Conversations With the Fat Girl (25 page)

It's on.

Gabriel moves us over to this other medieval torture device. On this

one, he demonstrates that you're supposed to lie back down, lifting your

body weight with your legs as the equipment rolls back and forth. It

works your "quads," he says. All I can see is that this position is

pretty near pornographic and there's no way in fucking hell I'm doing it.

"Maggie?" Gabriel asks.

"Yeah, you know what? My knee is ... um . . . hurting, so

206 200Liza Palmer

I'm gonna pass," I say, massaging one of my random knees.

Mom shakes her head sadly

"Oh, there's no passing, Maggie. Go ahead and hop on up

there." I hate you, Gabriel James. A pox on both your houses,

Gabriel James. I climb into the equipment, securing my head and then

lifting my legs up into the gynecological position.

Gabriel stands at the base of the machine and positions my feet

so they are just so. I can't believe how uncomfortable I am-both

physically and emotionally. I am waiting to bend my knees

when I hear it.

"Uuuuuuuggghhhhh!" It's coming from the corner of the

gym where the free weights are. In my mind, I dub it "Testosterone

Corner." A corner rife with musclebound men in tiny tank tops and huge

parachute pants. There is a definite Neanderthal energy wafting from The

Corner. I fear the men who inhabit it will club me from behind and drag

me into their cave by

my ponytail. I crack a smile thinking that maybe Gabriel will join in.

Mom has her hand over her mouth while she scans the

gym for the grunting culprit.

"Uuuuuuuuuuuggggghhh!" Again from The Corner. This

time it's much louder.

"Do you hear that?" I ask, still perched at the top of the

machine.

"Okay, Maggie, go ahead and just bend the knees all the way

down," Gabriel instructs.

"Uuuuuuuuuuuuugggggghhh."

"Be sure not to lift your heels from the base, and as deep as

you can get it," Gabriel continues. "Uuuuuuuuugggggghhhhhhh!" I bend my

knees as far

down as I can go. But in this position, with that noise going on, I feel

like I'm in some bad virtual porn movie.

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"Is it getting hot in here?" I ask, on repetition seven, or-as Gabriel

likes to call it-repetition one.

"I can turn on a fan, if you'd like. And three more, two, and six more."

Gabriel is leaning on the top of the machine again.

"Uuuuuuuugggggghhhhh! Yeah! That's the good stuff!" The man drops his

weights to the ground in a fury of victory. I feel like we should all

light up a cigarette.

I crawl out from the machine and grab my water bottle. Mom is next. She

holds her hand out as if she's stepping into a horse-drawn carriage.

Gabriel obliges. Mom lies back down on the machine and bends her knees

down for one repetition. She gets back to the top and resituates her body

"I just can't seem to get comfortable, hon," Mom says. I roll my eyes.

"Okay, well, let's just do a couple more and then we'll be on to the

next exercise. And three, two, aaaand one. Great job." Gabriel extends

his hand once more, and Mom hops down from the machine. There is the

tiniest of smiles on Mom's face.

We follow Gabriel to several other machines. I realize that my body is

hurting. But it feels good. I feel muscles in parts I had forgotten

about. My shoulders feel alive. My Area is even a little sore. And not

just from the telepathic messages from my head telling it that it is

Evil. As the session comes to an end, I am smiling and joking with

Gabriel and Mom. We say good-bye to him and promise to bring in our food

diaries the next time we meet. Before I get ready for work, I make my

first entry into my food diary. I decide to tell the whole truth and

nothing but.

208

Then Stop Acting Like One

As human beings, we crave adrenaline rushes and roller-coaster rides as

a kind of foil for the boredom of our lives. But the truth, the very

essence of life, is that pure adrenaline rush of change-those terrifying

moments when we find ourselves in situations that are new and unknown.

Rather than redefining a relationship with a lover or asking for a raise

at work, though, we go white-water rafting or buy the fastest Porsche on

the rod because we're looking outside ourselves for a fire that burns

hottest when ignited from within. You can control when and where that

terror is felt and for just how long when you are driving a Porsche or

riding a roller coaster. Looking at change and therefore life as that

adrenaline rush means you hand over the keys.

I am late to work again, but Peregrine is the manager, thank God. My

breath gets back to normal as I pass her with an I'm-sorry face and walk

into the back room. I ready myself to see Domenic. He is not at the sink

as he normally is. I haven't spoken to him in what seems like forever.

Our work schedules have been exactly opposite, and I decided right away

I was not going

209 Conversations with the Fat Girl203

to call him. He didn't call me, either. I guess we were agreed on that.

We so belong together. I tie my apron around my waist and

head out to the counter, where Domenic is bending down filling the

little refrigerator with milk.

"Hey I didn't know you were here!" I am genuinely happy to see him--and

for once I show it.

"I was hiding," Domenic says.

"Good thing I didn't do anything embarrassing." Wasn't I going to try to

work on not saying the first thing that came into my mind?

"Yeah, good thing. Where have you been?" Domenic asks, standing.

"I could say the same about you," I say, noticing Peregrine watching us

like a tennis match.

"We have a big deadline with some of the dolls. There were eight in the

order. I also got a line on this gallery in Silverlake that is

interested in my sculpture. They want me to be a part of their next

installation. So I switched most of my shifts with the Dre. I meant to

call."

"Solo missed you," I say

"You met Solo?" Peregrine asks.

"Yes, I did. She loves me," Domenic says.

"That little bitch wouldn't even come near me," Peregrine

"Had her eating out of the palm of my hand," Domenic says.

"You don't call, you don't write," I say, turning my body so my back

faces Peregrine.

"Tell her I miss her and I'll stop by soon. While I'm at it, I

owe her mom a dinner," Domenic says as he heads out front to bus the

outside tables. I smile as he walks out.

The hours pass with Peregrine making small talk and doing it of sighing.

I refuse to start sputtering out an explanation to

says

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her. If she wants to know what happened, she needs to ask. So until

then, she can just play her little silent-treatment game. A game that's

not much fun if it's just one person playing, by the way Not really a

game at all-you're just being quiet. I know I'm being childish. But

there's something oddly adult about it as well. Peregrine needs to ask

and not stare at me in a motherly way or drop hints. Just ask. There's a

degree of respect and equality that Peregrine can't seem to muster.

"What was that about?" Peregrine finally asks ten minutes before my

shift ends.

"We had dinner the other night," I say

"You didn't tell me that," Peregrine huffs.

"Didn't I?"

"Wait, you're not pissed about Sam-are you?"

"No, pissed isn't the right word. Maybe I'm insulted-kinda embarrassed?"

I'm in uncharted territory with Peregrine. My face grows hot and I wish

I could take back everything I've just said. Smile, Maggie. Tell her you

enjoyed your little man-whore experience and if she could just change

your diaper everything would be fine.

"Insulted? I don't understand." Peregrine hammers the espresso out of

the coffee handles.

"I don't know, okay. Can we just drop this?" I don't think I've been

this upset in years. I can't even put my finger on why. I have

approximately five more minutes on shift. I pace myself and take deep

breaths.

"How can you not know? Come on, button. Let's try to get to the bottom

of this. You can talk to me about it." I don't know if it's the way she

says button or how she's portraying herself as my savior-therapist, but

I snap.

"I don't need to get to the bottom of anything with you. I don't need

you to throw me in the water to teach me how to

211 swim. You should have just told me Sam was a guy-that's all. I would

have been ready-maybe I would have even been a little excited and turned

on. I sure as shit would have shaved my fucking legs. I just felt silly,

you know? Like stupid-like you didn't respect me or think I was, I don't

know . . . maybe worthy of an explanation. I know you thought you were

helping, I really do-and it's awesome you think of me that way-but .. .

I just don't feel comfortable talking about this kind of stuff with

you." I exhale.

"Then who? What-are you going to call Olivia? Are you going to leave a

message on the answering machine and hope she picks up?"

What? I now know this fight is going to be that one knockdown, drag-out

fight you should never have with someone other than a family member.

Every one of your friends has a zinger: the one thing that you can never

make fun of them about or throw in their face. It's an unwritten rule of

friendships. There are some issues that are kept far beneath the

surface, never to be used in anger. If you exhume these zingers, you

have to be ready for an apocalypse of sorts.

"What did you just say?" I visualize the dirt cascading off the top of

the coffin now, with Peregrine standing next to the hole-her red rose

primed and ready

"I was just noting that you've really got no one else to talk to about

this. Olivia being a bit absent and all." Peregrine stands firm.

"Really? I'm a little curious . . ." I trail off.

"About what, lamb?" Peregrine leans in.

"How the fuck you know anything about anyone but yourself." I stare her

right in the eye. She backs away

"What?"

"I'm not your project, Peregrine. I'm not a little potato you

212 206Liza Palmer

put in a glass jar to see if roots grow. I'm also not fucking five years

old-and I think, no, I know I'm getting sick of you seeing me like that."

"You don't want me to treat you like a child? Then why don't you stop

fucking acting like one-huh? You come in here and talk and talk and talk

about boys and how fat you think you are and how Olivia won't call you

back . . . and I just stand here. And what? Do you think I don't

remember anything? Or put two and two together? You get off on being

everyone's project. You get off on other people's pity. So don't come to

me and say that I'm the one treating you a certain way-it starts with

you, honey"

I am speechless. I start to object. Then I slowly realize she's right.

She has just wrapped my entire psyche into a neat little package and

spit it right in my face. When my shift comes to an end, I storm into

the back room, leaving Peregrine standing there for one second too long,

mouth open, waiting for my comeback. There isn't one. My comeback is

ignoring her and that neat little package. At least that feels good; no

wonder Cole does it all the time.

213

That's One

My birthday has been the backdrop of many a fantasy: A tearful marriage

proposal while strolling on the beach in Malibu. A blowout birthday

party at a club where my rock-star boyfriend plays a song in honor of my

birthday as I blush in the candlelight of my reserved table. A tiny cake

and some company. But up until now it seems that the hours just pass and

my birthday slips away without measuring up to my fantasies. This one

day belongs to me and me alone. Maybe I try to make too much of it and

set myself up for failure. But I want someone to bend over backward to

make my day unforgettable. Period. I'm tired of doing all the

orchestrating myself. I want a man who won't let my day slip away.

During my years in school, I rationalized that my birthday went