Diary of a Mad Fat Girl (12 page)

“
I am dead serious and I cannot wait,”
Lilly screeches.

“
Me either! What are we going to
wear?”

“
Sundresses,” Lilly says definitively,
“sundresses and heels.”

“
I am not wearing heels,” I retort,
“but I will wear some nice sandals.”

“
Then you should wear a strapless
dress,” she says and swings her hair around like she’s posing for a
photo shoot. “I’ll wear heels.”

“
That sounds good.” I take a deep
breath. “Maybe this is a good sign. Maybe this means that this
whole damned mess is going to work out somehow and everything is
going to be okay.” I nod my head. “I think it’s a good
sign.”

“
Uh, yeah,” Lilly agrees, “when the
richest woman in six states joins your team, it’s hard to imagine
you’re gonna lose!” She looks at me and smiles, “Now let’s go stalk
some whores!”

“
Hell yeah!”

She grabs her little net book out of her
gigantic hobo bag and flips it open.

“
Okay,” she mumbles as she pecks at
the keyboard, “it appears that Dick Richard is heading toward
Tupelo.”

“
Well, let’s go,” I say and we’re
off.

We spend the afternoon following Richard
Stacks the Fourth all over Tupelo and, all in all, it was a pretty
dull run. After stopping by three different businesses and two
banks, he went to the mall where he emerged with bags from Ann
Taylor Loft and Barnes & Noble.

“
Books and clothes,” I say flatly,
“wonder who those are for?”

“
The new John Grisham book came out
this week,” Lilly says, clearly as bummed as me, “and you know
Chloe has the entire collection in hard back.”

“
Great,” I say and we follow him to a
liquor store and then to a flower shop from which he emerges with
an arm load of yellow roses.

“
Do you think he could possibly be
going to meet some whore tonight?” Lilly asks, but I can tell by
her tone she knows that’s not the case.

“
Anne Taylor clothes, books, yellow
roses, and a liquor store bag that most certainly contains a bottle
of that really expensive wine she likes,” I mumble and shake my
head, “you know he’s going home.”

We watch in total disappointment as the
black dot on the net book screen inches up Highway 45, veers off to
the left, and then stops. The address pops up as 309 Parker Drive.
Home of Richard and Chloe Stacks.

“
Shit,” Lilly says and closes the
computer. “What do you wanna do now?”

“
Let’s go see a movie,” I say. “What
time is it?”

“
Three o’clock,” Lilly answers, “just
in time for the early show.”

24

When we leave the movies, the black dot
hasn’t moved.

“
What the hell is she doing?” I ask
Lilly. “Why does she stay with him? I mean, what’s it gonna take?
What is it going to take to get her away from that shit
bag?”

“
She’s gonna have to make up her mind
herself, Ace,” Lilly says, “simple as that.”

“
That’s why we have got to have more
than just that one picture,” I say and tap on the steering wheel to
emphasize my point, “to help her make up her mind.”

“
Honestly, Ace,” Lilly says quietly,
“I don’t know if a hundred pictures just like that would make any
difference to her because, in her mind, she’s doing the right thing
by staying true to her vows.”

“
Wasn’t that the story she gave us
last time? The last ten times?”

“
Yep,” Lilly answers, “but last time
she didn’t lose a child.”

“
What the hell else would you need
after that? Jeez,” I can feel my face getting red, “I mean, are we
wasting our time out here running around like idiots trying to
catch Dick Richard in the act? I mean, he beat her so bad she had a
miscarriage. Seriously, what do you need after that kind of
devastation? Yet she is still, still after eleven years of getting
the hell beat out of her, still with him,” I look at Lilly. “Are we
wasting our time? Should we just drop it and try to forget about
it?”

“
What kind of friends would we be if
we did that?” Lilly replies. “We’re just doing all we can with what
we have to work with and that’s all we can do right
now.”

“
I can’t believe she changed her
number and hasn’t even bothered to call either one of us,” I muse,
“especially after her being so determined to bust his balls and get
rid of him. What’s with that?”

“
I wish I knew,” Lilly says. “I wish I
could ask her that myself.”

We ride in silence for a few miles.

“
You going to Ethan Allen’s tonight?”
Lilly asks with a mischievous look in her eye.

“
Nah,” I say, “I think I’m gonna skip
the whole big Welcome-home-again-Mason
-even-though-you-only-live-five-hours-away party.”

“
Ace!”

“
Hell, everyone acts like he’s a
freakin’ celebrity and I just don’t feel like being around it
tonight.” I look at her. “Sorry. You goin’?”

“
Yeah, for a while,” she says with a
devious grin, “till Dax gets off at 11.”

“
Oh, really,” I say, “seeing the
Deputy again tonight?”

“
Yep,” she grins, “and I
can
not
wait.”

I wonder if her homo-love triangle pals
approve of her seeing a young stud ten years her junior, but I
decide not to ask. I turn into my driveway and she starts stuffing
all of her junk, Red Rooster trash and all, into her luggage-sized
purse.

“
Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,”
I say. “Hey, let’s go in your car. They might not let us in the
gate in the dirty ol’ Maxima.”

She laughs and says, “No problem! Pussy
Wagon it is! I’ll be here around 1:30 and, in case you didn’t know,
I’m excited!”

“
Me too!” I say and wonder what Gloria
Peacock could possibly have that we need.

Maybe it’s a million dollars.

Ha.

25

I put my cut off sweat pants and AC/DC shirt
back on, plop down onto the sofa, and feel a cold, damp lump under
my ass.

Lima beans.

Great.

I order a pizza from Pier 57 and flip thru
my DVR in search of something funny to watch because I desperately
need to be cheered up.

I think about getting all dolled up and
rolling into Ethan Allen’s looking like a fox. Then I could sweep
Mason McKenzie off his feet and bring him home to love and hold on
to for the rest of my life. Or at least have some red hot sex with.
Ha.

My mind spins a million “what if” fantasies
and after ten minutes, I snap back to reality and remind myself
that I am too old to be so pathetic.

The doorbell rings and I jump up and
run to the kitchen door, but no one is there so I run to the front
door only to be greeted by the smiling face of a nice young fellow
in my 3
^rd
period Art class who
is, of course, wearing a Pier 57 Pizza tee shirt and matching
visor.

“
Hello, Ms. Jones,” he says politely
and I get the feeling he is trying real hard not to stare at my
shorts. “How you doin’ tonight?”

“
Oh, I’m great Davis,” I say, “hold on
a second.” I run to the kitchen, grab a twenty, run back to the
door, and give him the money. He starts digging in his pocket for
change and I tell him to keep it for a tip.

“
But, Ms. Jones,” he protests, “the
pizza was only $12.95.”

“
Yeah, Davis,” I say, smiling, “that’s
for not telling everyone at school about these atrocious cut off
sweat pants.”

“
Can I tell ‘em about your AC/DC
shirt?” he asks. “Cause that rocks!”

“
Sure,” I tell him, taking the pizza
box and stepping back into the house. “Just make me sound way
cooler than I actually am.”

He pockets the money and smiles. “No
problem, Ms. Jones. Thank you and have a good night.”

As he walks off the porch, I suffer a wave
of disappointment that my evening caller was not Mason McKenzie.
Then I suffer a wave of being pissed-off at myself for being
disappointed and remind myself, yet again, that I am not and cannot
be so pathetic.

So what if he said he wants to marry me?

Who cares?

I’m not falling for that one again.

I eat half the pizza, drink three beers, and
fall asleep on the couch with Buster Loo in the bend of my knees. I
get up at 3 a.m., put the leftovers in the fridge, and stumble back
to my bedroom. My cell phone is laying face down on my night stand
and I tell myself not to pick it up.

But I reach right over and I pick it up.
When I do, I see that I have seven missed calls from J. Mason
McKenzie. All received after midnight.

“
I am too old for 2 a.m. booty calls,
Buster Loo,” I say to my little dog as he nestles into the covers.
“Too freakin’ old.”

26

On Saturday, I change dresses and shoes and
hair-dos and earrings and bracelets and necklaces and scarves about
forty times each. It’s a rare occasion when I worry about what
someone might think of how I look, but this is Gloria Peacock we’re
going to see today.

The most stressful part of getting ready is
finding something to wear that doesn’t piss me off because it makes
me look like a balloon-butt old biddy getting dressed to go to
Mardi Gras or an overdone reject from a Men in Black casting
call.

After I pile enough clothes on the floor to
put a Lane Bryant store out of business, I go to the closet and dig
out a dress that I snagged off a sale rack last year and haven’t
even tried on yet. It’s high-waisted white sundress that has a
turquoise sash with a big, fluffy flower sewn onto the left side. I
put it on and, much to my surprise, it looks pretty decent. After
checking all the angles, I decide to call it my magic dress because
it covers everything that needs to be covered in the area of jelly
rolls, cleavage, and thighs and has the added bonus of matching a
pair fabulous sandals I bought on clearance last year. Hell yeah.
Problem solved.

Having beat my hair to death with a hundred
different styling attempts, I have no choice but to roll it up in a
bun, but at least I have a nice white ribbon to tie around it. I
twirl around like a school girl in front of the mirror and smile at
myself because I like what I see. And that almost never
happens.

The doorbell rings and I strut down the hall
to the living room and find Mason McKenzie standing in my kitchen
looking like a hot mess on humid day.

“
You look great, Ace,” he says, giving
me a shy smile.

“
Where’d you get the weed eater?” I
ask snidely.

“
What?” he asks, squinting at me like
I’m talking way too loud. “Weed eater?”

“
Yeah,” I shout, “the one you fixed
your hair with.”

“
Oh, that’s really funny,” he says
without laughing. “Where you headed?”

“
To
The
Waverly Estate,” I answer, thinking that
will really impress him.

It doesn’t.

“
Oh,” he says, “Mrs. Peacock and my
grandmother are really good friends. Nice place.” He pauses. “Why
are you going out there, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“
Because Gloria Peacock invited me,” I
say with no small amount of pride, “and Lilly.”

“
Well, how nice,” he says flatly.
“Where were you last night?”

“
What are you,” I ask sarcastically,
“my parole officer?”

“
Why are you always such a smart
ass?”

“
Why do you think you can keep showing
up at my house unannounced and uninvited?”

“
You are impossible,” he says and
turns to leave, “and you said you would be there. That’s why I
asked.”

“
Lilly said she would be there if I
remember correctly.”

“
So we’re back to this already?” he
says as he pushes open the door.

“
Back to what?” I fire
back.

“
Not speaking.” He slams the door shut
and Buster Loo rocket launches himself out the doggie door and I
can hear him outside barking his fool head off.

I run back to the bathroom and start fanning
myself so the tears won’t run down my face and ruin my make-up. I
look out the window and see Mason petting Buster Loo and scold
myself out of the mood to cry.

I watch in complete agony as he puts down
the little dog and disappears around the corner of the house.
Buster Loo starts running speedy-dog crazy eights, stopping at
every turn to throw his little chiweenie body against the fence and
my heart breaks for my poor daddy-less dog.

Time slows to a snail’s pace and I sit on
the edge of the tub fanning myself like Scarlett O’Hara. After what
seems like hours, I hear a horn blow so I get up, do a quick mirror
check, and run out the front door where Lilly is smiling and
waving. I stuff my heartache back in that place I’ve kept it for
the past three years and I’m all smiles as I climb into her red
BMW.

“
Damn,” she says, “we look
good!”

“
I concur,” I say smartly. “Love that
dress!” I lean over to get a look at her shoes. “Oh good word,
those are beyond fabulous.” And probably cost more than that set of
tires I put on my car last week.

“
Thanks!” she beams at me.
“Ready?”