Teenage Waistland Page 16
A cell phone starts buzzing, and I don’t even bother going for mine. “It’s Bobby,” Char says, miraculously all lit up again. She’s showing me his text: You made your train right? “Yeah with East now,” she says out loud while typing. Say hi, she shows me.
“One more sec, East. Let me just tell him I’ll call when I get home.”
“No doubt you’ll call him when you say you will.” But I’m smiling as I say this. My best friend’s got enough on her plate.
23
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Marcie (−11 lbs)
Teenage Waistland is a freaking mausoleum this session, the first group meeting since we’ve all had our surgeries. I mean, yeah, there was high-fiving when we all first got into the room, and everyone spewing stuff like, “Oh, but how do you feel?” and, “Wow, I can see a big difference in you already,” to each other. But after we took our seats and Bitsy had us clap for ourselves like we just climbed Mount freaking Everest, all the life pretty much got sucked out of the room. And it takes me only like two seconds to figure out why: Char’s gone mute.
Seriously. She’s sitting there between Bobby and East as usual, but it’s like the invasion of the body snatchers! And instead of snarling and watching Char’s every move, East has gone freaking Buddha on us—she’s all happy and calm, like she’s at peace and one with the universe. And Char. Well, Char’s sitting here beaming as usual, maybe even more so, but it’s like she’s had a lip zipper installed and that’s all she’s doing—beaming! I mean, she’s beaming at me, and beaming at Bitsy, and beaming at the other kids depending on who’s talking, and beaming at East, and beaming at Bobby.… Especially at Bobby. And the two of them are constantly like leaning into each other and smiling into each others’ eyes and touching each other’s hands and all of this frankly vomit-y crap. Yeah, they’re cute together and I’m happy for Char, and I haven’t even minded analyzing “the Kiss” one hundred times. But what about me? This whole lovey-dovey serenity thing is B-O-R-I-N-G, and, I swear, if there was loaded artillery within reach, my brains would be splattered all over the wall.
Everyone is getting up and droning on about how their surgeries went—Oh, and two seconds later I was out like a light—and how the nurses were so nice, and how changing the bandages was gross, blah blah blah. I expect the tiniest bit of action when the “sharing” gets to Char, but she stays seated and waves demurely—like she’s passing on a tray of hors d’oeuvres being offered to her at some elegant cocktail party. In a tiny sweet voice she says, “Oh, nothing to add—let’s move on to East.” And Bitsy, who doesn’t normally sanction hesitation in the sharing department, clears her throat and says, “Okay, East, your turn. Tell us about your surgery experience.”
Each second here feels like an hour, and I’m just dying for this torture to end so that we can head out to Chow Fun House. The gag is, none of us can get more than two bites down before we’re full. So I can’t wait to snap the photo of Freddie Kawasaki’s face when the four of us—or however many kids join us tonight—waddle in like freaking mall Santa Clauses, and order one dumpling appetizer. To share.
Abby’s been on my case to visit Gran in the hospital after group tonight since the hospital is literally two blocks away. I’m not sure exactly what’s even wrong with the woman. She’s only like seventy, which I think seems early for all that lovely organ-failure crap that happens when people get really old. But my only theory on the situation, based on the paucity of available facts, and, admittedly, my own piss-poor level of interest, is that Gran’s fifty-five years of bulimia are finally catching up to her.
Abby says that Gran keeps asking for me (and asking if I’ve called Jen yet!) and that the least I can do is visit for a few lousy minutes. Gran’s mind is going, Abby pleads. You shouldn’t hold anything she says against her. But Gran’s never been interested in my high grades or all the creative writing awards I’ve won, or anything like that. It’s just always about my appearance. Oh, and my mouth—how men don’t like women who have minds and speak them or women who curse like truck drivers. Which, I believe, is yet another one of her unfair stereotypes, since I highly doubt Gran’s ever met a truck driver, let alone gotten into an obscenity-riddled conversation with one. Mind or no mind, Gran is still an expert at making me feel like crap, and there’s no way I’m missing our after-group soiree just to get harassed, especially now that my own blood has taken Jen’s side!
Chow Fun House won’t take long anyway. The dumpling will be quick to eat, and Freddie will probably kick us out pretty quickly: the last thing he needs is a bunch of raucous fatties hogging a table when they’re no longer ordering half the menu. Then I’ll get over to the hospital—just in time for visiting hours to end. Abby’s my ride back to Jersey tonight, and she’ll be furious with me, of course, bitching the whole way about my heartlessness. But traffic is usually light on the George Washington Bridge that time of night, and a twenty-minute barrage in exchange for another great evening with Teenage Waistland sounds like an excellent trade to me.
Here’s the scene. Group has finally ended and we’re in the elevator: Char and Bobby are sucking face and mauling each other, and East and I are rolling our eyes and sticking a finger into our mouths like we’re about to hurl chunks. And then on the street: Char and Bobby are sucking face and mauling each other, and East and I are rolling our eyes and blowing our brains out with imaginary guns. And then outside the entrance to Chow Fun House: Char and Bobby are sucking face and mauling each other, and East and I are rolling our eyes and pretending to throw ourselves in front of moving traffic. Finally I screech, “Get a freaking room!” and Char hits me and laughs and Bobby blushes and East gives me a high five, and we go into the restaurant.
But the joke’s on us. Freddie is nowhere to be seen, and another fellow leads us to the table—a table big enough to comfortably seat us without Char getting to pull any theatrics. Then, after this new waiter says something to East in Japanese (presumably—it could be Swahili, for all I know) and she reddens and ignores him, he takes our order of one fried shrimp dumpling appetizer without even twitching. But the irony of this failed gag turns out to be hilarious too, so we’re shaking our heads, laughing so hard that our eyes tear, and thumping the table with our fists. That is, until a booming voice—sickeningly familiar—fills the restaurant.
“Marcie! Get over here right now!” I spin around. It’s Abby storming toward us, and I’ve never seen her this crazed before. She digs her fingernails into my arm and yanks me out of my seat so hard the chair falls onto the floor.
“Your grandmother is dead.”
It’s like all hell has broken loose everywhere in the city tonight. Ambulance sirens blaring, crosstown traffic crawling an inch per minute, and Abby’s face glistening with tears as she sits frozen behind the wheel.
“Mom?” I try. “Maybe we should pull into a garage and have Ronny come get us? Or I can drive. I mean, not legally or anything, but Carlo’s been letting me practice. I’m not bad, although I’m not quite sure I could pass a road test if parallel parking a fifty-foot stretch limo is involved.” She remains stone-faced, not even a hint of a smile at my attempt to cheer her up. At the intersection of Seventy-second Street and West End Avenue, an ancient bag lady wearing ten layers of clothing in this miserable summer heat crosses in front of us pushing a shopping cart. Abby finally turns to me, her face hard and tight.
“You know what your grandmother’s very last words were, Marcie? I’ve been debating in my mind whether I should tell you, but at this moment, all I can think is how much you deserve to know.” I shrug, but only to myself—no point in getting Abby freaked out with me. Abby takes an angry swipe at her eyes, leaving a black streak of mascara—it looks like war paint—across her face. “I’m at her bedside and I’m holding her hand. Her breathing is so shallow that I’m grateful for each tiny exhale. And here’s my mother, so delirious she doesn’t even recognize me. Instead, she thinks I’m you!
‘Marcie, my beautiful baby. I’m so very happy you’re finally here.…’ That’s it—the last moment with my mother that I’ll ever have. And it was all about you, the selfish granddaughter she yearned for in her final breath. The one who wouldn’t give her one lousy inch! The one who wouldn’t give her the tiniest bit of time, love, or warmth. Even if you couldn’t find it in your heart to do it for a dying old woman, what about me, your mother?”
I can’t for the life of me decipher the reaction Abby’s looking for. It’s not like my feelings about Gran were a mystery to her. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I say. “It should have been your moment. But it’s not my fault that Gran—”
“What? I don’t know where you came from,” Abby cries. “It’s not about ‘my moment’ or fault! It’s about acceptance!”
“I know it’s about acceptance!” I cry back. “She didn’t accept me! I wasn’t good enough!”
“My mother was a good woman,” Abby practically spits. “For all her flaws and all the ‘beauty baggage’ you hate so much, she loved you the best way she knew how! She never said, ‘Oh, Marcie and I aren’t on the same page, so I’ll just write her out of my life!’ the way you did to her. All she wanted was a little love from you, a little respect. But every time you opened your mouth—almost from the time you were a toddler—you made her feel small, like she was a pathetic moron living a silly shallow life. Who are you to judge anybody? You didn’t grow up in her generation, you didn’t think for one second to put yourself in her shoes—you simply chose not to understand her. And then you shut her out. Why couldn’t you just love her the way she was? Because it’s Marcie’s way or the highway, that’s why. Right?” We’re finally on the highway now. I just clench my teeth and stare out the window.
24
Konopka & Son
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Bobby (−15 lbs)
I’m scanning codes into the computer, part of testing this new software program I convinced Dad to try at the store—they’ve been tracking inventory (or not tracking it) the same way since my great-grandfather’s days—when I spot yet another exposed rear end as a contractor crouches in an aisle examining pipe fittings. I almost laugh out loud. Okay, Pencildick, you’re dead wrong about hairy butt cracks being the only ass I’ll be scoping this summer, I mentally type on MT’s wall for like one second. But then I think about the size of Char’s and all the abuse the guys would give me if they came face to face with it—especially MT. It’s not that I’m a prize, but meeting her would make the guys think I’m even more of a loser with girls, or desperate. Or both. Thank God Char hasn’t brought up the opening game to me—I want so much for her to see that I’m not this totally insecure pansy. I want her to see the “local hero” part too. But the guys …
While I’m working on this computerization project—Dad gave in and spent big bucks on the hardware and software for it despite knowing dick about technology—I have to try hard to push Char—this whole dilemma—out of my mind. It’s fine that she’s totally there when I’m running, because the thought of her and me together, both seriously buff and all over each other in front of everyone, is part of my motivation to keep going. I’m up to almost eight miles a day, dragging myself out at six a.m. every morning, rain or shine, so that I make it to the store by nine. I’m so into the running, how tight and agile and just good it makes me feel. And my weight is like falling off—fifteen pounds already!
The other part of the motivation is harder to think about. Even though my incisions probably won’t be an issue for me with brilliant Char’s stomach shield, I’m nowhere near as ready for the upcoming season as I usually am this time of year. The whole thing gives me the same horrible friggin’ feeling as the thought of the guys finding out about my summer. The pussyband and the not hot babes. And my hypothetical V-card, which I should laminate since I’ll probably have it forever. Refrigerator. Just saying the word in my head makes me want to put on my running shoes and bolt. From this store, from this town. From my life.
I shake it off, scan the last inventory code into the system, and am finally set to test it when hairy-butt-crack pipe-fittings guy strides up to the counter. Without even looking up, I motion to the right and say, “Paul is on the cash register this morning, sir. He can help you.”
“Little Bobby Konopka! You’ve gotten so much taller—and leaner—since last season!” I lift my head and give the guy my full attention now. He’s no contractor. It’s Mr. Dawson, as in Dawson Depot—Konopka & Son’s biggest competitor next to Home Depot, which thankfully, according to Dad, doesn’t carry most of the higher-end wood products that we do. Dawson Depot has expanded, with two other stores in neighboring towns, while Konopka & Son Lumber is as it’s always been, just this one location.
“Good to see you, Mr. Dawson,” I say as enthusiastically as I can fake, and put out my hand. Dawson Depot is also our team’s biggest sponsor and Mr. Dawson comes out to most of the games.
He pumps my hand. “So when’s the big preseason opener, my man?”
“Saturday, August twenty-ninth,” I say, nodding, with my idiot smile plastered on. I have no idea what he’s doing here.
“Practice must be starting pretty soon,” he says, squeezing my bicep. “I guess you’ll be hitting the iron hard until then—they’ve still got you on the first string, yeah? You look great, kid, really, but not quite as big as the Refrigerator we all know and love.” He chuckles.
I half nod and half shrug. “I’ve gotten into running lately.”
Dawson raises his eyebrows. “I got word there’ll be a few Division One college scouts at the opener, but you didn’t hear that from me.”
“Mr. Daw—” I start, but change my mind halfway through his name.
“Go on, kid? I don’t have any pull with the scouts, if that’s where you’re going.”
I shake my head.
“Well, just a hypothetical question. What would happen if, say, Notre Dame signed a big lineman, but then the guy got, like, mono his senior year and lost a ton of weight. I mean, I know he couldn’t play that position, but do you think they’d look at him for, say, running back? I mean, if he was super lean and fast?”
Dawson looks at me weird and then, as if to change the subject, he peers around the counter and checks out the computer screen. “You guys are finally coming into this century—good for you! We’ve been using that system for, I don’t know, eight years now?”
“Well, this is the RFID version—released just two weeks ago,” I say, all smug. “It doesn’t just track inventory in the store—it can track any product through the entire supply chain. When a customer asks when we expect an item in, we just punch in the code and we’re able to tell them that it’s on a truck sitting at a light two blocks away.”
Dawson cocks his head and nods thoughtfully. “Impressive, kid. Very impressive. You’re quite an asset to your old man. I hope he doesn’t have you hauling boxes in the stockroom. Would be a waste of your talent.” Dawson shifts to his other leg and pivots to survey the store. “Where is the big guy, anyway? We’ve got a lunch appointment.” He checks his watch and grins. “Oops. Guess I’m a little early. I like your expansion into plumbing supplies, by the way. Not enough room for a big selection, I see, but the bestselling items are all here.”
I’m kind of turning impressive, kid and asset to your old man over in my head, so it takes about a minute for the rest to hit me. They have a cordial relationship, being football stars on rival teams back in the day and all, but what’s Dad doing having lunch with this guy?
“Uh, Mr. Dawson. The running back thing was totally hypothetical, so—” I stop when the front-door bells chime, and Dad’s flying in toward us, hand outstretched.
“Good to see you, Harry! Pumping my kid for trade secrets, I see?” They laugh and shake hands and then turn and head for the door. “Be back in about an hour,” Dad says with a wave.
Mr. Dawson turns back toward me and winks, like he got my meaning and won’t mention anything to Dad. Then he put
s his hand on Dad’s shoulder. “He’s no kid anymore, Rob. A man now. With a good head on his shoulders,” I overhear him saying as they leave. And then I get that same high happy feeling like when I’m running.
25
In the Basement
Thursday, July 30, 2009
East (−17 lbs); Char (−13 lbs)
I’m back at the basement door, this time standing behind Char and clenching a paper lunch bag in my hand; as it shakes, it sounds like kites flapping in the wind. Like the last family vacation we ever took, when the four of us were running on a white Bermuda beach flying kites.
“I’m not sure this is such a great idea,” I say to Char.
“Are you kidding? It’s brilliant. Breathe into the bag through your mouth and you won’t gag.” I’m not talking about the moldy smell. But Char’s full speed ahead with digging out old pictures from when we were thin so we can finally be on Facebook. She says she wants Bobby to get a “taste” of what he can look forward to, but I’m thinking she also fears that, even if she can keep up with her crazy starvation diet and all the miles she’s putting on Crystal’s treadmill, she won’t lose as much weight as the rest of us. And, though I don’t say this to Char, it wouldn’t be so terrible for Bobby—or anyone in Teenage Waistland—to know that I used to be something to look at too.
My father was heavily into photography and always taking pictures. And Char’s in practically all of them—we were always together. When she said her parents can’t even find baby pictures of her, and I told her ours were all boxed up somewhere in my basement, instead of saying, “Okay, just forget it,” like I hoped, Char said, “Excellent. They’re all in one place—much easier to find!”
“Ready?” she asks as she flings the door open.
I’m looking at the wooden stairs in front of me—I shove my face deeper into the bag. My dad’s life finished in this stinky unfinished basement—I don’t see how I can get even as far as the first step. “Why don’t we wait until Tuesday when Elsa is here and I can have her dust off the boxes and bring them up? I’ll just bring the pictures to your house and we can pick through and scan them in then,” I say, pulling on Char’s sleeve. She yanks it free.