Teenage Waistland (12 page)

“What about your
relationship
with food?” Char bursts in, elongating the word
relationship
the way Bitsy does. Before Bitsy can jump on her for interrupting, Michelle chimes in.

“Yeah—how’s
that
relationship working for you?”

Jen laughs and waves her tiny arm like she’s casting something aside. “Oh, that relationship is long over. It’s not gratifying anymore. I just eat because I need to—for energy and nutrition.”

Bitsy nods. “So, would you agree that you now have a
healthy
relationship with food?”

“Of course. That’s what I just said. Unless
healthy
and
ungratifying
are only synonymous in
my
thesaurus?” Jen and I look at each other and bust out laughing. Bitsy’s smile tightens and I elbow Jen to stop.

“Jennifer,” Bitsy says, “I have one more question before I turn the Q and A over to the group. The dramatic change in your eating must have been difficult to cope with in social situations, especially among your peers—most teens who get weight loss surgery prefer not to let others know about it.
Can you describe what that was like—were you self-conscious, and how did others react?”

Jen leans forward. “Dr. Glass, I’m not sure you’ve ever been told this, but I’m guessing you have never struggled with your weight. Because there are some unspoken rules among those of us who have fought the good fight—a sort of universal code embedded in the fat cell itself. Most fat people eat the same or less in social settings that involve nonfat people. Never more. By a show of hands, who’s with me on this?” Bitsy shakes her head as the eleven of us raise our hands and wave them at her.

“Okay, put ’em down.” Jen says. “One exception to the rule: your BFF isn’t a porker, but she loves you just as you are, even when you’re chowing big-time.” Jen elbows me and continues. “Any other exceptions to the rule?” Hands start flying again and Jen points to Char.

“You’re with your
porker
chub-buddy, say, and you’re seated in the back of a restaurant—
not
the school cafeteria. As long as no one is within eyeshot of your table, you can eat normally. Or—more accurately—
abnormally
.” Char takes a mini bow and we all applaud.

“Anything else?” Jen asks.

“My dad and my brother aren’t big eaters, and I don’t mind pigging out in front of them,” drawls Jamie, this Southern girl.

“Okay, good. Family. Raise your hand next time. Anything else?” Coco, who’s sitting on my left, flaps her jelly arm right in my face so Jen can see it. I brush it away.

“Okay, Coco,” I say. “This’d better be good since you nearly gave me a bloody nose.” Jen nods and Coco gives me the thumbs-up.

“For medical or medicinal purposes!” she shouts triumphantly—like she’s a contestant on
Family Feud
and she’s sure she’s got the number-one answer. There’s not a face in the room without
WTF?
written all over it, but Jen keeps it gracious.

“Interesting. Elaborate,” she says.

Coco shakes her head like
we’re
dense. “You know, if you’re sick. Like when I had my tonsils taken out. I was in a hospital room with three regular-sized kids, but I was able to keep asking the nurse for more ice cream because my throat hurt so much.” Naturally, everyone is dumbfounded, but this moron is looking right over me for confirmation from Jen, so it’s taking every strand of decency in my DNA to keep from laughing, and the silence is killing me.
Please! Somebody say something.…

“That’s ridiculous,” Tia, our Planet Pierce Observer, finally sneers—and Coco’s hopeful smile evaporates.

“No, Coco—that’s so totally valid,” Char interjects. “C’mon, everybody. I bet there’s not a person here who’s never taken advantage of a sore throat to get extra cough drops. Or complained that a vaccination shot in the doctor’s office hurt more than it did to get another lollipop or two.”

“Once, when the urchin next door pummeled me especially badly, his mother baked me a chocolate cake?” Geek Olive offers meekly.

“And Char—remember when I was so upset you couldn’t hang out for almost a week after your appendectomy that you bought me a huge bag of M&M’S?” East adds. Coco smiles gratefully at her.

Bitsy, who has quietly observed this interchange, claps loudly to get our attention. “Okay, gang. We’ve veered off
into comfort eating—another topic for another day. We’re talking about Jennifer’s experience with food restriction. Jennifer, going back to your ‘rule,’ it’s not as if you can eat even the
same
as thin people in a social situation. Fact is, you’re not able to consume much at all, so even eating less than small eaters in a social setting creates a problem, which I was hoping you would honestly address for the group. In other words, if you’re able to consume only a few bites of solid food at a meal, how can this not have caused issues in your social eating?”

Jen’s smirk melts and she looks down at her fresh French manicure and slowly shakes her head as she shrugs.

“I’ve always been uncomfortable in social activities involving food—except now I’m involved in more social situations than I was before. I still order as much food as everyone else and I mostly push the food around on my plate. Still, it’s a little uncomfortable and weird to not be able to even pick at your plate ‘normally.’ And until I lost half my body, everyone probably assumed I must be bingeing at home. Like most addicts, I’ve always tried to hide my addiction, so hiding the fact that I have a Lap-Band, well—I’m still a professional hider.” Everyone’s staring at Jen, riveted—even me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so vulnerable before. Bitsy’s nodding her head slowly. Jen’s still examining her nails when there’s a rap on the door and someone unmistakably related to Geek Olive sticks a neckless head in.

“I’m sorry—it’s past six and we need—”

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” Bitsy says, all flustered. “We’re out of time, everyone. Let’s thank Jennifer for sharing her Lap-Band experience with us, and remember—holiday or not, keep up with your food diaries.”

Jen leans against my shoulder and whispers, “Saved by the beach ball.”

“C’mon, let’s blow this Popsicle stand before everyone starts asking for your autograph,” I whisper back as everyone gets up. “Where’s this
friend
of yours who drove you all the way from Boston?”

“Oh, that’s Tom,” Jen giggles in this suddenly alien, vomity, girly voice. “He just dropped me off and went back home.” I stare at the tiny miniskirted girl with the breast implants and puffed-up lips who’s now engulfed in a crowd of fawning fatties, and I’ve never felt more alone in my entire life—this isn’t
my
Jen. It’s a complete stranger.

The crowd evaporates toward the door and Jen emerges with her trademark
WTF
eye roll. “If that’s Rich Ronny’s limo I saw out front, we’d better hustle,” a familiar voice says sharply. “That girl just invited me to her quince party. Get me out of here before someone asks me to marry them.” And just like that, the world goes back to normal.

Jen’s telling me about her new fitness column in the
Fuller Review
and rifling through the minibar when Carlo turns right on Seventy-second Street instead of left.

“Shoot me now!” I moan, and slump down into my seat. Jen whips out her finger gun and fires a round off at my head. “Maybe he just took a wrong turn,” I say, then undo my seat belt and hop across the limo and rap on Carlo’s window—just as he pulls in front of Gran’s apartment building. “Ugh!” I scream. Jen fakes terror and grabs a bottle of Dewar’s and pretends to suck it down.

“Oh my God—remember that time your gran came with us to the Cape that weekend? The three of us were crammed in the backseat of your dad’s Saab—her in the middle—and she kept telling me what a pretty face I had? Like for the whole ride?”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Granspeak for ‘You’re a fat slob, Jen.’ ”

“Not the subtlest person I ever met. Must be where you get it from.” Jen laughs, and I lean over and whack her.

“Well, at least you won’t be in the hot seat this time.” I hop back to Jen’s side of the limo and buckle up as Carlo opens the door for Gran—
and her luggage
. The whole weekend? Jen and I glance at each other as Gran daintily steps into the car and gently seats herself in the middle seat across from us.

“Oh my goodness, Jenny! Every time I see you, you get more and more beautiful,” she rasps, and puts out her cheek for Jen to air-kiss. I’m thumbing through my idiot food diary as if it’s my favorite novel.

“Hello, darling,” Gran says to me expectantly, but I don’t do air-kisses and her lipstick is the kind that stays on the victim’s cheek, not on her artificially plumped lips. She quickly turns her attention back to Jen. “You must be fighting them off with a stick,” she says, shaking her head admiringly. Jen freaking
blushes
.

“Well, I have to say, Mrs. Lipsky—there are a couple of guys …” Jen says a little too giddily—she’s
inviting
conversation rather than our standard
whatever it takes to shut that woman down
.

“Jen and I were just talking about the new column she’s been invited to write for our—her—school paper,” I try, but it’s more to myself than anyone. Jen is already gushing on
about her new Boston–to–New York shuttle guy, and when she realizes I’m not listening, she gives her attention completely to Gran, and I throw myself back into my food diary for the duration.

Jen shows up in my room at least fifteen minutes after we get home—long enough for me to curl up on my bed and pretend to be absorbed in a random book from the top of my library pile. “What’s with you, girl? I have to say hello to your family, don’t I?” She drops her bag on the floor and jumps onto the bed with me. “You know, you’re going to be a lot happier once you lose weight, Marce.”

“Really? Will I be getting all sorts of cosmetic surgery too? Because then I’ll be extra
extra
happy, right? Just like you.”

Jen elbows me and sighs. “I like feeling good about myself for a change.”

“But Jen, if you feel the need for plastic surgery on top of being thin, how good about yourself can you really feel?”

“Okay, Marcie, I’ll tell you what happened, and then we’re going to drop it, because your attempt at dime-store psychology pretty much sucks. When I lost all the weight, I had lots of extra skin that had to be removed. So, while I was under anesthesia, I had a couple of other things done too. Anybody would.” My mouth flies open. I turn over to lift the bottom of Jen’s shirt to look for scars, but she slaps my hand and I turn away from her again.

“You know, Jen,” I mutter, “kids typically don’t need excess skin removed after major weight loss, because their skin is more elastic than adults’ and it bounces back in time.
I guess you just couldn’t wait. And that’s why you didn’t bother to tell me.”

“You’ll understand when you get here.” Jen sighs. “It feels nice, not being angry at the world anymore. The world, like your grandmother, is nicer to
me
—fair or not fair. Everyone just treats me differently now, and so I treat them differently. You’ll see. Soon enough, we’ll
both
be giggling about boys—and deconstructing the universe as usual. Starting when we’re roommates at Harvard and ending when, well, when we’re way past your crazy grandmother’s age.” Jen leans her head against mine on my pillow and we lie like this until Abby calls us down to dinner.

Syosset clears out for the summer. Kids do teen tours, work at sleepaway camps, and take classes on college campuses. I don’t do stuff like this. My parents would let me and all. I just don’t like the idea of living with other kids. I’ve never liked sleepovers, even at Zoo’s, where we mostly hang out. Up until a few of us got our driver’s license, I was the only one who didn’t crash at his palace. But Dad was cool about picking me up late. Usually about the same time Zoo would buzz Oswaldo on his intercom and order more fettuccine Alfredo or O’s signature
taquitos
. “
Rápido
, dude!” Zoo would yell. He’s not a jerk, though. It’s just the way he’s grown up. Zoo’s parents are like billionaires or something; his dad is some international financial whiz. So O is like their cook and he thinks we have this special fat-guy bond.