Life in the Fat Lane (3 page)

“Can’t she go on a diet or something?” Lisa asked, sucking hard on her cigarette.

“And do something about that hair?” Amber added.

“Y’all, please,” I said quietly. I hated it when they ragged on Molly, but I didn’t want to really yell at them or anything. Beauty queens are friendly, controlled, sweet, and soft-spoken at all times.

“Hey, I’m gonna call Denise,” I said, changing the subject. I pulled my address book out of my nightstand, looked up Denise’s number, and punched it into my phone.

It rang three times. Then a recording of Denise’s voice came on, telling me to leave a message.
Beep
.

“Denise, hi, it’s Lara. Listen, I’m so sorry you’re sick, and if there’s anything I can do for you, just call me, okay? Bye.”

“You are disgustingly nice, Lar,” Amber said, studying
a “before” photo of a girl with a huge nose. “The bitch gene just passed you by.” She held up the magazine for me. “Would you even be seen in public with this nose?”

“Smile, princess!”

It was my dad at the door of my room, aiming a video camera at me. Mom stood next to him. I put my hands over my face. “Daddy! You aren’t supposed to film us until after we get dressed. I’m all gross from my workout.”

“You look perfect, sweetheart,” he told me, grinning from behind the camera.

My father was, if anything, even more fantastic than my mother. He was tall and muscular, with thick brown hair and beautiful blue eyes. Even after hours spent sitting on a plane from Los Angeles, he looked perfect.

“So, how does it feel to know you’re about to be crowned homecoming queen of Forest Hills High?” he asked, the camera still pointed at me. “Your mom told me about Denise Reiser.”

“Daddy!” I protested. “I’m not even a senior, I’m not going to win.”

“Yeah, Patty Asher might win instead,” Lisa said, puffing her cheeks full of air at the video camera.

This cracked everyone up. Patty Asher was by far the fattest girl in our class.

“Hey, that would be like getting two queens in one,” Amber added gleefully.

“Y’all stop!” I pleaded, smiling to soften my words.

“It’s okay if you don’t win, princess,” he assured me. “As long as you do your best.”

“I know, Daddy,” I told him. That was what he and
Mom always said—just do your best. I couldn’t stand to disappoint them.

“So, Mr. Ardeche,” Amber said, smiling flirtatiously at the camera, “are you going to dance with me tonight?”

It was a school tradition that while the juniors and seniors celebrated homecoming in the gym, the alumni would party in giant tents out by the football field. Then, right before the queen and her court were announced, all the adults would pile into the gym with us for the coronation. Then the court would be presented at halftime during the football game the next afternoon.

“Hey, he’s my date,” Mom said playfully. “Get your own!” She hooked her arm through Dad’s and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Doesn’t it seem like just yesterday that I was queen, honey? It was so perfect, remember?”

“Sure do,” my father said. He smiled at me.

“It was the happiest night of my life,” my mother recalled softly. “They called my name …”

“And you cried and cried,” Amber said, taking over for my mother, since we had all heard this story so many times. “You had new silver high heels. Mr. Ardeche drank champagne out of one of them, and he swore he’d love you forever and that you’d get married as soon as you both graduated …”

“And we did,” my mother said. “Which just shows that sometimes you really can live happily ever after.” She gave my father a kiss. “Come on, honey, let’s let the girls get dressed. I want you all to myself.” She looked over at me and my friends as if we were her audience.

“Hey, come on,” my dad said jovially. “I just got off an airplane! Let me get a shower, at least!”

“We’ll take a shower together!” my mother suggested sexily, her eyes half closed. “Just remember, girls, these are perks you don’t get to enjoy until
after
you’re married.” She hugged my father close.

“Lara, you have the greatest shower,” Molly began as she came out of my bathroom, “but your towel won’t even wrap around my—”

Molly stopped midsentence when she saw my dad.

“Omigod!” she yelped.

For some reason she panicked and spun around, as if her not seeing us would mean that we couldn’t see her, either. We were treated to the sight of a sopping wet Molly, half wrapped in my pink towel, one fat thigh and one butt cheek half peeking out from the place where the towel didn’t quite come together.

“My eyes were shut, Mol,” my dad called to her as she banged the bathroom door closed. Then he winked at me.

“Now, how gross was
that
?” Lisa asked under her breath.

I gave her another look.

“I was only kidding,” she repeated as always.

“Hey, what’s for dinner?” my brother, Scott, age thirteen, asked from the doorway.

“You haven’t seen your dad in three days and all you can say is ‘what’s for dinner’?” Mom shook her head at him.

“Hi,” Scott mumbled. He carried his skateboard under his arm. Even in dirty, oversized clothes, he was unbelievably cute. All Scott cared about was skateboarding and listening to the Grateful Dead. Everything about him drove my father crazy.

“Hey, buddy,” Dad said, hugging Scott, who suffered
through the embrace. “You take care of your mom and your sister while I was gone, big guy?”

Scott rolled his eyes and stepped out of Dad’s embrace.

“I asked you a question, son.”

“Yeah, well, it was a stupid question—”

“Don’t start, you two—” Mom began.

“I’m not the one who starts—”

“That’s enough,” Dad told him sharply. He smiled at us so that we’d know he wasn’t mad at anyone except my slacker baby brother. “It’s Lara’s big night and nothing is going to spoil it, right, son?”

“Whatever,” Scott mumbled.

“Well, all I have to say is: the Ardeche men are really proud of our beauty queen,” Dad said heartily.

“Beauty
queens
,” my mother added gaily.

“God, gag me,” Scott muttered.

Dad turned on him. “What was that, son?”

“Nothing. Forget it.” Scott turned around and disappeared down the hallway.

“What is his problem?” Dad asked Mom, running his hand through his hair in exasperation.

“He’s thirteen, that’s all,” Mom said.

“And he’s turning into a total fox,” Lisa added.

Mom laughed. “I guess he takes after his father.”

“I’ll say.” Lisa gave my dad another flirtatious look.

Mom gripped Dad’s arm more tightly and checked her watch. “The guys are arriving with the limo in two hours, so we’ll meet you downstairs then to take videos. And meanwhile, don’t disturb us, because I haven’t seen my handsome husband in three days, and we’ll be busy.” She began to pull him comically from the room.

“Save a dance for your old man tonight, princess!”

“I will!” I called after him.

“I will, too!” Lisa added. She sighed and lay back on my bed. “Lara, your father is to die for.”

“Hey, Mol,” I said, tapping on the bathroom door. “You can come out now.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she called back. “I’m thinking about spending the rest of my life in here. It’s cozy.”

“Can you even imagine being married to a guy that fine?” Lisa asked dreamily.

“He’s
old
, Lis!” Amber exclaimed.

Molly opened the door, wearing the same sweats she’d had on before. “Tell me the truth. How much could he see?”

“Brad Pitt is old, too, but I wouldn’t kick either of ’em out of bed,” Lisa said.

“My butt?” Molly asked. “Just tell me if he could actually see my butt.”

“He didn’t see anything, Mol, I promise,” I told her.

I lifted my sweatshirt over my head and dropped it into the clothes hamper. “Y’all, do you really, truly think I have a chance? Tell me the truth.”

Lisa sat up. She and Amber traded glances. “Look,” Amber began, “everyone knows you’re the most popular girl in the entire school. If you were still with Danny, everyone would vote for you and you’d beat Amy, but—I’m just being honest because I love you—without Danny, it’s a total long shot.”

Lisa nodded her agreement. Molly shrugged.

“Well, that’s okay,” I said lightly, ignoring the bubble of disappointment that welled up in my stomach. Pageant queens never show their disappointment. They are gracious losers, always.

“Maybe I’ll win next year,” I added. “Anyway, let’s
just have a blast tonight, okay?” I went into the bathroom.

As I turned on the shower I refused to let disappointment about homecoming queen get the best of me. After all, everything in my life was utterly, totally wonderful.

The only thing that could possibly make it any better would be if, by some incredible miracle, my friends were wrong and I somehow actually won homecoming queen.

Then it would be perfect.

“D
id I tell you how great you look?” Jett asked me. I was in his arms, swaying to the music of a hot local alternative band, the Sex Puppets. The skinny, flat-chested lead singer had sexy, kohl-rimmed eyes, purple lipstick, and multicolored hair with two-inch black roots. Her cheeks, nose, and eyebrow were pierced. She wore a stretchy top that read
ANARCHY
, a tiny polyester miniskirt, and combat boots.

In contrast, I had on a pale peach satin dress that bared my shoulders and dipped low in the back. Diamond studs sparkled in my ears. My hair was twisted off my face with a slender peach-colored ribbon.

“Hey, did you see Amy?” Amber asked, dancing near us with her boyfriend, Blake Poole. “She keeps looking over at you. You’ve really got her nervous!”

“She doesn’t have anything to be nervous
about
,” I replied.

“Let’s hope she does,” Molly said loyally. She was standing near us, swaying by herself to the music. Her boyfriend, Andy, had gone off somewhere with some of his wrestling teammates awhile earlier.

The girl with the pierced cheek screamed and moaned into the microphone.

“I’m definitely getting my nose pierced,” Molly said, watching the girl onstage sing.

“You would,” Amber said, rolling her eyes.

Jett deliberately danced me away from my friends, his arms tightening around my waist. “Much better,” he murmured, gazing down at me. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Jett laughed. “Interesting lyrics for a love ballad.”

I smiled and leaned my head on his shoulder.
Love ain’t nothin’ but a hot, wet dream
. That sounded so sexy. And dangerous. Kind of like Jett. I moved closer to him.

“Hi, Lara.”

I opened my eyes. It was Danny Fairway.

He might have been my ex, but he was still so handsome that he took my breath away. He looked like a younger, blonder, better-looking Andre Agassi. And like Andre, Danny was a tennis player—the number one singles on the school tennis team. He was also Mr. Everything:
junior-class president, great grades, church youth-group leader. Everyone loved Danny. Even my parents. I would look at him and I would think: Our life together will be perfect, just like Mom and Dad’s.

I never, ever thought we would break up. But at the beginning of the summer Danny had started really pressuring me to have sex. I had always known I wanted to be madly in love the first time I made love, and one day I looked at Danny and I thought: No. You’re not the one.

How can you explain something like that?

But still, I didn’t break up with him. I liked him a lot, I didn’t want to hurt him, and I didn’t want him to be mad at me.

So we just went on. And maybe we would have gone on forever if it hadn’t been for Jett.

Jett and I had discovered each other in July, when three generations of my family had gone on vacation, compliments of my rich grandfather, to Sea Pines, this ritzy resort on Hilton Head Island, off the coast of South Carolina. I had a sexy new white bikini, and right after we’d checked in, I put it on and went to the beach.

By pure chance Jett Anston, who was a year ahead of me at Forest Hills High, was a summer lifeguard there.

We had seen each other around school, but we didn’t know each other, exactly. I knew
about
him, though. Jett’s move to Nashville the year before had been reported in
The Tennessean
. Not because of him. Because of his mother, Anastasia Anston, the sculptor. Her famous piece,
Embrace
, a huge marble abstract of a mother, father, and baby, was in the permanent collection at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. Now she was artist-in-residence at Vanderbilt University.

Jett was an artist, too. I had seen his watercolor that
had won the Metro schools art contest—a homeless man playing a battered guitar as a plain little girl looked up at a huge billboard of gorgeous Shania Twain.

I’d never met anyone like Jett before. He wore his self-confidence like an old shirt: comfortable, a perfect fit, no need to impress anyone. He had a ponytail—
all
the other guys I knew had cut theirs short. He wore cowboy boots—every other guy wore sneakers or work boots.