Fatty Patty (A James Bay Novel) (3 page)

A pretty blond teenager strolls out of the office. “Need some help?”

“No thanks, I’m just looking.”

She shrugs, and turns back toward the office. I take in her clinging t-shirt and tight shorts. With that kind of body, she probably swims one hundred laps a day. I could never look like that.

And I never will, if I don’t try.

“Wait. I’ve changed my mind.” I point through the glass. “I need some goggles.”

“Which color?” Her hand hovers over the array.

“The blue ones, please.” I count out the money and hand it over. Forget that crazy idea of Sam’s. Whoever heard of color-coordinating goggles with a bathing suit? At least the blue ones match my eyes. And as for that ugly old pink suit? Headed straight into the trash, as soon as I get home.

Two minutes later I bounce out the door with swimming gear in one hand and a small plastic bag containing a twenty-dollar pair of goggles in the other.

Priscilla eyes me as I open the door. “I was beginning to wonder if you fell in the pool.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to take so long.” I throw my gear in the backseat, snap my seatbelt, and start the car. Fading sunlight in my rearview mirror glints against a steel-blue Jeep as it backs out of a narrow parking space. Talk about inspiration. A big sturdy car for a big sturdy guy. I return Sam’s wave as he drives past us.

Priscilla stares. “Was that the man with the goggles?”

“His name is Sam.” I shoot her a fast smile as we head down the driveway. “Sam Curtis. I bumped into him in the lobby and we started talking about goggles. And guess what? I bought myself a pair.”

This time Priscilla is the one who smiles. “And they’re purple, right?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

“I thought you said they were too expensive,” she teases.

“A girl’s got a right to change her mind.”

“I don’t think it was the girl who changed her mind. Sounds like the man did it for her.” She settles back in her seat with a curious smile. “I like him, Patty. He seems nice.”

I swing into traffic, my mind spinning along with the wheels of my tires. Sam Curtis
is
nice. What more could you ask for? He’s attractive, easy to talk to. He’s even the right age. The more I think about it, Sam might just be perfect.

Perfect for Priscilla.

Well, maybe
perfect
isn’t the right word. He’d be perfect if only he wasn’t…

The F-word eludes me. How can I call him that? I know how much it hurts when I notice people noticing my own extra pounds. I refuse to use the F-word about myself and I won’t use it about him.

If only Sam wasn’t so… hefty.

“Are you coming back tomorrow?” Priscilla asks.

“You bet I am.”

“Good for you, Patty. I’m proud of you.”

I’m proud of me, too. I can do this. Sam can spout off all he wants about swimming being fun, but this is serious business as far as I’m concerned. The contest nominations open up in November and I’m determined to lose this extra weight. Two pounds a week? I can do that. Maybe even three. Four, if I’m lucky. And who knows? I might even give Sam’s crazy theory about
one lap at a time
a try. A good teacher is open to different methods and uses what works. Plus, I’m nowhere near as overweight as Sam. He might be able to swim laps around me today, but give me a few months and I’ll blow him out of the water. I’ve got a goal: thirty pounds, eighty laps, and a grand prize waiting at the end of the lane.

Patty Perreault. Teacher of the Year.

Brand new school year. Brand new body. Brand new me.

CHAPTER TWO

James Bay is an up-north dream. Sprawled along the shore of Lake Michigan, the bay curves inward to provide yachts, sailboats and swimmers a natural shelter from the storms. Its pristine beaches are perfect for swimming and summertime picnics. The town itself boasts a year-round population of three thousand, which easily swells to nearly twenty thousand on any given day during the ten weeks of summer. With the auto factories shut down for their annual two-week retooling for new car lines, downstaters flood our little town, anxious to escape the heat of the city. They fill our hotels, shop the upscale stores the locals can’t afford and dine at restaurants offering gourmet cuisine. Gourmet cuisine? Not at our house. Especially not tonight.

Tuna salad?
Yechh
.

Priscilla’s dinner concoction—tuna, celery and dill pickle chunks on a bed of lettuce with tomatoes circling the plate—is meant as a dieter’s delight. But tuna is tuna, no matter how you dress it up. I’d much rather be eating something tasty, like a grilled Reuben sandwich stacked high with corned beef, smothered in melting cheese, dripping with sauce…

“I know tuna isn’t one of your favorites.” Priscilla’s voice wafts across the kitchen table. “But I made it with a yogurt dressing, so there’s hardly any fat. And the best part is, it’s only three hundred and fifty calories per serving.”

“Really.” I stare at the tuna and then at my sister. Poor Priscilla. She’s much too excited about this fishy subject. I definitely need to figure out a way to get her out of the house more often.

“And you don’t have to worry about the calories, either, because I weighed both our portions. Aren’t you glad I bought that little diet scale?”

Her face glows and suddenly I’m ashamed. If memory serves correctly, Priscilla doesn’t care much for tuna, either, but she’s not complaining. Not to mention she doesn’t need to measure her food—or lose weight, either. She’s so thin, she could use a few Reuben sandwiches.

I poke my fork through the cold salad, force down another bite, and wash it down with a swig of ice tea. “It’s good.”

She beams. “I’m glad you like it. It was on sale, so I bought a whole case. I read somewhere that tuna is a great source of protein. Plus, we’re saving money on our food budget. It’s a win-win, all around.”

“Wonderful,” I mutter. Win-win? I think about the contest and choke down more tuna.

“I’ll go online tomorrow and find some tasty tuna recipes.”

For a minute I think about telling her not to bother, for she’ll only be looking for something that doesn’t exist. And I’m in big trouble if Priscilla plans on adding tuna as a regular staple to our dinner menu. Even diet Jello tastes better than this.

“How did things go at school today? Have they hired another fifth-grade teacher yet?”

“If they did, nobody bothered to tell me.” I drain my ice tea in a long gulp. “Maybe I’ll hear something at the staff meeting tomorrow.”

“They’ll find someone soon.”

“They’d better. I can’t have fifty kids crammed in my classroom.”

“Patty, you are such a worry wart. Every one of those kids would be lucky to have you as a teacher.”

“I won’t feel lucky until the James Bay School Board has someone’s signature on a contract.” I push away my plate.

Priscilla stares. “You hardly ate anything.”

“I’m not hungry.” I hate lying to her, but it’s safer than admitting the truth. She’s trying so hard and I don’t want to crush her spirits. Although I’d love to crush that case of tuna stored in the pantry.

But I am not going to sabotage myself this time. Today is the second day of my new diet and exercise plan.
Brand new school year. Brand new body. Brand new me.
And brand new goggles, too. I tried them out today after school, as well as Sam’s theory.
One lap at a time
. Who would have thought it would actually work? I managed ten laps before I finally gave up and quit.

I prop my elbows on the worn kitchen table, watching as Priscilla stacks the plates and silverware and squirts pink dish soap into the sink. Doing dishes is a tiresome chore and one I’m sick of. “I wonder how much a dishwasher costs?”

“More than we can afford.”

“They can’t be that expensive.” I wrap my toes around the thin rungs of the chair that’s been my seat since childhood. The wood is smooth under my feet, worn from years of constant use and Priscilla’s dust rag. But the chair legs wobble if I push too hard and the back rung is loose. I need to get some super glue. Or maybe a new chair.

Better yet, a new life.

The chair squeaks in protest as I shove it aside and join her at the sink.

“What’s wrong, Patty?” Her hands swish efficiently through the hot, soapy water as she washes the glasses, then moves on to the plates. “You don’t seem yourself tonight.”

“I’m okay.” I grab a dish towel and start drying. No use moping about it, and Priscilla doesn’t deserve to get stuck doing all the work herself. “Just a little moody, I guess.”

But moody isn’t the word for it. I’m sick of doing dishes by hand, of living paycheck to paycheck, of scrimping to get by. If things don’t improve in the next few months, I might even have to suck it up and take on a second job during summer vacation.

I grab another glass, swipe it dry. “Sometimes it doesn’t seem fair. Why us? I mean, other people can afford dishwashers. They don’t have to live this way.”

Her hands stop midstream in soap suds. “What’s wrong with the way we live?”

“For God’s sake, Priscilla, do you have to ask? Open your eyes and take a look.” I snap my dishtowel at the high-ceilinged kitchen. The cupboards, so old they’re back in vogue, could probably get by with a new coat of paint… but the rest of the room, with worn linoleum floors and old countertops with permanent stains, is in desperate need of a make-over.

Just like the rest of the house.

Just like me.

“This place is falling apart,” I mutter.

“That’s not true,” she shoots back. “Don’t forget the new roof we put on last year.”

“Don’t remind me. I feel sick whenever I think about how much it cost.” I never should have touched the home equity loan line of credit we took out after Mama got sick. Priscilla and the bank talked me into it, assuring me it would take care of Mama’s mounting medical bills… and eventually, the funeral expenses, too. Then, after that nearly-a-tornado-storm blew though last summer, Priscilla convinced me to use it again. I didn’t want to, but with the roof full of leaks and minus lots of shingles, I didn’t see where we had a choice. Now we’re deep in debt. The monthly sum we owe the bank is higher than a mortgage payment.

“It still needs a new furnace, plus some paint, inside and out—”

“So, we’ll buy some paint.” Priscilla goes back to washing dishes, and for a moment the muffled clink of submerged knives and forks is the only sound between us. “Paint’s not that expensive. Although we might have a problem trying to match the color.”

God help us, if that’s what she’s thinking. There is no way in hell I’m letting Priscilla re-paint the house in that hideous shade of Barbie-doll pink Mama picked out years ago. When it comes to house paint, pretty-in-pink does not apply.

“I’m not just talking about the paint.” I grab some silverware, give it a hasty swipe. “We need new windows, too. That tiny one in my bathroom is almost rotted away. It needs to be replaced, just like every other window in this house.”

“Then we’ll buy new windows. We can go to Home Depot on Saturday.”

But I don’t want to go to Home Depot. I don’t want to buy new windows. I don’t want to paint the house.

I want something else. Something more. Something I can’t put a name to, something no one else can give me… except myself.

Well, plus the people that vote for me.

I don’t care what it takes. I have got to win that contest.

“Patty, pay attention to what you’re doing, or don’t do it at all.” Priscilla plucks the silverware I shoved into the drawer back out and sticks them in the rack. “They’re not even dry.”

“Who cares?” I drop my rag and turn to face her. “Look, let’s be realistic. The house needs an update, and that means money… money we don’t have. We can’t let things fall apart like this. It’s not fair to the house and it’s not fair to us.”

Her eyes are wide and round. “But we’ve got the bank loan. You know we’ll pay it back in time. Why not use the money when we need it? Let’s just write a check.”

“No,” I say firmly. Priscilla’s never been good when it comes to money matters, and I’ll admit I’m not much better, but there’s no way she’s talking me into touching that home equity line again. I swallow hard, chewing on my thoughts. Is now the time to bring up the subject of a condo with top-of-the-line appliances? If only I could bring Priscilla to buy into my way of thinking, it would be an easy trade-off. With the right buyer, we could get a pretty penny for this old Victorian if—and that’s a big
if
—I can convince her to sell. Up until now, she’s stubbornly refused to consider the idea.

Well, I can be just as stubborn. Although I need to be careful how I do it. Priscilla isn’t always strong enough to handle things. Hopefully this time she’s ready to listen. I take a deep breath. “I think we should consider listing the house.”

“I cannot believe you’re bringing that up again.” She throws me a wounded stare. “We grew up in this house, Patty. It’s home. And it’s all we’ve got left of Mama. Do you want to give her up, too?”

She leans over the sink, pulls the stopper. Water gurgles as it sucks down the drain. Too bad it can’t suck away my guilt. Both of us loved Mama, and both of us grieved when she died two years ago, but Priscilla took it hardest. Maybe because she was the one who nursed Mama through her cancer. Long black hair swirls around her face, hiding her eyes. Is she crying? Priscilla often retreats to her bed, but she never cries in front of me. I don’t think I can stand it if she starts to cry.

“I love this house, Patty.” She turns to face me, eyes shimmering. “And I don’t want to move.”

Oh, God, she
is
going to cry, and it’s all my fault.

“I’m sorry.” She grips the counter. “You don’t deserve this. It’s all my fault.”

I blink. “What?”

“It’s my fault we don’t have the money.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I haven’t worked much in the past month or so and I know I’m not doing my share. But I promise you, all that is going to change. There’s no need for me to sit around, being lazy.”

“Don’t be silly,” I scoff. “You are not lazy. You already do too much as it is. Besides, you just got over being sick, remember?”