about it.”
Actually, Char won’t. Every time I bring it up, she either rips into me or freezes me out.
It occurs to me that there may be signs of Char on that Teenage Waistland blog, so I log in.
And lo and behold. She and Marcie have been whooping it up all day!
Teenage Waistland—Monday, July 20, 2009–1:20 p.m.
News flash, gang. Operation Dildo a bust. But more exciting anyway is Marcelous: she’s lost nine pounds, probably more not counting her humongous nightgown. A big round of applause, pls!
Marcelous replies Monday, July 20, 2009–1:22 p.m.
Charmer is no slacker either. She’s lost seven!
Hotstuff replies Monday, July 20, 2009–1:25 p.m.
With or without the nightgown, Charmer?
Charmer replies Monday, July 20, 2009–1:26 p.m.
Mine’s more of a negligee, Hotstuff. All satin and lace.
Marcelous replies Monday, July 20, 2009–1:30 p.m.
Bull. Charmer’s got on a big ratty flannel thing. And it’s got wasabi sauce all over it. She’s the worst influence—Charmer had us sneak downstairs last night to pit our Lap-Bands against the leftovers from Scrotum-Breath’s graduation party. This band thing’s a farce in the beginning, just like Jen said—the band didn’t stand a chance.
Charmer replies Monday, July 20, 2009–1:31 p.m.
It was so not like that!
Hotstuff replies Monday, July 20, 2009–1:31 p.m.
If you want to see something grosser than wasabi stains, you should see my pussed-up stomach. Probably popped a couple of stitches trying to lift.
Charmer replies Monday, July 20, 2009–1:31 p.m.
You’re a bigger idiot than Marcelous. We’re not supposed to be lifting anything yet, let alone weights!
I’ve probably read the first few entries a dozen times now, and I can’t decide what’s most upsetting: Marcie and Char horsing around in their nightgowns all day—Char’s obviously in no hurry to come home—or the lingerie flirty Hotstuff chat with Bobby? And the “we’re not supposed to be lifting anything.” I scroll back through the previous posts and get a sicker feeling in the pit of my stomach. A pain that has nothing to do with my operation: Char is clearly leading everyone to believe she’s already gotten banded. Sure, she’s being clever by not saying anything outright. But there’s absolutely no doubt about it. Char is lying to Teenage Waistland.
It’s after eight now, and I’m so angry I could bust my stitches. Char’s cell still rings, but she’s not picking up. I check my out-box status again: every text I wrote definitely got sent! I go back to the blog and scroll through the entries. I j
ust can’t believe it.
Teenage Waistland—Monday, July 20, 2009–6:40 p.m.
Anybody there? Marcelous is showering.
Hotstuff replies Monday, July 20, 2009–6:45 p.m.
I’m on, Charmer. Messed up my stomach more today. I’m screwed for football. Our first preseason game is in exactly five weeks and practice starts sometime the week before that—if I don’t show, I’m benched for the season. But if I do, the first head butt in my gut is going to lay me up for a year.
Charmer replies Monday, July 20, 2009–6:50 p.m.
Ouch! Don’t you studs wear like serious padding?
Hotstuff replies Monday, July 20, 2009–6:51 p.m.
Yeah. On our shoulders and legs. No stomach gear. Basically, I’m screwed. My dad’s going to kill me.
Hotstuff replies Monday, July 20, 2009–6:58 p.m.
Still there?
Charmer replies Monday, July 20, 2009–7:00 p.m.
But of course! What are you doing tomorrow?
Hotstuff replies Monday, July 20, 2009–7:01 p.m.
Same as today. Nada. Why?
Charmer replies Monday, July 20, 2009–7:02 p.m.
Need to do some research. Think I have a plan for us. Will call you in 20.
Char has plans for Bobby? I bet he wouldn’t be so into her crazy plots and plans if he knew she was lying about her surgery—he seems like someone who may care about honesty. And to top it all off, she’s passing out advice: We should do this, we should do that.
If Ms. Know-It-All won’t speak to me on the phone, maybe she’ll answer on the blog. I make up a username she won’t recognize and log in.
Meltdown replies Monday, July 20, 2009–8:34 p.m.
Great blog! Was researching Lap-Band surgery and just came across it. I’m having the surgery next week in Boston. (Not a teen anymore, thank god.) Am nervous and hoped you’d answer questions since you just did it. What do your incisions feel like after surgery? Can you actually feel the band and the tubing and the port under your skin? And how many days before you’re up and around? Thanks!
Marcelous replies Monday, July 20, 2009–8:40 p.m.
Charmer’s the moderator here, but I just had the surgery too. Can I help?
Meltdown replies Monday, July 20, 2009–8:45 p.m.
Nothing personal, but she seems to be the most knowledgeable person on the blog, so I’d like to hear her take on it.
Charmer replies Monday, July 20, 2009–9:00 p.m.
Hi, Meltdown! Congratulations on your impending surgery! The incisions are sore, of course. But they don’t hurt too much. And the extent to which one can feel the band under their skin probably depends on how much blubber’s on top.
Meltdown replies Monday, July 20, 2009–9:02 p.m.
How long did your surgery take?
Charmer replies Monday, July 20, 2009–9:05 p.m.
They usually take somewhere between 45 minutes and an hour and a half, depending on how hard it is to reach the right spot.
Meltdown replies Monday, July 20, 2009–9:08 p.m.
My doc already told me that. But how long exactly did your surgery take?
And then Char-latan disappears. Again.
21
An Unexpected Play
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Bobby (−12 lbs)
I spot Char half a block away. Alone. She’s smiling and waving to me in this pink flowy shirt thing that looks see-through from here and her curls are flying everywhere. I’m outside Starbucks on the corner of Seventy-ninth and Park waiting to hear this great idea of hers—something to do with my stomach and practice starting in a few weeks.
“Marcie bagged out,” she says, standing on her tippy toes to kiss me on the cheek. I’m busy checking out her blue toenails and flip-flops, and like an idiot, I bump her forehead.
“Sorry.”
“No worries, Bobby. We’re not allowed to have Frappuccinos or anything, but how ’bout a water?”
“Yeah. Sure. I got that,” I say, grabbing the door.
“A real gentleman, aren’t you?”
“No doubt.”
She laughs.
“So, what’s your big idea?” I ask.
“You don’t like surprises, do you?”
“Not if the surprise is going to another dildo store,” I say.
“Are you sure? They sell other things too.” Char laughs, and I feel my face burn. And something else. Char hits my arm. “Seriously—my brainstorm is a chest protector. I read about it online. People use it to protect their chests after open heart surgery but we can use it as a shield for your stomach. Genius, right?”
“I don’t know. You really think it’ll work?” I say as we get up to the cashier with our waters.
“Of course, Bobby—that’s what makes it a brainstorm.” Char laughs and I pay for both bottles. We’re heading out of Starbucks single file through the lunch crowd piling in, and I see a familiar yellow football jersey up ahead—Massapequa. Massapequa juts his chin at me and I nod back. Professional courtesy. I’m about to turn to Char and tell her that this is one of the guys we’re going to crush at our preseason opener, but I spot the hot little blonde he’s with and beeline to the door, holding it for an old guy, who then has to hold it for Char. She catches up to me on the sidewalk and we start walking.
“So, Bobby,” Char says, “what comes after the chest protector? A suit of armor?”
“I thought you were sure about the chest protector thing.”
“No, silly. I mean, once you start losing weight. I saw that huge football player in Starbucks, and it occurred to me that someone would need to be pretty huge himself to get him out of the way,” Char says. I flex my bicep and hold it out to her, and she squeezes it. “Very impressive,” she laughs. “But seriously? You just finished telling me how being a lineman is so important to you and your dad, and how you absolutely need this year’s best-player plaque for the Konopka trophy hall in your house and all that other legacy stuff. Why in the world did you get this surgery if all this is so life and death for you? Oh, look—we’re here!”
It’s this surgical pharmacy near the bariatric center we’ve passed a bunch of times before. The place is crammed with boxes of neck braces, bedpans, and humidifiers. There are these weird handicap potty-seat things too, and the place smells like cleaning fluid in a sweaty locker room. And the few customers shuffling around in here are so old, they’re like three-quarters dead.
“Follow me,” Char says. I’m having trouble pushing my way behind her. The aisles are narrow and the shelves are spilling over with sick-people stuff.
“Check out these wheelchairs,” I call to Char, and send a big one rolling right at her.
“Are you crazy?” She crosses her eyes as she jumps out of the way.
“Not any more than you,” I say.
“I’ll give you that,” she says, ducking around the next aisle while I put the wheelchair back.
“Bobby, ready for your sponge bath?” I hear, and it’s Char wearing a shower cap and holding a long stick with a loofah on the end.
“Gimme that,” I say, and grab it. She grabs another and now we’re fencing in the aisle and cracking up.
“Excuse me! Can I help you?” It’s another old guy, but this one is wearing a pharmacy smock.
Char puts the loofah stick back in the bin and says, “Yes, in fact, you can help us. We need a chest wall protector.” Dad would never believe how well this girl can take complete control of a situation with a plaid shower cap on her head.
“Down to the end of the last aisle in the back,” Old Man Pharmacist says, all cranky.
Char grabs my hand. “Let’s go,” she says, winging the cap like a Frisbee back into the bin the minute he turns around.
Char finds the chest protectors first. “You see?” she says, waving a box at me. “It’s a hard shell with a thin cushion underneath. All we have to do to make it a stomach protector is turn it sideways and reengineer the straps. Take off your shirt real quick so we
can see which of these models would work best.”
“Not here, are you kidding?”
“C’mon. No one’s looking.”
“Yeah, but … Someone might come.”
“Here.” She pulls me to the corner by this door that says Employees Only and peeks in. “Your dressing room, sir,” she says. “Boogeyman’s gone.”
“But—” I say. Char puts her finger in front of her lips and motions me to enter, and I do. She grabs a roll of paper towels from a shelf and jams it so the door stays open and we have a little light. We’re like in this really tight space between the door and a shelving unit, and every time we move, we hear something—plastic or cellophane maybe—crunching underfoot. There’s no air in here and it’s boiling hot.
Char pulls the first chest pad out of the box and says, “Now take your shirt off.” I’m panicking about her seeing my fat stomach. And moobies. There’s not even enough room. We’re six inches from each other, and if I lift my arm I’ll asphyxiate her with my sweaty pit. I just stand there frozen. “C’mon. It’s no big deal. It’s only me here,” Char says softly. She begins lifting my jersey and I don’t stop her. When she gets it up around my neck, I just pull the damn thing over my head and stand there, naked from the waist up, trying not to act like a self-conscious pussy.
“Here—hold the pad over your stomach while I try to work the straps around your waist,” Char says, straining to thread the strap around my back and pull it through with her other hand—her face like two centimeters from my right moob and only a few more than that from my sweaty armpit.
“Let’s just forget this,” I mutter, leaning away from her and reaching for my jersey on the shelf behind her at the same time.
“What?” she says. “Why ‘forget this’? I don’t really understand what you want, Bobby.” She drops the arm holding the chest protector and looks up at me with her big blue eyes. “Do you, Bobby? Do you understand what you want?” She’s so close I can feel her breath. And there’s no place for me to look away. My whole field of vision is her face, so full of concern. And those eyes.
Teenage Waistland Page 14
