Читать книгу Fat Girl On A Plane - Kelly deVos - Страница 14

FAT: Two days before NutriNation (two seats take me to New York)

Here’s why people are fat. Losing weight is hard. Really fucking hard.

Two peanut butter cups equal forty-five minutes on the treadmill. So enjoy. And start running your ass off.

Let’s say you smoke two packs a day. You get sick of being winded when you climb up a flight of stairs and those commercials that show the guy cleaning the hole in his throat really start to get to you. So, what happens next?

Take your pick from any one of about a thousand free hotlines you can call. There’s lozenges, inhalers and patches to help you quit. If you have decent health insurance, your doctor might hook you up with some Chantix.

Need to lose weight?

You’re on your own. And most of the world is working against you.

They play food commercials on TV 24/7. They make you watch spinning golden french fries while you’re trying to run off that candy bar. The stereotypical date consists of dinner and a movie. All holidays and parties end with cake or pie.

I finally land in New York a little before 10:00 p.m. I’ve gotten one step closer to meeting Gareth Miller and seeing LaChapelle. While I wait for the airport shuttle, I call Tommy. His Lego events go on forever and there’s a ton of downtime. He picks up on the first ring. We talk about the plane.

“I really think you’re oversimplifying things,” he says. “People aren’t fat because of peanut butter cups.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “Because if they were, we could load all the peanut butter cups on a rocket and blast it to the moon.”

He continues as if he hasn’t heard me. “Some people have medical problems. Some people have tried diets and they haven’t worked. And some people are happy the way they are.”

I know he’s right. But what about right now?

“You think juice cleanses work?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I guess,” he says. “But that’s not a great long-term plan. I mean, how long could you possibly survive on juice?” There’s a pause. “My mom’s doing NutriNation. You could try that.”

“You think I should? You want me to be your supermodel?”

He sighs. In the background I can hear Korean pop music and the whir of the high-pitched engines Tommy and his geek friends attach to the Lego cars they build. “I don’t want you to be anything. I want you to be happy.” There’s another pause. “You remember Fairy Falls?”

I snort. Of course I do. That’s where we became friends. The fat camp with an idiotic name where we both spent two Christmas breaks.

“Doesn’t it bother you at all that your parents dumped you like a sack of old clothes in Duck Lake, Wyoming?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “And that’s my point. I know your mom—”

“My mom treats me like I’m a pair of designer jeans that are too baggy,” I say.

“I know. I know.” He’s getting impatient and talking faster so that I can’t interrupt. “That’s the whole point. You keep letting your mom tell you how you’re gonna feel about yourself. Fat camp wasn’t all that bad. If it weren’t for Fairy Falls, we probably wouldn’t be friends. We can thank our parents for that.”

“Thanks for the analysis, Dr. Phil, but I’m not letting my mom tell me how to feel. I just don’t want to be like her. That’s all,” I say.

“Eating a banana or cracking a smile now and again won’t make you vapid and self-centered,” he says. “But you keep punching yourself in the face and hoping your mom will get a black eye.”

“It just seems so unfair,” I say.

“Cookie, some snotty girl on a plane isn’t a reason to come down on yourself.” His goofy, boyish grin transmits even through the phone. “I like you the way you are.”

I smile in spite of myself, even though I secretly think he’d like me more if I looked more like my mom.

As the shuttle pulls up to the curb, I hang up and shimmy my way into the back of the van. It’s not easy getting back there, but I know it’s the best way to avoid dirty looks from other passengers.

I think of Tommy as I watch the yellow streetlights pass. I try to remember the exact moment that I knew I wanted to be more than friends and the exact moment when it occurred to me how impossible that is.

It’s my first time in New York.

Even the buildings are tall and thin.

“You going to the Continental Hotel?” the driver calls from the front.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Sorry. That place is a dump.” He chuckles as a man slides into the front seat.

I close my eyes and imagine that I’ll open them to a whole new world.

We drive.