Read Conversations With the Fat Girl Online
Authors: Liza Palmer
?But it's the only home Solo has ever really known. I mean
she...she...?
?Solo is a dog. She'll be fine. However hard this is, it will be
so much better than what you've got now.?
?I can't conceive of moving right now. Olivia's wedding is coming up in
less than two months. She's my best friend, for chrissakes, and I can't
even get it together in time for her wedding? I am totally uprooting
and. . . and when am I going to be able to start my new exercise and
diet regimen? I've got a fucking bridesmaid's dress to get into, for the
love of God. I had my life a certain way, and now it~ totally . . .
totally . . . this sucks.?Can a twenty-seven-year-old woman stomp her
foot in public?
Frustrated and ready to move on, Mom changes the subject and we begin
discussing possible outfits for Olivia's wedding. This brings up a sore
subject. I am going to be nowhere near where I want to be for that
wedding. Another date that comes and goes as I fail miserably I can see
the red circle around the wedding date now. Mom assures me we'll find a
dress. I stopped looking in mirrors a long time ago because I never
liked what I saw. I want to look nice and be comfortable. I can't do
that if I'm still where I am now. I start having flashbacks of my
freshman year in high school when Mom said those same words: ?We'll find
a dress.?Sometimes a sow's ear is just a sow's ear.
His name was John Sheridan. (Yes, The John Sheridan. Every high school
has one, different name perhaps, but they all have one.) His blue eyes
were only accentuated by dark hair, a body with broad shoulders that
tapered into a perfect V at the
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waist. He was at the top of the junior class, played water polo, and
actively dated the mythical Caroline Pond. (Yes, The Caroline Pond.
Every high school has one.) John began tutoring me in French class.
Tutoring, speaking, dating, kissing, you've got to start somewhere. All
I knew how to say was ?Je ne comprends oas,?which means ?I don't
understand.? I argued this was the only sentence I needed to survive. I
liked the class for two reasons: The John Sheridan and the crepes our
teacher, Madame Hart, made every Thursday
During one of our tutorials, John mentioned that Caroline
Pond couldn't go to the homecoming dance. Her parents were
receiving some volunteer award the same night as homecoming.
Caroline had to go to the Volunteer Gala Ball Fund-Raiser, and
John was left out in the cold.
John Sheridan must have seen me as a project of sorts. I was so asexual,
no one would think his relationship with Caroline Pond was on the rocks
if he took me to the dance. On top of this, he was known for his charity
work. Going to the dance with me would be just another day at the soup
kitchen. Pushing this ugly truth aside, I paraded around like I had
landed the date of a lifetime. I was going to homecoming with The John
Sheridan, the only man alive to look good in a Speedo. Now, what was I
going to wear?
At first, Mom, my older sister, Kate, and I naively looked in the Young
Women's department. I was not looking forward to a day of taking off my
clothes, trying on dresses, and enduring my mom and random salesladies
asking ?how everything is.?To keep the shopping experience from becoming
a complete fiasco, I pointed out some problem with each dress. I looked
fat. And each dress only accentuated that. But I couldn't say that to my
Mom. It would break her heart. She couldn't fix that I saw myself as
fat. I felt horrible every time she tossed another
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possibility over the slatted door of the dressing room. I'd always
feared that hell was really some type of Orwellian reality in which I
would be damned forever to the harsh lights, 360-degree mirrors, and
those damn slatted doors of department store changing rooms. So I only
told her about things she could fix. That way at least my mom stayed
unbroken. ?My boobs don't fit?was always a popular reason. Who could
argue with that? ?It's tight in the arms?was also safe. For some reason,
?tight in the arms? was not as hard hitting as, ?I'm a fat fuck, Mom.
Just wrap me up in a tarp, put some lipstick on me, and roll me in the
direction of The John Sheridan.?
We finally found what we were looking for in the Mother of the Bride
department: a tight pink crepe dress with a dropped waist and Peter Pan
collar. Pleats fell down the front of the dress. Mom said they drew the
eye away from my Area, a term I used when referring to my
ever-burgeoning belly Of course pleats drew the eye away; that would
tend to be the case when one's eyes had so many other places on which to
feast. It was not my first choice, but first-choice outfits didn't come
in my size. We bought the dress.
John drove us to a local Italian restaurant that Caroline had
recommended. Apparently, Caroline Pond ?recommended? a lot. Throughout
our dinner, almost every one of John's sentences started with ?Caroline
says,?as he parroted some Pond Bit o'Wisdom. When he wasn't repeating
something verbatim that Caroline said, he stared at the breadbasket in
the center of the table, tapping his fingers on the large diving watch
that dwarfed his left arm. I sat before him like a child before a
magician-waiting for him to perform as I had always dreamed. But I was
disappointed. It was like catching that same magician smoking a
cigarette and bouncing a buxom trapeze artist on his knee out behind the
big top.
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Conversations with the Fat Girl9
By the time the waitress asked if we'd like to see the dessert menu, 1
was actively mourning The John Sheridan I had come to love: The John
Sheridan who had the personality I put together out of various S. E.
Hinton characters with sprinkles from the Knights of the Round Table.
The John Sheridan who sat before me now at this tiny Italian restaurant
somewhere in the San Gabriel Valley was nothing like my creation. He
didn't smoke cigarettes he rolled himself, and I doubt he even knew the
first thing about swordplay to defend my honor.
The night ended with us driving by Caroline Pond's house to see if she
was home from her Volunteer Gala Ball Fund-Raiser. She was. I waited in
the car for thirty minutes while Caroline told John about her evening,
so John could recount every detail back to me on the long ride home.
John yelled to Caroline that he would be back in ?twenty? and hopped in
the car. As we pulled into the driveway of my house, I remember thinking
how awkward these last moments were going to be. What was the end of a
date like? Is this where he would finally unveil the real John Sheridan?
I tried to remember every detail so I could retell the story of my first
kiss to Olivia. Olivia who had set her sights on Ben Dunn, the senior
starting quarterback who made The John Sheridan look like The Hunchback
of Notre Dame and was famous for referring to girls he had been with as
?They've Been Done by Ben Dunn.?Classy
I sat still in the passenger seat trying to put what I thought was my
best kiss-me face on. I remember pouting my lips a little and slightly
glazing over my eyes. In retrospect, it must have looked like I was
having a small stroke.
John quickly announced that he had fun but it was getting late, so. . .
Had he learned nothing from his days at the Round Table? John leaned
over and wrapped one single arm around my shoulder as his car idled
loudly He then proceeded to pat at
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my back like an impatient mom burping her full-to-bursting new baby 1
kept both arms at my side and just sat there, floating above what was
happening. Did he not want to give me the wrong idea? I floated back
down just in time for one last pat. I pressed a smile out and stepped
from the car. Did he think he just gave me some big, beautiful moment I
would cherish and retell at family dinners? Could he have possibly
thought it was anything but awkward and embarrassing for both of us? No,
John Sheridan believed he had given me the thrill of a lifetime. I just
felt robbed.
?Why don't you give yourself a fucking break??Mom snaps me out of my
walk down Memory Lane.
At this point, a small blond family turns around.
?Could you hold it down??I beg.
?You never give yourself a break. You're going to drive yourself crazy
if you live like this for the next couple of months. The wedding is not
about you. It's about Olivia and Adam. I know this is completely foreign
to you, but a lot of people think you're pretty amazing looking.? Mom
sips her diet soda and glares at the small blond family a Pasadena fixture.
?What about my house??I whimper.
?What about it? You've outgrown it, Maggie. Faye Mabb did you a favor.
The only favor she'll ever do anyone, I'm sure.?
On the way home from dropping Mom off, I allow myself to imagine my new
home: an airy summer cottage with hardwood floors and tons of windows. I
begin switching radio stations, desperate to find the correct soundtrack
for my vision. The chiffon draperies dance in the wind as classical
music lilts through thick Craftsman-style walls. (Do all of the radio
stations play advertisements at the same time?) In the fantasy I walk
out on the porch with my mug of steaming coffee, put my hand on the aged
gray banister, and look out at the lush flora and fauna as
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sun slowly rises in the dewy morning hours. A song finally
comes on that I enjoy I tap along on the steering wheel, quietly
.humming to myself.
Who needs that shithole of a house I'm living in now, anyway? Truth is,
it really isn't all that great. The water pressure like a slow piss. I
have to share my residence with thousands of spiders. I have visions of
myself sleeping at night with them, not Solo, at the foot of my bed.
Solo was miserable in that backyard being tortured by the legions of
cats and their devil offspring.
Faye's back house was the first place I ever lived by myself. I
paid the rent, the water, and the phone bill by myself. I have to
believe I've got more of that in me. Somehow losing this house
has become the queen of all my other unaccomplished goals
and red-circled failures. Surely I can find a new place to live.
I pull into an office supply store. Once inside, I ask the man
behind the counter if he thinks 1 can pack a whole house with
just thirty-six boxes.
?Depends on the size of the house,?he says. His vest is
hanging on his body as if management throws them on their
employees in some warped party game gone horribly awry
?I'm not packing the actual house, you know,?I say noticing his name is
Dennis, who according to the enlarged mug shot on the wall behind him is
the newly crowned Employee of the Month.
?Yeah, I m saying that if you got a big house, you pro'ly
have a lotta stuff. Little houseHe trails off, as any Employee
of the Month would.
?Little stuff. I get it.?
I buy all thirty-six boxes, thank the Employee of the Month,
and cart the boxes out to my car. I stop at the local health food
store and pick up the only unhealthful things inside: ginger
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cookies, chocolate stars, and the closest thing to a soda I can find. I
grab a couple of apples on the way to the counter and some cans of tuna.
That way the guy at the checkout might not notice the bad stuff. Then I
throw in a different type of soda-a mandarin orange soda. Now he'll
think I'm shopping for a roommate: a roommate who enjoys mandarin orange
soda, ginger cookies, and chocolate stars. I'll tell him I'd like these
items bagged separately
I pull down my Street feeling newly empowered. For three long years, I
begged Faye Mabb to treat me civilly For three long years, I had to park
my car on the street, even though Faye Mabb's long, sacred driveway sat
unused after she stopped driving altogether.
Today I will pull into The Sacred Driveway right behind the bulldozer.
Faye stands in all of her bathing-suited finery at the edge of the
driveway, trowel in one hand, the other held akimbo at her withering,
pachyderm hips.
?Can I help you??I ask, opening the trunk of my Fancy New Car.
?You're supposed to park out front,? Faye says, her tongue pushing at
the corners of her tight-lipped mouth in search of loose bits of saliva.