Conversations With the Fat Girl (22 page)

"Everyone in this room thinks you're Frankenstein."

178 172Liza Palmer

"You and the dog?"

"Yes. Me and the dog."

"Well, that's believable."

We both stare at Solo. She's now barking at nothing and biting at the wall.

"I've enrolled her in obedience classes," I announce. "Good luck with

that. You ready?" Domenic asks.

"Sure, what did you have in mind? What are you in the mood for?"

"Anything," Domenic says, moving toward Solo again.

"Sitdown or order at the counter?" I start to spiral. I can't control

it. I want this night to be perfect. I want us to be perfect. 1 can't

get Erin out of my head. I can't stop thinking that Erin didn't have to

have a plan. Erin didn't have to ask Domenic out on a date. Domenic was

delivered on a silver platter to Erin while I have to work just to get

last night's leftovers.

"Well, let's get in the car and start driving," I suggest. I try to calm

down. I try to find myself somewhere in this tangled mess of insecurity,

doubt, and jealousy

"Do you want to drive?" Domenic asks.

"Sure." Might as well, I'm obviously the man tonight. We'll talk about

the Dodgers and maybe throw in some dish about supermodels being hot.

What fun.

We drive aimlessly. Masa? I ask. He doesn't like Japanese food. What

about going into Old Town? I ask. They've got several eateries down

there. Like what, he asks. I name three or four places. None sound good

to him. He asks if I know of a place that has tacos.

"So is this whole night my responsibility?" I joke, but not really

"I thought you'd have a better idea of where we could go."

179 "I do have ideas. But you don't like any of them." I'm right in the

middle of a temper tantrum.

"Maybe Solo's not the only one who needs obedience classes."

"What? What did you just say?" I am livid.

"We're just trying to find a place to eat." Is he smiling?

"Can you at least admit that you are being a bit maddening right now?

Y'all knows of a place that's got them tay-cos?" I put on my best

white-trash accent. I continue, "I mean, why did you dress up for tonight?"

"You noticed," he says.

"What?"

"You didn't notice the first time I wore this for you." Domenic smirks.

For me? For me? Was Erin just an elaborate accessory?

"Wait, you brought another girl to a party where you knew I would be and

you're trying to sell to me that the outfit you wore that night was for

me?" 1 can't take this anymore-if this is fun for Domenic, I won't be a

part of it.

Domenic is silent.

"Well?" I honk at someone. Okay, no one. I honk at no one. "Why don't we

just go to that Taco Truck off Colorado?" Domenic's voice is soft.

"The one by the auto parts store?"

"Yeah."

"Sounds perfect." Domenic leans back in his seat and pats my hand on the

gearshift. His hand lingers. 1 can't look at him. Tingles everywhere. He

never raised his voice during the whole scene. Not once. He didn't

explain anything, either. At least, I finally told the truth about how I

feel for once.

Domenic and I pull into the Nishikawa Auto Service park-

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ing lot near Fair Oaks Boulevard. The legendary Taco Truck is parked

parallel with the street. The smell of the carne asada wafts into the

car as we inch into the tiny parking space. The Taco Truck is famous for

having the best chicken and steak tacos this side of the 101 freeway

There's no sign to mark this truck; it's simply a magically reappearing

carriage of happiness for all who seek it. A small woman takes orders at

the window. She's fast and efficient. Domenic and I quickly get to the

front of the line and order.

"Two chicken tacos and a large diet cola, please," I say, and move aside

for Domenic to order. I'm proud I didn't order chips.

"Three carne asada tacos, please, and a regular cola," Domenic orders.

"Okay, two chicken tacos, three carne asada tacos, a large diet cola,

and a small regular cola?"

"Right," he says.

"That'll be five seventy-nine." Domenic puts his body in front of mine

and hands the girl a ten-dollar bill.

"Allow me," he says. I giggle uncontrollably. I start choking on my own

spit. Domenic pats me on my back and asks if I'm okay. I nod and try to

get myself together.

"Let's just get our food," I finally wheeze.

The girl calls our number and sets my basket of two chicken tacos next

to Domenic's three carne asada. The cook walks out and asks, "Which one

gets the large drink and which one gets the small?"

"El grande es para la gordita," she says.

I stand there frozen. The man looks right at me and hands me the large

diet soda.

Most of the Spanish 1 know is purely for survival. The word gordita is

at the top of my list. Loosely translated, it means "little fat girl."

People have tried to convince me that it is actually a

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term of endearment-like describing someone as "cuddly" or "chubby"-hut I

don't buy it.

I take the soda and stare at the man. How dare you pick me out of this

crowd? How dare you look right at me and hand me this soda: the

gordita's soda. So I have this amazing epiphany about blue buckets. What

if I didn't act quickly enough, and this is the universe's way of

teaching me the hard way? What if I finally decide I'm not going to be

invisible anymore, and right out of the gate someone starts shoving me

back in? Fucking blue buckets. Solo was right. Stay away.

Maybe I'm not working as hard as 1 should to lose weight. For the love

of God, I'm not actually doing anything at all except obsessing about

how shitty it is to be fat. How many epiphanies is it going to take to

finally get me to do something? I get why I eat. I get why I stay this

way. Now I have to decide if I want to continue to live like this. Not

because of this bitch calling me out tonight, but because of the way I'm

living my life. Or rather, not living it.

Domenic and I find a seat on a nearby wall and balance our dinners on

our laps. Sitting there on a tiny wall with a basket of unhealthy

chicken tacos and my goddamn large soda mocking me from the ground, I

finally get it. Peregrine and her huge, monster-size ego were right

again. Those two seconds where she betrayed herself and lied to her

grandparents is exactly how I live my life all the time. I constantly

hide the person I really am under this disguise I've been wearing for

far too long. Enough. Blue bucket my ass. This stops now

"I forgot a straw," I say. Domenic asks me to get him one, too. I stand

and walk toward the window. I cut lo the front of the line. It's

something I should have done fifteen years ago.

"Do you need napkins?" she asks.

"Napkins? No. I understand Spanish. I know what you said,

182 176Liza Palmer

la gordita?" I am pointing at her. My finger is so rigid it is arching

upward.

"So?" she says.

"That's fucked. You're fucked. It's fucked up to say that," I say

I grab two straws from the cup on the counter, give her the middle

finger, and turn on my heel to walk past the line of people waiting for

their food. My back straightens a little. Domenic is waiting at the wall

completely oblivious to the entire goings-on. I approach him with a wide

smile. The line continues to move as the girl takes orders. I have never

stood up for myself. I've never made myself visible. My enemy has always

had the ultimate weapon: They might call me fat. Or so I thought. I

thought if I fought hack the insults would multiply, and so would the

insulters. But no one is laughing at me. No one gives the girl at the

window high fives for calling a spade a spade. Instead, I said what I

had to say If I'd known this earlier, maybe I would have lived by

another code.

But I know it now.

183

An Engraved Invitation

I have a picture of me when I was about four years old. I was standing

on the top of a jungle gym on some playground smiling down at my mom as

she snapped the picture. I'm wearing this teensy light blue dress with

red knee-high socks and the ever-present navy-blue Vans. The older 1

get, the more I realize that this little girl knew more about me than I

do now So here it begins. I will find that jungle gym and start

climbing. I have to believe that no one is going to point and laugh at

me as I stand on top of it.

Back at home, I put on a random CD that's not random at all and toss the

chocolates Domenic gave me in the trash when he's not looking. I feel

like a filter has been peeled back on how I view life. The clarity I

have tonight is unprecedented. Domenic plunks down on the couch, moving

various pillows and decorative throws out of the way Solo is sniffing

and jittery, but she's not barking. I think she's taking to him. I ask

if he wants something to drink. I even have a leftover bottle of white

wine in the refrigerator from when Russell tried to teach me how to cook

some kind of fancy chicken. I still can't cook the chicken, but at

184 178Liza Palmer

least I've got this here wine. Domenic says the wine would be wonderful.

I pour him a glass and one for me as well. I sit next to him on the couch.

It's the reality of Domenic that gets me. The way our bodies and minds

fit together in the simplest of ways. Long sentences twirling around a

shared perspective. Complete ease with each other mixed with the awkward

flutters of unknown goings-on. It's nights like this that make those

illogical jumps that much easier. I can see us curled up on the couch

night after night in front of a crackling fire. His body makes my

fantasy more real. There's an odd familiarity about him. Like he's the

embodiment of someone I've been looking for even longer than I knew it

was Domenic.

The hours roll by, and soon the clock reads a.m. We finished the bottle

of wine hours ago. His arm is now resting on the hack of the couch. His

hand is inches from my shoulder. I keep itching my ankle because then 1

bend forward just enough to brush his fingers. In my mind, I'm throwing

myself at him.

Even with all the epiphanies and blue-bucket moments of the night, I

find myself uncomfortable and terrified. I'm good at being the fat,

jolly sidekick. I've perfected that role. I have no idea how to be the

ingenue and I certainly don't think I could fit into any of her clothes.

"Can we talk about what you said earlier?" Domenic says as he puts our

wineglasses in my kitchen sink. I panic and think he's talking about my

little run-in with the girl at the Taco Truck.

"What did I say earlier?" Domenic makes a face like I'm

being coy. Trust me, I'm really just trying to clarify here.

"About Erin. You know, the party The outfit. You know?" Oh. "Yeah, what

about it?"

"I felt bad that I left her at the party, you know? So . . . but

185 Conversations with the Fat Girl179

you don't even know why 1 was at the party with her in the first place.

Right. I don't know She is a cool girl, but . . . I just . . ."

But? But? Solo puts her head on Domenic's lap, and he begins to pet her.

"But what?" I calmly ask. Once again, I relegate myself to prying

friend. I am oddly comforted.

"Christina set us up that night at Peregrine's birthday party She seemed

like a nice girl. Her friends were idiots, but she seemed like she had

her head on straight."

We're silent once again. Solo is nudging Domenic to pet her. I wonder

what he'd do if I crawled over and put my head in his crotch, too.

"Sometimes . . . it's just easier, you know, when you know

for sure how someone feels. Does that make sense?" Domenic looks up.

"Don't you think bringing another girl to a party would send a pretty

clear message?" I want him to rise above the ranks of Target Practice.

If he really wants to be with me, I have to believe I'm worth getting

outside his comfort zone. Lord knows, I'm way the fuck out of mine.

"Do you still have the CD I gave you?" Domenic asks. "Yes."

"Did you listen to the whole thing?" "Yes."

If I don't pass out in the next couple seconds, I'll be

shocked. Domenic stays silent. Should I mention the hidden track? Should

I mention that night? No.

"I'd better get going." Domenic quickly stands and pats his pockets for

his keys. My heart chokes.

"There's this internship," I blurt.

"What?" Domenic pulls his keys from his pocket.

"The Getty is restoring this sculpture of Marcus Aurelius

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from AD ninety-five, and they need a gap filler and an in-painter. Do

you know what that is?" I ask.

"Yeah . . . yeah. You do that?" Domenic puts his hands and his keys in

his pockets.

"I have a master's in museum studies with a focus on the conservation

end. It just clicked. My sister discovered this internship at the Getty.

I'm going on an interview this Monday" I can't look at him. If you lean

over and kiss me right now, Domenic Brown, I swear I would kiss you back.

"You'll do great." Domenic smiles and walks toward the door. I walk

behind him.

"I had fun tonight." Domenic looks over at me. I feel tingles all over

my body. It's frightening and new but I could definitely get used to it.

Shit, if I can handle Sam .. .

"Me, too. See you later?" I can feel the sadness already crawling up my

throat. He's leaving.

"Well . ." Domenic leans in and gives me a full two-armed hug. I breathe

in. I don't think about anything, I just hug back. I can feel every inch

of our bodies together-not one of those LA hugs where you look like a

couple of conjoined twins who are connected at the shoulders. I nestle

my head in the crook of his neck. He's warm yet there's something so ...

hot about him. It's that thing. The carnal connection you have with

someone that can't be explained. There it is. He squeezes me tighter ..

. tighter. I reach up and feel the hair on the back of his head. It's so

soft. The flips of black hair. Can I reach up and bite them? Time is

lost. But I pull away first. I can't bring myself to be pulled away from.

The next day I call the local gym and ask to speak with the next

available trainer.

187

Could Eric Gagne Save Me, Too?

I have forgotten who I am. It's that simple. I have forgotten what it

feels like to be me. I just tasted the real me-the girl who stood on

that climbing structure in the teensy, light blue dress with red socks

and blue Vans tennis shoes. This apologetic, mediocre substitute is

growing increasingly tiresome.

"If Olivia doesn't want to register anywhere, give me that

consideration, then I won't show her any, either," Kate announces at

EuroPane before my big Getty outing.

I've confirmed my meeting with Ms. Beverly Urban and already faxed her

my resume. I've put another copy of it in a classy navy-blue folder

along with recommendations from my professors and the museum curators I

worked for in the last year of my master's. I put pictures of all my

restorations, awards, and commendations in a photo album. I also

included photos of my final project for my master's-a sculpture of a

woman with a pitcher. When it first got to my corner of the studio, it

was a woman, an arm, and a pitcher. My adhesions were so perfect that

she is now the centerpiece of a private gallery in Pacific Heights. I'm

nervous, but excited. I feel like I just got strapped

188 182Liza Palmer

into a roller coaster and we're climbing that first big hill. I hear the

clicks beneath my chair, but I can't keep myself from looking down.

"You could think about what Olivia and Adam would want, not what some

little radar gun picks for them," I say, sipping my coffee and playing

tic-tac-toe with Emily. Bella is peeling the outside of her cinnamon

roll off and licking just the cream. If only all of us could do that .

"Registering is not just about being greedy with the radar gun," Kate says.

"Guns are bad," Emily says.

"I know, sweetie. This gun isn't really a gun, it's like a little laser

that remembers what presents you would like people to give you when you

get married," I say as my stomach flutters around.

"Oh." Emily has managed to squeeze in an extra turn during my

guns-are-bad discourse. I have been bested. She writes a big E over our

game and draws another tic-tac-toe grid. I sip my coffee and pick at a

strawberry. The days are closing in fast until Mom and I have to walk

into the gym and let some strange man named Gabriel "train" us. Mom has

decided to join me on my path to freedom. She says she doesn't like how

weak she feels now that she's a woman of a "certain age." I picture some

medieval torture device that pulls your shirt up over your Area while

this Gabriel clown makes you do it ten times for three sets. Of course,

there are mirrors everywhere and the entire gym is staring at you. One

blue bucket at a time.

"It's not about being greedy. What about your grandmother and great-aunt

way back in Margate, New Jersey? They haven't seen you since you were

ten years old, but they want to get you something nice. Something they

know you'll not only like, but

189 also need. That's where the consideration thing comes in," Mom explains.

"And maybe thinking about someone besides themselves," Kate adds.

Kate hasn't been a big fan of Olivia's for a while. Always the

protective older sister, she has been around for too many months without

calls or visits and too many hurt feelings. In Kate's mind, Olivia has

not stood the test of time. She thinks Olivia has become snobby,

arrogant, and ever more neglectful of her devoted childhood friend. I

wonder where she would get that idea?

When I heard that Olivia was marrying her first boyfriend and having the

fairy-tale wedding we had always dreamed of, I was ecstatic. I told and

retold the romantic proposal story to all who would listen and shared in

the happiness of Olivia's family and friends. But a part of me felt I

knew a secret. Adam and Olivia weren't this perfect couple. On the

contrary, Olivia was marrying a man who could never give her enough and

never make room for her properly. Dr. Adam Farrell is the third man

Olivia loved but the only man to know Olivia existed. Since she never

had an actual conversation with Ben Dunn or Shane Presky, Dr. Adam

Farrell is the sole manifestation of her lifelong fantasy.

Olivia asked me to be her maid of honor at El Coyote on that infamous

"Napkin Night." Maybe I felt it was finally my turn to cash in all those

neglected friendship chips. When I felt myself growing apart from

Olivia, I selfishly wanted to stick around because I hadn't had my

trophy moment yet. Olivia's wedding would be just as much my moment as

hers. Our friendship had turned into a souvenir book filled with history

and cool childhood-friend stories that we trotted out at parties.

190 184Liza Palmer

It was the envy of all our new acquaintances. It was like an old set of

company china-carefully set out to be viewed and shown off, but no one

actually eats off it. The friendship hadn't been functional for some time.

I knew this truth in the dark of the night. I tried to think around it

or rationalize it. Surely this lack of communication could be explained

away as a horrible side effect of our busy lives. We were the perfect

friends. We sound like each other. Our mannerisms, our inflection-we

finish each other's sentences. I see it in the faces of people around

us. They need us to stay friends because it makes them believe in

friendships that last a lifetime. Am I fighting the good fight to remain

Olivia's best friend or am I just, once again, afraid of being alone?

I went to Washington, DC, the summer after Adam proposed to Olivia at

the Washington Monument. I purposely chose a weekend Adam was going to

be at a cardiology symposium in Flagstaff, Arizona. While I understand

that the significant other comes first when you're in a relationship, I