Teenage Waistland Read online

  “So, now you guys can tell me. Where are we going?”

  Liselle says something in hushed tones to Marcie, and Marcie pulls the scarf we planned to use as Char’s blindfold out of the glove compartment.

  “Put this on—it’ll keep your hair from flying all over the place. It’s a bit of a ride,” Marcie says to Char.

  “Okay. Enough. I don’t like surprises—” Char starts, but Liselle immediately launches into this rambling tale of how she mixed this green-mud facial-mask stuff for herself and Marcie last night, but read the directions wrong. After it hardened, they had to chip the mask off their faces with butter knives.

  “Like freaking concrete!”

  And then I’m telling the story of how once Char and I were making our own play dough but we didn’t have cream of tartar, so we idiotically substituted tartar sauce instead. We ended up burning my countertop with the hot blob of relish-y doughy junk.

  “Shroud and I still get sick when we smell anything related to pickles,” Char laughs.

  “Well, we’re not going to any sloppy burger joint, so no worries,” Marcie says.

  As we near the exit, Marcie’s pointing at the road signs and mouthing, Do something to me. After a moment of panic, I start blathering on to Char about this birthmark on my arm that I’m afraid might be turning cancerous. She examines it closely and then pulls out her cell phone to Google “skin cancer.” While she’s tapping away, Marcie grins at me and shakes her head mouthing, She’s so predictable. But that’s not entirely true. None of us can predict how Char’s going to react when she looks up from her research and realizes we just pulled into the Syosset High School parking lot.

  “Oh no!” Char wails. “You have got to be kidding me!” She slumps in her seat. “Please, Liselle, get us out of here quickly!” As a carload of rowdy guys pulls into the parking spot next to us, she ducks down even lower. Marcie gives me the nod.

  “Char, Bobby called Marcie and invited us all to his game,” I say. “Told her you should come. Great surprise, right?” Char gasps and looks me straight in the eye. I look at Marcie. Marcie just opens her car door and gets out.

  “He knows I’m coming?” Char asks quietly, like she’s afraid of the answer.

  Marcie rolls her eyes impatiently. “Of course! And you’re not just ‘coming,’ you’re the reason we’re all here.”

  Char looks at both of us like she doesn’t quite believe, but she yanks off the scarf and starts brushing her hair and checking her lipstick. I get out of the car and walk around to Marcie.

  “We should tell her that it’s only a TW group thing so she doesn’t get her hopes up about Bobby just to have them shattered.”

  “Football is a group activity by definition, East. We don’t need to get so specific. We know how Char feels about Bobby, but we don’t know how she’s going to feel about facing the others,” Marcie whispers. “So please just chill before Char changes her mind about going in. This will turn out great, you’ll see.”

  But as Char chucks her compact back into her bag and almost levitates out of the car she’s so happy, I can’t help worrying that this could turn out the exact opposite.

  35

  Intervening Factors

  Saturday, August 29, 2009

  Bobby (−29 lbs.)

  It’s only the third down in the second quarter of our first game of the season, we’re up against Massapequa—our biggest rival—and the crowd’s already chanting, “Refrigerator! Refrigerator!” But that’s only because I’m laying flat on my back on the thirty-yard line seeing stars. Tony Litella on Massapequa’s defensive line is ridiculously massive this year. He came in hard and low and that’s the last I remember.

  “Konopka finally got laid,” I hear MT shout. Even though I’m still trying to piece together what day it is, the thought of flattening that dickhead is enough to get me up. But as I’m on my feet and the crowd starts clapping, Craighead runs over and says, “Tough break, bro—Coach’s waving you in.” When I approach the sideline, Coach, without saying a word or even looking in my direction, points me to the bench.

  I can’t remember the last time I watched a game from the sidelines, but I’m lucky I got to play at all today—let alone ever again for Syosset. Coach looked totally stunned when I stayed after practice yesterday to tell him about my surgery—like I just plugged the whistle hanging from his neck into an electrical socket or something. His eyes and his mouth opened wide for a second, and then he looked away and spit on the field. Finally he said, “Selfish move, Konopka, for not giving me more notice to work on this year’s roster. Thought you were a team player.”

  “I know it,” I said, nodding. I wanted to explain about trying to keep up my strength while losing weight, but the idea that I ever could have pulled that off seems idiotic. Coach watched me study the ground with nothing to say for a few minutes. Then he said less angrily, “I’m with you on the weight, though. College linemen are getting bigger and fatter every year to stay competitive, and many of ’em wind up sick and hobbling around on destroyed joints when their football days are over. Still, wouldn’t have thought this of you, Konopka, not from the family you come from,” he said, walking away. Without even turning around.

  I’m cheering the team on harder than ever, waving my towel and keeping up the best game face I can. The funny thing is, the thought of the TW gang—of Char, mostly—thinking I’m a loser is bothering me more than the idea of my buddies coming face to face with my group of merry bandsters. And way more than losing this game.

  Massapequa is totally kicking the crap out of us. Brad Dwyer, our first-string running back, hasn’t been able to take three yards in one play from these guys, and Zoo and the others just can’t keep the defense off him. As the second quarter ends, we’re down 13–0.

  Third quarter, fourth down. Syosset’s behind 32–7 and Massapequa has the ball. The crowd is quieter—lots of people are taking off. There’s so little hope for a comeback that Coach pulls Dwyer before he gets completely mauled. He’s putting in Lou Farrell from the second string, but this guy’s pretty easy to get to, so things can’t get too much better. I look at the stands, and they’re now half empty. I spot Mr. Dawson sitting a couple of rows back, and he toasts me with his Gatorade and a shrug. I smile and raise my helmet.

  We’re in the fourth, and finally have possession of the ball. But the offensive line is totally dejected, and Farrell is taking more heat than he ought to, thanks to me. He’s already been at the bottom of three pileups and he looked like he might have been limping after the last one. There are three more seconds on the clock when Coach calls a timeout and waves Farrell in. He is limping.

  I’m thinking Coach’s going to put Connelly in, but that douche bag has been more unreliable during practice than even me. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Dawson hop down to the field and pull Coach aside. And then they’re both looking at me. There’s no way they do this. But Coach motions me over.

  “Konopka, I’m putting you in as running back for the last play. Our asses have already been handed to us, so just try to run down the clock without any fatalities.” Then he throws Dawson a quick glance over his shoulder, turns back to me with a half shrug, and adds, “Guess it’s your lucky day.”

  Lucky? I glance over at Dwyer and Farrell, and they’re both slumped over on the bench nursing multiple ice packs. My stomach is churning, and I’m kicking myself for telling Dawson about wanting to try out for the position in college—there’s no way I’m ready for this now. As ridiculous as this is and as scared shitless as I am, though, there’s no way I’m turning down this opportunity.

  I turn to the stands to signal Mom and Dad to leave. I’d feel better if they weren’t around to see me get destroyed, or worse, laughed off the field. But they’re not in their regular seats, and as I scan the emptying bleachers, I spot Char. She’s standing in the middle of the aisle halfway up the stands looking right at me—and she’s surrounded by a smiling Teenage Waistland: Marcie, Liselle (honorary mem
ber, I guess), East, Alex, and Coco in two rows on one side of the aisle, and Tia, Michelle, Lucia, and Jamie on the other.

  Char can’t see my eyes because my helmet’s on, and she can’t see if I’m smiling because I’ve already got my mouth guard in. She knows that I know about that horrible stuff in her past—and that, like a pussy, I couldn’t face her. Or even text her. But there she is—with her hair flying all free and that crazy big grin of hers—beaming right at me anyway. And I’m standing here taking her in—that crazy runner’s high surging through my veins again.

  As I jog onto the field and get behind Zoo and LaRocha at the scrimmage line rather than take my usual spot next to them, the crowd’s chatter level rises. I shut my eyes for a moment to make them disappear. Once they’re gone, it’s my mental voice I hear. This is crazy, you can’t do this, it’s saying, over and over. The voice of defeat, Dad calls it. Everyone hears it at one point or another—the people who end up on top are the ones who can turn it off. It’s my big chance to prove to myself that fat lineman isn’t my only position on this field or anywhere. I really can choose what and who I am. But I just can’t turn the voice off! I’m ready to bolt from the field when it hits me: Don’t have to turn off the voice in your head. Just change it. And, two seconds before the play is about to begin, I do it. I play the voice I want to hear.

  It’s the final down at the fifty-yard line, three seconds to go. Syosset doesn’t have a prayer, but in a surprise move, in comes Bobby Konopka, all-state lineman turned running back. He can’t save the game, but can he save his team from total humiliation? The ball is hiked, and Tino rolls right, then tosses the ball to Konopka. Konopka stiff-arms Litella and puts him on his back in a big reversal of their earlier encounter. It’s his size and speed, and he’s plowing through another of Massapequa’s finest. He’s on the forty-yard line, and then the thirtieth, then—splat—he’s tackled. But there it is, folks—first-time running back Bobby Konopka at three hundred pounds took twenty yards before annihilation—pretty amazing!

  “Bobby! Bobby!” the crowd is roaring, and his teammates, the cheerleaders—everyone’s in a frenzy. As Konopka pulls himself up and makes his way toward the sideline, Coach is shaking his head in disbelief.

  Suddenly the broadcast happening in my mind dissolves and I look up and hear the real noise, see the real crowd. This isn’t a fantasy! There’s Mom and Dad and Mr. Dawson. And the crowd’s closing in, Zoo, MT, and Craighead leading the rush. I toss my helmet and mouthpiece onto the field, plow right through the crowd on the sideline as they’re cheering and pounding my back, and take the bleachers two at a time. Char’s waiting for me smiling. I don’t care how sweaty and smelly my pits are or how many idiot guys she’s ever kissed. I wrap my arms around her and kiss her. Then Char’s face explodes into that grin again and she throws her arms around my neck. We kiss again, a longer one this time. Now everyone’s gone quiet—even MT, and it’s just the two of us, back in the stockroom closet.

  I pull away from Char to wipe my sweaty forehead with my arm, and that’s when I see MT, Craighead, Zoo, and, hell, all of Syosset, at the base of the bleachers gaping up at us, and even though their mouths are open, nothing’s coming out. I slide my arm right back around Char and pull her in close.

  “Guys,” I bellow into the silence, “this is Charlotte. But she prefers ‘Char.’ ”

  As Char wraps her arm around me, Zoo finally yells, “Great to meet you, Char! We’ve all heard so much about you!”

  36

  Teenage Waistland Redux

  Friday, September 4, 2009

  Char (−10 lbs)

  Bobby’s got his arm around my shoulder, and I have East on the other side, holding my hand. Marcie’s got my back—literally. She’s rubbing my neck like I’m a prizefighter entering the ring. We walk into the room, and all the kids abandon the circle and are around me hugging and laughing. Betsy stands and says, “Welcome back, Char!” and gives me a hug too. We return to the circle and everyone sits down, but Betsy gives me the signal and I remain standing. “Hi, everybody, I’m Char Newman, and I’m fifteen.”

  “Hi, Char!” Everyone cheers, and I take a deep breath.

  “I’ve been eating heavily for three years now, and it started—” East is smiling and nodding and Bobby’s squeezing my arm.

  I take another deep breath. And then I tell them everything.

  37

  The Fat Ladies Sing

  Friday, June 25, 2010

  East (−132 lbs.); Char (−84.7 lbs)

  “Mom?” I’m in the doorway of her bedroom, but her bed is neatly made, and she’s not in there. “Mom?” I call louder down the stairs. She could be right in the next room and not hear me through the din. It’s been like this for weeks—first plumbers, painters, carpenters, masons, and landscapers; now florists and catering people, all scurrying around and working on something that they have to bang on, drill through, knock down, or some other noisy thing. She practically redid the entire backyard just for the event—a lush sod lawn has replaced the brown weedy grass; the plant beds have been cleaned, pruned, and packed with white lilies, pink hollyhocks, and lavender; and an elegant bluestone patio now sits where the rotting wood deck used to be. “Moooooom,” I’m forced to scream at my lungs’ capacity. Finally, Mom pops her head out of the kitchen.

  “What is it, East? I’m on the phone. Crystal says to tell you that they’ll be picking you up in about half an hour.”

  “Why so soon? I’m not close to being ready!” I say, panic rising.

  She comes to the foot of the stairs. “Calm down, and tell me what you need. If it’s your hair dryer, it’s in my bathroom—mine’s been overheating, and I keep forgetting to pick up a new one while I’m out,” she says. Crystal is on hold on the phone in the kitchen and Mom is waiting at the foot of the steps to see if I need anything. If I need anything. The thought of this simple stupid thing chokes me up. Almost everything does these days.

  Mom’s ear to ear with smiles, even with all the work and chaos. That Julius is coming home to help deal with all his last-minute wedding details has put her—us—in a ridiculously happy state of anticipation. It’ll be the three of us alone for an entire week—and then his fiancée, Karina, and her family will descend, and we’ll finally have a huge extended family. Before that, though, I plan to have a long talk with Julius about Char. I was in the same pain he was, so how could I ever be angry or not understand what he was going through? But his guilt over what happened is probably what’s been keeping him so distant from me, and I need to be close to my brother again. The idea of having such an honest conversation would have terrified me once, but now that I’ve finally opened up to my mom, not only have I helped her with her issues but she’s helped me with mine.

  Mom’s bedroom gets the midafternoon sun, especially with the new curtains open. And with the new off-white-on-white color scheme, her room is so bright, it almost hurts. I head into her bathroom and spot my blow-dryer, its cord neatly wrapped around the handle, on top of the wicker hamper. But what really catches my eye is the digital scale on the floor next to it—Mom must have gotten it yesterday, immediately after I mentioned that I weighed a quarter pound less on the Park Avenue Bariatrics scale fully dressed than I did on our old scale naked. Mom and I have been doing weekly weigh-ins together since she started dieting with me last fall, and they still make me laugh out loud. Mom starts off by gently nudging the scale back and forth with her toe to get it into the exact right position. Then she mounts it like a surfboard, shifting her weight from one foot to the other to find the lowest reading. Another one of Jen’s universal rules encoded in fat cells: every ounce on the scale matters. Even when they’re the difference between 248.6 pounds and 247.8.

  I grab the blow-dryer and try to leave, but the lure of the new scale is too powerful to resist and it stops me at the doorway. I put the dryer back down, nudge the scale to where the floor’s most level with my big toe, and remove my bathrobe—it’s a light summer cotton, but 2.4 pounds
is 2.4 pounds. I take a deep breath and step onto the scale gently so as not to wake the higher numbers. The digits race back and forth as I take my hand off the sink and slowly release my full weight.

  “Holy Mother of Shroudness!” Char shrieks from over my shoulder. She grabs my arm to steady me as I almost go flying off the scale.

  “Char! Don’t sneak up on me like that! And I thought you weren’t picking me up for another half hour.” I pull my bathrobe in front of me even though I’ve got panties and a bra on.

  “Who’s sneaking? Your mom and I both called up to you—what’s making such a racket outside?”

  I shrug. My mind has been acclimated to hearing one sound in this house—it’s still learning to parse aggregate noise. “C’mon back to your room and get dressed,” Char orders. “I got you a surprise.”

  “You’ve surprised me enough for one day,” I mumble as I put on my robe and trot after her.

  There’s a box wrapped in Saks’ signature paper on my bed, and Char plops herself down next to it. “Go on, open,” she says.

  “Char—what is that? Why’d you get me a gift?”

  “Because it’s your very special day.”

  “It’s our special day, and I didn’t get you anything. Let me do my hair first before it dries funny.” I glance at Char in the mirror as I blow out my hair. She’s only lost about eighty-five pounds since her surgery last October, but she’s tall enough to carry the sixty extra pounds she’s got left and looks drop-dead gorgeous. Not gorgeous for a fat girl. Gorgeous for any girl—any woman. Of course, today, she and her cleavage are at full volume in a strapless close-fitting yellow sundress. I run the flat iron over my hair one final time—it’s silky and shiny, and finally reaches my lower back, but it’s jet black and covers almost half my body—a shroud indeed. I apply a bit of the anti-frizz smoothing serum Mom bought and turn to Char.