Teenage Waistland Read online

  “I don’t know what I want. All I know is what I don’t want,” I hear myself say. My chest is heaving and I feel a strange rush of emotion—like something big or important is happening whether I want it to or not.

  “Tell me,” she whispers. And that’s all I need.

  “Char, I don’t want to be a fat lineman anymore. And I don’t want to run a hardware store. I don’t want to have the same life as my dad and my grandfather. I don’t want the Konopka legacy, I want to make my own life.” I can hardly breathe; I can’t believe I’m saying this stuff, let alone telling it to another person. But it’s like, just as long as I keep looking into her eyes, nothing bad can happen. The concern on Char’s face melts away into a huge smile.

  “Of course you want to make your own life, Bobby,” she says softly. “It’s okay. It’s your right. How else could you ever be happy?”

  My chest starts heaving even harder as relief floods my body, and I can’t understand it. How can something this simple be a revelation? I’m huddled in a cramped airless stockroom that’s got to be at least a hundred degrees, and I’ve never felt so free in my life. Char’s arms go back around me as she tries again to work the straps, her body pressing up against the pad on my stomach. Her lips brush against my chest, and something else feels simple and obvious too.

  “Char?” I whisper. “Forget the straps.”

  “Wait, I’m almost there,” she says. I feel the latch click behind me, but I put my arms around her to keep her from pulling away, and when she lifts her face to look at me, I lower mine and kiss her. Char steps back, but only to wrap her arms around my neck and pull me in closer. And then we’re kissing and hugging and laughing—I don’t know how long—when the stockroom door flies open and Old Man Pharmacist starts going berserk.

  We’re still laughing when we come crashing out of the pharmacy, me with my jersey on backward, holding the bag with the chest protector Char talked the pharmacist into selling me before he kicked us out, and Char with her hair all wild and messed up. I grab Char’s hand with my free one and pull her into a small alley, and we kiss again, this time a long slow one.

  “Drop the bag,” Char giggles when we come up for air. “The corner of the box is digging into my neck. Why’d you even buy it?” I drop the bag on the ground against the cement building wall and cross my eyes at her.

  “Duh, football practice, Char. Are you the same person I spent an hour with on the phone last night talking about it?”

  Char sticks her tongue out at me. “Of course, Dr. Jekyll. But where’s that bummed-out Hyde fellow from the closet who doesn’t want to be a lineman anymore?” She laughs and whacks me on the arm, but that old sinking feeling in my gut comes back—she sees it in my face and gets quiet.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I say. “It’s complicated, though. What am I supposed to do? Crush my dad’s dreams? Tell him that it’s not just the weight I want to drop but everything that comes with it—playing lineman at a Division One university, taking over Grandpa’s stupid lumber store one day, and then passing all of it on to my own fat kids? It’s not like I have some really great alternative life planned out that I could tell him about. It’ll be like saying that any loser life is better than—”

  “You mean, you’ve never expressed any of this to him before?” Char says.

  I shake my head slowly and stare at the pavement. “You’re the first person I’ve said any of this to, but I think my mom sort of knows it. I mean, she knows I’m not the happiest guy in the world. But whenever she makes a suggestion about something new I might try, my dad cuts her off and accuses her of trying to ‘pussify’ me. Like, when I wanted to take a computer programming course instead of some intramural sport for one of my electives.” Char puts her hand on my arm, and words start flying out even faster. “My dad’s the greatest—I mean, he’s always done everything with me. Much more than most fathers. But he’s never asked me what I like or what I want—he just takes it for granted that I’m him.”

  “He sounds like a great dad, Bobby. But if you’ve never told him any of this, how is he supposed to know?”

  “Char, imagine spending your life programming a character in a video game—you know, coding in the actions he can perform and the ways he can respond to events. But then your character—the one you created—decides he doesn’t like his environment or any of the things he’s supposed to do in it. Don’t you see how that would be? Don’t you see why I can’t tell him?” Now Char’s got that smile on her face again and she’s shaking her head. “Okay, wise one. What?” I say.

  “Why tell your father anything right now? You don’t have life-altering choices to make this minute. Spend some time trying new things on to see how they feel. Like, losing weight may mean that you won’t be such a great lineman anymore, but it doesn’t mean you have to give up football. Last night you said that you’d love to get into running if not for the fact that it’ll burn up too much muscle. So what? Go for it. Football teams need great runners—” I grab Char and kiss her again, hard. I get it now why East can barely take a breath without this girl. I’m even ready to be Char’s barnacle.…

  “You’re the first girl I ever really kissed—a kiss that means something,” I whisper into her ear while I’m kissing her neck. “You’re like this crazy truth serum that’s making me say—making me realize—all these pussy things.”

  Char pulls me closer. “Bobby, you’re my first real kiss too,” she whispers back. “I can’t remember anything feeling this real.” And then we go back at it.

  22

  Hot & Sour

  Tuesday, July 21, 2009

  East (−13 lbs); Char (−9 lbs)

  “I don’t know why you like this place. So crowded and noisy.”

  “The hot-and-sour, duh.” Char rolls her eyes. “You said you were fine with it.”

  “Whatever. We’re here.”

  “You’re going to stay like this?”

  “Did you honestly expect me to be all cheerful? How would you feel if you were me?”

  Char finally called today around four o’clock with another one of her brilliant plans—she’d catch the 5:19 from Grand Central (I didn’t even know she was in the city!) and I’d take the 5:42 from Chappaqua and we’d meet in White Plains. “We’ll do our usual. P.F. Chang’s for dinner, cruise the mall after,” she said.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m still only allowed to have liquids mostly.”

  “Shroud, please. I have to tell you something. For your ears only!”

  “Go with Marcie. Tell her your big secret,” I said. She told me to hold for a sec, and then I heard Bobby talking in the background. “What—you’re with Bobby?”

  “East, I should have called. You’re right to be mad and I’m really, really sorry. But you have to give me a chance to explain. Bobby’s like right here and I can’t talk now,” she whispered more urgently. “Just meet me in White Plains at six.”

  “You think I like checking my phone every minute for two days straight to see if you care whether I’m alive or not?” I said. Though looking to see if Char called probably trumps having nothing to look for at all.

  “I’m sorry. Completely sorry. I need you. Please.”

  “All right,” I finally said. Because I wanted to know about Bobby. Because the TV is driving me nuts. Because I’ve been picking my nose inside that house for four days straight and I couldn’t stand it for another second. And … Char needs me.

  Char puts a Hale and Hearty bag on the floor at my feet. “Pea soup for you. It’d better be good. My arm’s killing me from carrying it,” Char says.

  “I appreciate it, but—”

  “I don’t blame you for being mad. But I’m raging starving. Can we order some food first and then you can yell at me?” she says.

  “Aren’t we dieting and trying to lose weight so no one knows we didn’t get banded?”

  “We need to eat! And I thought we hated people who use we when they mean you.” I don’t say anything. “So,
can you believe that story?” Char had texted me from the train about these four wasted college guys who asked her to sign their bare asses for their fraternity pledge. She did it. Initialed every one.

  “Crazy,” I say, monotone. I want to hear what she was doing alone in the city with Bobby. “Why didn’t Marcie go with you?”

  “She was supposed to—we were going to show Bobby this chest protector thing he can use to cover his incisions for football practice. But at the last minute, she didn’t feel up to it.”

  “Why couldn’t you just give him the store address? What—you’re his personal shopper now?” I mutter.

  “How could I be? I’m yours, aren’t I?”

  My napkin is mashed into a tight ball by the time the waitress comes. She takes Char’s order, which includes an extra hot-and-sour soup for me. Then Char lets out this deep breath. “This really big thing happened, but I’m also screwed because—promise you won’t tell a soul?”

  “Fine! What already?”

  Our soups get put in front of us. Mine’s steaming up into my face and I’m about to burst into tears. And it’s not because Char has a Diet Coke and I can never have carbonated drinks again, or that the soup smells so incredibly delicious—and too spicy for me to even taste. I have a very bad feeling.

  “You hooked up with Bobby, didn’t you?” I blurt. Char’s leaning forward and watching me. “That’s it, right? Right?” And then I put my spoon in the soup. All these yummy little pieces swirling around—I’m not supposed to eat bits of anything yet!

  “Sort of. Yeah. We kissed. But that’s the second part.” Char pauses, still studying my face.

  “Details,” I say calmly. “Very cool. Very great.” I must be emphasizing very way too much, because Char’s still dissecting my every micro expression.

  “Really? You’re fine? I mean, if you weren’t, then I wouldn’t—”

  “Enough, Char.” I cut her off. “I’m happy for you.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then why are you shredding your napkin?”

  “No reason other than that I’m a freak,” I say, straining to get one clear spoonful of soup without pork or vegetable in it. Char laughs, I don’t.

  “Don’t be mad at me, East. Sunday night I couldn’t find my phone and then I didn’t plug it in to charge it the full way and—”

  “You could have called from Marcie’s phone.”

  “I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad. You’re like—you are my best friend. I have no one to even tell all this to.” She pushes her empty bowl away. “Damn, I’m so hungry.”

  “I ate two spoonfuls of yogurt before you called and got full. Not really ever hungry anymore,” I say. It’s mean, and it’s not even true, but there it is. “Go ahead and tell.”

  Char starts nibbling bits of fried noodle from the bowl in the center of the table. “We’re in the back of that surgical supply store and Bobby needs to measure the thing against his stomach, so we sneak into this stockroom and it’s dark and tiny, so we’re piled up against each other. And I don’t know. We were talking and that’s when he put his arms around me and kissed me.”

  “A long one?” I’m queasy watching Char as she licks and sucks on this one fried noodle. Just shove it in your mouth already.

  “Long—with tongue. I mean, it felt really long, but I guess it couldn’t have been that long. Maybe three minutes?”

  “And?” I’m digging my nails into the flesh behind my knees under the table.

  “It was really nice, East. He stared into my eyes. And then—it was so funny—the owner of the pharmacy opens the door right in the middle, and the poor old guy almost has a heart attack, and while he chases us out, the whole time I’m saying, ‘But sir, we need to buy this first.’ Then, like two seconds after, we’re back on the street, Bobby pulls me into this alley, and he like just won’t stop kissing me. And then—and swear you won’t tell anyone—”

  “Stop, Char! Who would I tell? Marcie?”

  “No, I told Marcie. I mean, just a little, on the train. But not anyone else in group. So, Bobby told me I was his first real kiss—and that I’m like this truth serum for him, and East—I think he might really like me.” Char’s watching me like she expects me to jump up and award her some kind of medal. I’d rather have Bobby give her some of that truth serum.

  “So, then what? Did you make plans?” I end up saying.

  “Yeah, sort of. When we were waiting at Grand Central he said we should maybe chill together after next Friday’s session. And then after we kissed on the platform for a few minutes, he mumbled something about me coming to watch him play football in a few weeks—his preseason opener. But I’m not sure—”

  “He walked you to the train?”

  “Yeah, when Bobby was paying for the stomach shield, that’s when I called you and—”

  “Wait. Bobby knew you were calling me?”

  “I guess. I told him I had to head back because I had to get you soup and then he said, ‘I’ll go with you. You shouldn’t be carrying anything.’ How nice is that?”

  “Really nice. So, he has no idea that—”

  “That’s the other reason I need to talk to you, East.” Char pauses. “I really screwed up. Bobby thinks I had the surgery. Marcie too. Everyone who read the blog.”

  I play dumb. “What do you mean? You told them you had the surgery?” Char is no longer sucking each fried noodle. She’s drenching them in duck sauce and plunking them in her mouth, one after the other.

  “Of course not. I’m not that bad! But they assumed I had it, and I just let them.” Then Char puts her head in her hands—a gesture of desperation I’ve never seen from her. “Oh, East. What am I saying? I am that bad. I pretended like my stomach hurt and stuff like that. I lied to them. I did.” Char looks so miserable that I’m truly feeling sorry for her. And glad that she’s finally coming clean with me.

  “Char,” I say softly. “What’s really going on? I know something is. Otherwise, you wouldn’t lie about having had the surgery.” Char puts her head in her hands again.

  She looks up at me helplessly and whispers, “Swear you’ll never breathe a word of any of this. I don’t want anyone else thinking something’s wrong with me that isn’t.”

  I shake my head. “I would never tell.”

  Char dabs at her eyes with a napkin and then leans forward. “Okay, look. The issue with my hospital records—”

  “Don’t even tell me the hospital still didn’t send the records?”

  “East, yes, they did, but that’s not it. After the appendectomy, do you remember how I couldn’t hang out with you for like days?”

  I nod. I’m afraid if I utter another syllable, Char will stop talking.

  “Well, I was back at the hospital having my stomach pumped.”

  I’m gaping now—silently. Char wipes her nose with her napkin.

  “Look, I was in a lot of pain from the a—operation, my parents were fighting, so I didn’t say anything, I just went into their bathroom cabinet and took some Percocet. I mean, the doctor said I could take something for pain. Anyway, I took a few and soon I got really drowsy and began having trouble breathing. When my parents heard me hit the floor, they came running, saw the bottle, panicked, and called an ambulance. The point is, I was in a lot of pain and I was just being careless, but Betsy and Dr. Weinstein are making a federal case out of nothing. They keep bringing my parents in, telling them I might have been trying to hurt myself and all this other crap. So, until everyone’s comfortable that I’m not a nutcase, they’re going to hold off on my surgery.”

  This was only three years ago, and Char’s been my best friend forever—I don’t know how I didn’t know about this! I’m just sitting there with my mouth open, shaking my head. “Char, what’s ‘a few’ pills? You had to have taken enough for them to get this idea in their heads,” I finally say.

  Char smiles sheepishly for a second. “Yeah, well, I don’t remember exactly. Ma
ybe four or five. Not a lot, but, yeah, obviously enough to get them all bent out of shape. I was just in a lot of pain, but they won’t let it go, and now next week I have yet another meeting with my parents and a new doctor they want to evaluate me.”

  “Oh, Char! You didn’t need to keep this from me! I know you’d never do something to hurt yourself. Never in a million years! What do your parents think? They believe you, right?”

  Char leans forward again. “Well, that’s just it, East. I mean, they do. But whenever they try to make Betsy understand that I would never hurt myself—then or now—Betsy gives them her psychobabble about how quote resistant unquote I am to admitting to emotional issues, let alone willing to deal with them. And then she spooks them further with her rap about how when people who don’t address their emotional reasons for eating get weight loss surgery, they can end up seeking substitutions, like alcohol and drugs. So then, they come running back to me and make me swear that I’ll never even take so much as a Tylenol, and I have to convince them all over again. The whole thing is a stupid circus, but Betsy thinks it’s important that I continue with group for the time being, which hopefully means she’s coming around.”

  I feel a surge of relief. “So what’s the big problem, Char? All you have to do is become serious about addressing your ‘emotional issues’ instead of disrupting all the time, and you’ll get your surgery. If Betsy wasn’t still open to letting you have it, she’d have kicked you out of group already.”

  Char looks up at me, reaches her hand out for another noodle, and then abruptly pushes the bowl away. “Yeah, you’re right, East. I’ll just give Betsy what she’s looking for, keep starving myself, and then, once I have the surgery, no one will ever know that I lied. But you swear you won’t tell anyone about any of this, no matter what happens?”

  “I promise: I’ll never tell a living soul about any of this,” I say solemnly.