Matthew shoots me a sideways glance. “I’ll talk to dad about it.”
“Good idea.”
Sigh. I’m usually a better mother than that. I mean, I know what this is all about. I don’t think Matthew slept well last night either. He’s worried about his first day at work and nurturing a fantasy of being the cool guy who tools around town in a sporty Jeep Wrangler 4x4, rather than the geek who wears an elf suit in public and drives his mom’s minivan.
I get it. I really do. I totally sympathize.
But since he’s the one who took the job to impress Hannah (whose name I have not once mentioned aloud or even alluded to, thank you very much), he’s the one who’ll have to handle it.
My nerves are worn raw worrying about this stupid challenge. I don’t have any loving parental wisdom left in me to sprinkle around like fairy dust. I’m in full-on work mode and a breath away from panicking. Now that I’ve come around to realizing what a great opportunity this could be for the town, I don’t want to blow it.
We turn left, taking the road that leads to Eaton’s transfer station. Yes, you heard that right. We’re kicking off this whole thing at the trash and recycling facility. Otherwise known as the town dump. Obviously not my first choice, but the logistics of the weigh-in were difficult to pin down.
My preference was a doctor’s scale, located inside a doctor’s office. One with four walls and a door. Two hundred people line up and weigh themselves individually and discreetly, with an official overseer to record and tabulate results. We weigh ourselves today and then again on Christmas Day. We lose more than one thousand pounds, we win the challenge. Easy-peasy.
But as usual, the devil’s in the details. Jym Granger wouldn’t agree with my suggestion for two reasons. First, he wants a public weigh-in. A number the rest of the world can clearly see. Total transparency. Secondly, he insists on this being a collective effort. He says that’s the whole point—the town working together toward a unified goal. He wants a group weight, not a bunch of individual numbers.
Turns out, it’s not easy to find a scale that’ll accommodate two hundred people at once. Shipping scales aren’t big enough. Neither are livestock scales. I’m told an industrial-strength crane dynamometer would do the job, but we don’t seem to have one lying around. So despite my reservations, we’ve resigned ourselves to using the same scale the town uses to weigh semi-tractors hauling trash. It’s not glamorous, but it’ll get the job done.
We round a corner, bringing us within view of the transfer station.
“Holy shit,” Matthew says.
I stare slack-jawed at the sight before us, too much in a state of shock to reprimand him for his language. Mobs of people are swarming everywhere—the two hundred and twenty-three people who signed up for the challenge (according to Audrey’s final tally), along with their families and friends. Media vans sporting huge satellite antennas are parked haphazardly around the periphery of the property. Myra Kushner and her crew are there, of course, as well as all the local affiliates.
Eager to capitalize on the attention, local businesses have set up tables and are passing out swag, along with coupons for things like weight sets and running shoes. Naturally the Pardoe brothers are here. They’ve hauled along a pair of their carved bears, one of which looks like a normal bear in an upright position, the other has an hourglass figure. The bears are labeled ‘Before’ and ‘After’ and people are lined up to get selfies with them.
The yoga moms are here with their families. Brett Alper and the rest of the town Select Board. Jersey-wearing sports teams. Members of the Rotary club and veterans association. Nearly all of Matthew’s friends are here, hanging out and trying to feign teenage boredom and superiority, while simultaneously not wanting to miss out on the excitement. It’s a big deal, and once again the pressure to get this right weighs heavy.
In the center of it all is Slym Jym himself, moving through the crowd hamming it up for the cameras and clearly having the time of his life. Now I understand where the term media circus comes from. The only things we’re missing are elephants and a big top tent.
None of this should come as a surprise. I mean, I knew the weigh-in would be a media grab. Something different from the same old clips of frenzied Black Friday shoppers rushing the malls, fighting over discounted toys and flatscreen TVs. I mean, really. Who needs to see more of that?
I just didn’t expect...this.
“If you want,” Matthew says, “I can keep driving. Just pull straight through. I don’t think anyone noticed you yet.”
A tempting offer.
“Nah,” I say. “It’s fine. I can handle it. This is what mayors do.”
“Really? Wow. No wonder no one else wants the job.” Matthew pulls to a stop to let me out. “Well, good luck with...that.”
I scan the crowd and the first person my gaze latches on is Audrey Cho. As usual, I get a kick out of her outfit. Stretchy black pants, ivory turtleneck sweater under a fringed chestnut-colored poncho. A pair of burgundy platform ankle boots, sunglasses, and chunky amber jewelry complete the look.
I mention this not only because my assistant looks like her usual fabulous self, but because I should have put a little more thought into how I wanted to come across. It’s likely one of the reporters will shove a mic in my face at some point today, and I wish I was wearing something a little nicer than a basic green V-neck sweater and my favorite comfy jeans.
Also, on a purely personal note, I’m delighted Audrey’s here. I wasn’t sure she would be. Her attitude about this whole weight loss challenge has been decidedly frosty. Nonetheless, her presence this morning is a huge show of support, maybe not to the process itself, but to my position as mayor.
“How’s it going?” I ask her.
“It’s going.” She shrugs. “Granger’s doing his thing.”
We turn and watch Jym. Neither of us were sure how the process of selecting participants would work. I guess I harbored some vague idea that the first two hundred people to show up would get a spot. Instead, he’s culling the crowd as though he’s putting together contestants for a reality show. Which, if I’m honest here, is exactly what’s happening. He’s got a sack of little red poker chips with numbers stenciled on them—Granger’s equivalent to Wonka’s golden ticket—and is selectively distributing them. I watch him for a while, noting that all ages, genders, races, sizes, and income strata are duly represented.
Since my help isn’t needed or wanted (Slym Jym’s made it clear this is his show), I hang back with Audrey and simply watch the goings-on. Esme and Susan drift over to chat. They’re here with their families, and both women are holding a coveted red chip.
“What in the world are you doing with that?” Esme demands of Susan.
“Are you kidding me? Look at this.” Susan shifts BeBe to her hip and rubs her hand over the little belly that’s sprouted beneath her waist. “I’ve got a front porch now.”
“That’s not a porch,” Esme scoffs. “You’ve had three babies. You’ve got equipment in there. It’s got to go someplace.”
“Let it go someplace else. I want to squeeze back into my skinny jeans.”
Though I haven’t said a word, obviously I’m on Esme’s side here. Susan is gorgeous just the way she is. I suspect even Slym Jym Granger is aware of that. Sure, she’s filled out a little post-baby, but that just adds a feminine softness that makes her even more appealing. I realize that none of that matters. What’s important here is that Susan represents what is likely a key demographic for Jym: new mothers.
Esme shakes her head. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Me? What about you?” Susan fires back. “I thought you didn’t want anything to do with the challenge.”
Esme shrugs. “This fact is, nobody gets fat dropping by a bakery to have a cup of coffee and a muffin with a friend. It’s sitting home by yourself gorging on an entire sleeve of cookies that’ll do it. I figure the only way to prove that is to join the challenge myself. Besides,” she says, “the
school could really use that prize money, and the kids are so excited to be the center of all this attention.”
Hard to argue with that. We all look to the middle school band, which has set up a makeshift stage and is entertaining the crowd with Christmas carols. Esme’s girls Lorna and Liandra are seated with their classmates, adorable in their braces and Santa hats, trudging their way through Jingle Bells. The rendition is grating and off-key and absurdly endearing, the way middle school bands always are.
“Hey, there.”
I turn with a start to find Mike Cappella at my side. Surprise and pleasure collide within me. “Oh! Hey. Hi,” I stammer.
Here’s an admission: I’ve been wondering about him. Wondering where he ate his Thanksgiving dinner. Does he have family somewhere nearby he goes home to? Or do he and his ex-wife continue to get together on holidays for the sake of their boys? He strikes me as that kind of guy. The kind of guy who, even if the marriage didn’t work out, would still play nice for the kids. Pure guesswork on my part, but I’ve concluded that not only is it true, but that I like that about him.
I’ve been divorced for nearly a decade. There are times when I’m lonely, but they’re few and far between. As far as being a single mom goes, I’m well aware that I’m one of the lucky ones. I have a steady income, great friends, family support, a terrific kid, and an ex-husband I can depend on. All in all, I like my life just the way it is. So the thought of diving back into the dating pool isn’t usually something that crosses my mind. Mike Cappella might just be a game-changer.
Apparently I have no control over my expression, for a shy smile tugs at the corners of my lips. And damned if Mike doesn’t parrot the expression right back at me. Esme and Susan watch us with open fascination, their faces all What’s this? and Why didn’t you tell us about him? Like I was holding out on them. Which I absolutely was, because I thought my interest was likely unrequited, and therefore not worth a mention. But maybe there’s something here after all. I belatedly remember my manners and introduce him to my friends.
“Well,” he says after a few minutes of small talk, “just wanted to say hi and wish you all good luck today.”
“You’re not taking part in the weigh-in?”
“I signed up, but Jym turned me down.” He gives a good-natured shrug. “Willing but not able. I guess I didn’t come across as motivated enough to lose weight.”
Nope. Not even close. The truth is, Mike looks great. One of those guys who probably weighs about the same now as he did in high school. Jym passed on him because he’s a poor candidate for a weight loss challenge, plain and simple.
Beside me, Audrey gives a loud harrumph.
“Jym didn’t pick you because you wouldn’t make good TV,” she says.
A puzzled frown carves itself onto Mike’s forehead. He’s unsure whether he’s just been insulted or complimented. In the end, he simply lets the remark go and says to Audrey, “You here for the weigh-in?”
Audrey removes a strip of packaged beef jerky from her pocket, unwraps it and takes a bite. The scent of teriyaki fumes the air. She chews slowly, looking at Mike.
“What makes you say that?” she asks.
“Nothing. I thought since you were here—I mean since everyone’s here—”
“Do I look like I need to lose weight to you?”
“No! Of course not. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s all right, you can say it. You won’t hurt my feelings.”
So much for my belief that my assistant was attending the weigh-in as a show of support. She’s here in a show of support in the same way drivers who slow down to gawk at accidents are displaying their concern.
“All right, Audrey. That’s enough.” I send Mike an apologetic grimace. “My assistant’s not a fan of Jym Granger’s,” I explain, then pivot to give Audrey the eye. “She might be taking her hostility out on people who don’t deserve it.” (That last bit delivered in a tone of escalating reprisal, the same shrill combination of anger and pleading a substitute teacher uses when she realizes she’s losing control of a classroom.)
“Everyone here deserves it.”
“Look,” I say. “Knock it off. I know you’re not happy with my decision to do this thing, but it’s just a silly challenge. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Really. It doesn’t mean anything. Is that what you think?”
I love Audrey’s flair. Her razor-edged wit. Her ruthless efficiency. Her ability to handle situations and put people in their place with a minimum of fuss. And I have to say, her undying loyalty. But at the moment she’s regarding me with anything but loyalty. The realization gives me pause. Audrey’s always been my trusted attack dog. It’s quite something to be on the receiving end of her bite.
That’s what’s going through my mind when Jym works his way through the crowd and heads straight for me. Flanking him on either side are a pair of cameramen with their lights glaring. Not just local affiliates, either. These are network news channels. We’re talking national TV.
“All good, Jym?” I manage to croak out.
“Better than good, Mayor Presley. I’ve got great news! We’ve got one hundred and ninety-eight people all signed up and ready to go.”
“One hundred and ninety-eight?”
“Yup. I saved the last two chips for you and your assistant.”
Oh, geez.
Jym opens his palm to reveal two glittering red discs. Number one hundred ninety-nine, and number two hundred.
I suck in a breath and scramble for a response. The cameras are rolling, the town is watching. For all I know, the entire country might be watching. There’s just one tiny problem. Audrey didn’t sign up for the challenge. She’s made it abundantly clear she doesn’t want anything to do with it. She’s simmering with resentment that I allowed it to move forward. And I’m certainly not going to ask her to change her mind. I open my mouth to tell Jym to find another contestant but Audrey beats me to it by reaching for the chip.
“Aw, you saved one for me,” she coos. “And here I was worried you’d forget all about me.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that. You’re a big part of our success.”
“Emphasis on big, no doubt.”
“But we’re gonna fix that, aren’t we?”
Her gaze locks on Jym. A smile of chilling insincerity lifts her lips. “Absolutely, Jymbo. You want to rock my world? Show me something I don’t know? Bring it on.” Then she turns to me. “All right, Mayor. Your turn.”
“Audrey, maybe this isn’t such a—”
“No. I’m in. Let’s do this thing. Like you said, it’s just a silly challenge. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Who knew those words would come back to haunt me so quickly? Battling a flood of last-minute misgivings, I take the chip. Jym pivots and faces the crowd. Raises his arms in a V for Victory.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Slym Jym Granger Weight Loss Challenge is on!” He waits for the roar of applause to die down, then continues, “Would the contestants please make their way to the weigh-in station.”
Amid much high-fiving and shouts of encouragement, the school bandleader, Mr. Lindsay, taps his podium. Abruptly curtailing the Christmas carols, he leads his pint-sized orchestra in a rousing middle school rendition of Gonna Fly Now as the contestants shuffle off for the weigh-in. Rocky’s theme. Seriously. By itself, that would be an awful joke. But the fact that Mr. Lindsay’s so earnest about it makes the spectacle even worse. Totally cringe-worthy. Finally the song ends and we squeeze together on the scale.
The numbers flicker on the jumbo-sized screen Granger has attached to the scale’s read-out apparatus. The steady beep-beep-beep drone of trash-laden truck echoes from somewhere behind us as it backs up to dump its load.
“For Pete’s sake, Bill!” bellows Frank Alfonsi, owner of the facility. “Would ya give the fatties a break?”
The contestants force a chuckle (Look what good sports we are! Look what fun we’re having!) as the driver of the truck shifts into park and cu
ts the engine. Silence descends. After what feels like forever the scale settles and the numbers quit flickering. 43,562 pounds is broadcast on the screen.
Well. Now that’s a number.
Lucky for us we’ve got the cameras there to record it and broadcast it across the country.
Jym steps up to the podium and addresses us all, letting us know that 43,562 pounds is a great starting point, and that we’re in it to lose it, and we’ll do it together, and a bunch of other crap that I don’t pay much attention to, because there’s a dull roar in my ears and frankly I’m so horrified to be any part of such an obscene number that I’m busy trying to hide behind the guy I’m standing next to so the cameras can’t focus on me.
Finally he finishes his pep talk and we’re allowed to leave. I can’t get off the scale fast enough. I want to talk to Audrey. Dip a toe into the waters of reconciliation and all that. (And even more importantly, find out if she’s planning to pull any cute stunts in front of national media that might embarrass me and undermine this whole effort. Given her attitude earlier, I wouldn’t put it past her.) Unfortunately I’ve lost her in the crowd so that chipper little conversation will have to wait.
Instead, I get to chat with John Belkin.
John and his wife Colleen are longtime residents of Eaton who were prominently featured in the Chubbiest Town clip. The camera caught them spreading a picnic blanket down by the lake, a bucket of fried chicken propped between them. I picture some awful stranger in our midst, hiding behind a bush as he filmed them, thrilled to capture the grease glistening on their lips. It makes me so mad. No, that’s not true. It makes me furious.
Because whoever filmed that stupid video has no idea what wonderful people John and Colleen are. They don’t know that John manages the local tire franchise and is also a volunteer firefighter. That Colleen works part-time as a speech pathologist for the elementary school. That they act as emergency foster caregivers and are in the process of adopting two of the children who were placed in their home.
The Thousand Pound Christmas Page 7
