Conversations With the Fat Girl (32 page)

261 Conversations with the Fat Girl255

honor. This weekend is my show It says so in black and white in all of

the etiquette books Olivia has purchased over the past year . . .

whether Gwen likes it or not.

Kate and I stop at Bun Boy for an early lunch of good all-American fare.

Everyone who drives from Los Angeles to Las Vegas stops at Bun Boy. It's

either that or a candy bar at some odorous rest stop. I order an amazing

turkey sandwich and wash it down with some fruit from the car. Kate

picks at her burger and still only finishes half. Damn that girl and her

ability to turn away from the siren song of fried foods. We fill up the

tank, and I make a trip to the restroom. Upon my return, I see that Kate

can no longer control herself: She's sitting in the driver's seat. I

concede and buckle myself in for the rest of the drive. We continue

chattering about whatever is going on in our lives as the flat scenery

passes outside the windows.

We are avoiding talking about Olivia. I am excited to find out what she

got me for my birthday. But I haven't unveiled my plan to resurrect our

friendship this weekend to Kate. I know what Kate's response will be.

Shit, I know what anyone's response would be at this point. I feel like

I'm on Sesame Street and Big Bird has all of my life's achievements out

in front of him while he tries to coax the audience to choose "which one

of these things is not like the other." Olivia's friendship has been a

cornerstone of my life. Moving on without it seems like a titanic task I

don't think I have the strength for. But another part of me continues to

rear her ugly head. I want to rub my title maid of honor in all these

women's faces this weekend. I see Gwen's envy. But it's a fact of life

now. I'm Number One. I have the bouquet. I hold the rings. I have the

history.

It's just past noon as we pass over the Nevada state line marked with

seedy casinos and murky hotels. We're in the home stretch. I call Olivia

from my cell and leave a message saying we

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should be at the Bellagio soon. I give her my cell phone number again. I

feel good about myself as I sit in the passenger seat of my own vehicle.

1 am in control. This is my show.

I can see the lights of Las Vegas even in the superheated daylight of

early afternoon. We see castles, golden buildings, pyramids, the New

York skyline, and the Eiffel Tower. The streets are packed, even in the

116-degree heat. Tourists in sun hats, beer bellies, and gas station

visors bob from one casino to the next. Kate lowers her sunglasses and

looks high at the skyline of Vegas-taking it all in.

The Bellagio is right on the Strip, and Kate navigates us to the

check-in line as we pull into valet parking. I open the trunk. The

bellman retrieves Kate's bag and then mine. Kate hands the valet my keys

and we enter our hotel. Kate checks us in, and we go up to the room. I

don't care how old you are, staying in a hotel still feels like a treat.

lam having so much fun. Kate is feeling the same way-I can see it on her

face. We are looking at the mirror on the ceiling of the elevator and

making funny faces, commenting on how thin we look from that angle.

We get out on our floor and walk down the hall in search of our room

number. I'm feeling tired from the road and the early wake-up call. The

happiness from the elevator-ceiling mirror only lasts so long. Kate

opens the door to our hotel room and we immediately plop down on the

beds and turn on the television. I check my cell phone. No one has

called. I put in another call to Olivia telling her we've arrived at the

hotel and that I'll wait for her call so we can meet for martinis before

the high tea at three.

As Kate showers, I ball up on my bed and watch television. I am getting

that sinking feeling with Olivia. Of course, she's doing this. This is

why I'm questioning my trust in her after a lifetime of being best

friends. I can see Big Bird now flapping his seven-foot wingspan at the

photo of Olivia. "This one," he chirps. "This one,"

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the squeaking audience mimics. I know I have made the right decision

being here. I remind myself, I'm not alone this time. I have Kate. Fuck

the whole martini idea. Kate and I can go to lunch and still meet

everyone for high tea at the Petrossian Bar.

Kate gets out of the shower and I look forward to my turn so I can wash

some of these feelings away I give Kate an update as I strip and she

looks lazily at the television. Everyone knows about Olivia but me. No

one is surprised by her negligence. Kate says something like "fuck her"

and turns the station to some sitcom.

The shower feels good, and I am beginning to get back some of that

feeling of joy I had in the elevator. I can't expect Olivia to be there

for me. It doesn't make me too intense or needy. It means that she and I

have grown apart, and it's time to face that fact. I rinse my hair and

soap my body. I am starting to feel some changes in my body, mostly from

the inside out. I feel more secure when I'm walking up stairs. I'm not

so off balance. I have this sneaking feeling that my belly button may be

visible. I feel as proud as Bella about her outie. I return to the main

room of the hotel room in a towel and wet hair.

"You got a call," Kate says.

"Olivia?" I say

"No, Hannah."

"She's part of the coven. Is Olivia with her?" I say, toweling my hair off.

"It doesn't sound like it."

I have now left four messages for Olivia, each one more frustrated. I

have to keep my eyes on the prize. I am sitting on the edge of my bed

watching the hotel's promotional channel touting what a beautiful hotel

the Bellagio is for lovers.

"And nothing from Gwen?" Kate throws the remote control to me as she

walks to the bathroom and plugs in her curling iron. The acoustics of

the bathroom make these words reverberate.

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"No." The couple on the television are walking arm in arm around the

fountains.

"What do you think about that?" Kate says, emerging once more from the

bathroom with a chunk of white-blond hair in the warming curling iron.

Yes, I know they're together. I have some lady named Callie waiting for

Olivia to arrive downstairs at Petrossian so she can present her with a

tiara that says WORLD'S BEST BRIDE. I know this has nothing to do with

me, but all I can think about is this will be like every other party

I've thrown where no one comes.

"What's to think about?" I say. The couple on the television are now

feeding each other gelato.

"We can just leave right now and forget this whole thing," Kate says as

her curls settle.

"Hannah's head would explode for sure." Why can't I just walk away?

"Okay, maybe we don't have to leave, but we don't have to show up,

either." Kate approaches me, and I can feel myself beginning to cry.

"I just don't know what I did." I have visions of having to tell some

new, faceless friend all about Owen Lynch, Mason Phelps, and The John

Sheridan. You never realize how much history you share with a friend

until you have to tell story after story to someone new just so you can

get on the same page.

"You didn't do anything. You know you didn't do anything. This is

Olivia's problem, not yours. Let's just go down there and make the best

of it. If Olivia doesn't show, then you get out of going to the wedding.

That's fair." Kate pats my leg and makes her way back to the bathroom.

I wipe my tears away and click the television off just as the loving

couple sit down to twin slot machines.

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0 nce, in high school, Olivia and I were invited to a party. The popular

kids were getting together up in the hills at one of their huge houses,

and they asked us to come. I imagined, even then, being stripped of my

clothes, tarred, and then feathered. Olivia convinced me we were finally

being accepted and that this was a great opportunity for us. Obliged to

my best friend, I drove us up into those hills and right into certain

death. As we let ourselves in through the large Craftsman door, we found

all of them sitting in Owen Lynch's hot tub drinking beer and barking

inappropriate propositions at each other. Was this what high school

dating was like? "Yer purty, Mary Benicci," I imagined him saying as the

teenaged ogler eyed her newly formed breasts. But Olivia walked in

confidently, cracked open a beer, and sat at the side of the hot tub.

She flipped her blond hair as she talked to her half-naked audience. I

walked over to the refrigerator, pulled out a diet soda, and flipped on

the television. Olivia left that evening feeling like she had finally

made it. The next day Mary Benicci spread a rumor that Olivia had almost

drowned

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poor Shannon Shimasaki when Olivia tried to squeeze her way into the hot

tub.

The Petrossian Bar, set in the corner of the Bellagio lobby, is mostly

known for its caviar and vodka tasting. But they also offer a high tea,

which is what brought us here today. I approach the hostess and identify

her as Callie by her name tag.

"Hi there, I'm Maggie Thompson." I already feel like a fiveyear-old

arriving at a birthday party without a present.

"Oh," the hostess squeals. "Where's the lucky bride?"

"She is still en route," I say

"But we'd like to sit if that's okay" Kate interrupts.

"You're Maggie Thompson?" I sense a tiny wisp of a peasant bounding

toward me.

"Yes," I say, raising my arms over my face in defense.

"I'm Hannah? Hannah Ratner? From the phone?" Her eyes bulge with

desperation.

Ah, the first to arrive, Goodie Ratner: It's a title I'm sure she's held

since she was Hall Monitor in elementary school. Her wispy brown hair

has the effect of male pattern baldness or a bad dye job. Hannah is

alarmingly thin. Her designer clothes hang on her like a third-world

child who can be fed for just five cents a day. She follows the hostess

to our table and begins asking what the specials are as she is a vegan

and wants to make sure she won't be ingesting anything "inappropriate"

this fine afternoon.

The table is beautiful. Dainty teacups are set out for seven, and the

WORLD'S BEST BRIDE tiara sits at the head of the table. A glaring

reminder of Olivia's absence. Champagne is chilling at the end of the

table, and Callie is waiting to put our napkins in our laps. I make a

note to come back here with someone I am actually happy for.

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I see two women coming our way through the tables, passing Callie as she

exits. Panchali is on the right. She is stunning. Her black wavy hair is

parted in the middle just enough to show off beautiful almond eyes. She

is wearing a wine-colored blouse with gray Capri pants and moves

gracefully through the restaurant. I can see her calf muscles from here.

She made eye contact with us when she entered the restaurant, but has

yet to smile or wave hello. Shawna Moss, on the other hand, is

frantically waving and smiling from ear to ear. She is dark-skinned with

straight hair that is newly done and perfect. She, too, is painfully

thin and accentuates this by dressing in clothes that hug her adolescent

figure. I stand to greet the women. If it is humanly possible, these

three women make Olivia look overweight. Callie has returned. She is

being hailed by Kate.

"You must be Maggie." Shawna is approaching rapidly

"Yes, nice to meet you. This is my sister, Kate," I say, pulling Kate up

by her arm.

"It's so great to finally meet you. Olivia talks about you all the

time," Shawna says.

"Good to meet you, Shawna," I say, backing away slowly. Kate and Shawna

shake hands. Shawna has this tendency to

purse her lips before she talks. It's somewhat unsettling. "You are just

like her," Shawna whispers.

"I'm sorry?" I ask as Kate settles herself back in her seat, spinning

the champagne around to read the label.

"You are just like Olivia. Your mannerisms, your voice. I mean, it's

uncanny," she says.

"Maybe I am Olivia," I say.

Shawna stops and stares at me. I can hear Kate let out a huge sigh

behind me.

"And you're funny Just like Olivia," Shawna says, laughing out her nose.