Conversations With the Fat Girl (21 page)

Really nothing lower-I'm fine . . . you know, down there." Somehow I've

managed, with just one sentence, to insinuate that my privates are in no

need of massage. Well played.

170 164Liza Palmer

"Well, we'll just play it by ear then, I guess." Sam opens the door to

the massage room. The only light comes from several votives on a side

table. The ambient music is set low. There is a massive massage table in

the middle of the room with a white sheet pulled back.

"Go ahead and get undressed, lie on the table facedown, and I'll be

right back." Sam closes the door. I panic. Has Peregrine sent me to a

gigolo? Is there such a thing anymore? Are they even called that nowadays?

I slip the robe off my shoulders, finally accepting the fact that I'm

trapped like a rat. I am standing there paralyzed with my fingers under

my bra straps. A quick slide show of Sam fleeing, piercing laughter,

black-clad employees brought in to point and laugh flashes in my head.

Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it. I pull my bra off and then slide my panties

all the way down. I hide them both under the robe on a chair in the

corner of the room. I am completely naked. I sprint to the table and

pull the sheet up to the back of my neck. I tuck my arms underneath my

body, hoping this move will take some of my Area with it. I hear a faint

knock on the door. I can't see a thing as my face is now embedded in the

massage table.

"Maggie? You ready for me?" I am sick to my stomach. "Yep!" I bark, my

face deep in the massage table. I hear him open and close the door.

Sam walks around the table, one hand tracing the outline of my body. I

feel like a horse that might kick her trainer because she can't see past

her own hindquarters.

"So we're going to go ahead and start, okay?" I hear Sam squirt lotion

in his hands. He works his hands back and forth, back and forth. He

pauses-then more back and forth. I concentrate on the music. Is that

"Danny Boy" on a sitar?

Sam takes hold of my head, massaging my hair and elongat-

171 ing my neck. It feels amazing. I realize how much I miss touch. I

read once about a research study of Romanian babies where they

discovered that people who go without touch for extended periods have a

stunted outlook on life.

Okay, maybe he will just work up . . . What the fuck? Sam takes hold of

the sheet and folds it down all the way to my ass. I hear myself gasp.

My entire body goes tight. This massage has just become a complete waste

of time and money. I'll need a massage just to recuperate from the

massage. Sam works the lotion into his hands once more. I can feel his

body as he stands by my head. He reaches over me and, using both his

hands, rubs all the way down my back-from my shoulders to my ass. He

repeats this over and over again. To my horror, every time he gets to

the base of my back, the sheet is pushed even farther down my ass. By

the end of this little rubdown the sheet will be somewhere around my knees.

I have never been touched like this in my entire life. I analyze how

Mason Phelps consummated anything that day while touching me so little.

Sam's hands are everywhere. And not just accidental brushes. He kneads

my Area at one point. I can't really remember that exact moment because

I think I momentarily blacked out from sheer terror. He starts massaging

my right leg. He's getting alarmingly close to parts of my body I had

set aside for that fateful day when Ponyboy came a-knocking. It's when

he's on my left leg that I finally talk myself into calming down. He's

seen it all, I tell myself. He's a professional. He looks at naked

people for a living. You're just another naked woman he's massaging

today. I will myself to enjoy what's left of the massage. I fantasize

about the ways I will maim Peregrine. There are a lot of weapons in a

coffeehouse. Hot steaming water? Shove her tiny body into the ice cream

case and scoop around her? Suffocate her with rainbow sprinkles? Why

would she do

172 166Liza Palmer

this to me? What would make Peregrine send me to Sam, of all people?

"Okay, Maggie. Go ahead and turn over onto your back." Sam holds the

sheet up, giving me privacy as I turn over onto my back. I let out a

long sigh.

"That was my mouth, by the way," I say, panicked. Sam smiles as he fixes

the sheet right at the top of my breasts. Once again, I tuck my arms

underneath my body. Sam takes hold of my arm before I finish tucking. I

keep my eyes closed. He takes my hand and begins massaging each finger

individually. I can feel the hair on his arm as my hand curls around

his. I am jolted by what this simple thing does to me. It is that same

feeling I had that night with Domenic. The tingles are everywhere. My

face goes bright red, and I tense up once again.

"Now, don't do that, Maggie, you were finally loosening up." I keep my

eyes closed as Sam shakes out my hand. I smile as he makes me give him a

high five with my own hand.

"Good." He continues. I can feel my shoulders lowering a good four inches.

The hour fades as I make myself comfortable with Sam working on my body

We never speak again until he tells me that we are done and he'll meet

me in the hall once I'm dressed. I hear the door close behind him, and

for the first time I open my eyes. I look down at my body In that

moment, there is a lifting, an erasing of sorts. Mason Phelps and his

pinch are gone forever.

I arrive at Joe's a good ten minutes before my shift that night.

I walk past Peregrine and Christina behind the counter. Peregrine gives

me an eyebrow raise while she looks at herself in the mirror.

"I met Sam," I say to Peregrine over the counter.

173 "What did you think?" Peregrine turns around excitedly "Funny, you

didn't mention Sam had a penis," I say. I hear

the creak of a chair in the distance of the coffeehouse. The word

penis has piqued someone's interest.

"Didn't I?" Peregrine beams.

"Must have slipped your mind, huh?" I open the door to the back room.

"Hey," Domenic says, his hands elbow deep in suds. "Hey there,

stranger." My body is so completely relaxed. "Where have you been? I

haven't seen you since the move." "Well, I worked yesterday and I, you

know, I've been

around," I say

"Well, I've missed you," Domenic says. Even in this altered state, I

grow angry. How dare you. How dare you play with me like this. You're

dating someone else, Domenic. You've been on as many as two dates during

our little flirtation yet you insist on keeping whatever investment you

have in me going. But once again-where am I in all of this? Let's face

it, I need to be more honest about how I see him, too.

"Really?" I begin to calm down.

"Well, yeah. What have you been doing with yourself? Unpacking?" He is

wiping his hands on his apron, which stretches the fabric along the

front of his pants. It is like a strobe light. I feel a seizure coming on.

"I wanted to know if you wanted to maybe grab some dinner. I'd love to

buy you dinner . . . as a thank-you. You know, thanks for helping with

the move, maybe we can grab some dinner."

"Sure," he says and moves forward. I almost stumble backward head over feet.

Blue bucket. Blue bucket.

"What are you doing Saturday?" I pant.

174 168Liza Palmer

"Nothing. I work that day, but I have Saturday night off. What are you

proposing?"

"I just thought we could just grab something to eat." Have I said that

about a hundred times now?

"Sounds good. Do I have your new number?"

"I don't think so," I say. Domenic grabs a pad of paper and pencil by

the schedule and hands them to me.

I write down my new phone number. I'm handing it to Domenic as Christina

walks through the door to the back room. I probably should feel like I

am caught trying to steal her friend's man. For a millisecond, I do feel

like that. My stomach drops, again ... but I compose myself. This will

not even register on Christina's radar. It's like John Sheridan taking

me to the homecoming dance or lying on Texas Steven's lap watching

art-house movies. I know what the agenda is. I will befriend Domenic and

he will thank me for being there for him. He will reassure me that the

other night meant nothing. That the kiss was a drunken delusion. He was

just being chivalrous holding my hand. Then he'll thank me for all of

the absolutely insightful advice I give him on his real relationship

with Erin.

Christina introduces herself again, as if we've never met. Domenic and I

wave hi. He grabs his plastic bin and heads out into the coffeehouse.

"You guys are cute together." Christina is putting her bused dishes into

the soapy water.

"What?"

"You guys look cute together. .You know, like the way you are when

you're together." I stare at Christina. She looks up at me and continues.

"Erin was, like, a total bitch that night. Cheyenne totally had dibsies

on Domenic and Erin, like, snaked him as usual. I

175 mean, at least you're all friends and everything. It's cute." Now

we're puppies in a cardboard box in front of a grocery store.

Friends. Right. Don't I get some kind of medal for walking past the blue

bucket? No. All I get is this minefield of more blue buckets. Blue

buckets filled with bitches named Erin who apparently men never think of

as just a friend.

176

El Grande es Para la Gordita

or a while I used to keep a photo album where I would put

F

cutout pictures from magazines. I would cut out teensy celebrities with

their custom-made Barbie clothes and fantasize about the day I would be

able to buy those very same outfits. I even cut out pictures of my own

head and pasted them on various famous bodies as I tried to visualize

what I would look like as an anorexic fashion maven. But overnight, it

was like I lost all hope that I would ever he able to look like those

people. So I started cutting out shoes and hats I liked. After that, I

started cutting our just furniture and home decorating tips. Now I look

for the random destination hot spot I'd love to visit on vacation, and

I'll cut that out. I thought that this was an exercise in reality

setting in. But looking at it now, it's not all bad. I really don't want

to look like those women-the price is too high. I want to look and feel

beautiful in my own way Maybe cutting out beautiful furniture, home

decorations, and amazing vacation spots made me focus less on what

perfect is.

Come Saturday night, I panic about what I am going to wear for Domenic.

I sift through my closet and start noticing a

177 Conversations with the Fat Girl171

pattern. No color. No style. Just coverings. What happened to my style?

After twenty minutes of tossing, trying on, cursing, and crying, 1

choose my tan linen pants, a black tank top, and a light corduroy coat.

I am hot already This outfit would be just fine for fall or winter, but

in summer it's already stilling.

Domenic arrives a little bit before 6 p.m. fie is wearing the same

outfit he wore at Peregrine's party. Are these his Date Clothes? He has

a tiny red box of chocolates in one hand. He awkwardly hands them to me.

"Helloo," Domenic says in a faux British accent.

Interesting. Not the most attractive habit. Accents? Keep him golden,

Maggie. Keep him golden. That was not a deal breaker. Talk yourself

down, girl.

"Hey, there. Come on I open the door, set the chocolates down as if I'm

completely disinterested in them. I do notice that they are a charming

milk chocolate sampler I will investigate at a later time. I push Solo

back with my leg. She is growling and barking.

Domenic tries to put his hand out to Solo, but he looks more like

Frankenstein. He reaches out stiffly. Solo and I both stare at him as he

circles the steamer trunk I've been using as a coffee table. Now Solo

has her tail between her legs. She is sure The Creature is going to maul

her after they pick daisies together.

"What are you doing?" I finally ask. First we have faux British accents,

and now this nasty Frankenstein impersonation. Maybe busing tables is

the least of his problems. I did, however, score a box of chocolates.

"I'm trying to reach out to her."

"Are you Frankenstein?"

"No. I'm approachable."