Football Dick (Big Girls, Bad Boys, and Babies)

by Violet Blaze

  At least my dad had done little more than raise a brow when I walked my embarrassed butt back to the skybox. Walter had gone on and on about how altruistic I was and how he hadn't bought a single raffle ticket. I wonder what he wanted me to make of that?

  “One date with …” And here she literally swoons, swaying back and forth and making the plastic of the couch crinkle beneath her Brazil Butt Lift cheeks. Ariana is obsessed with at-home workout routines and has tried everything from old 80's Jazzercise tapes to whatever the newest streaming Beachbody video is. “Rhoden Richards,” she continues, patting my leg, “won't kill you.”

  “It's wrong for me to accept. My father owns the team,” I tell her, but she isn't listening. And nobody else seems to care either. My phone blew up with about a million notifications this morning about how Loud and Proud Big Girl Della Garland Wins Date With Big Dick.

  Yeah, I thought it was crass and tasteless, too.

  The Huffington Post article is being shared everywhere; I can't seem to get away from it. Apparently, I'm a Loud and Proud Big Girl because I'm not a size two (not that there's anything wrong with that) and I run a blog about body positivity—at any size.

  Oh, and apparently not everyone is aware of why people call Rhoden Richards Big Dick. Hint: it's not just that he's two hundred and twenty-five pounds of muscle operating under the last name Richards.

  One of Ariana's model friends texted me out of the blue last night to tell me all about her one and only date with Rhoden Richards. Let's just say she'd insinuated that the nickname was nothing but pure truth.

  I sigh and drop my face into the palm of my hand.

  “I appreciate the fact that they donated all the raffle ticket proceeds to charity, but this is all just a big publicity stunt for Rhoden,” I say without looking up. “His image is in the trash and everyone knows it, including my father. Hell, he was probably the one that came up with this whole stunt. Not that he'd ever tell me that,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Stop whining and start wondering what you're going to wear. We need to figure out how to get some sort of secret cam planted on you, so I can watch the whole thing from here.”

  I finally raise my head, strands of red-brown sliding against my cheeks, to give Ariana a look.

  “I'm turning this whole thing down,” I tell her firmly, even as her rouged red lips turn down at the corners. Since I'm a serious sucker for Ariana's puppy dog face, I almost change my mind. But then I remember the way Rhoden looked up at me, his full mouth curving into a satisfied smile, his liquid brown eyes drowning me as our gazes met from across the field.

  I shiver.

  “I have a terrible feeling about this,” I say firmly as I rise to my feet and sweep my hair into a ponytail as I ready myself to head over to my dad's house for dinner. The whole family's going to be there which, unfortunately, also means that Walter Virgil is going to be there. I'm not sure if the terrible feeling is for the date or the dinner.

  “Is he going to propose tonight?” Ariana asks, like she's inquiring about a newly discovered STD or a moon sized meteor that's hours away from decimating the entire planet.

  “I know you don't like him,” I begin, my mind flickering to Walter's slicked back hair and the cloud of outrageously expensive cologne that he drowns himself in.

  “And you don't like him either,” Ariana says, crossing her red heels at the ankle. The shiny patent red shoes do nothing to dispel the 'sexy librarian' fantasy. “Go out with Rhoden. If you're going to marry Mr. GMO, then you might as well have one last night of fun.”

  I purse my lips at her, but I don't really have a comeback for that. Walter, aka Mr. GMO, is the CEO of Donsanto, a powerhouse of a corporation that makes my dad's company look like small potatoes. They call themselves a sustainable agriculture company, but for the life of me, I've never been able to figure out what that means. Ariana says they make pesticides that kill honeybees and manufacture genetically modified corn, but who knows if that's true?

  “I have to go,” I tell her as she leans back into the cushions with a sigh and the dramatic unfolding of a fitness magazine. “If he proposes, I'll text you.”

  “Girl, you better come and pick my butt up,” she growls as I wave good-bye and head to the front door of her apartment. “And that ring better be the size of Alaska!”

  She throws the magazine at my back as I beat a hasty retreat.

  The ring is not the size of Alaska. It's like a Canada sized ring. Or a North America sized ring. But definitely bigger than Alaska. So, so, so much bigger than Alaska.

  My heart gets stuck in my throat as I stare down at the massive rock cradled in my palm. I almost choked on it and died when Walter decided it would be romantic to hide it in my dessert.

  “That is one hell of a rock!” my sister, Halcy, whistles from beside me, snatching the diamond engagement ring from my hand with a cackle and trying it on. It's beyond rude to try someone's ring on before they've even said yes, but I'm hyperventilating too much to chastise her right now.

  “Halcy! Language,” my stepmother says because she's this old WASP socialite who thinks crap is akin to the F-word, and Ariana's interracial engagement should be the subject of national outrage.

  I've hated her since I was ten.

  “Well, Della,” she urges, smiling bright from across the impressive width of the dining room table. “Say yes.”

  I look at my sister, brandishing the massive rock on her finger and feel my mind start to fall to pieces. How many carats is that? I wonder as I blink back stars and try to get a hold of myself. I knew this was coming. In fact, I was practically forced into it by my dad.

  He introduced me to Walt about a year ago. Within an hour, he was telling me that this was our chance to combine two great American families and start a legacy. Within a week, he was discussing Walt's observations of me like we were talking business. He likes a bigger woman, Della, he told me, like I was prized horseflesh in need of inspection. He wants a down-to-earth girl, someone with a rags to riches story that grew up in polite society.

  I feel like I'm about to throw up.

  “Here,” Hal says, thrusting the ring at me as I blink back oddly disturbing images of Rhoden Richards, all sweaty in his uniform, his facial hair kempt but not groomed like he's some sort of fancy show dog. Like a poodle. That's what Walter looks like to me right now in his twenty thousand dollar suit and gleaming white smile—like a poodle. “Say yes, Della,” she parrots after her mother.

  I look around the table—at my stepsiblings, at Walter's sister, at his parents, at my dad. They're all waiting expectantly, staring at me like they're prepared for the next line in their favorite play, one they've all seen a million times.

  Because, I mean, who wouldn't just say yes to Walter Virgil? He's young and handsome and ridiculously filthy rich. Even if I don't love him, I should do this for the family, to keep my sister and my dad in the lifestyle they've grown accustomed to.

  I seriously consider standing up and sprinting out the front door, fleeing to Ariana's house and never making contact with my family again.

  Sweat starts to bead on my forehead and my temples. At this point, Walter's starting to frown and my dad's blue eyes have grown to monstrous proportions, the skin on his neck turning red, jaw tightening.

  I look between him and Walter, my mind galloping along at a frantic pace. My lips feel suddenly dry, and I lick them, clearing my throat and trying to catch my breath. I hate being put on the spot like this. It's like the football game all over again, the cameras zooming in on my face. To be quite honest, I'm ten times as nervous now as I was then and for the life of me, I can't figure out why that is.

  “Sure.”

  The single syllable falls from my mouth and hangs heavy in the quiet room.

  “Sure?” Walt asks, like he's also having trouble believing what he's just heard. Sure?! Did you just say sure to the richest bachelor on the planet? What is wrong with you, you crazy person?

  “Yes,” I correct,
and force myself to smile through the collective release of breath that travels around the room. “I mean, yes.” I stand up and move over to Walter, letting him put his arms on my hips to pull me in for a kiss. It's nothing to write home about—I've had better—but it's not completely god-awful.

  “May I propose a toast?” Hal asks, lifting up her champagne glass while her mother glares at her from across the table. My little sister just turned twenty last week, and her mother is basically a hostile militant force in her life. Any chance she can get to drink alcohol—even just a sip during a toast—she latches onto it. “To the future Mr. and Mrs. Walter Virgil!”

  I feel my entire body go stiff as Walt lifts up a glass to hand to me. Mr. and Mrs. Walter Virgil? We've been engaged all of two seconds and I don't have a name anymore? I glance over at the man in question, at his perfect white smile, his square jaw, his stately nose and all the rest of that blue blood breeding.

  “Excuse me,” I say, setting the champagne back down and flashing a winning smile for Walter. I try really, really hard not to look at my father. “I'll be just one minute. One minute.”

  Without making eye contact with anyone in the room, I walk slowly and carefully to the front door, and then let myself outside.

  By the time my dad comes out to look for me, my car's already peeling out of the driveway and down the street.

  Twenty minutes after I leave my dad's house, I'm pulling into a parking space at Ariana's. Before I climb out of the car, I risk a glance at my phone.

  Holy crap.

  My notifications are so blown up I'm starting to worry about the fallout. The only one I actually look at is a text from Hal. I always use her if I need to test the waters at home.

  Covered for you. Said Ariana got in a wreck and you only had time to text me. P.S. If you're looking to hide out tonight, there's a party at Rochelle's. A MASQUERADE party. Should be fun and kinky. I'll climb out my bedroom window in about an hour. Pick me up around the corner.

  I roll my eyes and turn the screen off, shoving the phone in my back pocket as I race up the stairs to Ariana's apartment and slam my fist against the door like it owes me money. It's only as I'm banging away at the wood that I realize I'm still wearing the engagement ring.

  “Crap,” I mutter, reaching down to pull it off. The damn thing is stuck. I twist and pull, suddenly terrified at the prospect of revealing the ring to my best friend. It feels like if she sees it, it becomes real. I desperately don't want this to be real right now. Don't judge me. I know how ridiculous this all seems. Poor little rich girl, right? And anyway, didn't that terrible Y-word come pouring out of my mouth? My dad didn't say yes; that was me.

  I drop my purse to the cement floor of the porch as I hear Ariana call out an I'm coming from inside. Meanwhile, I twist and wiggle that ring against the suddenly swollen flesh of my finger. I think I'm making things worse with my frantic struggling, but it doesn't matter. If it's the last thing I do, I'm getting this damn ring off.

  “This better be a serious emotional crisis,” Ariana says as she swings the door wide and the ring pops off my finger and flies into the air. It spins there like some sort of million dollar snowflake before it plunges off the edge of the balcony and disappears into the bushes. “What the hell was that?” Ariana asks as I feel the blood drain from my face.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Walter Virgil,” I blurt and she tweaks a red brow.

  “What?”

  “I cannot believe this is happening,” I mumble as I clomp down the stairs in the brown suede boots I put on for dinner. This time, I didn't let Hal help dress me, and I felt good. Strong. Confident. Now I almost wish I'd worn a plastic garbage sack, so Walt might've changed his mind about proposing. I am so blogging about this when I get home tonight. “Ariana, help me,” I tell her as I drag my phone from my pocket and hit the flashlight app.

  “Help you? With what?” she asks, but Ariana's too loyal not to at least follow after me. She comes down the steps and kneels in the dirt near the overgrown clusters of fountain grass. This was where I saw it fall, I swear.

  “Mr. GMO gave me a ring, and it probably costs like, a million dollars, and I said sure but not yes, and I really, really don't want to lose this goddamn thing.”

  Ariana pauses and narrows her eyes at me while I scan the ground with my cell phone.

  “Is it Alaska sized?”

  “North America sized,” I say and Ariana squeals. She might hate Walter, but she loves rings. Especially big, fancy engagement rings like the one on her finger that her fiancé, Scottie, put on credit and totally can't afford. “I swear, if you help me find this ring, I will seriously do anything.”

  “Like take me to that masquerade party thing tonight?”

  I pause in my frantic search through freshly sprayed bark mulch, the fingers of my left hand already dotted with splinters.

  “Did she text you again?” I ask, trying not to feel betrayed. Hal's been trying to steal Ariana from me for years with promises of fancy parties and her too-stubborn-for-her-own-good personality.

  “About five minutes ago. But she didn't say anything about the proposal. How did he ask? And what the hell does I said sure but not yes mean?”

  “It means,” I continue as I insert myself between a pair of manicured hedges. I bet there are spiders in here. Most definitely spiders. I think I can feel one in my hair. “That I froze up. That I saw everyone looking at me and talking all at once and I didn't know what to say.”

  “Because you hate Walter,” Ariana interjects and then, “aha!” I jerk back through the hedges, getting sticks caught in my hair as I scramble around and find Ariana with the ring in her palm. “Holy crap, Del. This is … this ring probably costs more than my entire apartment complex.”

  “I know,” I say, and I don't like the way my voice falls flat, like a popped tire. What kind of girl gets proposed to by the richest, sexiest bachelor in the world and says no? And then proceeds to act like it's some kind of burden, like having a million dollar ring is so awful. “And I don't hate Walter.”

  “You certainly don't like him,” she tells me as she passes the ring back and watches as I slip it on my finger. It feels weird to wear it, so I take it off and make sure it's safely tucked away in a zippered pocket in my purse. “You haven't even had sex with the guy.”

  “I'm not into casual hookups,” I say. Lie. I'm definitely into that, but they just never seem to happen. Maybe because I don't let them happen. There's always one excuse or another that manages to convince me why a guy isn't datable, screwable, marriageable material. With Walter, there really is no excuse. “Guess I'm saving myself for marriage,” I joke which is funny since I'm not actually a virgin.

  “Guess I was right, and he did propose, and you just really don't want to marry him.” There's a long pause as Ariana leans back on her hands and looks up at the streetlamps above our heads. “That's okay, you know. To not want to marry the perfect guy.” A slight smile crawls across her mouth and I know she's thinking about her fiancé. Tall, gangly, nerdy, financially destitute Scottie. Definitely not Cosmo cover material, but … to her he is perfect.

  Walter might be the perfect man to the rest of the world, but for me … well, I guess I'll just have to wait and see.

  “Are you sure you don't want to dress up?” Ariana asks me from the passenger seat as I sit in my SUV and pick sticks out of my hair. I'm still wearing my conservative purple silk blouse, white pencil skirt and suede booties.

  I look like … my stepmom.

  A shiver travels down my spine.

  “On second thought …”

  I shoot my sister a text that we're on our way and swing by to pick her up before heading over to my place. If I'm going to this stupid party—it's the 21st century, who does masquerade balls anyway?—then I might as well comb the sticks out of my hair and put on some shoes that don't look like they belong to a senator from New Hampshire.

  “This party tonight is gonna be swag,” Hal says and I roll my eyes. She's wearing �
� basically nothing: a tiny white dress that I can totally see her bra and thong through, and red high heels. Ariana is typical Ariana—sweater vest over a white blouse (which is, of course, unbuttoned down to her lacy red bra), red skirt, black suede boots, hipster glasses and braids.

  I have no idea what I'm going to wear. I don't really buy clothes for parties which is funny since my sister drags me to so damn many of them.

  “What kind of party is this?” I ask as we pull up to the security gate of my apartment complex. “Because the last time you said a party was going to be swag, it involved people in leather and latex doing it in the living room.”

  “It's not a sex party this time, you prude,” Hal says, applying her lipstick in the rearview mirror. “So get over yourself and try to have some fun. Dad says Walt's eager to get married to prove to his stockholders what a responsible family man he is. You don't have long left to be a bachelorette, Del.”

  I ignore her and pull into the parking garage, trying not to let my mind stray back to matters of Dad and Walt. The only reason I agreed to come out to this party in the first place was to get my mind off of them.

  “Wait right here,” I tell them as I put the car in park and unbuckle my seat belt. “Give me five minutes.”

  “Oh h-to-the-ell, no,” Hal says as she scrambles out after me. “If I let you dress yourself, you'll put on some ugly Target funeral gown.”

  “Just because it's black doesn't make it a funeral gown, Halcy.” I walk faster when Ariana cranks up Katy Perry on my stereo so loud it vibrates the windows around me. I pretend not to know her. “And not everything from Target is ugly.”