Fatty Patty (A James Bay Novel) (8 page)

His eyes fill with silent gratitude. “No, Miss P.”

“Okay. And as long as none of you call me
Grandma
, we’ll get along just fine.”

I wait till the laughter dies down. “Let’s take out our science books. Who wants to read?”

Four hands shoot up, but I ignore the wiggling fingers and waving arms. I’ve got plenty of instruction manuals lining my desk, but how do I teach these little ones what they need to learn most—life lessons on reading the language of the heart.

Lesson One: Patience, tolerance and kindness to your fellow man. And fellow students.

One student in particular has a big lesson to learn.

“Lauren, you’ve got a nice clear voice. Why don’t you start us off?” I suffer through her eye-rolling and indifferent shrug. She’s got a nice little attitude going but finally she picks up her book.

“All right, everyone,” I say, “turn to page three. Let’s listen as Lauren begins.”

# # #

“You’re quiet tonight.”

“I guess I don’t have much to say.” I wiggle around on the couch, toss a pillow over my head, try to find a comfortable spot. How low can I sink? Not much lower, especially now I’m reduced to lying to Priscilla.

“Patty, I know there’s something wrong. You hardly ate anything at dinner and you’ve barely said a word since you got home. That’s not like you. Usually you’re full of stories about your kids… especially on the first day of school.”

“No more stories,” I mumble. “Privacy laws.”

“But we always talk about your kids. Why should privacy laws suddenly stop you?”

I hold back the sigh gathering momentum at the back of my throat. Tonight, of all nights, why does she want to chat? She always goes to bed after the credits roll on that silly cable TV wedding show she watches every week. I peek around the pillow but she’s still there, knitting needles in hand.

“You’re not getting sick?” she asks.

“I’m fine.” Twins are supposed to have a psychic connection. Maybe if I concentrate hard enough, I can
think
her upstairs.
Go to bed, Priscilla
.

“You’ve been lying around on the couch all night.”

“I’m tired.”

Go to bed, Priscilla. Go to bed now!

“Maybe you should get your blood sugar checked.”

I stuff the pillow over my ears, muffle out the sound of her voice. Low blood sugar isn’t my problem. More like those three candy bars I wolfed down earlier this afternoon.

And the other three hidden in the bottom of my bag, waiting until she disappears upstairs.

“Maybe you should see the doctor. Your sugar could be all out of whack from this diet you’re on. Would you like me to make you an appointment to see Dr. Brown?”

“For God’s sake, forget the doctor business, would you? I’m not sick, I’m just tired.” I fix her with a furious glare. “And I think I’m entitled. I work hard and those kids take it out of me. But some of us don’t have the luxury of staying home.”

I hate myself the minute the words slide out of my mouth. I hate myself a thousand times more after just one glimpse of her wounded, drawn face. How could I have said it? It’s not Priscilla’s fault I feel like this, all jazzed up and nursing a sugar buzz. Feeling like I’m about to crash if I don’t get a fix.

Damn candy bars. I never should have bought them.

“Priscilla, I’m sorry.” God, now I feel even worse. Living with the guilt will be horrible. “I didn’t mean to—”

She tucks her knitting needles into a soft puff of yarn. “You don’t have to explain and there’s no need to apologize. I know how upset you are about this money thing. But you can quit worrying. I called Dr. Brown today and he’s promised to send me more work.”

I prop myself up on the overstuffed cushions, think about those three candy bars waiting for me. Damn chocolate, anyway. Priscilla thinks this is all about money. I should tell her the truth. I think of Sam Curtis’s business card tucked in my wallet. I still haven’t phoned him since we talked. Next week, I promise myself. Meanwhile, I need to deal with Priscilla. None of this is her fault. “Please don’t overdo it. We can’t have you getting sick again.”

“You always think you have to carry the load by yourself.” Her voice is firm. “But there’s no need.”

“You’ll get sick…”

“No, I won’t.” She stands. “You can’t stop me, Patty. Mama always thought she knew best and maybe she did. But you’re not Mama. There’s nothing wrong with me. I can do this.”

Fine. Let her get sick. There’s no use arguing with her when she’s like this. I slump back in the cushions and eyeball the television. Looks like we’ll both be starting new projects tomorrow. Priscilla, more work. Me, another diet.

“Quit worrying, will you?” She brushes a soft kiss on my head as she slips by the couch and heads for the hall. “Things will work out. They always do.”

I sink deeper in the cushions, feeling like a crumb for letting Priscilla take the blame. Letting her think we were fighting about money. Letting her think this is all about her failures.

Let the guilt trip begin
.

She hesitates at the doorway. “Sweet dreams, Patty.”

“Sweet dreams to you, too,” I mumble in return. It’s our nightly ritual, traded back and forth since we were little girls.

Sweet dreams, all right.
Sweet dreams of chocolate
.

I stay on the couch, not daring to move until I finally hear the creak of her footsteps on the second floor and the firm click of her bedroom door closing. Finally I creep from the couch, unable to stop myself. Every step brings me closer to the hallway closet where I stashed my school bag and the sweet forbidden treasure. Chocolate-covered caramels with crunchy cookie underneath. A six-pack assortment, minus the three I devoured after school.

I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I don’t do drugs. If chocolate is like a drug, I probably qualify for Chocoholics Anonymous. But first, I’d have to be willing to give it up. Which I’m not. I’m not an addict. Besides, everyone deserves a treat now and then. And I’ve been good for so long—how many days now?— and I’ve only lost four pounds.

Tyler offering me that cookie on the playground earlier this morning started the ball rolling. All day long, I couldn’t let go of the thought of chocolate. And instead of hitting the pool on my way home from school, I detoured to an out-of-the-way party store on the other side of town where I grabbed a six-pack of my favorite candy bars. Why? There’s got to be a reason. But at the time, I didn’t want to think about the
why
. I didn’t want to think, period.

I just wanted the chocolate.

The first candy bar was gone as soon as I hit the car, before I even fastened my seatbelt. I barely tasted it as it slid down my throat and it only whetted my appetite for more. I ripped into the lush caramel and rich dark chocolate of the second one as I nosed the car out of the parking lot. I gnawed through the third wrapper with my teeth as I pulled into traffic.

And now that Priscilla’s finally off to bed, the other three are waiting.

I creep up the stairs, school bag in hand, and slip through my bedroom door. I throw the lock, then flop on the bed in the darkness. Moonlight filtering through the window is my only witness as I peel the wrapper off the fourth candy bar, settle back in the pillows and savor the lush sweetness filling my mouth. I’ve deprived myself far too long. The second gooey bite is even better than the first.
Chocolate bliss. I’ve died and gone to heaven.

Polishing off the fifth candy bar takes a little longer. The craving is gone and I force myself to finish. I’m in no rush to unwrap the sixth candy bar. My stomach feels queasy. Maybe it would be better to stash it somewhere and save it for later. But if I don’t eat it now, that one last candy bar will be staring me in the face tomorrow morning… a big gooey reminder of what I’ve done. I rip off the wrapper and stare at the chocolate. Tomorrow, I promise myself. Starting tomorrow, I’ll put myself on a brand new diet. Starting with breakfast.

Food. Ugh. My stomach lurches and I drop the candy bar. My breath reeks of chocolate and I stumble into the tiny bathroom off my bedroom. I use my toothbrush like a weapon, attacking the enemy sugar on my teeth, scrubbing away the contraband. I swish water back and forth under my tongue, around my teeth, spit it in the sink. Somehow I find the courage to face myself in the mirror. It’s not a pretty picture. Hollow, bloodshot eyes; mascara staining my face. I don’t recognize this person.

What is wrong with me? Why in God’s name did I do this? What happened to my resolve? What happened to my dreams of being thin?

What would Nick think if he saw me like this?

No more chocolate. Never again.

I pull off my clothes, drop them in a heap on top of the bathroom scales. Pulling a cotton nightgown over my head, I shuffle back into the bedroom, flop on my bed, and set the alarm. School again tomorrow. If only I didn’t have to go.

If only…

If only I hadn’t given in. Why did I crack? Now I have to start all over again.

What a horrible feeling.

But not as horrible as knowing when tomorrow dawns, there’ll still be that one leftover candy bar taunting me from the bedside table. Suddenly I grab it, crinkle the wrapper around the candy so I won’t smell the chocolate, then toss it in the trash, burying it under some used Kleenex and an old magazine.

I hit the light and try to settle down. Nick’s face dances in the darkness. What is it with him? Why is he being so nice to me? I don’t know anything about men. The three guys I dated in college turned out to be losers. So what do I do now? I’ve never chased a guy in my life. And Nick isn’t just any guy. He’s gorgeous and available—the type who attracts women wherever he goes. Nick is in the big leagues and way beyond my reach.

Isn’t he?

I punch the pillow and flop on my side. If only I looked like Priscilla. If only I could lose ten pounds. If only I had the courage to try.

But I’ll never find it if I don’t get myself back on track.

And back on a diet.

Brand new diet. Brand new beginning. Brand new me.

Starting tomorrow.

I sit up straight in bed. Damned if I want to wake up tomorrow, knowing that last candy bar is hanging around to haunt me.

I fumble through the wastebasket in the darkness. My fingers snag the wrapper, then curl around the candy. I take one bite, force down another. The craving is gone. I’ve already brushed my teeth and the chocolate tastes like chalk. I choke down the last bite, throw away the wrapper, and head back into the bathroom for one more bout with my toothbrush.

This hasn’t been the best day. I’ve broken my diet, upset Priscilla, shamed myself… and all for what? Why did I buy that chocolate in the first place? It’s not like I even wanted it.

What I really wanted was cookies…

CHAPTER SIX

“Do I need a permission slip to talk with the teacher?”

I glance up from the pile of science quizzes I’m grading and see Sam standing in the doorway. He was unavailable when I phoned his office yesterday and I left a voicemail asking him to return my call. I never expected him to make a personal visit. He looks quite dashing—handsome, actually, in his suit and tie. I’ve only seen him at the pool in his swim trunks. Funny how people look so different with their clothes on.

I drop my red pen and throw him a smile. “Come on in.”

He doesn’t move from the doorway. “Sure I’m not bothering you?”

“Not at all. The bell rang half hour ago and the kids are gone. Welcome to fifth grade.”

“Thanks.” He strolls into the room. “They gave me your message. I was in the neighborhood finishing up an audit and thought I’d stop by.”

“I’m glad you did.” I like how his brown eyes crinkle with little fine lines around the edges. He’s one of the nice guys. They’re easy to spot. The laugh lines are a dead giveaway.

“I’m glad you called.” He halts in front of my desk. “I miss seeing you at the pool.”

“It’s been hard to find the time. Things have been hectic around here since school started.” But that’s not the only reason. After my chocolate-bar binge the other night, the last thing I feel like doing is parading around in my bathing suit displaying my rolls of fat. “Maybe I’ll be back when things settle down.”

His eyebrows lift. “Maybe?”

The blush burns my cheeks. “Definitely. I’ll definitely be back.”

Then again, maybe not right away. Not until I lose a few pounds.

“Just don’t wait too long.” He perches against Tyler’s desk. “I miss having you in the lane next to me.”

He misses me? What exactly is that supposed to mean?

“So, this is your classroom.” He glances around. “Things sure have changed since I was in school.”

I scan the room, try to see it through his eyes, but I don’t see much that’s different. I grew up attending this school and the only thing that’s really changed is my view. Now I’m the one who sits behind the teacher’s desk.

“I like how you’ve got the desks facing each other in circles. When I was in school, all our desks were lined up in neat little rows. Six rows across, six rows back.”

“That’s thirty-six kids,” I say, quickly doing the math. “No way a teacher can control a classroom with that many students. The union would never go for it.”

“I doubt our nuns belonged to a teachers’ union,” he says with a wide grin. “But the good sisters never seemed to have a problem controlling us. We were too scared of them to get too far out of line.”

“You went to a Catholic school?”

He nods. “Those nuns ran their classrooms with rosaries and rulers. When we got out of control—whack! Out came the ruler, right over our knuckles.”

“Unbelievable,” I mutter. Teachers today—even nuns— wouldn’t dare chance something like that.

“That’s not to say we didn’t deserve it,” he adds. “You learned the rules fast in Catholic school.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about nuns, but I do know that hitting a student doesn’t build trust or respect. I think kids learn better when they know what you expect from them. And I expect them to do their best. Respect works both ways. Treat them with respect and they won’t disappoint you.”