The Cinderella Pact

by Sarah Strohmeyer

  “You’ve got to keep drinking your water. Sixty-four ounces, minimum. That and walking five miles a day, though picking it up to a jog wouldn’t hurt. And don’t eat anything white except boiled egg whites. Those you can have until the cows come home.” He nudges me. “No puns intended.”

  Jim’s plan, I am ashamed to admit, was the inspiration behind Belinda’s miraculous weight loss. I stole it and then I didn’t follow it and then I wrote that a fictitious person lost tons of weight on it “painlessly.” After all that, I tossed it in the I-78 rest area trash bin.

  I am not proud.

  “I’ve really got to go, Jim. It’s a bit of an emergency.”

  “No sweat,” and he shoots me with his finger. “Then again, no sweat means no muscle. Anytime you want to get serious about fitness, you call me. I got a program that will trim you down in six weeks.”

  You and everyone else I know. “Will do.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  He sizes me up. “Man. You could be so pretty if you dropped the weight.”

  “Thanks,” I say, though between you and me if I never hear that line again it will be too soon.

  I pull into the crowded parking lot of the St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church at the top of the hill and run through my usual pre-Belinda preparations, taking deep breaths and being British. Love Actually. Hugh Grant. Bridget Jones. Monty Python . Tea at Harrods. When I’m ready, I take a deep breath, imagine a pickle up my ass, and dial my younger sister.

  “Hello?” Eileen answers on the first ring.

  “Hello. I’m looking for an Eileen Devlin. Have I rung the right number?”

  “This is her!” Eileen lets out an eeek. “Is this who I think it is?”

  “If you think it is Belinda Apple, then you are correct.”

  “Oh my God!” Eileen does a lousy job of covering the mouthpiece. “Ohmigod, guys, it’s her.” There is a chorus of questions—many having to do with Belinda’s trademark pink cowboy boots and if she and Nigel are getting it on. “I’m going to take this in the other room. Sorry.”

  I hear what I assume to be the bedroom door slam behind her and Eileen breathing heavily. “I can’t believe you called. When Mom said you would, I was so excited but then hours passed and—”

  “Yes, so sorry about that. Had a bit of a shhedule mix-up, you see. Anyway, happy birthday and all that.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, to tell you the truth, that’s not why I wanted you to call. I have a big problem.”

  Immediately a million possibilities flood my thoughts, most having to do with Camaro repair and nail-polish removal. “Oh?”

  “It’s pretty personal and I don’t want anyone to overhear.” Eileen lowers her voice. “My boyfriend and I have been dating for three years . . .”

  I stifle a groan. Please, please tell me that Eileen is not going to confide some serious sexual problem. Wait. What if it’s a performance issue? What if Jim the terrier can’t get it up after all those eons on steroids? Or maybe he’ll only do it doggy-style.

  “... and it’s been great.”

  “Great?”

  “Yeah. I mean, we are so in love. Jim’s like the best. I wish you could meet him. I’m sure you’d love him right off like everyone does.”

  “Yes, I’m sure I would.”

  “He’s very kind. Very smart in a businessman kind of way. Manages three gyms in the Lehigh Valley area. Handsome. Ah . . . tall, sort of.”

  “I see.” Blatant lying, apparently, is a Devlin family trait.

  “And he’s dynamite in bed.”

  Nope. Not gonna go there. “So what’s the problem?” I say, directing us back on course.

  “It’s my family.”

  Shit. Now I know I’m about to hear something I shouldn’t. I keep silent.

  “They hate him. Especially my sister.”

  I say nothing. What can I say? She’s right. Well, perhaps not hate. Hate’s such a nasty word. Dislike very intensely, yes. The way one dislikes, um, terriers.

  “Promise me you won’t say anything to Nola.”

  “Of course not.” Never.

  “But between you and me . . . I think she’s jealous.”

  I grip the side of my seat and focus on being Britishly reserved—Emma Thompson, Julie Andrews—because otherwise I am afraid I will blurt, Are you out of your fucking mind? Jim foams at the mouth. Why would I be jealous that you’re dating a rabid mutt?

  “Jealous, you say?” I fake serene.

  “Extremely. I mean, have you ever actually seen my sister?”

  Oh, brother. This is going to be bad, isn’t it? “No, but from what everyone tells me, she’s very stylish, extremely pretty.” Hah! Take that, baby sister.

  “She could be.”

  “Could be?”

  “If she took care of herself. Listen, Belinda, my sister is over two hundred pounds. Jim, who’s a weight-loss professional, can guess people’s weight to the ounce. The only person he’s never been honest with is Nola. If he told her the truth, she’d faint.”

  “What do you mean, ‘the truth’?” I accuse, my British accent totally out the window.

  “That she’s pushing two-fifty.”

  My lower jaw involuntarily drops. “Am not!”

  “Huh?”

  Suddenly I see I’ve stepped out of line. “I’m sorry. We appear to have been cut off. I said I am not surprised.”

  “Gee. You are good. You knew that about Nola without meeting her?”

  “Funny, really. Suppose that’s why I’m in the business of dispensing advice, isn’t it?”

  “Anyway,” Eileen continues, unsure what I mean by that, “I’m afraid that when we announce we are getting married . . .”

  “Married!” I scream before I can help myself.

  “Yes, married. Why? Is there something wrong?”

  “It’s so . . .” I search for rational reasons why a British advice columnist would even care that Eileen is getting married. “Why, you’re so young.”

  “I’m thirty-three. As of today. That’s not young. By this age my mother had both her daughters.”

  “But in today’s world women are putting off marriage for years and years.”

  “I don’t see the point of waiting. I love him. He loves me. What’s the big deal?”

  Everything, I think, closing my eyes, envisioning little Jims and Eileens flexing their barbells and making personal comments about ninety-eight-pound weaklings, lifting their legs and peeing on Mom and Dad’s furniture.

  No, hold on. That’s not fair. Eileen’s right. She’s past thirty. If she wants to marry the vicious terrier, she should. It should be a splendid union . . . provided she’s had her shots.

  “Brilliant,” I am able to squeak out. “Just as long as you two are really, really sure.”

  “We’re sure, all right. Jim’s been married twice already. He wouldn’t jump from the frying pan into the fire, as he says, if the fire weren’t so damn hot.” She giggles.

  Someone yank that man off the stage. “Let’s recap,” I say. “You love each other. You want to get married, despite Nola’s so-called jealousy, so why are you two having problems?”

  “I’m afraid that when we make the big announcement today, Nola will flip. Nana Snyder says it’s wrong for a younger sister to marry before the older one. But how long will that take? I mean, Nola doesn’t even have a boyfriend. I’m not sure she dates or goes out, even. She’s like a . . . a bookworm or something. A permanent spinster.”

  I could reach through this phone and . . . Patience, Nola. Steady, girl. Remember who you are supposed to be. Remember that Eileen would not want you to hear what she’s confiding to Belinda.

  “And it’s not like we haven’t offered to, you know, help make her more attractive to men. Jim’s tried everything he can to get Nola to slim down, even gave her a diet and exercise program. For free! He charges big bucks for that kind of counseling at the gym and Nola acts like she is insulted every time he brings it up.”


  “Hmm.” Fuming here. Positively fuming. My hands are gripping the rental’s steering wheel so tightly, they’re leaving permanent imprints. I’ll probably be charged extra for that.

  To hear these words from my own sister’s lips is so dizzying that no matter how much I am trying to be Belinda, the truth is that my lungs have ceased to function. I seem to be slipping into a tunnel. The corner of my vision is all black. Is this how my sister sees me? As a nerdy jealous spinster obstructing her way toward marital bliss? Is this how everyone views me? The big, unmarriageable Nola Devlin?

  I bet Nana, Mom, Dad, and Eileen have been sitting around the kitchen table discussing the “Nola problem.” I can see my mother wiping off some invisible crumbs and shaking her head, saying, “There’s no way to help her unless she wants to help herself,” and my father, one eye on the TV, adding, “Aww, let her be,” and Nana throwing in a “Well, I think it’s disgraceful, a younger sister marrying first.”

  “Belinda? Belinda are you there? Did we get cut off again?”

  I clear my throat and wipe away my tears with the back of my hand. “For a bit there, yes.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “I think,” I begin, slowly. “I think it would be best . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “It would be best if you didn’t make a big deal of it. Just announce your engagement and I’m sure you’ll find that Nola is not nearly as desperate or jealous as you believe.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “That’s exactly what Dad said.”

  Good ol’ Dad. I must remember to give him a secret kiss on the cheek.

  “OK, I’ve gotta go. I’m gonna tell Jim so we can make the announcement today. I’ve been keeping the ring hidden for, like, weeks.” Eileen squeals again. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I just knew you’d take my side.”

  “I usually do.”

  Eileen misses that.

  “If I could have gone to Nola right off, without worrying about offending her or hurting her feelings, this wouldn’t have been such an issue. She’s just so sensitive, you know, you can’t bring up clothes or shopping or guys or anything else sisters talk about. You’re like the older sister I never had, Belinda. You’ve made this the best birthday ever.”

  After she hangs up, I hold the phone in my hand, staring zombielike out the window at the good parishioners of St. Nicholas’s, the dark-haired fathers, mothers, and skipping children in all sizes leaving the church in packs of big Greek families. Here are slim women and large women and grand-mothers all in black. Yet they are loved. They are with men. Some are married. Others not. Yet, they are laughing and complete. Why not me?

  Somehow the sight of them contrasted with Eileen’s pronouncement that I’m destined to be a spinster has a strange effect. I am unable to start the car. I can’t stop crying and hating myself for it. I am not sensitive. I am just like any other woman in the world—only slightly larger and with a heart that at this moment is swelling in pain.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I had been doing so well. Salads. High-protein, low-fat main meals. Water, water, water. Every food I ate was weighed and measured. I was even walking before work.

  Then came yesterday. Though, honestly, I can’t really be blamed for falling off the wagon, can I? I mean, if your sister had just called you an introverted spinster destined for a life of loneliness, would you resist a bag of chips? No. I’m not talking about a snack bag. I’m talking the whole bag. Ruffles with ridges. Super size. With ranch dip.

  I tried to hold off. I really did. After my phony Belinda call, I doused my eyes with Visine, returned to my sister’s party, and pretended to act as surprised and thrilled as all of Eileen’s shrieking girlfriends when she flashed her Sears diamond-chip ring and trilled, “Guess, what, Nola! Jim and I are getting married. You can be a bridesmaid!”

  I stoically kept in mind Dr. Anne Renée Krugenheim’s advice from Who Moved My Fat?

  Learn to recognize your overeating triggers. Remember that the journey to being thin starts with taking a road not traveled. Instead of relying on old, destructive eating habits to get you over a bad patch, try doing the opposite. Take a different path.

  And I did just that. In the beginning.

  I was very proud of the restraint I showed, even though there was food everywhere. Cheeseburgers. Hot dogs with chili. My mother’s omnipresent potato salad. Birthday cake. I didn’t even eat one potato chip. As for the cake, just a teensy weensie slice. Rather, two. Two teensy weensie slices followed by nothing more than a dollop of ice cream. Nothing, really.

  Yes, it’s true that at the New Jersey border I did stop off and get a Subway turkey sandwich, but those things are good for you. Look at that guy on TV who lost all the weight, though I read once that he never ate a sandwich with cheese or mayo. Well, that’s just impossible. What’s the point of having a sandwich if there’s no cheese or mayo?

  Then when I got to Princeton to pick up cat food at Wegman’s, I might have grabbed a bottle of Dr Pepper. Listen, I was thirsty. Do you know how salty those Subway sandwiches are? While there I noticed a two-for-one sale on Droste 80 percent dark chocolate, which as we all know now, prevents heart disease and cancer and so many life-threatening illnesses. Being very health conscious I bought two and ate both for the sake of cancer prevention.

  That I just happened to find the bag of potato chips in the part of my pantry I hadn’t cleaned out yet wasn’t my fault. After my conversation with Eileen I was vulnerable. So vulnerable that I dug into the ranch dip in the back of my fridge, cleaning off a thin line of green mold at the edge, of course.

  And here I am, Monday morning at six thirty, lying in a heap of tangled sheets and self-loathing and suffering from what can only be a salt and sugar hangover. I don’t even want to think about the Cinderella Pact.

  To tell you the truth, I’m beginning to despise the Cinderella Pact.

  I should call it the Cinderella Packed because if I hadn’t been part of it, I wouldn’t have binged like I just did. I would be feeling normal, getting out of bed, taking a shower, making coffee. The usual routine. Instead, I plain hate myself.

  I can’t do it. I just can’t lose a bunch of weight just like that. I’m so tired of it all. I’ve been on too many diets for too long. I can’t stand the constant feeling of being restricted at work, for example, while around me Joel—not exactly light on his toes—is downing grilled pastrami sandwiches and Lisa is helping herself to office birthday cake.

  Not me. I’ve got my Ziploc bag of carrot sticks and have to politely stand aside while everyone helps themselves to either the vanilla or chocolate side of the cake. (In my heyday, I could craftily cut both right down the middle.)

  Forget it. I’m done. I didn’t want to be in the stupid pact to begin with.

  I’m phoning Nancy and dropping out. In fact, I can’t wait. I get my cell and dial her before I change my mind.

  “Yeah?” Nancy sounds rushed as usual.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. “I bet you’re going off to work.”

  “Running kind of late, but that’s OK, Nola. Is this important? No, wait. What a stupid question. Of course it’s important if you’re calling me before seven. What’s up?”

  I take a cleansing sigh. “I’m dropping out.”

  “Dropping out? Of what?”

  “The Cinderella Pact.”

  Nancy says nothing. A lawyer trick, I bet.

  I speak fast before I lose my resolve. “I can’t do it, Nancy. I tried. I really did. I drank tons of water and didn’t eat any office birthday cake. Last Friday, when the Food department tested a recipe for Southwestern Chicken Fingers I didn’t have one. But last night . . .”

  “You went overboard at Eileen’s party.”

  “Afterward.”

  “Why?”

  This is the hard part. I can’t tell her the whole story about my conversation with Eileen because Nancy doesn’t know my secret identity as Belinda.
Therefore I say the worst thing possible. “She got engaged.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Don’t be ridiculous.” Her cell phone starts ringing in the background.

  “Listen. If you have to go, I—”

  “I do. But I want to talk to you later. In the meantime, do me one favor.”

  It’s never good when friends ask for favors. “Sure.”

  “Find a Weight Watchers meeting.”

  “Weight Watchers! I’ve tried that already.”

  “And you’ve lost weight, remember? You do well on Weight Watchers, Nola, because there’s support, which is exactly what you need. Unfortunately I can’t give you that at the moment because I have an eight a.m. status conference in Judge Will-banks’s chambers, and I’ll be cited if I spend one more minute talking to you.”

  “Well . . .” I don’t know. I’ve been to Weight Watchers so often my name must be red flagged in their computer system.

  “I bet there’s a meeting somewhere. One meeting, that’s all I ask. Call me again if you decide to really quit. Don’t let one night of binging throw you off track. You’ve been on enough diets to know that. Remember, set your sights to five months from now.” And Nancy’s off.

  I hang up and think about what she said. I try to time travel to this December when Deb, fully recovered from weight-loss surgery, is strutting around in tight clothes instead of her usual floral tents and Nancy is back to her old zaftig self while I am the same frumpy, overweight me. Too weak-willed to survive a month in the Cinderella Pact.

  Weight Watchers. The last refuge of the yo-yo dieter. Why the heck not.

  I drag my laptop out and do a Web search for local Weight Watchers meetings, another way WW is like AA. There’s always a meeting somewhere, and I’ve been to all of them. I bet my file is in every one of the sixty-three New Jersey locations.

  Except the Weight Watchers at Sass!

  I shudder. I have never been able to bring myself to attend one of the Weight Watchers meetings at work. It’s too . . . personal.

  Lisa went when she needed to lose a wimpy ten pounds and swore by it since the meetings were held during lunchtime and were right down the hall. It did sound intriguing, I have to admit, especially the part about discovering who at Sass! was a closet Weight Watcher.