This Book Isn't Fat, It's Fabulous

by Nina Beck

  SAMANTHA GOES CRAZY

  When I get back to our room, Samantha is there waiting there for me, looking worried.

  “What happened?” she asks as I flop back onto my bed and hear something creak hideously beneath me. I miss my old bed. I miss my old room. I miss the comfort of knowing that everyone is a liar and a jerk and being able to move effortlessly through that social world because I could be a liar and a jerk too. I don’t know this world.

  “Nothing,” I say, blinking at the ceiling.

  “Nothing?”

  “I’ve been sent to my room to think about what I’ve done.”

  “What?” Samantha screeches. I look over at her and she looks seriously pissed off.

  “I mean, I got a demerit-thingy too.”

  “You make out with the only boy on campus, you get caught with him in your tent, God knows you probably had sex with him—”

  “Hey now!”

  “And your punishment for all of this is that you get to spend the rest of the day in air-conditioning while I’m out there skipping and eating gruel and dealing with all those absolute bitches?”

  “Absolute bitches and Allie.”

  “I already included her!”

  I cough a little. She seems really pissed off. She used the word bitches.

  “I don’t really understand why you are upset,” I say in my most dulcet tone. I wonder if I should start singing to her, like they do with angry animals to calm them down, but the only lyrics that come to mind are for Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” and I’m so not in the mood for that right now. “But I’d like to talk about it with you and see if we can’t resolve this before it becomes an even bigger issue.”

  She snorts. Hey, I tried.

  “I just don’t appreciate the fact that I’m always good,” Samantha fumes. “I mean, I always, always behave, I’m always a good person. I never argue, I turn the other cheek—dammit! And you come in here and kick and bitch and make problems and you get the boy and a vacation.”

  “This isn’t necessarily what I’d consider a vacation,” I say, looking around the room.

  “It isn’t fair.”

  “I never said you couldn’t get in trouble,” I mumble.

  “I know you didn’t,” she says, flopping back onto her bed too. Now we match. Now we both feel defeated by who we are and what this place brings out in us. Great.

  My phone begins buzzing and it takes me a few moments to find it among the clothing that was all over the floor (oops). My “A little help here?” goes unheeded by Samantha, who simply picks up her pillow and covers her face with it. Well, then.

  I am so excited to get my fingers wrapped around the phone before it has a chance to switch to voice mail that I pressed the ON button, and say in a rush, “I’m so glad you called. What happened? Are you in trouble?”

  “What do you mean am I in trouble?”

  “D?” I ask, pulling the phone away long enough to see that, yes, it is his name registering on my caller ID.

  “Who did you think it was?”

  “Nobody,” I say, sitting on the bed again, watching Samantha peek an eye out from underneath her pillow. I turn around on the bed so that I’m facing the wall. I hear her huff, but I’m concentrating—or trying to—on what D is saying to me.

  “Where are you?”

  “In the rec room,” I lie. Samantha looks up and is raising her eyebrows. I make the “not now, later” face. She makes the “fine, whatever” face.

  “I just called the front desk and they said there isn’t a Riley Swain registered at Dahlia’s.”

  “Why did you call the front desk?”

  “Why aren’t you registered?” he asks, and finally I realize there is something weird going on. He doesn’t sound like his normal, laid-back self. There is a long pause and we’re both waiting for each other to talk. Does he know? Does he know I lied to him?

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “Your voice mail, for starters.”

  Oh. I had forgotten about that. That seems like forever ago. I mean, so much has happened since then that I can’t even think about it as if it was a recent thing. It’s weird, now that I know that I’m not in love with D, our conversations feel different.

  Like, I’m not under his spell anymore and so I don’t mind that he’s upset and I’m not immediately jumping up to soothe his ruffled feathers.

  “Something’s different,” he says softly, sounding hurt, and I begin to feel bad. He’s my best friend, isn’t he? Or have I been using his friendship as a way to stay close to him because I liked him and wanted him as more than a friend?

  “D—” I begin. I’m not sure what I’m going to say, but I think it’s important to say something here. Perhaps there is a chance to start again. To try to be friends as friends should be. And not what we were.

  “No, don’t say anything,” he says. He sounds tired and upset. “I’m going to visit you. I’ll be there Saturday.”

  “What?”

  “I’m coming to pick you up and take you back to the city.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “OK, then, I’ll pick you up. I’ll be there Saturday and we’ll talk about all of this then,” he says. “And, Riley?”

  “Hmm?” I strangle out.

  “Whatever is going on, it’s OK. I mean, you’re my best friend in the entire world and we’ll fix this. I’ll fix this. I really love you, you know?”

  “I know, D,” I say, and I mean it. It was never really a question of whether he loved me as a friend. I guess I always knew that. I guess it was just a matter of why he couldn’t love me as more or why I couldn’t love him as less. Until now.

  I click off the phone and I turn around to face Samantha, when my phone starts buzzing again. I look down and open the text message from Marley:

  Busted. C U soon.

  “That sounded…interesting. What’s going on?”

  “I’m an asshole and an idiot!” I scream, throwing the phone across the room. Then I tell her the entire story. About how D kissed me before I left and how I don’t know what that means because we haven’t had a chance to talk about it. How I realize I don’t love him. How I realize I might, in fact, love Eric. How my dad doesn’t care. How Ms. Wilhelm thinks I’m a slut. How I am a slut because I wanted to sleep with Eric soooo bad. How I’m a virgin—

  “Wait, you’re a virgin?”

  And I tell her about how D is coming up here to pick me up from the “spa,” and Marley, who is trying to steal him, and how I am horrible and…and…and…

  “Wait, you’re a virgin?”

  “Can you get over that?”

  “It’s just—”

  “What?” I cry. “Do I have superslut written across my forehead?”

  “No, it’s just that you seem so experienced.”

  “It’s because I’m fabulous3,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ears and wiping the moisture from under my eyes. My God, I’m not wearing any eyeliner. Ugh. “People often mistake fabulous for other things.”

  “Like full of—”

  “Ahem,” I say, shaking my head slowly.

  She smiles, tucks her red hair behind her ears, and overdra-matically blinks a few times before wiping away a fake tear.

  “Look, this isn’t as bad as you think it is,” she says.

  “Of course it is. It’s always as bad as I think it is,” I tell her.

  “Why don’t you just tell D that you lied?”

  I look at her and roll my eyes. Naive.

  “Of course I can’t do that!” I say, exasperated. Hasn’t she been listening?

  “Why not?”

  “D…” I sit up and pull both my pillows onto my lap. “D’s mom cheated on D’s dad. But, like, D was the one who caught her.”

  “Like, caught her caught her?” I see Sam’s eyes widen.

  “Not caught in the heat of passion or anything but, like, he caught her getting out of this town car and he thought he saw something. But she covered it up and to
ld him some lie about it. I’m not really sure exactly what happened; he doesn’t talk about it very much. Anyway, she left two weeks later and his dad basically was wrecked.”

  “And this has to do with you and D how?”

  “Well, his big thing is lying. Like, you can do or say anything. Be a horrible person. You can kill his dog, but if you lie to him…it’s like this unfixable sin.”

  Sam looks at me, the full weight of the issue (no pun intended) sinking in.

  “So why did you lie, then?”

  I shake my head a little. “I didn’t want him to know that…well, I didn’t want him to know that my dad was sending me here. I didn’t want him to think of me as being the type of person who needed to be here.”

  Sam stiffens, like I knew she would.

  “I didn’t know what I was talking about.”

  “No, I understand,” she says, bending a little. “The only people who know where I am are my family.”

  I pause for a moment to think about that. “Can I see the hot pic of your stepbrother?”

  “Not a chance,” she snaps, but then smiles. “Look, what’s the big deal? As long as you’re home before D leaves to pick you up—no harm done.”

  “How can I be home if I’m here?”

  I look at her. She nods. I get it. All I have to do is go home. Or rather, all I have to do is get sent home.

  “OK, listen. I have to go to physical recreation or whatever, but I’ll be back and we’ll figure this out.”

  “Thanks, Sam,” I say. She gives me a thumbs-up and leaves me alone to freak.

  THEBIGUN17: You’re online!

  RILEDUP: Obviously. Why are you so surprised?

  THEBIGUN17: Oh, no reason. What’s going on?

  RILEDUP: I’m planning my escape from upstate NY.

  THEBIGUN17: What?

  RILEDUP: I’m going back to the city.

  THEBIGUN17: Why? What happened? You didn’t get kicked out, did you?

  RILEDUP: Not yet, but I’m working on it.

  THEBIGUN17: As a purely objective, third-party observer, what about this new guy?

  RILEDUP: ::sigh:: I don’t know. I’ll have to figure that out later. But I can’t lose D over this.

  THEBIGUN17: You can just call and tell him the truth.

  RILEDUP: No, I can’t.

  * * *

  3 True. Sometimes people will think you are more mature, more experienced, richer and more beautiful, when in reality—you’re just more fabulous than they are. Simple rebuttal? I’m not more X, I’m just fabulous. Or, if it’s a guy, “I’m not more X, you’re just attracted to me.”

  WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS, ORDER TAKE-OUT

  I need to get sent home. How do I do that?” I ask.

  “You’re obviously not worried about breaking the rules, so why don’t you break one or two more?” Sam suggests. She tucks her feet under her and sits cross-legged on her bed. I notice, for the first time, that she has a rainbow comforter. This girl needs some serious help.

  “How do I do that? I mean, how do I do that without getting in trouble with my parents and…well, what about Eric?”

  “I was thinking about this while doing jumping jacks.”

  “Jumping jacks?”

  “Core strengthening,” she says, grimacing.

  We’ve been sitting in our room for a while now with my Hello Kitty notebook, making lists and making plans. I must say, if I were in jail, I’d hope for Sam to be my roommate to help me break out. What am I saying? I am in jail.

  “Here’s the idea.” Sam’s face brightens. “We stage an eat-in.”

  “What? Can’t I just push Tilly down a mine shaft and get kicked out for that?”

  “Riley,” Sam says, sighing. She stands up and goes to her desk and brings back a small pamphlet that I recognize as the New Horizons handbook. She flips it open, looking for something.

  Hmm…so that’s what the inside looks like.

  “ ‘Rule Thirteen,’” she reads. “ ‘While temporary on-campus probation might be rendered in lieu of suspension and expulsion for multiple demerits on a case-by-case basis, the confiscation of or possession of items either food or otherwise will necessitate immediate expulsion.’”

  “Huh?”

  “It means that the only sure way of getting kicked out is by having this food stuff.”

  I do get it, but…“Why an eat-in? Why not just get, like, Krispy Kreme doughnuts and walk around with them dropping out of my pockets?”

  “Because I’m sick of being a Goody Two-shoes around here and I want to make a point,” she says, snapping the guidebook shut again.

  “What point is that?”

  “That I have a voice and that I can make up my own mind about what I do and what I eat and…and where I go to school.”

  Uh-oh…teenage angst, meet Samantha. Samantha, teenage angst.

  I nod, because who am I to stand in the way of Samantha’s newly found mental freedom? We spend the rest of the afternoon (or her forty-two-minute break) planning our eat-in.

  The first part of our plan: Delivering Blacklisted Goods.

  We need to order and have delivered a lot of blacklisted items. The way one orders Chinese in NY.

  I need to call Eric, the only person I know on campus who might do this for me. For us.

  “But I can’t tell him why!”

  “Riley, you should just tell him,” Samantha says.

  She doesn’t understand relationships, or men, at all.

  I call his number. Mr. Right.

  “Eric? It’s Riley…I need a favor.” I pause; he doesn’t respond. “Remember me? The girl you were caught making out with and got a demerit and drove insane with lust and passion?”

  “Um, is everything OK?”

  “Everything is fine, but I was hoping you could do me a favor,” I say.

  “Of course, uh—what do you need?”

  Samantha is standing over my right shoulder. For no other reason than to keep her from having a major stroke.

  I need to get to the point and get there soon.

  “Look, I need a dealer,” I say, lowering my voice.

  “Huh?”

  “We’re staging a small coup here at New Horizons. I need some stuff and someone on the outside to get said stuff.”

  “What stuff are we talking about?”

  “Oh, I don’t know…Twinkies. Bagels. Whole milk. Basically anything that has a minimum of twenty-five carbohydrate grams per serving with the majority coming from fat.”

  “My mom isn’t going to like that,” he says, his voice hushed.

  “That’s the point.”

  “And let’s say I help you get the stuff. What are you going to do with it?”

  “Does it matter?” I ask.

  “Of course it matters,” he replies. “I may occasionally work in the black market, but I wouldn’t sell a glazed doughnut to a diabetic. I might not have ethics but I definitely have my morals.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Living by your morals means you abide by what you feel is right or wrong. Living by ethics means you abide by what other people feel is right or wrong.”

  “And if I swear that no diabetics will be harmed by your actions?”

  “Not good enough. I need details or there will be no stuff.”

  Someone is coming around the corner and Samantha is motioning the kill-sign at me.

  “Yes, Aunt DeeDee, I completely understand and I’ll be happy to tell you all about it some other time!” I smile as the girl who I recognize from my PE class walks by Samantha and me. We lean against the wall. Samantha pretends to be picking at her cuticles and the girl gives us a funny look and keeps walking. When she gets to the corner, Samantha gives me a look that says, That was close and we better get out of here!

  “Now, please,” was all Eric responds.

  I pause, contemplating letting Eric in on our complete scheme.

  “We’re staging an eat-in.”

  Samantha’s eyes bug out
and she makes choking motions with her hands, her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth. Seriously, she needs to calm that shit down.

  I turned around to avoid making eye contact with her.

  “An eat-in?”

  “You know, like an old-fashioned nonviolent form of protest. Like they used in the sixties.”

  “Isn’t that a sit-in?”

  “Yes, well, those people were fighting against action with inaction. I’m fighting against being thin-ified by eating.”

  There is a silence from Eric’s end that I find extremely unsettling. I think he might be laughing so hard that he can’t breathe and I prepare myself to hear a guffaw at any point. But he doesn’t laugh. Not even a chuckle. He simply says, “OK. E-mail me a list of your needs and when you’ll need it by.” Then he pauses. “Riley?” he asks.

  “Yeah?” I ask, as Samantha pulls on my arm.

  “What you’re doing…what I think you’re doing. It’s pretty cool.”

  He always says the right thing, except right now the right thing is the worst thing he possibly could’ve said. I want to tell him that I want to run away and this is why I am doing this. Instead I just say, “Thanks, I gotta run.”

  “Oh…um…absolutely. Talk to you later,” he says. I can hear the confusion in his voice, the questions. The “Are we OK?” that is looming, and I’m not sure. I mean, on one hand there are a million reasons why I should love him, but I loved—I mean I love—D and so I can’t really love Eric. This is too much.

  “I’ll e-mail you. Bye,” I say, blowing him a kiss and then hanging up.

  “He said yes?” Samantha asks.

  “He said yes.”

  I hand her the folded paper with his e-mail address and she looks up at me and smiles. “Phase two?”

  I nod. “Phase two.”

  Phase two is easy. Phase two is just a matter of time and attention. Phase three, on the other hand, necessitates cunning and skilled negotiation. This is where I will shine. This is where my father would have cried, clasped me to his bosom, and muttered, “My daughter, my darling daughter. I know thee, because you are a reflection of me.” (Don’t ask me where I get this shit. I’m just THAT worldly).