Big Summer(10)

I looked down at my legs, my big, strong legs, the legs that carried me along miles of New York City sidewalks every day, legs that had propelled me over hundreds of miles on treadmills and elliptical climbers and stationary bikes and had performed hours of squats and lunges and kicks in various aerobic and boxing and barre classes over the years. Leg, meet Lake, I thought, as I picked up my right foot and brought it down—hard—on Lake’s toes.

Lake’s eyes went wide, and his mouth fell open. He let loose with a shriek, a high-pitched, girlish squeal. “You fat bitch!” he screamed. “You stepped on me!”

The music stopped. Or, at least, it did in my imagination. In my imagination, I heard the sound of a record scratch, and then absolute silence. Every eye on the place was on him as he hopped on his left foot and clutched at his right, glaring at me… and all those eyes turned to me as I started to talk.

“You know what?” I said. “I am fat. But that doesn’t mean you get to treat me like garbage.” My voice was shaking. My hands felt icy and my mouth was dry, my heart thumping triple-time as every cell in my body screamed, Run away, run far away from here, people are looking, people can see. But for once, I didn’t listen. I stayed put. I settled my hands on my hips and gave my hair a toss. Feeling like a character in a movie—the sassy, fat best friend, finally having her brief star turn—I swept one hand down from my neck, past my breasts and my hips to my thighs. “You don’t deserve any of this,” I said. “You don’t deserve me.”

Someone said, “Ooh.” Someone else yelled, “Tell him, girl!” And someone, possibly the bartender, started to clap. First it was just one person, then another one, then another, until it seemed like everyone in the bar was applauding, clapping for me, laughing at him. That was when I noticed that one of the girls at the edge of the dance floor was holding her phone, filming me. My heart gave another dizzying lurch, like I’d just come over the crest of a roller coaster and realized I wasn’t in a car. What’s done is done, I thought, and, with as much dignity as I could muster, I walked across the dance floor, through the door, and out into the dark.

I was halfway down the block when Drue caught up with me. “Hey,” she shouted. I didn’t turn. She put her hand on my shoulder and jerked me around to face her. “Hey! What the hell was that?”

“Why don’t you tell me,” I said, and pulled myself away.

“Look, I’m sorry. I was trying to do you a favor.”

I widened my eyes. “Am I supposed to be grateful?”

Drue looked shocked. Probably because I’d never confronted her, or complained about the way she’d treated me, any more than I’d ever stomped on some random guy’s foot.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” I said, and turned away.

She grabbed my shoulder, glaring at me with her pretty face contorted under the streetlight. “Well, you need it. You’re dating this guy who you don’t even like, and that’s after not even kissing a guy the entire time we were in high school.”

“So?”

“So either you’re gay, which I’ve considered, or you’re in love with me…”

I made a rude noise.

“Or,” Drue continued, “you needed someone to set you up.”

“If you wanted to set me up,” I said between clenched teeth, “you could have asked me first.”

“Why bother?” Drue said. “You would have just said no.”

“And if you decided to go ahead with it anyhow,” I continued, “you could have made sure that the guy wasn’t an asshole.”

“Well, it’s not like I’ve got some huge pool to choose from!” Drue shouted. “You think guys are lining up to date…” She shut her mouth. Too late.

“What?” I asked her. “Fat girls? Girls who don’t have trust funds? Girls whose fathers aren’t on the cover of Forbes?”

She kept her lips pressed together, saying nothing. “I don’t want your sympathy,” I said. The adrenaline was still whipping through my bloodstream, but I could feel exhaustion and my old friend shame not far behind. “I’m done with you. Just leave me alone.” I turned around and started plodding in the direction of home.

I’d gotten maybe ten yards away when Drue yelled, “We all just felt sorry for you!”

The words hit me like a spear between my shoulder blades. There it was, the truth I’d always suspected, finally out in the open. I felt myself cringe, shoulders hunched, but I didn’t let myself turn around.

“You’re a fat little nobody, and the only reason you were even at Lathrop is because families like mine give the school money so people like you can go there.”

My cheeks prickled with shame, and my fingers curled into fists, but I couldn’t argue. Not with any of it. I was fat. I had gone to Lathrop on a scholarship. Her family was rich, mine was not, and compared with her, I was a nobody.

“You’re lucky I ever even talked to you!” Drue screeched.

Oh, I believe it was a mutually beneficial relationship, I thought. She’d given me her attention—at least some of the time. In return, I’d written her papers, retyped her homework, kept her secrets. I’d listened to her endless discussions of boys and clothes and which boys might prefer her wearing which clothes; I’d covered for her when she’d cut class or shown up too hungover to function.