Spur of the Moment

by Theresa Alan

  Ana, on the other hand, worried about money constantly. She’d spent her whole life worrying about it. That’s what happened when you had a single mom who worked as an underpaid administrative assistant.

  Ana’s mother, Grace, was sixteen when she’d gotten pregnant. Grace never talked about Ana’s father, no matter how much Ana begged for any detail about him—his nationality, his hair color, his height, anything. Her mother often joked that it was an immaculate conception, and sometimes that’s how it felt, like Ana had popped into the world out of nowhere. Ana was desperate to know what parts of her came from him, but it really did feel like she was just her mother’s daughter. She looked a lot like her mother. They were both short and voluptuous, they had the same amber eyes and thick brown hair, so Ana couldn’t figure out what she got from his side of the family. A history of cancer and heart disease, probably.

  Of course what she hoped was that his side of the family was fabulously wealthy. She’d spent her entire life fantasizing about him coming back into their lives somehow to give them bankfuls of cash. She used to hope he’d be alive so she could meet him; now it had been so long she didn’t care if he was alive or dead—an inheritance would do just fine, thanks.

  The fantasy had many different permutations. There was the one where he’d been penniless when he’d met her mother and didn’t feel worthy of her, which is why he ran off. But over the years he’d built some fabulous business empire—most likely in the form of life-saving medicines or medical equipment—and now that he was worthy, he’d return and ask Grace to marry him and whisk them away to a life of ease and comfort.

  Then there was the one about how he’d been called off to some obscure, top-secret war, and then had become a prisoner for the last twenty-three years, but when he got out, with a huge payment from the offending government of whatever mosquito-ridden, jungle-bound nation, he’d come back and whisk Ana and Grace away to a life of ease and comfort.

  Or there was the one where he was a dashing prince of a little known foreign country, and his parents demanded that he marry the princess from some other little known foreign country to keep the nations from war instead of marrying his true love, Grace Jacobs. But now that the princess had died and peace had been declared, he could return to claim Ana and Grace and whisk them away to a life of ease and comfort. A life where Ana never had to worry about going hungry in the week or two before her mom got her monthly paycheck on the first. No matter how Grace tried, she always ran out of money by the end of the pay period.

  From a young age, Ana had a habit of checking the cupboards and refrigerator daily. For the first couple weeks of the month, the sight of food gave her such comfort. The last couple weeks of the month, the dwindling supplies gave her stomachaches and tension headaches. She’d had a stomachache through most of grade school, and her problems with insomnia had started in kindergarten.

  But Ana knew that the reason money was tight was because of her, because she’d come into the world when her mother was only sixteen. Grace was always talking about college, and how the only way to get ahead in this world was to go to college. Then she’d sigh wistfully and say that she wished she could have gone. “If only things had been different.” Ana knew that she meant, “If only I hadn’t had a baby at sixteen, all my dreams could have come true.”

  Because Grace’s biggest goal in life was for Ana to go to college, Grace hated the idea of Ana doing anything that might divert her attention or time away from studying. Ana had taken gymnastic lessons at the YMCA since she was a toddler (they’d had a program that enabled low-income students to take lessons at no cost). When she’d gotten to grade school, her mother wanted her to quit gymnastics and concentrate all her efforts on academics. Ana had been eight years old when she told her mother that having an extracurricular activity looked good on a college application. Eight years old. How had she even known that then—where had she heard it? Maybe it was because her mother’s friends were all in college and Ana absorbed it from being around them. Ana absorbed, too, the way her mother looked on with such jealousy and longing whenever her friends talked about school; even when they were talking about teachers they hated or pulling an all nighter to study for an exam, Grace coveted it all.

  “College application” had been the magic words. With that and the promise that if Ana’s grades ever dropped, she’d quit gymnastics immediately, she was able to continue practices and competitions. Then in high school, she quit gymnastics to become a cheerleader. She wanted to try out for plays, student government, and the school paper, but her mother worried that if she added another activity on top of cheerleading, her grades would fall and her future would be over. They’d had so many arguments that went along the lines of “I want you to have the opportunities I never had . . .” and Ana saying that she wanted opportunities like being in school plays and writing for the paper. Then Grace would pull the “if only things had been different for me” card, and Ana, though furious with herself for doing so, always felt guilty, literally felt guilty for being born, and her mother almost always won.

  Ana had felt like the adult in their small family for as long as she could remember. She’d been there through all the times her mother had cried after another boyfriend had broken up with her. Ana knew that the fact her mom had a kid certainly didn’t help in the pursuit of a husband—yet one more thing for Ana to feel guilty about. Ana always dutifully brought home the notes from teachers and didn’t let her mother do anything until she’d signed them. Ana always did her homework without being asked. And when her mother had the morning queasies (in her first week of college Ana finally realized these were actually hangovers after she’d experienced her own hangover for the first time), Ana would bring her mother orange juice, a vitamin, and three Excedrins before getting dressed, making her lunch, and getting to school all by herself. Ana learned young not to miss the school bus, ever.

  She had the grades and the scores to go to an Ivy League school, but not the money. So she chose the University of Colorado at Boulder. Boulder was just twenty minutes from Broomfield, the suburb where she’d grown up, and where her mother still lived. Even though college was only twenty minutes away, Ana lived in the dorms and then in a house with her friends from her improv group, so at least it gave her some distance from her mother.

  Growing up poor had made Ana desperate to be somebody. Somebody who never needed to worry about where her next meal was coming from. Somebody who had enough money in the bank that if she lost her job, she wouldn’t fall into crushing debt and poverty and be out on the street. Somebody who could own her own home—not a puny condo decorated with ’70s-style carpeting and god-awful green drapes like her mom—a house. Somebody with such style and great clothes that when she ran into her classmates from grade school and high school they would feel waves of remorse for having made fun of her Kmart clothes and limited wardrobe when she’d been a kid. They’d kick themselves: Gosh, I wish I’d been nicer to her way back when.

  Ana pushed the bills aside and looked at her watch. It was almost seven o’clock. Oh what she wouldn’t give to be able to stay home tonight and go to bed early. She was exhausted.

  “Marin, are you almost ready? We’re going to be late for the warm ups!” Ana called.

  “Coming! I’m almost ready.”

  Ana went to the bathroom and fixed her makeup, leisurely redoing her hair. She knew when Marin said she was almost ready she wasn’t even close to ready. Ana finished freshening up and went and sat on the couch, idly flipping through an US magazine. She, Marin, and Chelsey subscribed to every tabloid rag there was. They were improv comedians, so reading celebrity gossip wasn’t a guilty pleasure, but important research.

  Ana stopped at an article describing how various celebrities lost weight. They had pictures of the stars going from “Puff to Buff.” Ana would have given her left eye to look like just one of these women in their alleged “Puff ” stages. Puff her ass. The caption should have read, “From Healthy to Skeletal.” Reese Witherspo
on had cheekbones that could slice concrete. And hello, when she had been “Puff ” she’d given birth about eleven seconds earlier!

  She looked at her watch again. Shit, they were going to be really, really late. Ana started getting anxious. “Marin! Get your ass down here!” Ten more minutes passed before Marin deigned to show up, and by then Ana was about to have a coronary. But as soon as she saw her friend, she calmed down.

  Marin was just wearing a tight gray t-shirt, frayed blue jeans, and boots that cost half of Ana’s monthly salary. Marin wasn’t wearing any make-up, but she looked like an absolute knockout as always. Marin’s beauty never ceased to be breathtaking.

  They drove downtown to the theater. It was only a couple of miles away, but thanks to all the traffic lights, it took a while to get there, or at least it seemed like it to Ana. Thank God performers got free parking in the small lot behind the theater. Otherwise they’d have to budget fifteen extra minutes to find a parking space.

  Ana started racing through aMuse upstairs to the theater.

  “Hold on, hold on, I need to use the ATM,” Marin said.

  “I’ll meet you upstairs.”

  “No, please just wait for me.”

  Ga! They only had fifteen minutes to warm up as it was.

  Marin took her cash and looked at her receipt. “Shit, it says I only have $150 left in my account.”

  “That can’t be right, you need $450 by Sunday to pay the rent.”

  “Yeah, I was sort of going to talk to you about that.”

  Ana sighed. “Let’s just do the show. We can talk about it later.”

  Ana didn’t perform as well as she would have liked. She was too tired to be able to think well on her feet. Also, she felt like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, her marshmallow middle popping out of the top of the tight confines of her jeans.

  After the show, some of Ramiro’s friends were going to meet them at aMuse, so they went downstairs to the main bar, where it was so crowded there was standing-room only.

  She, Marin, and Chelsey huddled around one another, talking about the show. Two good-looking guys approached the three women and started telling them how much they’d enjoyed the show. The two guys only looked at Chelsey and Marin. With every minute of the conversation, Ana felt more and more invisible. She knew it wasn’t just because she was the size of a balloon in a Macy’s parade. She was also tired and cranky and had such dark circles under her eyes it looked like she’d been the loser in a street fight, which certainly couldn’t be a turn-on.

  Ana watched Marin drink her beer. Marin ate like a pig, guzzled beer by the vat, and yet still had the perfect body. Marin truly was one of those evil women who never worked out and ate cratefuls of junk food daily. Ana hated the stories of how waifs like Christina Aguilera and stunningly sexy women like J. Lo and Shakira insisted on having silos of Ho Ho’s and M&Ms in their dressing rooms at all times. It was fine if they were rich and famous and staggeringly beautiful, but if these women genuinely gorged themselves on Twinkies and Doritos, then Ana wasn’t sure she had the will to go on living. She was almost certain, however, that nothing but wheatgrass and carrot sticks ever passed the lips of these women. The alleged junk food indulgences were just another lie from PR people, who wanted to make the fantasy of fame, wealth, and beauty complete with tales of heroic metabolisms and effortlessly fat-free thighs.

  Okay, bitterness is entirely unsightly. You lead a blessed life. You have a college education and friends who love you and a mother that never beat you unless you count that time she slapped you, and then you really did deserve it. Don’t compare your life to other people’s lives. Or if you’re going to, get friends who are uglier, fatter, poorer than you.

  She knew jealousy was one of the deadly sins and besides, it was unbecoming, but Ana couldn’t help coveting her friend’s perfect life. You don’t really want to be Marin. You’d be self-absorbed and bad with money. Of course you’d also be rich and beautiful, so who’d give a shit? Certainly not you.

  Marin actually seemed to be hitting it off with the one guy, which was pretty rare. She usually told guys she was an HIV-infected lesbian within four seconds of meeting them. She had this way of saying it so sweetly, like, “Gosh, if I weren’t homosexual and dying of a terminal disease, I would be throwing myself on you as you’re the most dashing man I’ve ever seen in my entire life.” Marin’s mother was from a wealthy family in Georgia, where hospitality and social graces were bred into her genes. Most men bored Marin to tears, but she was never bitchy to them, always polite. Ana hadn’t been paying attention so she had no idea what he’d said to keep her talking this long.

  Chelsey, on the other hand, looked miserable. Ana caught her saying something about how she was dating someone.

  “How long have you been dating?” the guy asked.

  “Well, not that long actually, but when you know it’s right, you know it’s right.”

  “Can I get your number just in case?”

  “Well, you know, I just moved today, and I haven’t had the phone installed.” She didn’t even hesitate as she lied. Training as an improviser had its advantages.

  “Let me give you my number then.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Chelse, when you’re done there, I need you to come with me to the bathroom,” Ana said, trying to help her out.

  “Why is it that women always need to go to the bathroom in pairs?” the guy said, chuckling as if he were witty. This was a common problem after the shows—other people thought they could be funny too. It was like little boys who came out of a Jackie Chan movie karate chopping each other, over-identifying with the larger-than-life, well-choreographed hero.

  “Okay, so call me,” the guy said, pressing the piece of paper into her hand.

  “Er, nice to meet you.”

  Chelsey and Ana sped through the crowd as quickly as the undulating mass of bodies would allow.

  As soon as they were safely in the bathroom, Chelsey thanked Ana for rescuing her. “No problem. Where’s Rob tonight?”

  “He had to work.”

  “How are you two doing?”

  “Awesome. I think I’m in love.”

  “That’s so great. I’m so happy for you.”

  “You don’t look happy. Is something wrong?”

  “No. Yes. The thing is, I’m feeling like a whale. An elephant. An unfortunately oversized creature, anyway.”

  “I’m sorry, hon. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Yeah, I think there is. I was hoping maybe you could kind of do me a favor.”

  “What?”

  “I need to get in shape, I’m hoping you can get me a deal on getting fit.”

  “You already have a membership to the club, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, but I was sort of hoping to get on a program. Maybe get a personal trainer.”

  Chelsey clapped her hands together. “That would be so cool!”

  “But how much does it cost?”

  “Well, what kind of results are you looking for? Fat loss? Improved energy? Increased fitness?”

  “I want to be able to fit into my clothes.”

  “I see.” Chelsey considered this. “So how many pounds do you think you’ll need to do that?”

  “I don’t know, seven?”

  “Okay, so it’ll take about six weeks, and you’ll want to meet with me twice a week, which is normally six hundred dollars, but I could get you a discount . . .”

  Ana was hoping she’d say maybe $50 total after all the rebates she’d get for being Chelsey’s good friend.

  “Say five hundred.”

  “Um, how about we only meet once a week. How much would that be?”

  “Two fifty.”

  She couldn’t blow half of her pitiful savings on a personal trainer just because she didn’t have the willpower to lose weight on her own. It was madness. But Ana was far too tired to think straight. And it would cost far more than that to buy all new clothes to accommodate her sprawling girth, right? An
d she was so sick of the guys always ignoring her. Her self-esteem had been shredded far too viciously for her to make a sound decision.

  “Okay, when do we start?”

  15

  The Weight of Memory

  What had Marin been thinking? Why had she agreed to go on this date? Maybe because it had been forever since she’d had a boyfriend. The guy she’d met at the club the other night was cute. He seemed nice enough. And even if it didn’t lead to wedding bells, maybe they could sleep together once in a while.

  Marin would love to have a boyfriend. She wanted to be in love. It was time already.

  She hadn’t even had a serious boyfriend since high school. Not since Brent. He was twenty-seven, ten years older than her at the time, and already a successful stockbroker. He was good-looking, he drove an amazing car, and he was charming without being as obsequious toward her as the guys her age were. They met in the clubhouse of her parents’ country club. Marin was there with two of her girlfriends. The three girls had gone swimming and hot-tubbing and were sharing snacks and playing pool when he approached them. Her eyes were red and stinging from the chlorine, she wore no make-up, her hair was wet, and she was just wearing a loose sundress over her suit. But the way he looked at her—and he only had eyes for her—made her feel both beautiful and shy. Marin never, never felt shy. He put his quarters down on the table to save the next game for him and his friends.

  “Why don’t the three of you play the next game against us,” he suggested. “Boys against girls.”

  “Prepare to be dazzled by our pool playing, my friend,” Marin said. “You boys will be shamed by our fancy moves.”