Teenage Waistland (19 page)

“How ’bout you?” I say. “What’s your true fat-girl story? It’s not really that Mario’s thing—which was so freaking funny!”

Char stops in front of a Georgian-style brick monstrosity. Her eyes are red and her expression so un-Charlike that I immediately regret being so glib.

“I guess I starting gaining all my weight about three years ago too, but it’s really horrible. And so complicated. I wish I could tell you everything—really, Marcie, I do. But there are other people involved and I can’t.” Char turns away to hide her face and her shoulders are shaking. I don’t know what to do, like whether I should put my arm around her or just give her space. When Jen would try to comfort me about the crap going down at my house, it made it harder to hold in. So I just say, “Char?” in a soft voice.

Char puts her hand up. “Don’t,” she sniffles. “I’m fine. I—I just can’t go there right now, okay?”

“Sure,” I say. I’m dying to press for info, but I manage to just stand quietly and watch her. She’s wearing a turquoise top over white capris, and it strikes me that Char is three times Liselle’s size, but maybe even prettier. Char’s “Don’t
Stop Believin’ ” ringtone suddenly starts blaring. She pulls her phone out of her pocket, sighs loudly, and sends the caller to voice mail. Then she turns back toward me and wipes her eyes with her sleeve. “Damn, Marcie. If I wanted to be depressed, I’d go hang with the Shroudmeister.”

She hooks her arm in mine and we start walking again. My stomach is bouncing and hurting like hell, but we’re women on a mission and can’t be undone by our little melodramas.

I’m eyeing the huge platters of food wrapped in colorful cellophane spread out all over the kitchen countertops when Liselle prances in fresh from the salon. Her blond hair has been highlighted almost all the way to platinum. And her makeup looks professionally done—the smudged charcoal eyeliner is perfect on her. She looks glamorous and way older.

“Marcie, you’re so right about your sister. She’s gorgeous,” Char says loudly. She waves at Liselle. “Hi, I’m Char. Congrats!” Benedict freaking Charnold! Most people hold off at least two seconds before dropping to their knees to kiss Liselle’s feet, but Char just set a record.

“Aren’t you sweet! Pleasure to meet you,” Liselle coos, all sugary. Then she turns to me and says, in the same voice, “Where’s Mom?”

“
Abby
is—I don’t know. You freaking find her,” I mutter, hardly audible. I don’t want to be a jerk in front of Char, but Liselle’s “Mom” act makes me ballistic. I used to think she just called Abby “Mom” to freak me out, but she’s “Moming”
my
mother to death even when she’s on speaker with Abby and doesn’t know I’m right there listening.

Liselle snatches a carrot stick from under the cellophane, waves it at Char, and walks out. “Mom?” I hear her call as she moves through the house. Mounds of sheer decadence surround us—marzipan cookies, éclairs, cream-filled pastries, etc.—and Liselle goes straight for the
veggies
. The veggies and my mother. WTF.

“Marcie,” Char chides, “you’re not getting with the program. You don’t want Liselle to think you’re out to get her tonight, right? Play nice and let the dildo do the talking.” It’s so hard to be pissed at Char. She’s so funny it literally hurts.

“Abby got us some fresh chicken broth from the deli. I guess that’s about all we can have,” I say. Char also can’t take her eyes off the platters.

“Just heartbreaking,” she sighs.

Char and I are totally not hanging out at Liselle’s party, but we are sort of stalking it. This thing is a monster, and impossible to avoid. It’s spread out on the patio, the covered porch overlooking the patio, and the living room with its wall of French doors opening out onto the porch. There are a few jokers in the pool—males, of course. But this ain’t no pool party—everyone is so coiffed to the hilt, I’m half expecting Paris Hilton to show up.

When Abby isn’t schmoozing with the guests or hammering the caterers, she’s hanging out behind Liselle like her fucking handmaiden, smoothing her top or holding her drink whenever Liselle goes to hug another fan. It strikes me that
Abby could pass for Liselle’s real mother. They’re both blond, fine-featured, and a hundred percent fat free. And very pretty, even if in a high-maintenance way. Ronny is walking around patting everyone on the back and laughing at every stupid thing. He’s dark like me and has a paunch (smaller than mine). I wonder how many people think I belong to him.

Liselle’s gifts are in a huge haphazard pile on the dining-room table, but Char and I managed to situate the dildo—spectacularly wrapped in heavy high-gloss cream-colored paper, with a pale green taffeta bow—right on top, like the happy couple on a wedding cake. But the hours are ticking by, Char and I are so tired we’re ready to pass out, and the unwrapping ceremony has yet to take place. Finally, when Liselle brushes past me in the hallway on the way to the bathroom, I call her name. She turns around and smiles.

“Marcie, baby. Char, baby. How goes it?” She’s drunk, real shocker. Kids obviously snuck in the booze, but I have the fleeting impulse to call the police and report Abby for serving alcohol to minors—an even faster ticket back to Boston than the dildo. The thing is, with Jill in the picture and Jen out of it, Boston looks different.

“Great part—” Char tries to gush, but I cut her off at the pass.

“We were just wondering when you’re going to open your gifts,” I say as sweetly as my DNA will allow.

Liselle smiles dreamily. “Sometime tomorrow, probably.” But she must catch my
kill me now, God
expression, because she straightens up and adds, “What kind of party do you think this is?”

“Did you order the Cream of Wheat?” I call over the TV. It’s eleven a.m. and I’m lying in bed. I check my phone again—Char still hasn’t texted. She, my
supposed
best friend, probably stayed up late with Marcie.

“Mom? Did you place the order?” I yell again. She said she was going to do it online last night, but I probably should have done it myself. Though I don’t see why I should be the one to order all the groceries when I’m mostly on water, broth, juice, and skim milk for another three days. Blended yogurt and hot cereal are the only foodlike things I can eat.

“East, we have the instant Quaker Oats. Do you want me to make some for you?” Not at all. Why should you be taking care of me? I’m just your only daughter who just had surgery. What happened to being with me “every step of the way”? Even the steps to the recovery room were too difficult for you—and you were already in the hospital! And the only steps I’ve seen you take since I got home from the hospital are the ones leading back into your bedroom. You were so
engrossed in your precious TV that when Char helped me to the front door, we had to ring
four times
before you answered, even though I called from the car to say I’d be home in five minutes.

“No, Mom. I’ll get it. You want some?” I say, my voice flatter than even her spiritless tone. I slip into my bathrobe and kill my stomach bending for my slippers.
“Owww!”
I scream.

The TV clicks off. “You okay? What happened?” Mom comes in, the stupid remote with CH and VOL worn off the buttons still in her hand.

“Stomach’s a little sore, that’s all.”

“C’mon downstairs with me. I’ll make the cereal,” she says.

“Not too much. I’ll probably only be able to eat a couple of mouthfuls.”

“That’s all?” Mom says. Yes. Most mothers would know. But that was part of the post-op instructions and … What is the point?

“Yes, a few mouthfuls eaten very slowly,” I tell her.

“Why don’t you come down and order what you want while I make the oatmeal?” she calls over the clatter of cabinets opening and closing.

I want Cream of Wheat. If Char wasn’t at Marcie’s, I could have asked her to bring some over, and yogurt or something. Of course, she also could have asked if I needed anything. But no. When she called yesterday morning, it was to say she was off to Marcie’s for Liselle’s party.

“Whatever,” I said.

“C’mon, East. Marcie needs support.”

“What about me?”

“I’ll be home tomorrow. I’ll come over and support you all you want.”

“No, I mean about going to Marcie’s.”

“Shroudness, you’re not back to that again? Besides, you said you feel like crap.”

I said nothing.

“Look, you won’t be missing a thing. I’ll text you the scoop on Liselle’s little surprise as it goes down. It’ll be just like you’re there,” Char said.

I’ve had enough with this stupid dildo already, but I didn’t want to fight. So I don’t tell Char how she could always come back from Marcie’s tonight and sleep over
here
. In my room this time. Or that she should have tried to include me in her plans whether I wanted to go or not. And I definitely don’t touch the fact that I’ve been wondering, with all the flirting she’s doing, if she’s purposely not noticing my crush on Bobby. Char knows me better than that—I know she’s always catching me staring at him.… At them.

“Whatever. I’ll hold my breath for the transcript.”

“Love ya, Shroud.”

“Yeah, yeah. Okay,” I said again, and we hung up.

It’s now almost seven p.m., and I send Char another text—the eighth one, counting the four yesterday afternoon and three last night. Starting with
Tell Marcie hi from me
and
How’s the party?
and ending now with
Char, where ARE you?
Nothing back. Complete radio silence.
Just like I was there
. I decide to call Char’s house—maybe there’s a problem with her cell. Crystal answers.

“Hi, Crystal, it’s me. Is Char home yet? I can’t reach her.”

“East! How are you feeling, honey? Still a trouper?”

“I’m good—a little sore, that’s all,” I say.

“Haven’t spoken with Char since I dropped her at Marcie’s. I’m sure she’ll reach me when she’s ready to come home.” She chuckles. I don’t. “Maybe there’s no cell service at Marcie’s—her house is practically its own state,” Crystal says brightly.

“So I hear.” It’s as if Crystal’s trying to make me feel better for being abandoned by her daughter. A thought strikes me: “So, how soon do you think Char will be able to get her surgery? I mean, the hospital records finally got there, right?” I say, hoping to sound totally casual. Crystal hesitates—I hear her other line beeping.

“I’m not sure,” Crystal finally says, “but hon, I’ve got to take this call. Char’ll talk to you about it.”

Actually, Char
won’t
. Every time I bring it up, she either rips into me or freezes me out.

It occurs to me that there may be signs of Char on that Teenage Waistland blog, so I log in.

And lo and behold. She and Marcie have been whooping it up all day!