This Book Isn't Fat, It's Fabulous

by Nina Beck

  “Uninterested?” I ask, smiling.

  “Yeah, I mean, there was always a chance that you had some sort of head injury. I didn’t look at your medical records. I’m not totally without morals.”

  “Well, morally—isn’t it bad that you looked at any of it?” I say, thinking of the fact that he saw my weight. UGH.

  “No, that’s ethically bad behavior. Morally, I’m fine.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe we should get back now,” I say, turning back toward the buildings.

  “You’re going to have to tell me about this guy,” he says, walking back with me—standing a few inches farther away than he did on the walk over. “I mean, I’m going to have to undercut him any chance I get. So you might as well give me some fodder. Is he way too old for you? Does he get bad grades? Is he your second cousin? Does he talk with his mouth full? Really, anything you can do to help…”

  I laugh. “I’ll be sure to compile a complete dossier.”

  “Perfect.” We reach the building and he holds the door open for me. “Friends, then?”

  “Sure, why not.” I smile.

  “You know we can’t really be friends,” he says, leaning over to whisper in my ear.

  “No?”

  “Of course not. I’m obviously madly in love with you and you’re obviously madly in love with me but better at hiding it.”

  “Again, I’m so transparent.”

  He smiles and pulls the door wider so I can walk by. At the last minute I stop and he looks hopeful for half a second before glancing down to see my hand extended. “Picture, please.”

  “But what will I do during candlelit baths?” he says, making an extremely cute “innocent face” that I don’t buy for even a moment.

  “Picture,” I say more urgently, and he shrugs, pulling a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket and putting it in my hand.

  I’m in the building, the door shutting behind me again when I hear something that sounds a lot like “have another copy at home.”

  ATTACK OF THE THIN PEOPLE

  I turn and let the door shut behind me in the main dormitory. I figure I’ll head up to my room and grab my schedule to see where the heck I’m supposed to be. Is there a spa day? Maybe some light Pilates? Yoga? Do we talk about our feelings in big groups and whine about chocolate?

  “Ms. Swain, what are you doing here?” Mrs. Hotra asks.

  I look down at my legs. It should be obvious what I’m doing here.

  “Walking?”

  “That’s apparent, Ms. Swain. What isn’t as apparent is why you haven’t reported to your behavioral coach for your orientation session.”

  “My behavioral coach?”

  “Ms. Swain,” Mrs. Hotra says, with a deep sigh. Ugh, it’s like my father revisited. I wonder if she has a BlackBerry. “I think that your lackadaisical attitude is going to hinder your progress here at New Horizons and I want to make it clear, from the very beginning, that this isn’t appropriate behavior. Not for you, not for anyone. We expect every participant to be self-monitoring and motivating. Not only to one’s self, but to one another. Am I making myself clear?”

  No, not at all. But it sure did sound like great brochure copy.

  “Not really.”

  “I expect that you’ll become more familiar with our expectations of our program in detention this evening,” she responds.

  Detention? Detention on spring break?

  “Perhaps that will help you to remember to familiarize yourself with the materials, schedules, and menus that we provided you with, before another problem occurs.”

  I spot Jennifer down the hall, hiding behind an open door. Her pointy little shoes are sticking out. Witch.

  “Materials?”

  “Yes, Ms. Swain, the materials that Jennifer gave you yesterday evening?”

  Ah. I see.

  I turn to Mrs. Hotra. “I understand completely. I think it’s great that New Horizons participants take responsibility for their actions, and the ones who don’t should be reprimanded.”

  I felt, if not saw, Jennifer twitch behind her door.

  “Exactly, Ms. Swain, I’m glad you understand,” she says, pulling down the front of her pink suit-style jacket before brushing an invisible piece of lint off her shoulder. “I expect you to report to your BC right away, and I’ll see you this evening in detention.”

  Mrs. Hotra walks away, her chunky-heeled shoes clumping on the ceramic tiles. When she’s out of hearing range I turn toward Jennifer.

  “I sure wish I had received those materials, Jennifer,” I say loudly. She steps out from behind the door after a moment’s hesitation, probably trying to decide if she could run and hide.

  “I’m sure Eric can catch you up on how we do things here at New,” she says before walking away, leaving me with my jaw on the floor. I can’t believe this chick.

  My GC is exactly how I pictured her.

  Her name is Katie Wilhelm. Petite. Smiles a lot. Wears little glasses, like she went to an Ivy League school.

  “Where did you go to college?” I ask.

  She shifts in her chair. “I graduated from Emerson and then went to Yale for my PhD in psych.”

  Yup.

  “Wow, you have a PhD from Yale and now you work in upstate New York as a GC?”

  “BC.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Behavioral Coach. BC.”

  “Oh, right, a BC. So you spent—what, like, fifty thousand dollars and seven years to work here?”

  “Nine.”

  “Nine what?”

  “Nine years,” she says calmly.

  “Nine years is a long time.”

  “True,” she says, “but it goes quickly when you’re doing what you enjoy.”

  I feel a lesson coming on, so I cut it off before she has a chance to tell me the virtues of living in the moment or becoming one with my world, whatever.

  “So what do we do here?” I ask, glancing around the office. On the walls there are pictures of her with a bunch of different “program participants.” I wonder if she just likes taking pictures with fat girls. That fat girls really make her look thinner than she already is, and I wonder if she keeps those pictures around to remind herself that she isn’t really one of us. That even though she is working here, she isn’t really a part of our problems.

  “Well,” she says, “every day—outside of weekends—”

  “Of course.” I nod.

  “We’ll meet to talk about your progress and motivation. We’ll talk about making decisions and stress and how it affects all that you do. We’ll review the material in your journal and your responses to assignments that I ask you to do. But mostly, we’ll just talk.”

  “Just talk?” I ask. I focus on a small picture of Ms. Wilhelm hugging a girl—probably a student. She’s exactly the same height as Ms. Wilhelm but twice as wide. It looks grotesquely like a “before” and “after” picture—but with the images embracing each other. It makes me feel uncomfortable.

  “Yup,” she says, “talk about whatever you want to talk about. However you’re feeling. Sometimes I’ll ask questions, but basically—I want you to just talk to me.”

  “I have a question.” She beams, like seriously. “Does therapy actually ever work? Because it seems like once a person starts going—and I know a lot of people who go—that they never stop.”

  “Well, it doesn’t work for everyone, but it does work.”

  “So, if I come here and talk to you, my problems will go away?” I ask, thinking of Jennifer suddenly disappearing and Eric appearing in her spot.

  “It doesn’t work like that, Riley,” she says, smiling (still).

  “How does it work?”

  “Well, we talk and hopefully you come away learning something about yourself, maybe seeing things from a new perspective. And then maybe being able to change things if you can.”

  “Seriously?” I ask. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. It�
��s not magic, Riley. It’s a lot of hard work. But we’ll do it together.”

  “Well, that’s fine, but what you’re basically saying is that we talk. Or rather, I talk.” (She nods.) “And then I am supposedly going to see something from a new perspective” (she nods again) “and then I have to change?” (Nodding, enthusiastically now)

  “Wow,” I continue, looking at her—she looks like she feels she’s had a breakthrough moment. I hate to rain on her parade. “What a crock.”

  “Why do you think that’s a crock, Riley?”

  “Well, I talk to people all the time. I analyze things all the time. I change my opinion about things all the time, but I don’t feel like I’ve made any momentous leaps. You’re saying the thing that I’ve been missing is a therapist to listen to me?”

  “Not only listen but to ask guiding questions.”

  “I don’t know. Sounds sketchy,” I say, shifting in the chair I’m sitting in. I was offered the couch when I came in—but thought it looked kind of ratty. Like a million fat girls cried on that couch. No, thank you.

  She just laughs.

  “So, you basically spent, like, fifty K so you could listen to me talk.”

  “Something like that,” she says.

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to help.”

  “That’s sweet,” I say, fiddling with my fingers and avoiding eye contact. I want to call bullshit. Help who? Help what? You want to help, get me out of detention for this evening—now there is a way you can help.

  “Have you ever been fat?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Nooooo…” (she draws this out like her answer might change midword) “but I took special training and certification in dealing with the behavior modification of adolescents with body and self-esteem issues.”

  “So, you took a class on thinking like a fat chick.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Weird.”

  “Why is that weird?”

  I look up from the spot on the carpet that I had been focusing on without even realizing it and glance at her before putting my eyes back down again. “It’s like nuns giving marital and sex advice.”

  “And you think they can’t?”

  “I don’t think a skinny girl can understand what it means to be a fat girl because she took a class in it.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “Maybe you should eat more, get fat, and then you can really understand.” She shifts in her seat. “I mean, if you’re really interested in helping, it kind of makes sense.”

  “Hmm. It’s something to think about,” she prevaricates. “For both of us.”

  “I think it sounds great. Let me know if you need any help.”

  “OK,” she says.

  “OK?”

  “OK, our time’s up.”

  I begin to laugh. Typical. I wonder if there is a timer or if it just becomes too painful for her to listen to and then magically, time is up.

  “It’s nice meeting you, Riley. I’ll see you tomorrow for fifteen minutes before morning announcements, and make sure you come in on time, so those with appointments after you aren’t displaced.”

  Yeah. Right. I nod.

  “Riley,” she says as I am walking out the door. “I don’t have to be overweight to know what it means to be unhappy with my body.”

  “Right,” I say, and add because I think she might want to know, “I don’t have to be depressed and a head case just because I’m overweight. I don’t belong here.”

  “Right,” she responds. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Right.” I close the door after me as she bends her head over her desk and jots notes about how I’m opening up nicely and am mentally inquisitive but entirely too stuck on the issue of my weight. But I know she isn’t writing anything about it being a mistake that I’m here.

  I wonder if I can trick her into becoming fat. Has anyone ever been peer-pressured into overeating? I’m going to go see if I can order Twinkies online so I can plant them around her office.

  CRUEL AND UNUSUAL PUNISHMENT

  By Monday afternoon I’m ready to call the police and claim cruel and unusual punishment. First they made me do a feel-good session with my BC and then after lunch (they called it Thai food, but it was not Thai…that’s like buying a purse at Wal-Mart and calling it Prada) there was a seminar on cooking healthy, and finally afternoon exercise.

  “Come on, ladies, I want to see you skip!”

  Sergeant Bullwhip puts the whistle (I kid you not) that is hanging from a blue cord around her neck into her mouth and gives short bursts. I assume we are supposed to skip like crack addicts to her whistled rhythm.

  I wonder how a person becomes a gym teacher (pardon, physical education teacher). Watching Sergeant BW, I think, is it the shorts? Gym teacher shorts must hold allure for some. I wonder if Jennifer likes gym shorts. Stylish.

  “Ms. Swain, will you be joining us?” Sergeant calls from across the gym floor. Half the group stops to turn and watch me, wondering if I’m going to start skipping like an idiot.

  “I’m not properly equipped for skipping,” I call back. Gazes whip from my general direction back to Sarge.

  “I don’t believe any special equipment is necessary to skip, Ms. Swain.” Some of the students buzz at the joke. Whatever.

  “I have very large breasts.”

  That stops the buzz.

  “And,” I continue, “I don’t feel it is physically beneficial for me to skip without the proper…support.”

  Sarge glows a little red in the cheeks. I hope I didn’t bring up something inappropriate for gym class. She walks up to me, her whistle dangling between her fingers. Why do I feel like I’m about to earn myself another demerit?

  “Ms. Swain, did you know that you were having gym class today?”

  “Sort of,” I say. “My schedule said physical education.”

  “And do they have physical education at your high school?” she asks.

  “Yes.” (The heads are bobbing back and forth faster than the crowds at Wimbledon.)

  “And at your high school, are you expected to show up to each and every class prepared or risk failing?” (And the serve, it’s over the net…)

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “Well, every class except for gym,” I say. “My old gym teacher knew what having large breasts felt like. She empathized.” I finish off with a pointed look at the place on her chest where her boobs should be. VOLLEY!

  Her eyes widen and her jaw drops. Nice.

  “Skip,” she says.

  “Huh?”

  “Skip NOW,” she repeats, louder this time.

  I’d like to point out that I start skipping. Not because she scares me, but because I am worried for her. She has turned bright red and there is this HUGE vein sticking out the side of her neck and I am worried that if I don’t fix this right away she will have a brain aneurysm and there are probably three or four mini bullwhips at home waiting for Momma Bullwhip to come home and spot them in their weight-lifting exercises. And if Momma Bullwhip doesn’t come home, someone will drop a big weight on their neck and die. I can’t handle that type of responsibility.

  So I skip.

  Twenty-five minutes later, she blows her whistle again. Thirty minutes at an accelerated heart rate cannot be good for a girl. All I want is my Pilates mat! My thighs are burning and I’m bent over at the waist.

  “You did good, Riley.” Sergeant comes over and pats me on the back. I almost smile but she turns around too quickly and I realize that I almost succumbed to the pressures of the place. No wonder all these girls seem happy here. It’s like army boot camp. First they break you down physically and then by the time you are sweating and heaving, bent at the waist, they try and pump you up emotionally. Positive and negative reinforcement, and by then you are so into it that you gladly accept any modicum of acceptance they give you.

  Hells no.

  Plus, I did well. Not good. Apparently a
high school education is not a requirement to be an instructor at New Horizons.

  I crawl my way back through to the locker rooms, where there are a bunch of girls already getting naked, without the self-consciousness that they have back home. Where you feel like if you’re beautiful you have to get naked early and often, and if you aren’t—well, you delay and hide. There is almost an art form to getting naked and changed without showing any bit of skin the entire time. I’ve got it down to an exact science…I can change my pants without showing thigh or lower midsection, in fourteen seconds flat. Unfortunately I have a harder time doing the shirt thing, but it’s fine because I have great breasts (as previously mentioned). Yes, I mention it a lot…but as my gram always used to say, “If you got ’em, flaunt them.” If you don’t got ’em, pad them and then flaunt them.

  Where was I? Oh yeah, so all these girls are getting naked without any self-consciousness and I am about five seconds from feeling as if maybe this place isn’t so bad. Maybe like attracts like and then like treats like fairly and compassionately because like knows how like hurts.

  And then I hear Jennifer say something about Samantha and point in her direction, and Tilly laughing. So goes the like-like theory. And so goes any respect or sympathy I had for Jenny.

  But before I go overboard, I watch.

  After a few more pointed looks and an overly loud giggle (the kind that only happens when one person wants someone else to know that they are being made fun of), Jenny strolls over to Sam, with Tilly in her wake.

  “Hi, Samantha,” she says.

  “Oh, um, hi, Jenny. Tilly.”

  I feel like I should cover my eyes. Either Samantha is really oblivious or perhaps nature has gone to her head, because she doesn’t see the sharp look in Jenny’s eyes and doesn’t seem to see the snark coming.

  Me? I can see snark coming (and block it) miles in advance, but Sam just sits there smiling, a little confused, like these girls are her friends. I move a little closer, hoping to heck that she is smarter than she looks and knows what to say to deflect.

  “Tilly and I were just talking about the picture of the guy you have on your desk,” Jenny says, smiling over her shoulder at Tilly before catching my eye. I try to give her a “stop it now and walk away, and you’ll remain unharmed” look, but she just scrunches up her nose at me and turns back to Samantha.