Conversations With the Fat Girl (37 page)

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Conversations with the Fat Girl293

Wait. Wait a fucking minute. That's the head table, right? Where am I? I

read the list again. Adam and Olivia. I don't know this Mark or Grace, I

assume Mark is Adam's groomsman. Gwen and her husband, Jerry? Where am

I? Was I left off? I scan the remaining tables and find my name at Table

Nine. Table Nine? What's the significance of Table Fucking Nine? Oh,

Table Nine is for supposed best friends and people named Carol and Bob.

I don't know who the hell Carol and Bob are, but they'd better be

fucking important.

The car behind me honks, and I screech forward. I wasn't forgotten. I

was put at another table. A table that couldn't be seen by the world,

apparently I just don't fit. I'm an embarrassment to Olivia. But wait.

So true friendship is embarrassing to Olivia if it comes in anything

over a size 2? I didn't know that. I guess her theory works because not

only does friendship have to look pretty, so do prospective husbands.

She wants a life carved out of cutout articles in high-fashion magazines

and adolescent fantasies. I'm kicking myself. How could I have been so

blind?

Olivia didn't even have the guts to tell me herself. She let her mom

give me the list and figured I would see it on my own. Can I leave now?

Can I crawl back to Mom and Kate with my tail between my legs and

convince them that I've mended my ways? My cell phone chirps. I am

maniacally searching for the phone but can't seem to let go of this

crumpled piece of paper.

"Hello?" I am holding the paper in my hand.

"Hey there." It's Olivia.

"Hey" Table-Nine-putting bitch.

"I've been trying to reach you all week. Do you even turn your cell

phone on?"

"It's on now." I am numb.

"Can you keep it charged up for me just this weekend?

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Please? I can't take getting your voice mail all the time." Olivia

sounds as if she's hyperventilating.

"I'll do my best. I just saw your whole family. Adam, too." I almost

rear-end the car in front of me.

"You saw Adam?' Olivia's voice cracks.

"Yeah, he was at your mom's house."

"Ummm. Can you do me one last little favor?"

I am silent. Olivia continues.

"Can you make sure the slide show gets set up for the rehearsal dinner?

Mommy has a stack of pictures Adam and I chose and she's already called

a couple of places about turning them into slides on short notice,"

Olivia says. I suddenly remember my Pandora's box filled with pictures I

found during the move.

"I'll see what I can do," I say

"Well . . . um . . . is that a yes?" Olivia asks.

"No," I begin.

"No? No? You won't do it?"

"No, we shouldn't do a slide show. There's no time for that. I'll scan

the pictures into my laptop and we'll do a slide show from there. I'm

sure I can connect my laptop to whatever projection thing they have set

up." I am now the audiovisual geek rolling the TV-VCR through the

hallways of my high school.

"Thanks, Mags." Olivia sighs.

"Sure. Hey, did you want me to bring this board with all of the table

placements for the rehearsal dinner by your mom's house before or did

you want to come get it now?" I ask.

"The board? Oh . . . you know ... urn, you can hold on to that and just

bring it with you." Didn't Olivia know that Mrs. Morten was going to

delegate that chore to me? Did she want me to walk into the rehearsal

dinner blithely thinking I would be seated at the head table only to be

banished to Table Nine?

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"Okay See you tomorrow." I feel conflicted and disgusted. I have to

focus and keep my eyes on the prize. I'll set up this board exactly as

I've been told. Guests will find the bulletin board containing the

seating arrangements for the rehearsal dinner. They will all note that

the maid of honor is not seated at the head table. Then they will make

their way to their table assignments and form theories as to why not.

"Hey, we're going out later for drinks and dancing. All the girls are

going. Are you up for something like that?" Olivia's voice is hushed.

"That sounds fun," I say. Fun, yes. Something I would sign on for . . .

no. I stop at another red light and pull my rearview mirror down.

Spinning my birthday necklace around so I can see the clasp, I furiously

try to undo it. I should just rip the damn thing off. Why don't I? I

grab the chain and pull as hard as I can. The diamond-encrusted letters

bounce around the car, both hitting the windshield. The M settles in one

of the cup holders while the o is banished to the passenger-side floor mat.

I finish working on the bulletin board later that night and crawl into

bed. It is around two o'clock in the morning when I hear my cell phone

chirp once again. I have it plugged into the charger just as I was

instructed. Doesn't Olivia have my home phone number?

"Hello?" I ask.

"Where are you?" It's a drunk Olivia.

"I'm sleeping. Where are you?"

"Everybody is here. Everybody keeps asking where you are and I don't

know what to say Are you coming?" Olivia is yelling. "No, I'm in bed."

"Why aren't you here?"

"I'm in bed."

"You're supposed to be here."

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"I know. But I'm going to stay here for the night."

"Can't you get out of bed and come here and dance with all of us?"

"No, I'm going to stay here. But I'll see you tomorrow, remember?"

"I'm getting married tomorrow"

"No, honey, the rehearsal dinner is tomorrow. You're getting married the

next day"

"I told everyone you were coming.

"Well, I think they just want to spend time with the bride right now."

"I'm the bride."

"I know."

"Are you on your way?"

"No. I'm going to go back to bed."

"Okay"

"Are you going to be okay for tomorrow?"

"I'm getting married tomorrow," she slurs.

"No, honey. Who's driving you home?"

"Hannah isn't drinking."

"So she's driving you to your mommy's?"

"We're staying with Mitzi Carlson."

"At the Ritz-Carlton, honey?"

"Fancy"

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay"

I hear the phone click off. I turn over and feel sad. That was the real

Olivia.

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The Super Beetle

Iframed that picture of me in the teensy light blue dress with

the red socks and the navy-blue Vans on top of the jungle gym after I

had finished moving. It has come to symbolize something in me that I

need to be reminded of daily. One day Mom stopped by on her way to work,

picked up the framed photo, and looked at it for a long time. I told her

why I framed it and why I had displayed it so prominently. She smiled to

herself and set the photo down. Then she sat down next to me and told me

the story behind the picture. She had just packed all of our worldly

belongings in our yellow Volkswagen Super Beetle after my real father

left us. I was three and Kate was five. Her own mom came to help her,

and this picture was snapped at a park on the long road trip back home.

Our future was uncertain; our little family was in crisis. But if you

look at the pictures we took that road trip, there is no sign of that

fear. There is pride. There is dignity. There is hope.

My alarm begins its morning taunt right at seven thirty-nine. I'm

partial to odd numbers. I have decided to keep my scheduled Friday

training session with Gabriel. I show him my

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food diary, and he lectures me about the evils of trans fats. He leads

me through my training session. I notice we're using heavier weights. My

body feels more stable. I'm not afraid my knees will give out anymore or

I won't be able to get out of a low car. The core of my body is

stronger. At least that's what Gabriel calls it-"Core Work." That's when

he's not referring to it as "Functional Training," which makes it sound

like I should be wearing a helmet to school.

I pull up to EuroPane in my workout clothes. I'm still a little sweaty.

The rehearsal dinner is at six thirty tonight at The Athenaeum. I have a

lot of work to do before then. Kate's minivan is parked out front, and I

feel a slight twinge of pride. Now I'm the architect of an infamous

breakfast invitation. I grab my laptop from the passenger seat and walk

into EuroPane with my head held high.

I am invigorated after my breakfast with Mom, Kate, and the girlies. I'm

sure Patrona has the entire rehearsal dinner planned down to the last

infinitesimal detail. All I'm responsible for is the bulletin board with

table placements and the slide show. Once home, I sit down in front of

my laptop and begin the process of scanning picture after picture using

the software Kate loaned me. The day flies by as I get deeper and deeper

into stacks of CDs and pictures. The slide show is turning out

beautifully; the running time is about five and a half minutes. I run it

one last time as I turn on my shower to wait for the hot water. I have

to be at the dinner in less than an hour. I'm finally walking past my

last blue bucket. No. There's one more-but I'll handle that one later.

I put on my black skirt and the wraparound white shirt. This will be my

only opportunity to wear this outfit. The skirt is

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even looser than it was when I tried it on at the Beverly Center, and

I've finally thrown that tightener in the garbage. The shirt can

actually be tied as it is supposed to be-not how Mom rigged it in the

dressing room. I am comfortable. I never thought I would feel

comfortable today. I dry my hair and swipe on a little pink lip gloss. I

stand in front of a full-length mirror and smile. This is the first time

I've ever done this. I smooth my shirt down and turn to the side. I

stare at my face and can't hold back the tears. Why have I denied myself

this validation for so long? What good came of never looking at myself

in the mirror and cursing my Area? I vow never to refer to my Area

again. It's all part of me. Even my Are . . . even my belly.

I load the bulletin board and the guest book in the back of my car and

set my laptop on the front seat along with all its cords and wires. I'm

wearing my pink-and-gray Pumas until I have to put on the four-inch

heels I bought for the occasion. Beautiful shoes, but absolutely

unwalkable. Patrona is standing by the entrance to The Atheneaum. I hand

her the bulletin board and the guest book. She thanks me and waves over

The Athenaeum's audiovisual guy

"You got the slide show? The one we'll be using for the rehearsal dinner

before the wedding?" He is wearing a flannel shirt over a Black Sabbath

concert T-shirt.

"I have it right here." I hold up my laptop.

"Come on over with me. We'll set you on up over here by the dance

floor." The AV guy apparently has a habit of using too many words to

convey a simple request.

I follow him, noting all Patrona's hard work. I pass under the vaulted

ceilings painted with Italian frescoes. Patrona has the food and wine

set up inside. The wait staff is milling around setting up wineglasses

and large gold chargers under every plate. I have yet to see Olivia or Gwen.

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I am led out onto the courtyard. It is a veritable fairy wonderland.

Italian cafe lights are strung end to end across the entire width of the

garden. There are nine tables set around the small dance floor, each

seating five people. The AV guy takes my laptop, and I get butterflies

for the first time. I join the throng of guests who are just beginning

to arrive. I still have my Pumas on. I resolve to take them off once I

am seated at my table. I'll keep them under the table until I have to

leave. Or until I'm asked to leave-whichever comes first.

As I start on the first of many glasses of wine, I see my bulletin board

at the top of the stairs. It's the focal point as guests enter the

event. I see Gwen and Jerry pull their card and walk proudly over to the

head table. Gwen's wearing a lavender slip dress with lace accents. Her