This Book Isn't Fat, It's Fabulous

by Nina Beck

  “Nothing happened, Riley,” he says, leaning back to look me in the face. He is still so close that I could feel my eyes cross, and so I close my eyes.

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’s not the one I want something to happen with,” he says, bending his face down again, until his cheek is against mine. He moves his hand around me, and I jump again as his wet sleeve hits my arm.

  “In the full interest of keeping this platonic,” he says, looking at me and smiling, “I’m asking permission. But can I take off my shirt? I’m absolutely freezing and—”

  “Go ahead,” I say. He pulls his shirt over his head and I can’t really see—but I run my hand along his shoulder. He’s got a scar line on the back of his right shoulder. I run a fingertip back and forth across it while he sucks in a breath. “What’s this from?”

  “Falling off my bike in the fifth grade,” he says. “I was a late learner. My dad…well, he was still around then, he was teaching me and let go, and I wasn’t ready.”

  “Oh,” I say, not quite knowing what to say. I think about the scar and wonder about his parents, who—I guess—put this kid together. I wonder who his dad was to counteract the woman I knew to be his mother.

  Eric flops down on the blanket covering the bottom of my tent. I am half on top of him, a little bit awkward, and when I try to settle with my weight off of him more, it doesn’t quite work. He pulls me onto him, snuggling me under the crook of his arm. “You’re not against snuggling, are you?”

  “Um, I don’t know,” I say, trying to get comfortable. He laughs and I pinch his side lightly, feeling the muscles twitch under my touch.

  “Any reason to touch me.”

  I pinch him again.

  “When did you learn?”

  “Hmm?” I ask, touching the muscles that are bunching under his skin. It is strange to feel them there. His body is so different from mine, which has a soft pillowy feel to it. His is hard and tight, coiled almost, and I begin to wonder if he wonders the same thing when he touches me. His hand is rubbing across my stomach and over my hip. I tense up. What does he think when he touches me? Is he thinking about how much I weigh? How different our bodies are?

  “When did you learn how to ride a bike?”

  Or does he think about bike riding?

  “I never learned.”

  “What?” he says, his head popping up as he goes onto an elbow so he can look me in the face, for as much as the darkness would allow us to see.

  “I mean, what for? I wasn’t priming to be a bike messenger.”

  “For fun, Swain. For fun,” he says. I smile in the darkness at the use of my last name. It’s such a pet-name thing to do. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you how. And I won’t let go.”

  Suddenly I bristle. His hand is kneading my side at the hip a little. He’s using pet names, he’s talking about the future. Our future.

  “Too much?” he asks.

  “Kind of,” I say, pulling his hand off my skin, where it has lurked under my shirt a little. I hold it there. “We haven’t really talked about what’ll happen when I go home and…”

  “And I’m talking like we’re already partners for life,” he says, and sighs. Then he pulls his hand away and puts it back on my hip. “Look, I’m just excited to know you. And whatever this is, for however long it is for, I’m just saying…I’m happy that I’m in it.”

  “No pressure?” I ask.

  Instead of answering me, he smiles and kisses me, and whatever is left of my brain pools at the base of my spine and collects in a nice warm puddle.

  The rain is sprinkling overhead, it’s late, we talk and laugh and kiss all night long. When it gets really late, so late that it starts looking like it’s getting to be really, really early, we start talking about him leaving. Every time we do, we snuggle together a little more. Our brains are functioning; our bodies aren’t complying.

  I want to put this out there, because I know it’s going to be important for some people, especially those who think they know me, or think they know guys, or think they know how this sort of thing goes. I want to put it out there that we didn’t have sex. Not because he didn’t ask. He asked. And not because I didn’t want to, because there were times when I was only two more questions away from a yes.

  But it just felt right to say no, and it just felt right for him to say OK, and go on snuggling—but it was hard. Ha-ha, that’s a bad joke, but it was difficult to say no. Especially when I didn’t want to say no. But when I did, it was at least partially just to see how he’d react.

  Sometimes I think he must be too good to be true. And that the real Eric will just come out whenever I least expect it. And isn’t the best time to learn about a guy when he wants to have sex and you say no? For whatever reason?

  He didn’t push me, he was really OK with me saying no. And the minute I realized that, I really wanted to say yes (really, really!).

  Perhaps it was all part of his evil plan, like reverse psychology.

  Maybe it’s as simple as that.

  Maybe he really likes me.

  Maybe I want him more than sleep.

  We both fall asleep an hour after sunrise. Unfortunately, neither of us wakes up before the rest of the camp.

  Eric bends over me and kisses me, and I try to keep my lips tightly pressed against each other (morning breath), but I slowly ease up and we are making out again five seconds later.

  “Kids do like their kissing,” he says, smiling against my mouth.

  “They do, don’t they?” I say, kissing him again. I feel like I am still sleeping. Dreamy and kissing in the morning.

  Sam is the first person to give my tent a kick. That wakes us up. We both give each other worried looks. Eric whispers, “OK, we just have to wait until everyone shoves off. I’ll make a run for it. Back to the van.”

  “The van is out there?! Don’t you think that they’ll see it and wonder where the driver is?” OK, I’m freaking out, but give me a little credit. This is freak-out worthy.

  “How else do you think I got here? Plus, I don’t think that they are going to see my van and say, ‘Quick, he’s in Riley’s tent, let’s get him!’” he says, skimming his hands around the tent for his shirt.

  “Watch the wandering hands, mister!”

  “Sorry. I’m looking for my shirt.”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this at a time—”

  “Riley?”

  “Shhh,” Eric says, his hand over my mouth.

  “Riley, are you okay?” I pull Eric’s fingers off of my face.

  “Yes, I’m fine. A little under the weather,” I say as Eric shakes his head wildly and then groans, his head falling back.

  “Oh, no,” Sam says from the other side of the tent. “I’ll grab Ms. Barnell.”

  Oh. Oops.

  “Nice work,” he says, suddenly having found his shirt.

  “Well, I was under a lot of pressure!” I say, moving to tickle him. He barks a laugh before he is able to move my hands from his hips. Oops, really ticklish.

  “Riley?” Sergeant Bullwhip is outside the tent now.

  Eric and I both pause. If she only knew. “Yes?” I try and croak. How does one sound when they are sick enough to be left alone, but not so sick that they need someone to come into their tent and rescue them? That’s what I’m going for. It apparently doesn’t work.

  “Riley, come out here right now, please.”

  “Um, I’ve got cramps. I think I got my period. I can’t move,” I say. Eric makes a face. I make a face back. This is his fault. I only use female problems in really stressful situations. It’s better than my aunt died and I can’t leave my tent because I’m grieving.

  “Ms. Swain, come out now, please.”

  “Merde!” I say, backing my ass out of the tent, Eric making faces at me the entire way, me making growly faces back at him.

  I crawl out of the tent and turn to face Sergeant Bullwhip, glad that I had the presence of mind to keep all my clothing on.
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  “Ms. Swain,” she says, pointing to the side. I move over. I look around and only Samantha stands there, looking confused. “Mr. Hotra, you may come out as well.”

  There isn’t any movement from the tent.

  “Now, Mr. Hotra,” she says, in the same voice that caused me to start doing jumping jacks. Apparently it works on teen boys as well, because Eric comes out about the same way I did, except shirtless. I hear Samantha gasp.

  Sargeant Bullwhip doesn’t look surprised.

  “Ms. Swain, Mr. Hotra, please go to the headmistress’s office.” Eric groans, but Sargeant Bullwhip snaps a look at him. “Samantha will go with you. You will explain why I sent you both there. When we return from our hike, I’ll join you.”

  Crap.

  The ride back to the grounds is unusually quiet. I sit in the backseat with Samantha. Eric didn’t hold the door open for us (it was motorized anyway), and we sit there, sending each other long, worried glances. Her glances say:

  Are you freaking crazy?

  Mine back say: Um.

  Hers say: What the hell were you doing with him?

  Mine back say: Um.

  Hers: Why did he have his shirt off?

  Mine: Um.

  Hers: Did you…

  Mine: (shaking head madly) No!

  Hers: I believe you.

  Mine: We did some other…

  Hers: OMG. I don’t believe you!

  Mine: (smug smile)

  Hers: (smile and eye roll)

  Too bad Eric misses all the fun by having his eyes glued to the road. There is absolute silence, not even the radio to alleviate the oppressive quiet.

  When we get back (which takes way longer than it should have, thank you, Eric), Samantha walks into the building with us, and when the secretary sees us all, she smiles and greets Samantha and Eric warmly and introduces herself to me. She hadn’t been there the other night when I arrived. She has us wait outside when we ask to see Eric’s mom.

  In case you are wondering, there is something infinitesimally embarrassing about admitting to an authority figure that you got caught making out with your not-quite-boyfriend in your tent, on a camping trip, in the middle of what’s supposed to be a punishment-style-fat-flush spring break.

  Now add to that another one hundred percent embarrassment for having to confess in front of the boy you made out with.

  Now add to that another one hundred percent embarrassment for having to confess to the boy-in-question’s mother.

  Merde.

  “Eric? Ms. Swain? To what do I owe the pleasure of having you both here in my office this morning?” she says from behind her desk, after letting Samantha leave. Lucky. I would gladly slink through the extra-wide wooden planks before admitting—

  “Ms. Barnell caught me in Riley’s tent this morning,” Eric says, smiling at his mother.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Last night after the girls went to sleep, I drove back up the hill and snuck into Riley’s tent. We didn’t do anything but talk and kiss” (he lies, but only a little—and I respect white lies) “and then we fell asleep. I didn’t mean to get caught there, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get her into trouble—”

  “Eric, stop,” I say. “It’s not his fault. I could’ve—I mean, I should’ve—”

  “That’s enough,” Eric’s mother says. “Ms. Swain, please go down to the BC. I’ll call in a moment to let her know why you are there. I, outrageously, feel ill-equipped to handle this particular scenario. But I hope you will rest assured that there will be repercussions for your behavior.”

  “Mom.”

  “For the both of you.”

  Wow.

  “You may go, Ms. Swain.”

  My maybe-boyfriend’s mother hates me. He’s looking at me like he’s really upset that I’m really upset and I hate that he’s upset.

  “Eric,” I say kinda loudly, my eyes on him, although I can see Mrs. Hotra’s lips purse in the corner of my eyes. “Last night was wonderful.”

  I leave as he laughs and his mother gasps. If you’re going to get in trouble, might as well do something worth getting in trouble for. I mean, beyond sneaking a boy into your tent and…well, you know.

  BACK ON THE COUCH

  I’m back in Katie Wilhelm’s office. She’s not here yet, so I’m walking around the office, looking again at the framed pictures she has around. There are a bunch of different ones. Her with different girls who must have gone through the program, because they are at varying stages of fat.

  I wonder which girl I look like as I glance through the pictures. I mean, aside from having the most amazing breasts in the world (yes, we know!), do I look like this girl physically? Do I think she’s fat? Do I think other people see this when they look at me, or do they look for more?

  I move on to the next picture. The girl standing next to Ms. Wilhelm looks happy. She’s not fat; she’s not thin. She’s just smiling and radiant. She’s wearing face paint.

  The next picture, a girl’s crying.

  The next picture, a bunch of girls are surrounding Ms. Wilhelm.

  The next. The next. The next. There are a lot of pictures of girls around the room, and if I was any kind of psychological student, I’d say that Ms. Wilhelm needs a whole lot of positive reinforcement. Or, she’s just plain old freaky.

  On the top shelf, all the way to the right, in the corner, is another picture. It’s black-and-white, a school photo. A young girl wearing a cap and gown, but her cheeks are gaunt and she’s got deep circles under her eyes. I take the picture down so I can get a better look at it. It looks like Ms. Wilhelm, but her hair is thinner-looking and she doesn’t look happy; she looks tired and old.

  “That was me at age twenty-one. I weighed ninety-seven pounds. My healthy weight range was one hundred twenty to one hundred thirty pounds for my height. Two weeks after that photo was taken, my parents convinced me to check into a rehabilitation clinic for malnutrition and anorexia,” Ms. Wilhelm says, walking in behind me. She takes the photo from my hands and puts it back on the top shelf.

  “So you were a thin girl.”

  “I was an unhealthy girl, Riley.”

  “And now you’ve devoted your life to becoming the girl who helps fat girls get thin. You don’t think that’s a little twisted?”

  “I like to think of it as having devoted my life to helping girls, all girls, get healthy.”

  “And you consider me unhealthy?”

  “Riley, look, you’re not physically unhealthy. You’re not obese, you’re a little overweight. You don’t have any weight-related health problems. You don’t have any issues that I’m concerned about at this point,” she says, but before I have a chance to feel good about her admission, she starts again. “But your medical history shows that there are a lot of weight-related medical problems in your family tree. Your father—”

  “My father?”

  “Yes, your father says that he’s worried about you.”

  “Ha, that’s rich.”

  “What? That your father could be worried about you?” She motions for the chair, and I sit down in a huff as she sits gracefully behind her desk.

  “Well, considering he hasn’t talked to me more than two sentences in the past year, and that’s with his BlackBerry in hand, I wouldn’t say he’s too worried.”

  “You feel like he doesn’t pay enough attention to you,” she says, marking something in her notebook.

  “I’m not saying that. I’m saying he doesn’t pay any attention to me at all.”

  “Is that why you feel the need to get attention from other men?”

  Oh. I see. Tricky.

  “Not really.”

  “Do you think your behavior with Eric was appropriate?” she asks.

  “I think it was appropriate enough. I mean, if I were a guy, would anyone be asking if this was appropriate or would this be fine because I was a guy and this is the sort of thing that guys do? And furthermore, nothing happened. Nothing happened, nothing happened.”<
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  “Riley,” she says, leaning forward in her seat, so that her arms are crossed over her chest on her desk blotter. “Something happened. Whether or not it was sex is another story. Whether or not you used protection—even if nothing happened, as you say—there are things that happened.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know what?”

  “I don’t know why it matters,” I huff back, a little angry that she is trying to be all high and mighty. Nothing happened, and I can’t understand why nobody will believe me. Well, of course I can understand…I guess it makes sense, but come on, even if something did happen…it is really none of her business.

  “It matters because I worry about what’s going to happen to you.”

  “Ha.”

  “Riley, it’s OK to be upset,” she says, and for the first time, I realize that I’m crying. Which is really ridiculous. I’m angry, not upset. I tell her so, and she just repeats the same line again. It’s OK to be upset. Like I’m even supposed to know what that means.

  “You’re an amazing girl, Riley. You deserve attention, but the right kind of attention. No, don’t roll your eyes. You do. You deserve a lot of things. I want you to think about that when you’re back in your room. Take the rest of the day off.”

  “What?”

  “I’m telling Mrs. Hotra that you’ll be taking the rest of the day off to think about your actions.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Oh no, you’ve also earned yourself another demerit. One more strike and you’re out of here. Do we understand each other?”

  I sniffle, feeling relieved, for whatever reason. I don’t want to go home just yet.

  “Yes.” I nod.

  “OK, go back to your room.”

  “What happens to Eric?”

  “He will not be going back to your room.”

  I gave her a scowl.

  “I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough, but I feel bad for him…This can’t be a comfortable thing to talk to his mother about.”

  I nod again and head back to my room. Thinking about what Ms. Wilhelm said, I’m not sure any of it makes sense but, well, I have all day to think about it.