Moore To Love (2 page)

When I return to bitchface she’s staring at herself in the vanity mirror, admiring my work. She likes it. I can tell. Usually when a client is unhappy they avoid the mirror after the first glance. She’s turning her head to see her makeup at every angle. I might not look like her but that doesn’t mean I’m not good at what I do.

“Um, you sure you don’t want to keep it? If
you
like it, that’s what matters. Don’t settle for less just to impress your man.” I don’t know what’s come over me or why I’m being so persistent but it has to have something to do with the irony of the situation. She’s drop dead gorgeous, with or without makeup, and yet here she is worried about looking the way her boyfriend prefers. If she’s not secure in her own skin, how can someone like me ever be?

She takes one more look, focusing her attention on the beautiful mixture of colors I’ve applied to her eyes. I expect her to storm out of my chair and demand a refund or another makeup artist, but to my surprise, she smiles and says, “You know what? You’re right. It does look pretty awesome, if you ask me. Continue. I’m sorry I was such a bitch.”

And with that, my faith in humanity is restored. It’s not every day someone who looks like her is as nice on the inside as they are on the eyes. I smile back and keep on with my bad self and my mad cosmetology skills.

“Mom, Dad, Leni? You guys here?” My brother, Reynold, bursts through my parents’ house, bellowing like, well, like Reynold. He’s always making an entrance, no matter what the event. Today just happens to be any other ordinary Sunday dinner, but in true Reynold style he stumbles in like Cosmo Kramer and steals the attention of everyone around him.

“My baby boy!” Mom runs over to him and squeezes his cheeks. They’re covered in dark, prickly scruff. He’s been growing out his beard and taking the whole men-with-hair-do-it-better movement by the balls. I can’t blame him; it totally suits him. He’s really good looking and, geez, does he know it.

“Smells good, Ma. What time’s dinner?” He beelines it to the stove and lifts the lid off the big pot to take a peek.

Mom scurries over and slaps his hand. “Leave it! And don’t touch the bread. Your sister already ate half a loaf. Save some for dinner.”

“Leni, I thought you were doing the no carb thing. What happened, babe?” Reynold sits next to me at the kitchen table, kissing my round cheek and punching me in the arm.

“I tried but carbs make me happy. Sorry not sorry.”

“No, Leni! Carbs are the enemy. I gave you the list of the good ones. Come on! We’ve been over this a million times. Cut them out and you’ll see a huge difference.”

Leave it to my younger, in shape, muscular brother, to try to school me in the weight loss department. I know he means well and he has a point, but I’m not in the mood. “Can we not today? Please? For once? I just want to enjoy my pasta and my loaf of bread and be left alone.” I had a rough morning—as in I ripped a pair of my favorite leggings pulling them up over my bubble butt—and I’m in desperate need of food therapy. Believe me, I know how ridiculous that sounds, but fuck off.

“Suit yourself, but you’ll want to up your game
soon
,” he sings, wiggling in his chair like he used to when he was a kid with an entertaining story to tell.

“And why’s that?” I prod, wondering what the hell he’s up to.

“Where’s Dad? I wanted to wait for dinner to tell you guys, but I’m too excited.”

“In the living room watching the game.
Dad!
Come in here, the Golden Child has news!” I holler in the direction of the den, envisioning Dad’s huff as he hauls himself off the couch.

My father enters the kitchen, rubbing his beer belly. “This better be good. The Jets are finally coming back. Josie, can you grab me another cold one?”

My mom does as asked—good Italian wife that she is—and then joins us at the table to pet and adore her wonderful son. “So, what’s up, Rey?”

“Yeah, what does any of your news have to do with me abandoning my beloved carbs?” I ask, curiosity eating away at me.
I wish it would eat away ten pounds while it’s at it.

“This!” Reynold pulls a black, velvet box from his pocket and slams it down on the table. He opens the square with a tiny squeak and a two-carat, princess cut diamond ring glistens under the light of Mom’s Tiffany chandelier like a Baby-Jesus-in-the-manger miracle.

Mom gasps. “Oh, my baby boy! How wonderful! When? How? What can I cook?”

I shake my head. Now do you see why my life revolves around food? My mother’s had a menu set in her head for everything from our baptisms to the day I got my first period.

“Calm your buns, Ma. I haven’t figured out how I’m going to ask her yet, but I’ll probably do it tonight. I can’t hold on to this thing knowing it’s not on her finger.” My brother’s face beams with happiness. Reynold’s been dating his girlfriend, Ashley, for three years now. I’m certain she was designed with my brother in mind. Not only are they perfect for each other, but she fits in with our family, too. We all love her. She’s a doll—like a real, live, blow up doll. Not the slutty kind, the flawless from head to toe kind. No, Ashley’s gorgeous, sexy, smart, refined. I want to hate her for it, but I can’t because she’s the sister I never had. Besides Tatum, of course.

I jump up and throw my arms around my brother. “Wow, Rey! This is amazing! I’m so happy for you!” I truly am. I don’t have one jealous bone in my body. I mean, it’s completely normal for your younger brother to tie the knot before you do. It’s absolutely acceptable for your parents to dote on him and his soon-to-be fiancé as if the sun rises and sets in their beauty. It’s positively okay that I’ll be forced to jam my ass into a couture bridesmaid gown.

Reality sets in. That jealousy I swore I didn’t feel creeps up on me, too. “Hey, Ma. No pasta for me today, okay?”

Reynold nudges me with his burly shoulder and chuckles. “That’s my girl! I’m proud of you!”

And just like that, I start my one millionth crash diet, praying that this time something will keep me going and magically melt the pounds away.

HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT
the many excruciating weight loss journeys of Madeline Moore? No? Oh boy! Pull up a chair. This is gonna be fun.

When I was twelve, my parents sent me to Fat Camp. Yes. It exists. Lake Wanna-Losa-Poundsa. Okay, I’m joking about the name, but not about the torture I endured. Drill sergeant-like camp counselors who count calories and track your cardio minutes. Mean girls taunting you even though their triple chins far surpass your double chin. Horny, pre-pubescent boys eager to get their hands on chubby titties and jiggly asses. It. Was. A. Nightmare. I still hold a grudge against my parents for sending me, even if it was just one summer. That one summer scarred me for life. This one time, at Fat Camp . . .

Yeah, I survived and lived to laugh about it, but that was the year I realized that my size was an issue. Up until that point, I’d been okay with being the bigger girl. Tatum was a string bean and I was a . . .
potato.
There was nothing wrong with that. In fact, string bean and red potato salad is scrumptious with some olive oil and balsamic vinegar. However, it was the year when the great divide happened. The pretty girls vs. the not pretty girls. Tatum fell effortlessly into the first category; curly blond hair, dainty turned-up nose, chestnut colored eyes, and a tiny, perky body. Because of my portliness, I settled in comfortably on the
other
side of the tracks.

It wasn’t blatant. The boys hung around me because I was good at sports and had a funny sense of humor, and although they always called me cute, I
was
chubby. That alone landed me in the reject pile. Along with Caroline Hartnett and her mouth full of braces and Helen Chaney who was notorious for showering once a month, when it came time for spin the bottle, the boys prayed they didn’t get stuck with me. Whatever. I was a late bloomer. I couldn’t care less about how boys felt or didn’t feel about me. Then. But once I was home from Fat Camp . . . let’s just say, I’d seen the light.

Years after that fiasco, in high school, I tried out for the part of Juliet in our school’s performance of, yup, you guessed it, Romeo and Juliet. I was more than fit for the part. A true Shakespeare nerd at her finest, I could recite that poetic work of art like it was nobody’s business. Our chorus director had written a few original songs to bring the play up to date, and my angelic singing voice—to quote Mrs. Lopez, herself—was practically tailored to every note in every song.

After my own stellar audition, Anthony Ricciardelli, the tenth grade stud, aced his tryout and was chosen as Romeo on the spot. He was a shoe-in; it wasn’t a surprise. Every teacher in the school knew him, loved him, and treated him like an Adonis. In turn, every girl in the school did the same. So when Anthony became our Romeo, it was common knowledge that he would have first pick of his Juliet. The obvious choice should have been me. As I said before, my audition rocked. But, in true fat-girl-loses-every-time fashion, he chose Rebecca Grady—tall, blonde, skinny, and with as much talent as a cardboard box. I later heard locker room gossip that Anthony refused to work alongside the fat chick with the pretty voice.

It was heartbreaking, like everything at that age is. I wanted to crawl under a rock and die.
After
I devoured a box of Twinkies. Anthony Ricciardelli thought I was fat so that meant the whole school would agree like sheep following a teenage boy’s herd.

I remember staring in the mirror in my bedroom, crying. With a package of Yodels in one hand and the garbage pail in the other, I vowed to myself that I would try. I was pretty. I was talented. I had plenty of friends. The only thing stopping me was my weight. The very next day, I went to the corner drug store and grabbed the first diet pills I could find off the shelf. The young clerk sold them to me without question. I assumed he agreed with my decision.
Fat girl needs to lose weight. Fine by me.

But it wasn’t fine. At all. The pills curbed my hunger, but made my heart race. I lost ten pounds in a week and the same day I got on the scale to relish in my achievement, I passed out in gym class because I was dehydrated and starving. Talk about drama. My mother almost killed me after they brought me back to life, and my brother was mortified. Only a year younger than me, we shared the same school and similar cliques. Word spread that Reynold’s sister had overdosed on Sibutramine, and while most couldn’t even pronounce the word, it was gossip.
Negative
gossip. My own brother refused to be seen with me for the rest of his entire freshman year. Yeah, good times.