Teenage Waistland (31 page)

Marcie glances again at East, but she’s still looking away. “No. When Char was only twelve, she got pregnant and had to have an abortion. She was so freaked out about it that she took some painkillers she wasn’t supposed to. That’s what’s in her hospital records and that’s what Char was hiding.”

A wave of nausea passes over me. “Man, that’s bad,” I croak. “I had no idea Char was raped.” The car is spinning even with the engine off. I hope I don’t throw up.

“Don’t be stupid,” East blurts. “She wasn’t raped. It was an accident.” I stare at East for a second, and then look at Marcie.

“Nobody hurt Char or forced her to do anything, don’t worry about that,” Marcie says. “So you understand why she lied and forgive her, right?” She’s studying my face. I know I should be relieved that Char didn’t get attacked or anything terrible like that, but apparently I’m
not
her first boyfriend, let alone her first
real
kiss. I’m not her first
anything
. It’s not like she had to tell me about every guy who came before me, but she didn’t have to carry on about what a big “first” I am
for her. I guess that’s just her rap—when she’s sixty, she’ll be kissing some old pharmacist guy, flinging her hair and giggling, “That was my first real kiss.”

“Yeah, of course. It’s bad, and I get it,” I say again.

“Sorry I took so long,” Liselle says, placing a tray of beverages on the hood of the car. “I got you guys unsweetened iced tea. How’s it going?” It takes her half a nanosecond to see not so well. Marcie is clenching her headrest like it’s my neck and East is glaring at me again. Liselle sighs. “That’s not your feet on my leather?” she says to Marcie, and Marcie jumps out of the car and brushes off the seat. When she turns to grab her drink, I push the driver’s seat forward again and climb out too.

“That’s okay, Bobby,” Liselle says, handing me my drink. “I’ll take you back to the high school.”

“Nah, that’s okay,” I say. “But thanks for the tea.” I back away from the car and wave at Marcie and East. “Thanks for coming. I appreciate it, I do,” I call out. I suck down the tea, and then turn around and start walking. I’ll probably catch up with some of the guys at Buetti’s and get a ride from there. I hear a car door slam and then footsteps on my tail.

“You’re not going to forgive her, are you?” a voice wails. I spin around. It’s East and she’s not only
speaking
to me, she’s bounding toward me like she’s out for blood. I stop and wait anyway.

“Are you?” she says again when she’s about two feet away. “Don’t you care about Char at all?” She’s all teary, but she looks more likely to punch me than burst out crying. I don’t know what to say.

“Why can’t you just tell her that I understand about why she lied and there are no hard feelings?”

“So, you forgive her?” East says, moving even closer.

“Yeah, sure. No problem. I forgive her,” I say. It’s a lot to take in. I shrug and take a step back. But East takes another step forward.

“Which means you’re going to
call
her,
right
?”

“I—I don’t know.” I turn away and break into a slow jog. The chest protector straps are biting into my back, and I’m picturing the stockroom again, and how Char looked at me—hell, through me—with her big blue eyes and I told her she was the first girl I ever really kissed, and then she said that I was her first too. My stomach won’t stop churning. “Just leave me alone, will you?” I yell over my shoulder. And then I break into a full run.

“Thanks for saving me the perfect seat, East,” Marcie says loudly as she dumps her bag under the chair and slides in next to me. “This way I can stare the jerk down all session long.” Bobby’s slumped in his chair and he looks deep in thought examining his fingernail, but there’s no way he didn’t hear her.

I’m such an idiot
. I’m good at geometry, and I’ve got all the formulas for calculating angles and arcs in circles completely memorized. But I didn’t know the most important thing about circles until today—when you seat yourself at the furthest possible point from somebody else in the circle, you find yourself sitting directly across from them.

“Lookin’ good, girl!” Michelle yells as Lucia enters and lugs herself across the room to the circle. “How’d weigh-in go for you?” Lucia gives her the thumbs-down as she sits. “Down is good, right?” Michelle says. Lucia just hangs her head. Michelle glances at Marcie and me with widened eyes. “Oops,” she says.

“How’d your weigh-in go?” I whisper to Marcie.

Marcie shrugs. “Down about eighteen pounds in what—five and a half weeks since the surgery?” she mutters. “No big deal.”

“Eighteen pounds is a
very
big deal,” Betsy says as she takes the remaining empty seat and crosses her legs. “That’s a rate of three pounds a week, and you haven’t even had your first fill.” She glances at her clipboard. “Most of you have lost between twelve and twenty pounds, even a few over that already. So. Feel any different?” She nods at Alex to her left to kick it off. Alex frowns for a second, then he just flips his arms over so that his palms face upward and shrugs.

“Whoopie?” he says. “I’m not sure what kind of response you’re looking for. I’m sure that losing a little weight makes us all feel more optimistic, but a few notches on my belt doesn’t exactly change my life.”

Betsy smiles. “So does everyone feel the same way—that weight loss of this magnitude isn’t momentous enough to feel anything different about?” Pretty much every hand goes up. “Okay, so this is another one of Jen’s ‘secrets encoded in fat cells’ moments for me.” She laughs. Nobody’s saying anything—or laughing either. Marcie is just staring dully at Betsy. There’s no reaction or emotion in her face—it’s just like her eyes are resting on Betsy because they have nowhere else to go. Lucia raises her hand and Betsy nods at her, looking relieved. That’s something that Char always did here—jump right in and rescue everyone so that they didn’t feel stupid in front of each other.

“I’d be happy with ten pounds. I’ve only lost five, and my band doesn’t feel like anything,” Lucia says. “I don’t understand how everyone was able to lose so much weight.”

“Lucia raised an excellent point,” Betsy says. “And that’s the first thing we’re going to talk about today—how your bands feel and how it’s affected your eating. But first, Lucia, let me ask you. How well have you been able to stick to your diet?”

Lucia shrugs with one shoulder. “I stuck to it perfectly.”

“
Perfectly
, huh?” Betsy says. Lucia shrugs both shoulders and looks away.

“Lucia, if you truly were able to stick to your diet for five weeks without even the smallest slipup, I’m not quite sure why you needed the Lap-Band in the first place.”

Lucia slinks down in her chair. “Of course I slipped up. How can I not? My Lap-Band just doesn’t feel like anything.”

“Excellent, Lucia. Thank you,” Betsy says loudly. “I need you guys to talk honestly about your eating behaviors, because if we don’t examine them we can’t change them. Okay? By a show of hands, how many people feel
any
restriction in their bands?” Everyone is looking at each other trying to figure out what the right answer is. I raise my hand.

“Is East the only person in this room who feels some level of restriction in her band?” Betsy says.

“No,” I say. “I don’t really feel any restriction, but I’m wondering how we’re even
supposed
to feel anything if all we’re eating is soft foods that slide right through anyway?”

“Very good, East. That’s exactly what I’m getting at,” Betsy says. “So, people? Don’t be afraid to raise your hands.” Michelle’s hand flies up.

“Fine, you got me. I was alone in the house with a two-day-old Big Mac sitting in the fridge. For two days, I looked him in the eye every time I opened the door. But I’d grab a water bottle or a bowl of tuna instead. Then, last night, my
family went out to dinner without me. They left a note. They figured I couldn’t eat anyway, so they didn’t wait. And Big Mac was just calling and calling. Does anyone know what a Big Mac tastes like after two days in the fridge?”

“A lot better than two days
not
in the fridge,” Marcie says, and immediately clamps her hand to her mouth. “Sorry for interrupting,” she squeaks out from behind it.

“A Big Mac that’s spent two days in the fridge is hard as a rock,” Michelle answers herself. “It’s stale. And since it’s two-thirds grease, it’s congealed—like eating uncooked bacon. I felt the band after my first bite—not the band itself, but the food against the walls of my stomach. It wasn’t a big deal—the food got through pretty quickly. The weird thing was
feeling
it go down. And this experience did change my eating behavior. I ate the rest of the Big Mac a lot more slowly.” Lucia starts clapping first, and we all join in.

“Beautiful, Michelle,” Betsy says. “Anything like
that
happen to anyone else?” Lucia, Jamie, Coco, Alex, and Tia raise their hands. Marcie and I look at each other and Marcie’s hand goes up too.

“Did anyone have any trouble getting anything down?” Betsy asks and looks at the cheaters one by one. No one budges. “Well, don’t worry. Once we get your bands tightened correctly, getting a whole Big Mac down will cost you half a day. And that’s our next topic—we’ve scheduled your first fills for next week. We’ve got them all in for Friday afternoon so that you guys can come to group afterward.”

Marcie raises her hand and Betsy signals her to hold off.

“Now’s the perfect time to discuss what to expect at your fill appointment. Our fills are always done using a fluoroscope, an X-ray machine that enables us to see the Lap-Band
so that we know exactly where the port is located under your skin, and, once you drink a few sips of barium sulfate—a contrast agent—we can watch how quickly fluids pass through the band. After filming your Lap-Band, the doctor will inject one point five ccs of saline solution into the port and then have you swallow more barium to make sure the fill isn’t too restrictive.”

Marcie starts waving her hand again, and Betsy holds up hers.

“But this is a question,” Marcie mutters. “About
this
.” Betsy sighs and nods.

“Jen said that she needed about seven ccs of fluid to get the band tight enough. Why are we only getting one point five ccs for the first fill, and how often can we come back for another?” Marcie says.

Betsy starts to respond, then stops and taps her pen against her arm. After a moment, she starts again.

“Okay, Marcie raised an excellent point, and this is a good thing to talk about here. When Jen was telling us about how her eating behaviors changed after the band, she noted that she tended to favor softer foods. The problem with relying too much on soft foods—or liquids like protein shakes—is that you’re developing new eating behaviors that work
against
the band. Meals consisting of softer foods lead to higher caloric intake because you end up eating greater quantities without feeling restriction. And the tighter your band is, the more likely you are to favor soft foods. So please don’t focus on how tight your band is—focus on building your diet around solid foods, like meats, salads, fruits, and vegetables.
Capisce?
” Betsy surveys the room. She raises her eyebrows when she comes around to Marcie, who’s
waving her hand again. “Yes, Marcie. Please. Ask your question.”

“It’s more of a statement than a question,” Marcie says, and Betsy makes an abrupt sweeping motion with her hand.

“Betsy, there’s something that you—everybody here—needs to know. It’s about Char.” Marcie turns from Betsy and throws Bobby a manacing look. Except, he’s still just examining his fingernail.

“What about Char, Marcie? Is she okay?” Betsy says, all impatience gone from her voice.

“Char is getting the Lap-Band surgery in exactly ten days. The same clinic in Mexico that Jen went to. East and I have tried everything. We think she needs to come back here.” Marcie looks at the floor. “We think what you’re—we’re—doing here is important.”

My eyes fly to Betsy, then to each of the kids, one by one, trying to gauge their reactions. They’re not really responding. But Betsy’s eyebrows are furrowed and she’s tapping her pen against her pursed lips.

“Thank you, Marcie,” Betsy says solemnly. “About what you said. I think it’s important too—obviously. But I’m not sure what I can do. Char’s welcome to return anytime. She wasn’t asked to leave the program, it was her choice. But it’s my job to insure that our patients are ready, psychologically, before they’re approved for surgery, and even if she came back, I couldn’t guarantee any—”

“It’s not that at all,” Marcie cuts her off. “We know all that, even Char. I mean, I don’t think that Char understands—not in the way we do—why Teenage Waistland is a really important part of this, uh, journey, but the main reason she
won’t come back is because she thinks she let everyone down.”

“Didn’t she?” Tia snaps. “I mean, I couldn’t give a crap one way or the other, but isn’t this where we’re supposed to feel comfortable being honest about ourselves? Char sat here, listened to us spill our guts, and acted like she cared. And the whole time, it was a lie.” Marcie shakes her head and looks helplessly to me. I stand up and take a deep breath.

“There was a reason Char lied,” I say in a low voice. “I—I think everybody probably would have lied under the same circumstances too.” Marcie sighs and I elbow her. What am I supposed to say?

“Why did Char lie?” Alex says.

“Char lied to protect
me
,” I try again. “That’s all I can say—she’s got to tell you herself. But the reason’s got nothing to do with any of you—she
does
care, Tia. More than you know. And that’s why she thinks she can’t come back. That’s why she can’t face anyone.”

“Or even text anyone,” Michelle adds. “I’ve texted her a few times.”

“Me too,” Coco says.

“Yeah,” I say softly. “That’s what I mean. She’s so ashamed, she can’t face anyone.”

“But,”
Marcie says, bolting upright in her seat. “Maybe we can face
her
.”