Conversations With the Fat Girl (39 page)

"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

314 308Liza Palmer

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.

319

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,

320 314Acknowledgments

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