Fat Girl On A Plane

I’m done being the fat girl on the plane.

SKINNY: Later on Day 738

“Thank God,” he says as he smiles at me.

It’s him. After all this time, I’m meeting Gareth Miller.

And he’s smiling at me.

The plane has stopped in Dallas, and it would figure that my fashion idol would get on and plop down next to me. I’m filled with dread. Or panic. The kind of panic that makes me consider heading for the emergency exit and taking the evacuation slide onto the runway.

He takes the aisle seat. “There’s some whale of a woman raising all kinds of hell in the airport because they want her to buy more than one ticket.”

And he’s a douchelord.

Never mind. I’ll push him down the evacuation slide.

Gareth Miller leans in toward me, like we’re now in a conspiracy together and says, “I hate to be rude.” It’s a hushed whisper. “But she needs two. At least two. Back before I had my own plane when I had to fly commercial, I always got stuck next to them. Them and the crying babies. Or sometimes fat gals with crying babies.”

I scoot back and glare at him. “Sounds like you’d be a lot happier on Air Force Asshat,” I blurt out. I sort of wish I hadn’t said it. I’m on my way to New York to interview the guy and it’s probably not the best idea to pick a fight with him. I turn to the window and try to seem busy stuffing my iPad in the pocket on the seat in front of me.

“Oh, now, shoot, I’ve gone and offended you.” He pushes his hand in my line of sight. “Gareth Miller. And no, I don’t think I’d be happier. Asshat One is having mechanical issues.”

Forcing myself to stay calm, I shake his hand lightly and say, “I’m Cookie.”

I’ve been thinking about this meeting for two years. Fantasizing about it since I caught a glimpse of his profile through a slit in his maple-paneled studio door. In my imaginary version of our first meeting, he flips through my sketchbook, loudly announcing that my designs are the best he’s ever seen. Then he insists on making sure I get a scholarship to Parsons and an investment to start my own line. But I guess we’ll be sitting next to each other in beige airline seats instead.

“Cookie,” he repeats with a laugh. “That a really sweet name.”

It takes all my self-control not to give him an epic eye roll. People always think they’re so original. Like this is the very first time someone’s ever thought of making a joke like that.

“My mom ate chocolate chip cookies in the hospital after I was born,” I tell him, trying not to stare at his chiseled features. “I guess I should be happy the nurse didn’t give her a candy bar. Or I’d now be known as KitKat or something.”

“Gimme a break,” he says with an appealing grin.

It’s kind of funny but I force myself not to laugh. Gareth Miller might be skating through life, saying whatever he wants and relying on his appeal to make it all okay. But that whale of a woman used to be me. Still feels like me. I put my hands into the empty inch of space at the edge of my seat. This is what two years of NutriNation has gotten me.

I really hope he doesn’t notice I’m wearing a Gareth Miller sweater.

The flight attendant is making long, smooth waving motions with her arms and gesturing toward the exit rows. I pull out the airline safety card and read along, looking up for the oxygen mask.

“I think this may be a first for me. Someone is actually checking the crash instructions,” he says in his drawling accent. He’s from Montana and has a sort of cowboy couture charm.

“I like to be prepared in the event of an emergency.”

“I hate to break it to you, but if the plane crashes, we’ll all be dead,” he says with another smile. He’s able to make this line sound like the best news I’ve had all day.

“Not true.” My stomach flip-flops but I give him a fake smile of my own. “Most crashes occur on takeoff or landing, and the rate of survival is about 56 percent. We’re at a disadvantage here in first class since the safest seats are in the back of the plane. But since you don’t mind dying, I’ll just crawl over you if there’s an emergency. And you can be part of the 44 percent who don’t make it.”

“Well, I’d die a happy man,” he says, his eyes drifting over me. “And do me a favor, Cookie, at my funeral, you give the eulogy. Make sure everyone knows I made that sweater and gave my life so you could keep looking so fine while wearing it.” He points at the smooth cashmere top. It’s covered in whimsical, eight bit cherry clusters. A combination of quality and caprice. Gareth Miller’s signature style.

Of course he noticed the sweater. Sigh.

“I said I designed that sweater. That doesn’t impress you?”

I nod and hope he finds something else to do with his time besides stare at me. He’s either staring because:

a) I look like my mom and he’s trying to figure out why I seem familiar,

b) I have mascara smeared on my face or maybe a leaf stuck in my hair or

c) some other kind of reason that’s giving me hot flashes.

Two out of the three of those things are nothing to get excited about. I remind myself that I don’t want to want someone like Gareth Miller to like me. And anyway, I’ve spent hours writing hard-hitting interview questions. I don’t need my momentum spoiled by four hours of good-natured chitchat. I try to get my headphones in before he can say anything else.

“You know, you look awfully familiar,” he says. He cocks his head and adds, “I mean, I know that sounds like a line. A truly bad one. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

The first-class attendant approaches us. “Something to drink before takeoff?” she asks. Her glance dances from Gareth to me and a grin spreads across her face. “I get a lot of good-looking people sitting in my section, but you two are just fabulous.”

I’m not used to this. To compliments and attention. My stomach’s producing acid in overdrive. I’m pretty sure I’ll have an ulcer by thirty.

“I’ll have a glass of white wine,” Gareth says.

“I’ll just have a Diet Coke,” I tell the woman.

Across the aisle, I make eye contact with a man in a Men’s Wearhouse navy suit. He smiles at me.

All I can think is that a man shouldn’t wear a striped tie with a striped shirt.

I turn back to my window, watching a crew load luggage into another plane a couple of gates away. The last time I was on a plane, that guy wouldn’t have even made eye contact. He’d have been praying that he didn’t have to sit next to me.

The plane’s air conditioner kicks on and I catch a whiff of Gareth Miller’s cologne. It’s not fair that he should look and smell so good.

Trapped next to his appeal and his “charm,” which oozes out like an unwanted infection, I scrunch myself into my seat and pray I make it to New York without killing him.

FAT: Two days before NutriNation (two seats take me to New York)

Here’s why people are fat. Losing weight is hard. Really fucking hard.

Two peanut butter cups equal forty-five minutes on the treadmill. So enjoy. And start running your ass off.

Let’s say you smoke two packs a day. You get sick of being winded when you climb up a flight of stairs and those commercials that show the guy cleaning the hole in his throat really start to get to you. So, what happens next?

Take your pick from any one of about a thousand free hotlines you can call. There’s lozenges, inhalers and patches to help you quit. If you have decent health insurance, your doctor might hook you up with some Chantix.

Need to lose weight?

You’re on your own. And most of the world is working against you.

They play food commercials on TV 24/7. They make you watch spinning golden french fries while you’re trying to run off that candy bar. The stereotypical date consists of dinner and a movie. All holidays and parties end with cake or pie.

I finally land in New York a little before 10:00 p.m. I’ve gotten one step closer to meeting Gareth Miller and seeing LaChapelle. While I wait for the airport shuttle, I call Tommy. His Lego events go on forever and there’s a ton of downtime. He picks up on the first ring. We talk about the plane.

“I really think you’re oversimplifying things,” he says. “People aren’t fat because of peanut butter cups.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “Because if they were, we could load all the peanut butter cups on a rocket and blast it to the moon.”

He continues as if he hasn’t heard me. “Some people have medical problems. Some people have tried diets and they haven’t worked. And some people are happy the way they are.”

I know he’s right. But what about right now?

“You think juice cleanses work?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I guess,” he says. “But that’s not a great long-term plan. I mean, how long could you possibly survive on juice?” There’s a pause. “My mom’s doing NutriNation. You could try that.”

“You think I should? You want me to be your supermodel?”

He sighs. In the background I can hear Korean pop music and the whir of the high-pitched engines Tommy and his geek friends attach to the Lego cars they build. “I don’t want you to be anything. I want you to be happy.” There’s another pause. “You remember Fairy Falls?”

I snort. Of course I do. That’s where we became friends. The fat camp with an idiotic name where we both spent two Christmas breaks.

“Doesn’t it bother you at all that your parents dumped you like a sack of old clothes in Duck Lake, Wyoming?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “And that’s my point. I know your mom—”

“My mom treats me like I’m a pair of designer jeans that are too baggy,” I say.

“I know. I know.” He’s getting impatient and talking faster so that I can’t interrupt. “That’s the whole point. You keep letting your mom tell you how you’re gonna feel about yourself. Fat camp wasn’t all that bad. If it weren’t for Fairy Falls, we probably wouldn’t be friends. We can thank our parents for that.”

“Thanks for the analysis, Dr. Phil, but I’m not letting my mom tell me how to feel. I just don’t want to be like her. That’s all,” I say.

“Eating a banana or cracking a smile now and again won’t make you vapid and self-centered,” he says. “But you keep punching yourself in the face and hoping your mom will get a black eye.”

“It just seems so unfair,” I say.

“Cookie, some snotty girl on a plane isn’t a reason to come down on yourself.” His goofy, boyish grin transmits even through the phone. “I like you the way you are.”

I smile in spite of myself, even though I secretly think he’d like me more if I looked more like my mom.

As the shuttle pulls up to the curb, I hang up and shimmy my way into the back of the van. It’s not easy getting back there, but I know it’s the best way to avoid dirty looks from other passengers.

I think of Tommy as I watch the yellow streetlights pass. I try to remember the exact moment that I knew I wanted to be more than friends and the exact moment when it occurred to me how impossible that is.

It’s my first time in New York.

Even the buildings are tall and thin.

“You going to the Continental Hotel?” the driver calls from the front.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Sorry. That place is a dump.” He chuckles as a man slides into the front seat.

I close my eyes and imagine that I’ll open them to a whole new world.

We drive.

SKINNY: Day 738...details

Gareth Miller continues to stare. I consider throwing something in the aisle so he’ll have to turn in that direction.

“You know an awful lot about airline safety for someone so young,” he says.

Yuck. What a cheesy way to ask someone’s age. “I can use Wikipedia, and I’m nineteen.” This is a mistake.

I don’t know why I give him that detail.

He smiles again. “Ah, I remember nineteen. Where’d your boyfriend take you for your birthday?”

I’ve never had a boyfriend, and I don’t want to tell the King of Fashion I spent the evening crying into a diet soda while Tommy was probably somewhere making out with my nemesis.

“What did you do on your nineteenth birthday?” I hedge.

He laughs, revealing a smile that would shame a toothpaste ad. “Ever been to Flathead County, Montana?”

I shake my head.

“Well, you can have dinner at the Sizzler. Or a kegger down at the lake. My pop settled on the latter.”

“Weren’t you already at Parsons by then?” I ask.

He pauses, regards me a bit differently. “We have met before. I knew it. Do a fella a favor and give me a hint where it was.” He turns a bit red. “We haven’t ever...”

At the front of the plane, the flight attendant is buckling herself into her seat. A few seconds later, the 757 races down the runway.

I glare at Gareth Miller. “You have that much trouble keeping track of the women you sleep with?” I let him squirm in his seat, facing the real possibility that he’ll have to spend four hours next to a stranger with whom he’d shared forgettable sex. He’s making a big show of watching the plane lift off the runway.

“We’ve never met,” I say. “But I get the ParDonna.com newsletter.”

He leans away from the window, breathing more comfortably. “Well, yeah, I had already moved to New York by then. But my dad always insists I come home for my birthday. It’s during the summer, so the timing isn’t too bad. The weather is nice.”

“It’s freezing in Montana in the winter.” I tuck my fingers into the ends of my sweater.

“You’ve been there? In the winter?”

I sigh. He’s still got that pensive expression on his face. Like he won’t quit until he figures out who I am. And it’s possible, given enough time, he might be able to guess. I decide to get out in front of it and tell him.

“Yeah. I went with my mother. She did a photoshoot there a few years ago. Leslie Vonn Tate. That’s probably why I seem familiar. People say we look alike.”

He’s impressed. His eyes widen. “Leslie Vonn Tate. Sure, I remember. The Atelier Fur thing. Bruce Richardson shot it in Whitefish, right?”

The Atelier Fur thing.

A totally avoidable clusterfuck. If only Grandma’s hairdresser had used one more roller.

FAT: Two years before NutriNation

Mom’s in the living room of Grandma’s tiny yellow house, striking a slumped pose on the 1980s brown plaid sofa. In her off-white Valentino shift dress, she’s more the picture of a model on an ironic Nylon magazine photoshoot than a mom hanging with her daughter. She’s got Lois Veering on speakerphone.

“The day of the supermodel is dead. Truly dead,” Lois Veering moans. She’s the editor of Par Donna. Nobody likes Veering. I’d bet fifty bucks that she won’t last, that it’s just a matter of time before her assistant edges her out.

She’s calling Mom. Because anybody who’s anybody hates fur. “And they’re strutting around naked in the trades. On my shoots demanding vegan pizzas and goji berry smoothies,” she says. “I need you, Leslie. I really need you.”

In spite of the best efforts of sexy celebrities and inked-up athletes, fur companies keep raking in cash—around $15 billion a year. Their sales are up worldwide. The Eastern European nouveaux riches and the wives of Chinese millionaires, they want their mink.

“The biggest threat to fur is global warming,” Veering sneers.

And the biggest threat to fashion magazines is sluggish ad sales. Atelier Fur has big bucks. They want a cover. A supermodel. They want photographer Bruce Richardson.

Mom’s there to pick me up from the tiny yellow house for a spa weekend in La Jolla. It’s my bad luck that Grandma gets home early from her hair appointment.

“We can just do it another time, Mom,” I say. “It’s no big deal.”

Grandma comes in. Takes one look at Mom, phone in hand.

“Cookie, go wait in your room,” Grandma says.

“It’s fine, Grandma. Everything is fine,” I say.

“Go,” she orders.

Of course, I can hear them through the paper-thin walls.

“You got one daughter, Leslie. One,” Grandma says. “It’s her sweet sixteen. And I didn’t plan nothin’ ’cause you said you were coming to get her.”

“I’ll clear my schedule in a week or two,” Mom says. “Cookie’s fine with it.”

“Yeah,” Grandma answers. “She’s just about jumpin’ for joy.”

“Well, I guess she’s carrying on the grand family tradition of being disappointed in her mother,” Mom snaps.

“Oh, I see,” Grandma replies. “I was a shitty mother to you. And you get special permission to be shitty to your girl? Well, you say what you want about me, Leslie. But I made dresses for all seven of Nina Udall’s bridesmaids so you could have a cake with sixteen candles and a fancy party dress to celebrate in.”

“I have to work. Lois Veering is asking me to do a job. Do you have any clue what happens to models who say no to Lois Veering?”

I imagine Grandma’s disgusted face. The beads of sweat forming at her gray-blue hairline. “Shoot, Leslie. You got plenty of money. Plenty of fancy things. If you’re paradin’ around half-naked in a magazine, it ain’t cause you have to, it’s cause you want to. And I ain’t never asked you for money. All I ask is you try to be decent to your child. If you say you’re gonna do something, you keep your damn word.”

If only the hairdresser had used one more roller, Mom might have been gone by the time Grandma got home. Instead, I spend the next half hour wondering what I can wear to Whitefish. The high temperature there is thirty-seven degrees. I’ve got one light sweater and a windbreaker.

“We’ll pick something up on the way,” Mom says.

And on the way means at the airport gift shop. I have to go to a men’s store. Nothing fits anywhere else. Because Grandma came home from her hair appointment early, I’m going to spend my sixteenth birthday in a fire-engine red sweatshirt. It’s covered with hideous suns wearing sunglasses and the horrible, synthetic fabric barely stretches over my stomach.

Veering must really have something on Mom. Montana is cold as all fuck. I’m not talking about “tongue stuck to a pole” kind of cold. I mean so cold you wish your toes would fall off so you won’t have to feel them anymore.

I’m surprised a few hours later when the car service pulls up in front of the Travelodge. Mom thinks hotels with fewer than five stars belong in third world countries.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I have the whole thing all worked out. Tomorrow Lois says we’ll wrap the shoot by two. And they have a wonderful spa up at the lodge. I’ve got us booked for hot rock pedicures.”

She looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to get out of the car.

“We’re staying here?” I ask, trying to make some kind of sense of what’s happening.

She pats my arm. “Don’t worry. I had Cassidy make the reservation. It’s all paid for. They should have my credit card.”

“You’re leaving me here? By myself?” I ask.

She turns to the window. “Well...I got the magazine to pay for your airfare but...um...they wouldn’t give me another room at the lodge,” she says. “Budget cuts.”

Of course Mom wouldn’t dip into her own bank account so I can get a nice room too. “Why can’t I just stay with you?” The taste of the burrito I ate for lunch is rising in my throat.

She pauses.

“Chad’s coming and...”

“Fine.” I get out of the Lincoln Town Car and slam the door behind me. The driver scurries out of the front. He drops my suitcase on the ground in front of the sparse gray motel office.

Mom rolls down the window. “The lodge is about fifteen minutes from here. I’ll call you when I’m on my way in the morning.”

They don’t have a reservation for me in the office. I spend the next two hours waiting for Mom’s frazzled assistant, Cassidy, to show up with a credit card.

“So sorry, Cookie... I was supposed to call...but Bruce asked me to pull all these comps from your mom’s old books...and...” She gives the Norman Bates clone at the counter Mom’s credit card as she rattles off a long list of random jobs she’s been assigned.

She frowns at me. “I feel terrible leaving you here,” she says. “I’d invite you to crash with me but I’ve already got the makeup girls.” Then she’s gone in a flash of print leggings and Uggs.

“Is there anything to eat around here?” I ask Norman.

He shrugs. “Cattleman’s is up the road. Maybe half a mile. Vending machine near the laundry room.”

I rifle through the content of my purse. I’ve got my tips from Donutville. Seven bucks.

Because Grandma came home from her hair appointment early, I feast on Doritos, Twinkies and Diet Coke. The room’s TV gets four channels.

The next morning, Mom doesn’t call. I check out and walk to town. There’s a gas station, a casino and a cute little car wash. Cassidy picks me up in front of the Travelodge around two.

It’s snowing in Whitefish. The town is somehow wholesome, with evergreen garland strung through the streets and silver bells hanging from lampposts. White powder dusts the 1930s storefronts. It’s the kind of place that should be on a postcard with the words Wish You Were Here.

Mom’s tucked away in the corner of the Ace Hardware. “They let us use this place for hair and makeup. We couldn’t get trailers,” Cassidy explains. “Bruce was going bananas at the thought they’d be in the shot.”

A hairstylist hovers over Mom, twisting her blond hair onto large Velcro rollers. “Oh, Cookie,” Mom says without glancing up from her phone. “We’re behind schedule. There are problems. With the snow and the light and people walking up the street. But don’t worry, Cassidy changed our appointments to...”

I spot Chad Tate surrounded by cowboys in jeans and Tony Lamas. He mimics throwing an invisible football. As he completes his imaginary pass, the crowd breaks out into cheers and hoots of laughter.

Oh sure. Having a washed-up, all-star quarterback as a stepdad is great. If you don’t mind the fact that’s he’s dumber than a bag of hammers and wishes I’d crawl off and die in a hole.

“I’m going home,” I say.

“Back to the hotel?” Mom corrects.

“Checkout at the motel was at ten. I’m going home.”

For the first time she takes a look at me. “Would you mind getting me a bottle of water?” she asks the hairstylist.

“Cookie,” Mom says the instant the hairstylist is out of earshot. “I can’t control the weather or the position of the sun. But I promise...”

My empty stomach grumbles. I spot the craft service table in one corner, but it has already been ravaged by the breakfast and lunch crowds. It now holds one lonely bagel and a half-empty jar of Snapple.

“I’m tired and I want to go home,” I say.

“I’m sure you’re dying to turn this into a referendum on how horrible your life is,” she begins, “but...”

“You’re busy and this was a mistake.”

“I’m working,” Mom says. “Someone has to. What do you think your dad’s mercy missions pay? I’m supporting five people.”

I push the thought of Dad out of my mind and focus my anger on what’s in front of me. “Well, maybe the child support checks are getting lost in the mail. Grandma thinks you’re dumping all your money into Chad’s sports bar. This week she’s making two holiday formal dresses to pay the water bill,” I say.

“It’s normal for restaurants to lose money during the first five years,” Mom says, pressing her lips into a thin, white line. “And whether you like it or not, I’m still the parent here. I’m sorry to inform you that you can’t just announce your plan to leave the state.”

“Let’s go and ask Chad,” I suggest. “I’m sure he’s thrilled I’m here.”

“You know, it hurts that my husband and my daughter are enemies,” Mom says.

“Right back atcha,” I say and walk away.

“Cookie, don’t you dare think you can—”

A tiny bell rings as the shop door slams behind me.

Cassidy runs out to catch me. Bluish black circles have formed under her eyes.

“There’s a coffee shop right around the corner. Your mom says to wait until—” She breaks off with a huff.