Teenage Waistland Read online

  18

  Hotstuff

  Friday, July 17, 2009

  Bobby (−10 lbs)

  This is the third time Roughshod, a low-ranked seventh grader from some farm in the Midwest probably, has sacked me on a crucial play, and I’m pissed. Madden Xbox links you up with other players over the Internet, but all you know about them is their screen names and whatever crap they make up about themselves—it’s not like they’re next to you on the couch. So I’m thinking that the real Roughshod is out, like, milking cows and his older brother is using the screen name. Every other time I’ve gone up against this jerk-off, I’ve sliced through his defense, stifled his offense, and dominated the scoring. Today, he’s eating my lunch.

  At least someone is.

  I’m pounding vanilla, chocolate fudge, cookies and cream, and banana protein shakes. Dad and I stashed a case of each behind his spare tires in the garage. Third day after surgery means I’m still on liquids. So when I’m not drinking, I’m peeing. And burping.

  The postoperative instructions say that I can have stuff like broth, juice, milk, gelatin, or ice pops, but yesterday Dad said, “That’s the girl version, buddy. We need to get you some protein shakes. They’ll keep your muscles from wasting. And, help your incisions heal faster.” When Mom left the house to pick up some of the foods on the post-op diet sheets, Dad marched me over to the list. “See, buddy, yogurt. Yogurt’s for girls. Protein shakes are for men.” And then he went to the Bodybuilding Warehouse and picked up four cases of them before Mom returned.

  We’ve all been sort of irritable since I got home. The air-conditioning died while I was in surgery, so we’ve got fans running, but they’re just pushing hot air around, and with this heat wave going on, fat chance the repairman will show up anytime soon. Dad’s had Sam, his general manager, run the store over the past few days so he and Mom can be home with me. I appreciate it, but I’m fine, really, and don’t need them both all over me. Especially Dad. He tells Mom we’re in the basement so much because we’re working on a lifting program for as soon as I’m up to it, but that’s where he’s having me suck down the contraband. I keep thinking the more protein shakes I drink, the faster I’ll heal. But my abs still feel like they’re on the bottom of a ten-man pileup, and all I really want is to chill out alone.

  I escape to the pool with my laptop to catch some rays. The sun is strong, but it feels good. Nice tan wouldn’t hurt this pale whale. I’ve lost seven pounds already, and I’m not even hungry. Not very, anyway. The water looks seriously refreshing, and I’m dying to jump in. I could probably wrap myself in a Hefty bag to keep the bandages dry, but just the idea that I’ve got five stitched-up holes in my blubbery stomach that go clear through to my insides is enough to keep me out. Not that staying dry will make me any less screwed. Preseason practice starts in exactly one month, almost two weeks before I’m allowed to do any strenuous physical activity.

  MT is ranting on my wall about this girl Alicia who’s ready to give it up to him, like, any minute. They’re going camping on some active volcano on the Big Island tomorrow, and he’s got these plans to sneak out and meet her up on the mountain after lights-out. Gonna be erupting soon, sucker. Lava will be spilling into an ocean in no time at all hahahaha. Count on MT to get his V-card snatched in style—on a freaking volcano. I’m on MT’s wall with no creative ideas for a V-card counterattack when an IM from Char flashes on my screen.

  Check it out, she writes, and gives me a link to follow. I catch myself almost hoping she’s posted post-op photos of herself lying around in some low-cut satiny nightgown. She and East got done yesterday, and they’re obviously home now. No photos, though. It’s the Teenage Waistland blog Char’s been saying she was going to put up.

  I’d rather see your stitches, I IM back. For some reason, in the hot sun, I feel like seeing Char’s skin. And even crazier, I don’t feel gay telling her so. Online, anyway. But Char doesn’t reply, so I check out her blog. There’s already a little action on it.

  Teenage Waistland—Friday, July 17, 2009–2:30 p.m.

  Gang! Charmer here. Lay off those Percocets (you too, Tila Tequila) and gather round. I’ve created this space for us to hang out together while everyone’s recovering.

  This is a public website and anyone can comment, so here’s some screen names for us to hide behind.

  Fuzzball replies Friday, July 17, 2009–2:40 p.m.

  Excuse me, Charmer, but what’s with Fuzzball? Are you saying I’ve got fuzzy hair?

  Charmer replies Friday, July 17, 2009–2:41 p.m.

  Fuzzball’s a compliment! It says you’re warm and soft and cuddly!

  Fuzzball replies Friday, July 17, 2009–2:42 p.m.

  Screw that. Change my name to Marcelous. As in MARVELOUS.

  Charmer replies Friday, July 17, 2009–2:44 p.m.

  You got it, marvelous Marcelous.

  Hotstuff replies Friday, July 17, 2009–2:47 p.m.

  Hey—what up? No kidding with the Hotstuff. AC has been busted for 3 days now and it’s so hot here, paint’s blistering off the walls.

  Charmer replies Friday, July 17, 2009–2:48 p.m.

  Interpret your screen name any way you like, Hotstuff. ;-)

  Hotstuff, huh? I lean back in my lawn chair and stretch my arms over my head, until the sharp pain in my abs comes back. Very close to an intensely hot V-olcano myself, Loser. Am right on your tail. Yeah. With a girl who could win a Guinness Record for the biggest tail.

  Marcelous replies Friday, July 17, 2009–2:51 p.m.

  Is anyone else burping like every minute?

  I’m like the freaking Goodyear Blimp here. Even Scrotum-breath (my screen name for Liselle Rescott, Alpine, NJ) feels sorry for me.

  Charmer replies Friday, July 17, 2009–2:53 p.m.

  L is going to KILL YOU! Since I’m the moderator, I can edit that out of your post. About the burping, no worries. It won’t last. They pumped air into your abdominal cavity to make room for the camera and the surgical instruments. Shroud and I watched an actual surgery on YouTube before ours. Check it out.

  Hotstuff replies Friday, July 17, 2009–3:10 p.m.

  Man, that’s nasty. ’Specially all those wads of fat they have to plow through to get to the stomach. Nice to know that this flab is more than skin deep. Gonna run and puke now. Later.

  I’m about to get up and take another piss and my nineteenth protein shake of the day when Char IMs me back about my stitches comment.

  I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

  And suddenly the idea of seeing her skin reminds me of hiding mine at Zoo’s pool party, and I slam my laptop shut.

  19

  Happy Graduation, Liselle

  Sunday, July 19, 2009

  Marcie (−7.5 lbs)

  In seven hours Liselle’s friends will begin to arrive, and I’ve yet to figure out how to wrap a dildo for maximum impact. The rolls of wrapping paper in the back pantry have birthday designs or flowery granny prints, and I’m going for sophisticated and elegant. Something to throw Liselle completely off the scent.

  I’m hoping that Char and I can walk to the card store in Closter to buy paper, but it’s a couple of miles away and Char’s surgery was only three days ago, so she might not feel up to it. I’m grateful she’s able to come at all—I wouldn’t have the balls to pull this off alone, and I’m finished with Jen.

  I hear voices downstairs and shove the dildo box back under my bed. I’m not moving very fast, but I’m halfway down the front staircase when Abby bellows that my guest has arrived.

  “This place is unbelievable,” Char whispers as I lumber down the last few steps. “You didn’t tell me you lived in a palace.”

  I snort. It makes me uncomfortable when people go gaga over Ronny’s money. Char throws her arms around me. “How are you feeling?”

  “Ouch,” I laugh, pulling away. Our stomachs bopped against each other when we hugged, but Char’s taller and hers rides higher than mine, so I’m the only one in pain.

&
nbsp; We’re heading down Closter Dock Road to the card store, and Char’s raving about the McMansions—these fabulously huge homes crammed on top of each other. If I had money, I’d want lots and lots of land so I’d never see my neighbors. But Char likes crowds—she’s what Abby calls a people person. I used to be more like that. Now, I guess, I’m what they call a GTF out of my face person.

  “You sure you’re okay to walk?” I ask. “My stomach’s still bothering me when I jiggle it, and my surgery was almost a week ago.”

  Char nods but slows down anyway. “So—you and Jen patch things up yet?” she says.

  “What are you on, Char?” I snort.

  Char sighs. “That’s crazy, Marcie. You’re best friends. You haven’t even tried to call her?”

  I stop short. “I should call her? Not only does she leave me when I need her most—the night before my surgery—but then she literally goes and sleeps with the enemy!”

  Char narrows her eyes at me and shakes her head. “C’mon, Marcie. Was your grandmother supposed to leave Jen on the street all night? You’re lucky Jen even knew where your grandmother lives—if she spent the night at the train station, God knows what could have happened to her.”

  “Jen blew me off for a guy! I can’t believe you’re taking her side on this, Char!” I’m ready to blow off the damn dildo plan and turn back around, but Char gently puts her hand on my arm.

  “Of course I’m not taking her side—Jen totally screwed up. But I—”

  “But nothing! She still had the chance to show up at the hospital for my surgery. Again, no less than I did for her, but instead my grandmother put her in a taxi to the train station and came to the hospital by herself.”

  “Yeah, but …” My there’s no freaking excuse for her behavior expression nukes the topic and shuts Char up. She jerks her head in the direction we were headed and we just resume walking. “So, what about your dad? Have you spoken to him?” she finally says.

  “Nah, not since he left the hospital,” I say, removing all anger from my tone. I pick up my pace a little to keep up.

  “But why are you pissed at him about his new woman? Shouldn’t he move on—I mean, your mom has been remarried for what, over a year now?”

  “It’s not about moving on. He’s got to make a new life for himself, I know. But he’s raised me on words and ideas like they’re the most important things in the world, and now he’s fallen for a certified piece of meat with a third-grade vocabulary. Plus, how the hell could he think that my surgery day was a good time to introduce us?”

  “He probably figured you’d be in la-la land from the painkillers, maybe a little less zealous with all them words?” Char quips.

  “Don’t make me laugh! It hurts!” I hit her arm. “Zealous! Good word, though.”

  “C’mon, she can’t be that bad,” Char says. I elbow her arm so she sees I’m serious.

  “You know what my dad does now? He says something and then like two seconds later, he repeats the same thought—using smaller words. The two-step dumb-down. When we were alone together—Jill was downstairs with Abby—he even did it with me. I had to remind him he wasn’t talking to a moron.”

  Char covers her mouth with her hand. “Ruff! Ruff! How’d he take that?”

  “Not too well. He shook his head like I disappointed him and said, ‘Jill is kind and a joy to be around. I taught you to think, Marcie, not judge.’ ” My eyes tear up. “Sorry, I’m being so emotional, Char. It must be the food deprivation.” She rubs my shoulder for a second.

  “You know, Marce, there’s something to be said for kindness. People can be cruel—especially to fat people.”

  I nod. “I know. People treat me a lot differently since I packed on all this weight. They talk about me more than they talk to me.”

  Char hesitates. “Not to sound like Betsy Bitch Glass, but how long have you been ob—overweight?”

  “Wow—bitch is harsh for you, Char.” I laugh. “What gives? I mean, I know she’s kept you after group, like, every time, but, as someone who does her share of running off at the mouth, isn’t being forced to stay after class par for the course?” Char smiles and does Bitsy’s sweeping the floor is yours motion. “I guess I’ve been seriously packing it on for maybe two and a half years? Pretty much since Abby landed this high-power job and started brawling with my father. But that was nothing compared to the weight I’ve put on since we moved here,” I say. “Put it this way: compared to PSJ—presurgery Jen—I was a babe. With a lot of friends. Hard to believe, I know.”

  Char flicks me away like I’m a gnat. “You’ll be a babe again before you know it. And now you have some great new friends!” As a rule, I hate positive people—happiness equals stupidity in my book. But this dumb little comment makes me feel better.

  “How ’bout you?” I say. “What’s your true fat-girl story? It’s not really that Mario’s thing—which was so freaking funny!”

  Char stops in front of a Georgian-style brick monstrosity. Her eyes are red and her expression so un-Charlike that I immediately regret being so glib.

  “I guess I starting gaining all my weight about three years ago too, but it’s really horrible. And so complicated. I wish I could tell you everything—really, Marcie, I do. But there are other people involved and I can’t.” Char turns away to hide her face and her shoulders are shaking. I don’t know what to do, like whether I should put my arm around her or just give her space. When Jen would try to comfort me about the crap going down at my house, it made it harder to hold in. So I just say, “Char?” in a soft voice.

  Char puts her hand up. “Don’t,” she sniffles. “I’m fine. I—I just can’t go there right now, okay?”

  “Sure,” I say. I’m dying to press for info, but I manage to just stand quietly and watch her. She’s wearing a turquoise top over white capris, and it strikes me that Char is three times Liselle’s size, but maybe even prettier. Char’s “Don’t Stop Believin’ ” ringtone suddenly starts blaring. She pulls her phone out of her pocket, sighs loudly, and sends the caller to voice mail. Then she turns back toward me and wipes her eyes with her sleeve. “Damn, Marcie. If I wanted to be depressed, I’d go hang with the Shroudmeister.”

  She hooks her arm in mine and we start walking again. My stomach is bouncing and hurting like hell, but we’re women on a mission and can’t be undone by our little melodramas.

  I’m eyeing the huge platters of food wrapped in colorful cellophane spread out all over the kitchen countertops when Liselle prances in fresh from the salon. Her blond hair has been highlighted almost all the way to platinum. And her makeup looks professionally done—the smudged charcoal eyeliner is perfect on her. She looks glamorous and way older.

  “Marcie, you’re so right about your sister. She’s gorgeous,” Char says loudly. She waves at Liselle. “Hi, I’m Char. Congrats!” Benedict freaking Charnold! Most people hold off at least two seconds before dropping to their knees to kiss Liselle’s feet, but Char just set a record.

  “Aren’t you sweet! Pleasure to meet you,” Liselle coos, all sugary. Then she turns to me and says, in the same voice, “Where’s Mom?”

  “Abby is—I don’t know. You freaking find her,” I mutter, hardly audible. I don’t want to be a jerk in front of Char, but Liselle’s “Mom” act makes me ballistic. I used to think she just called Abby “Mom” to freak me out, but she’s “Moming” my mother to death even when she’s on speaker with Abby and doesn’t know I’m right there listening.

  Liselle snatches a carrot stick from under the cellophane, waves it at Char, and walks out. “Mom?” I hear her call as she moves through the house. Mounds of sheer decadence surround us—marzipan cookies, éclairs, cream-filled pastries, etc.—and Liselle goes straight for the veggies. The veggies and my mother. WTF.

  “Marcie,” Char chides, “you’re not getting with the program. You don’t want Liselle to think you’re out to get her tonight, right? Play nice and let the dildo do the talking.” It’s so hard to be pissed at Char. She’s
so funny it literally hurts.

  “Abby got us some fresh chicken broth from the deli. I guess that’s about all we can have,” I say. Char also can’t take her eyes off the platters.

  “Just heartbreaking,” she sighs.

  Char and I are totally not hanging out at Liselle’s party, but we are sort of stalking it. This thing is a monster, and impossible to avoid. It’s spread out on the patio, the covered porch overlooking the patio, and the living room with its wall of French doors opening out onto the porch. There are a few jokers in the pool—males, of course. But this ain’t no pool party—everyone is so coiffed to the hilt, I’m half expecting Paris Hilton to show up.

  When Abby isn’t schmoozing with the guests or hammering the caterers, she’s hanging out behind Liselle like her fucking handmaiden, smoothing her top or holding her drink whenever Liselle goes to hug another fan. It strikes me that Abby could pass for Liselle’s real mother. They’re both blond, fine-featured, and a hundred percent fat free. And very pretty, even if in a high-maintenance way. Ronny is walking around patting everyone on the back and laughing at every stupid thing. He’s dark like me and has a paunch (smaller than mine). I wonder how many people think I belong to him.

  Liselle’s gifts are in a huge haphazard pile on the dining-room table, but Char and I managed to situate the dildo—spectacularly wrapped in heavy high-gloss cream-colored paper, with a pale green taffeta bow—right on top, like the happy couple on a wedding cake. But the hours are ticking by, Char and I are so tired we’re ready to pass out, and the unwrapping ceremony has yet to take place. Finally, when Liselle brushes past me in the hallway on the way to the bathroom, I call her name. She turns around and smiles.

  “Marcie, baby. Char, baby. How goes it?” She’s drunk, real shocker. Kids obviously snuck in the booze, but I have the fleeting impulse to call the police and report Abby for serving alcohol to minors—an even faster ticket back to Boston than the dildo. The thing is, with Jill in the picture and Jen out of it, Boston looks different.