Read Conversations With the Fat Girl Online
Authors: Liza Palmer
"What, honey?" Mrs. Morten gazes fondly up at the picture of Olivia
posing in front of the elephants at the LA Zoo with her arm at her nose
in parody
"These pictures! I gave you a stack of pictures to put into the slide
show. Those were the only ones I wanted. Not these! Not these! I gave
you a stack. Do you remember the stack I gave you?" Olivia is
approaching Mrs. Morten's table in a frenzy, which is now in earshot of
Table Nine.
"Honey, these pictures are darling. You chose wonderful pictures. I love
every one of them. I forgot about that boy, what was his name, Maggie?
What was his name
Olivia cuts her mother off. "I didn't choose these pictures. Why would I
choose these pictures?" Olivia is pointing at the night she played Santa
in our elementary school Christmas pageant.
"I chose them," I say, setting my wineglass down on my empty table.
Olivia flips around. Mrs. Morten looks at me and then back at Olivia.
The laptop whirs on. The crowd is silent. This silence is different. No
one wants to watch. But everyone is riveted.
"You what?" Olivia continues the long walk to Table Nine.
"You asked me to help, so I threw a few pictures of us in there." I put
my hands on the table and begin to fidget with my wineglass.
"I gave my mother a stack of pictures I wanted included in my slide
show. Putting your own pictures in there is a problem." Olivia is now
standing at the other side of Table Nine. I don't even recognize her
anymore. This is no longer my best friend. That little girl I stood next
to against that chain-link fence is dead. Olivia is fussing with her
hair. She is beginning to realize
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how much of a scene she is causing. Behind her, I see Gwen get up from
the head table and walk out. I focus back on Olivia. She's getting ready
to turn and make the long trek back to the head table-but stops and
slowly turns back around.
"You just can't take that I got out," she says. Her voice is low and angry
"Got out?" I say. How could I have defined myself by this person for the
last fifteen years?
"That fantasy life-it's not a fantasy at all. I've got it. Look around
you, Maggie. Everything is beautiful and perfect. There are no 'before'
pictures. It kills you that I've gotten everything we've ever wanted."
Olivia twirls around in victory. I can't stop shaking my head, no . . . no.
It's as if I'm really seeing her for the first time. I breathe out. And
there she is. My best friend: the little girl still lost in her little
pink room fantasy playing with her Barbie and Ken dolls.
I don't want what she has. I don't want to figure out why I'm not good
enough for her. She's not even good enough for her. My shoulders slowly
relax and the world comes back into focus. I wet my lips and speak.
"Well that's all you've got now." I smooth my hair back and walk out
from behind Table Nine. I grab my Pumas from underneath the table.
Olivia watches me walk across the dance floor. I begin to unplug my
laptop but pause to see the final sequence of pictures. Olivia and me in
front of her mom's house on Halloween. She was a flapper from the 1920s
and I was in this fluffy yellow chickadee costume. Olivia's lipstick was
a horrible pink shade we had stolen from Mrs. Morten's makeup case. She
has her hand at her head and her hips sticking out in her best dancer
pose. Her little belly is peeking out from beneath the stretched
sequined shirt. I hold what looks to be like a big egg as the big orange
beak lowers itself over my round, twelve-year-
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old face. We are smiling and in the next shot we are bent over with
laughter. The final shot is of Olivia falling to the ground in laughter
with me looking down at her and my hand gently placed on her back. My
mouth is open in a wide laugh.
I catch a side glance of Mrs. Morten, and she quickly stands. I unplug
my laptop and walk across the dance floor, cords and wires trailing. The
spotlight blinds me for one second. The DJ quickly puts on some music as
the guests buzz and murmur. Mrs. Morten makes her way across the dance
floor.
"Maggie?" I quickly turn around. "She'll come around, sweetie. The
pictures were beautiful," Mrs. Morten says as she holds my face and
smiles tightly
Olivia is still standing in front of Table Nine as Adam comes to collect
his bride-to-be. Panchali rises, with Shawna on her heels, and they
tentatively approach a now unmasked Olivia. I break from Mrs. Morten and
feel their anger on my back as I walk toward the exit.
I don't look back and I don't slow down. The tears are subsiding and my
breath is evening out. I am walking easily under the vaulted ceiling
with the Italian frescoes. I look down and realize I'm wearing my heels
and I'm not tripping or walking like a truck driver. I'm looking down at
my shoes when the bathroom door opens.
"That was quite a show you put on out there." Gwen is straightening her
cashmere shawl as she closes the bathroom door.
"What?" My eyebrows are raised. I stand a good five inches taller than
Gwen. Olivia has been outed. Gwen backed the wrong horse and she knows
it. Moreover, she knows I know it.
"Don't you have a rehearsal dinner to get to?" I continue. Gwen fidgets
with her necklace.
"So we'll see you at the wedding tomorrow?" Gwen titters.
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"Fuck you, Gwen." My voice is calm and methodical. My eyes crinkle with
drying tears, and I can feel the rush of air through my lungs. Gwen
stands unmoving in front of me. I don't move.
One last duel.
After what feels like hours, Gwen finally clears her throat and steps to
the side. I stride down the front steps of The Athenaeum and walk
gracefully to my car, never looking back once. The night is crisp as the
door shuts beside me.
What did I just do?
I turn the key and drive. The car knows before I do where I'm going. I
follow. Visions of the glow from the screen and the whir of my laptop
play over and over in my head. I make a left.
I am stopped at the light getting my speech ready Visions of the glow.
Sounds from the laptop. Click . . . click . . . click. The light
changes. I make another right.
I park out front and turn the car off. I sit in the silence of my car
for what feels like hours. The diamond-encrusted M is still in the cup
holder.
I open the door easily and step inside. The lights are bright and the
tile floor is slippery. The high-heeled shoes are solid underneath me as
I walk chest-out, hips swaying, head held high. My eyes are straight
ahead, staring at that back door. The door I looked through every shift
to watch him. I walk quickly yet steadily
"You're a little dressed up to come crawling back for your job, don't
you think?" I stop, locking my hip into place, and take a deep breath. I
slowly turn my head and see Cole leaning back on the counter with the
tiny espresso mug in his mitt of a hand.
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"I'd try and talk to her but then I'd be giving advice, now wouldn't I?"
Peregrine is chewing gum as she retwists a blue-black bun on the side of
her head. My eyes slowly move to her. I lose sight of the back door
momentarily
"I'm sorry. You were right." I walk toward her and put my hands on the
counter. She finishes twisting her hair and squares me off. I will
myself not to cry anymore.
"What?" I can smell her bubblegum. She begins to blow a bubble.
"You were right. Everything you said. Olivia didn't pick me. Shit,
Olivia couldn't even pick herself. And I'm terrified of what is going to
happen when I let Domenic-jeez, I guess when I just let Domenic do
anything, huh?" Peregrine's bubble pops. She fumbles with the bits of
gum on her lips. I continue, "Let me be in your life, but as your
friend, not your project."
"Okay. Okay" She is picking at her lips, unable to hold my gaze. Then
she lunges over the counter and pulls me in close for a hug. "Friends .
. . we'll be friends." Peregrine lets me go and straightens her shirt.
I stand tall and back away from the counter. I focus once again on why I
made the trip over here in the first place. I have my speech down pat.
My head is high as I walk away from the silence behind me.
I push open the door.
Domenic is at the sink. I let the door close behind me and stand in
front of him. The light blue shirt. Nice touch. He looks up, his hands
deep in the soapy water. I stand there. I know his face, but it seems
like it's in Technicolor tonight. The black hair. The curve of his lips.
The amber eyes. I take a breath.
"I remember everything about that night. I just never had the . . . I
didn't know if you . . ."
Domenic pulls his hands from the water. I can see the drops
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of suds and water hitting the floor and the sink. I look up from his
hands and look into his eyes. Closer . . . closer. I feel the hot, soapy
water as he cradles my face in his hands. The water runs down my neck
and past my shoulder. He brushes my temple with his thumb as he wets his
lips. I close my eyes. Not because I can't watch; it just happens. He
moves his hands around the back of my head and pulls me in to him. His
lips are so soft. I feel the warmth of him speeding all over my body, to
all my nerve endings. I pull my arms up to hold him and can feel myself
being surrounded by him. Just us. I can't remember a single thing after
that. Maybe nothing happened.
But I seriously doubt it.
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Every night before I go to bed, I hold my breath and give thanks for the
day. I wish I could say that this tiny space where I'm allowed to thank
the most important people in the world means more to me than that
intimate moment where it's just me and my held breath-but it's not.
These people whose names mean nothing to you, the reader, are the loves
of my life.
My mom, Lynne Palmer-Whalen, is my heartbeat, my hero, and my definition
of love and greatness. Without her, this book would be just a glimmer of
something I thought maybe I could do someday.
Don Whalen continues to be the benchmark of what a man should be.
Alex Zucco has been my partner in crime from telling each other what our
Christmas presents were to giggling our way to sleep at night. Joe
continues to be the best brother I could ever want. Zoe and Bonnie are
turning into two of the strongest, smartest, most beautiful and
confident women.
Captain Jack Kuser, Kim Resendiz, Tito, Tisha, Nico, Eli,
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Rodrigo, Tasha, Diego, Nadine, Antoine, Toine, Denice, KC, David, and
Michael continue to be the most amazing family.
I want to thank Brandon Dunn for dealing with a much bigger demon than I
think even he knew what to do with.
Without the company of writers, I would be a narcissistic, blathering
idiot-so thank you to Danette Rivera, Ibarionex Perello, Paz Kahana,
Frederick Smith, David Green, and Tom Lombardi. Thank you to Henry,
Norm, Corrin, Jen, Marilyn, Sharon, and Poet. Thank you to the Cake
Club, who had the balls to tell me exactly how they felt about the first
draft of the book-which we all know is shit.
Thanks to Christy Fletcher for being the agent everyone dreams of.
And finally, thanks to Amy Einhorn for sharing this time in my life.
Without her involvement, the entire book would have been one long run-on
sentence . . . joined by ellipses, dashes, and far too many fucks-so ...
fucking thank her.
Reading Group Guide
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1.Discuss the dissonance between how Maggie sees herself physically as
opposed to how she actually looks. Do you think that we all see
ourselves through a distorted filter? Do you think this is solely an
issue among women? Why do you think this filter exists and where do you
think it comes from?
2.Why do you think Olivia asks Maggie to be her maid of honor? Do you
think it is an act of hope, revenge, or something else?
3.Discuss Maggie's relationship with her mother. Do you think because
she is the baby of the family her development has been arrested-or do
you think there are other factors at work? How do you think Maggie is