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Fat Girl On A Plane
Kelly deVos


In the world of fashion, being fat is a cardinal sin.Nothing about Cookie’s new life is turning out like she planned. When the fashion designer of the moment offers her what she’s always wanted—an opportunity to live and study in New York—she finds herself in a world full of people more interested in putting women down than dressing them up. Her designs make waves, but her real dream of creating great clothes for people of all sizes seems to grow more distant by the day.Will she realise that she’s always had the power to make her own dreams come true?From debut author Kelly deVos comes an unforgettable novel about smart fashion, pursuing your dreams, and loving yourself.







FAT.

High school senior Cookie Vonn’s postgraduation dreams include getting out of Phoenix, attending Parsons and becoming the next great fashion designer. But in the world of fashion, being fat is a cardinal sin. It doesn’t help that she’s constantly compared to her supermodel mother—and named after a dessert.

Thanks to her job at a fashion blog, Cookie scores a trip to New York to pitch her portfolio and appeal for a scholarship, but her plans are put on standby when she’s declared too fat to fly. Forced to turn to her BFF for cash, Cookie buys a second seat on the plane. She arrives in the city to find that she’s been replaced by the boss’s daughter, a girl who’s everything she’s not—ultrathin and superrich. Bowing to society’s pressure, she vows to lose weight, get out of the friend zone with her crush and put her life on track.

SKINNY.

Cookie expected sunshine and rainbows, but nothing about her new life is turning out like she planned. When the fashion designer of the moment offers her what she’s always wanted—an opportunity to live and study in New York—she finds herself in a world full of people more interested in putting women down than dressing them up. Her designs make waves, but her real dream of creating great clothes for people of all sizes seems to grow more distant by the day.

Will she realize that she’s always had the power to make her own dreams come true?


A third-generation native Arizonan, KELLY DEVOS can tell you everything you’ve ever wanted to know about cacti, cattle and climate. She holds a BA in creative writing from Arizona State University, and her work has been featured in Normal Noise and 202 Magazine. All proceeds from this book will be used on shoe subscription boxes and designer sunglasses. Follow Kelly on Twitter, @kdevosauthor (https://twitter.com/KdeVosAuthor).


Also By Kelly Devos (#u7655f012-796f-5f0f-a838-79072f14cb21)

Fat Girl on a Plane

is Kelly deVos’s first title

with Harlequin TEEN!


Fat Girl on a Plane

Kelly Devos







Copyright (#u7655f012-796f-5f0f-a838-79072f14cb21)






An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Kelly Devos 2018

Kelly Devos asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 9781474084048


“Bold, unique, and completely original, Fat Girl on a Plane is unafraid to stand up and take action. A debut both spirited and inventive, much like its indomitable heroine.”

—Laurie Elizabeth Flynn, author of Firsts

“A savvy, smart, and funny book about embracing your body and taking control of your destiny.”

—Kathleen Glasgow, author of the New York Times bestselling novel Girl in Pieces


Contents

Cover (#ub28d29b7-1af0-5b57-9a41-082e7a1a9a3f)

Back Cover Text (#uca2d7400-03ad-580a-9ad8-bb91d4e75db5)

About the Author (#u83926ca4-b402-56dd-85a8-29d9e5dc3a12)

Booklist (#u98ba1fb9-bd6c-5311-a4b2-4e23d46a7766)

Title Page (#u49f18f96-95cb-5937-922a-c0267696b20e)

Copyright (#ucb949060-4626-569f-9820-711eacbead99)

Praise (#ua3ac4aad-5c8d-5676-a3c6-8670d553aa7a)

AUTHOR’S NOTE (#u740dea95-269b-508e-853b-00fce1661487)

SKINNY: Day 738 of NutriNation (#u31074fa5-0fc8-556e-87f6-8dee13c4c3d7)

FAT: Two days before NutriNation (#u83566dd4-97ac-5613-a610-aa933a56ee62)

SKINNY: Later on Day 738 (#ubcdd0826-8f2a-5bd1-9225-a09f01328068)

FAT: Two days before NutriNation (two seats take me to New York) (#u22759ece-ccdd-5dfe-a3b9-2361fcc0cf15)

SKINNY: Day 738...details (#uc49a5199-d741-54ea-ae6b-6745c4cfa65e)

FAT: Two years before NutriNation (#u82069547-0849-53d5-b535-c7950c40fb88)

SKINNY: Day 738 and strange benefactors (#u9b56d771-aac6-5cc0-898c-f91d1fca3938)

FAT: Three years before NutriNation and fat camp sucks (#u851104aa-7525-54cc-9c2a-fca75e41d3ba)

SKINNY: Day 738 of NutriNation and there’s nothing to eat (#uaa98c91d-be3b-54fd-aee5-31a5e2414a7f)

FAT: One day before NutriNation (#ufa5e12a4-69c5-5467-92a1-d26186d11560)

SKINNY: Day 739 of NutriNation (#ubdba8997-991f-5cb9-b91f-6fcc7d094aca)

FAT: Days 1–2 of NutriNation (#u52b1794e-8f2d-5f8b-9f29-3c55933ca73d)

SKINNY: Days 739–740 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

FAT: Day 6 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

SKINNY: Day 740 of NutriNation...the fine print (#litres_trial_promo)

FAT: Day 9 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

SKINNY: Days 741–742 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

FAT: Day 13 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

SKINNY: Day 749 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

FAT: Day 15 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

SKINNY: Day 752 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

FAT: Day 28 of NutriNation...the middle of the night (#litres_trial_promo)

SKINNY: Days 757–772 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

FAT: Days 31–32 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

SKINNY: Days 780–781 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

FAT: Day 48 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

SKINNY: Days 816–822 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

FAT: Days 98–104 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

SKINNY: The odyssey of Day 822 continued (#litres_trial_promo)

FAT: Days 111–114 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

SKINNY: Days 824–847 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

FAT: Days 119–122 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

SKINNY: Days 847–848 get even weirder (#litres_trial_promo)

FAT: Days 265–266 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

SKINNY: Days 848–855 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

FAT: Days 294–312 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

SKINNY: Day 855...a wake (#litres_trial_promo)

FAT: Days 326–353 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

SKINNY: Days 856–863 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

FAT: Day 737 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

SKINNY: Day 866 of NutriNation (#litres_trial_promo)

Day 1 of the rest of my life (#litres_trial_promo)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


AUTHOR’S NOTE (#u7655f012-796f-5f0f-a838-79072f14cb21)

This is not a Cinderella weight loss story.

I can remember the exact moment I knew I wanted to write this book. Like my character Cookie Vonn, I was declared too fat to fly on a trip from Phoenix to Salt Lake City. As I sat there clutching my copy of Vogue magazine, terrified that I might not be allowed to board the plane and that I might never see my luggage again, I was struck by certain aspects of my situation. First, that airplanes, by nature of the cramped spaces they create, can become places where some reveal their intense dislike of plus-size people. But also that so many industries, like fashion and beauty, thrive and profit not by elevating the girls and women they are supposed to service but by making them feel bad about themselves.

So I wrote the first chapter, where Cookie boards her first plane. I decided to tell this story using dual timelines that show her before and after a major weight loss to demonstrate, by direct comparison, how differently society treats those considered thin and those it views as “overweight.”

I have a long history of dieting, sometimes successfully, sometimes not. Often, I was motivated by a desire to fit into that “perfect dress” for a special event or to make myself more attractive to someone else. I was convinced that being fat was holding me back. But I’ve realized I was holding myself back. I kept myself from meeting new people, going places I wanted to go and doing the things I wanted to do.

I had to let go of that.

And here I am living my dream of becoming a published author.

I don’t know if I will decide to lose weight in the future, but if I do, my efforts will be wellness focused and will not be the result of pressure or shaming. If you decide to diet, that’s okay. If you don’t, that’s okay too. Your body is no one’s business but your own. We are more than just our bodies.

We are the sum of our abilities and accomplishments and hopes and dreams and friendships and relationships. It’s what we are inside that matters.

Kelly


SKINNY: Day 738 of NutriNation (#u7655f012-796f-5f0f-a838-79072f14cb21)

No. You can’t just buy two seats in advance. That would be easy.

Let’s say you weigh five hundred pounds and know for a fact you can’t fit into a single seat on the plane. It doesn’t matter. One person equals one seat reservation. You can thank global terrorism for that one.

I’m waiting for my flight to New York to start boarding.

I watch the fat girl at the airline counter. She’s about the same age as me, with a cute pink duffel bag that’s covered with patches.

The girl’s talking to the flight attendant, trying not to cry. “What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to get home?”

Maybe I should tell her how it works. Two years ago, I was her. Two years ago, I weighed three hundred and thirty pounds. They said I was too fat to fly.

I would tell her one thing.

There’s nothing wrong with being the fat girl on the plane.


soScottsdale

Title: We’re SoReady for an Early Look at GM

Creator: Cookie Vonn [contributor]

Okay, Scottsdale, time to retire those bling jeans once and for all because new Fall fashions are on the way and it’s shaping up to be a great season. This weekend SoScottsdale will attend a Gareth Miller preview meeting held at G Studios in NYC. What is a preview, you ask? Well, if you’re Vogue editor Anna Wintour, top designers invite you over early in their preseason planning process to kiss your ring and show you their fabric and production samples. If you’re SoScottsdale, you get ten minutes with the biggest name in fashion and a behind-the-scenes look at his plans for New York Fashion Week. What does Miller have in mind? Expect more knitwear that transitions perfectly from runway to store shelves, dressy denim and a color story that combines neutrals with gem-tone bursts. Next week, we’ll update you on everything you need to know to plan your Fall and Winter wardrobe.

Notes: Marlene [editor]: Nice work, Cookie. Rework that opening sentence. Our advertisers sell lots of bling jeans!


FAT: Two days before NutriNation (#u7655f012-796f-5f0f-a838-79072f14cb21)

Here’s what happens. You have to show up at the airport and hope for the best. Flight attendants get to decide if you’re too fat to fly.

I’m on my way to New York. Tomorrow, I get to see my first fashion preview. I’m the SoScottsdale blog’s nod to the brave new world in which 48 percent of Americans are classified as overweight.

I don’t know if I’m going to make it there.

This is how it starts. There’s a plane change at O’Hare. I get the feeling the airline employees are watching me from behind the counter. I tell myself how paranoid that sounds. But I find myself pulling my arms close to my body, trying to look as small as possible in my seat in the waiting area.

The smallest of the three of them, a petite gray-haired woman, approaches me as I sit in a long row of passengers waiting to board. She gestures for me to join her near a window that overlooks the runway. In the distance, the lights of Chicago’s massive buildings twinkle through the terminal’s windows. There are people in those buildings, coming and going, moving through their homes and offices, sending signs of life into the darkness.

“I think you’ll need a second seat, dear.” The flight attendant has a bright, cheery demeanor. Like she’s Mary Poppins when not on duty in her faded cotton-wool-blend uniform. “This is awkward, I know.”

“I’m on a layover. I haven’t gotten any bigger since I got off the other plane forty-five minutes ago,” I say.

She smiles at me. Fake sympathy. “We have to go by what we see, dear. You know, depending on how full the flight is. We have to make a judgment call. I realize it’s awkward.”

Yep. Awkward.

I follow her back to the ticket counter.

These are my options:

a) Pay for a second seat. That’ll be $650. Plus tax. But oh, there’s a problem. The flight is sold out.

b) Wait for a flight with extra empty seats. That’ll still be $650. Plus tax. When I get home, I can call the hotline for a refund. But oh, the next flight with empty seats is, um, tomorrow.

You’d think Ms. Spoonful of Sugar would have thought this through a bit before she dragged me up to the counter.

“I don’t have six hundred bucks,” I say.

“Maybe you could call your parents, sweetie,” she suggests.

I scowl and adjust the sleeves of my hand-knit cashmere sweater. “My parents aren’t sitting by the phone with a credit card.”

“A young girl like you—” People always tell me I look like I’m twelve years old.

“I’m seventeen,” I say. “And if it weren’t for the plane change, I’d still be on the flight.”

“We have to make a judgment call,” she repeats.

“I just want to get to New York.”

“I’ll put you on standby,” she says with another insincere smile. “If everyone checks in, you’ll have to wait for the next flight. If not, I can sell you another seat.”

“How am I supposed to pay for it?” I glance behind me at a bald man who shifts his weight and rolls his eyes, checking his watch every few seconds.

“You’ve got about an hour to figure that out, dear,” she says.

It’s an agonizing hour. I’ve got less than twenty bucks in my bank account. I can’t get ahold of my mom. I’m pretty sure the last time she paid child support, Grandma spent the money on Pampers.

I consider calling the blog office and decide I’d rather walk back to Phoenix than tell my boss, Marlene, I’m too fat to fly. She’s throwing a massive bash for her grandparents’ fiftieth anniversary this weekend and her assistant, Terri, has four kids with the stomach flu. The situation is a perfect storm that won’t happen again. I won’t get another chance to cover an editorial preview as a student intern. A Gareth Miller preview. Real designers at work.

I run my fingertips over the Parsons application tucked in my bag. Fred LaChapelle will be there. He’s the dean of Admissions, and Miller is his favorite alum. I’ve been dreaming of Parsons since I was five, when my grandma handed me a biography of fashion designer Claire McCardell and I couldn’t read the book’s words but I saw the clothes and I felt them. McCardell invented American sportswear in the World War II years and was the first woman with her own label. McCardell’s women roamed sandy beaches, rode their cruiser bicycles to small-town markets and used cocktail dresses like weapons. They were free and fabulous and powerful.

I hoped, and wished and believed, that this was who I was meant to be. McCardell studied at Parsons and I know, more than I know anything else, that I need to start there too.

My portfolio will get me in. On paper, I’m the perfect applicant. The daughter of a supermodel who can stitch in a zipper in my sleep. In real life, I’m not Barbie; I spent my summer frosting doughnuts for eight bucks an hour instead of hanging out at Michael Kors, and it’s tough explaining why my mom made $1.2 million last year but the ATM makes a boing! sound when I stick in my card.

Still, I make magic when I make clothes. If I can get Miller and LaChapelle to see that, then it won’t matter that my grandma’s rainy-day fund is barely enough to cover the application fee to the school. They’ll make sure I get a scholarship and, come next year, I’ll be packing for Parsons.

You have to make this work. In my head, I repeat this mantra over and over.

But what happens if I can’t get on the plane? I can’t afford a hotel. My luggage is already checked. It’s going to JFK with or without me.

The whole thing is all my fault, I know that’s what everyone is thinking. Saying behind my back. If I would just stop stuffing my face with candy bars and fettuccine Alfredo, everything would be perfect.

I have to do it. I have to call Tommy. He’s been mowing lawns since the fifth grade and stashing the money in a savings account. He’s my best friend, and I’m pretty sure there’s something in the Friendship Rule Book that says he has to come through in times like these.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” I say into my cell phone. They’re reading unfamiliar names over the intercom system. The waiting area is filling up, and the pilot passes me on his way to the plane.

“It’s okay,” Tommy says. It’s noisy on his end too. He’s busy being nerdy at a FIRST Lego League competition.

“The flight attendant said I’ll probably be able to get a refund. If not, I’ll pay you back. I promise.”

“Cookie. It’s okay.” He doesn’t even ask why I need the ticket or seem to care when I’ll pay him back. He’s that nice.

“I’m really sorry, Tommy.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

I luck out, I guess, and there’s a cancellation. The gray-haired woman types in the number of the credit card that Tommy’s dad gave him for emergencies. She gives me another boarding pass and a large red sign that reads THIS SEAT RESERVED in bold, black letters. That’s when the fun begins.

When I say she helps me board the flight, believe me, I mean it. She opens up the door to the ramp even before preboarding begins. She takes me and another man right onto the plane. He’s probably eighty. He’s got a jumbo oxygen tank connected to his nose. It’s on wheels, and the flight attendant pulls it behind her as we walk.

She helps him into an aisle seat in the first row. “You can sit anywhere you like,” she calls out to me. Since AirWest is one of the few airlines where you can still choose your own seat, I make my way to the middle of the plane. “Just place the reserved sign on the seat next to you.” She finishes with the ancient man and brings me a seat-belt extender.

“You know, you look very familiar. Miss Vonn, is it?” she asks.

“I get that a lot,” I say. “I guess all fat people look alike.”

She puts her hands on her hips and glares at me. Like she’s just finished being extraordinarily kind and I’m a jackass for not appreciating it.

“Enjoy your flight.” This is her last burst of insincerity before she leaves.

For, like, twenty minutes, it’s me and the geezer, alone on the plane. He keeps turning his head around, as much as he can, maybe trying to figure out why I’m there.

The plane fills up. Everyone that passes stops to read the red sign. I make up a few stories in case anyone asks.

A woman with a slobbery toddler does, in fact, point to the sign. “That’s reserved?” she asks. I see she has several other kids in tow and the remaining seats are spread out.

“I’m traveling with the Federal Air Marshall,” I say.

Her mouth drops open, but she keeps on walking.

I start to organize myself. Make sure my magazines are within easy reach. A couple more people filter by as I’m untangling my headphone cord.

A girl in a Marc Jacobs striped maxi dress, reeking of Kenzo Flower perfume that barely masks the cigarette stink, approaches my aisle. From her dangly earrings to her cheek bronzer, there’s something so impersonal about her look. Like someone else dressed her. Maybe she went to net-a-porter.com and clicked the “shop the issue” link. This is what happens when you have more money than style.

The girl eyes me with disdain, like she’d rather sit next to a monkey wearing a diaper than a fat person. I expect her to move on. Instead she reaches for the RESERVED sign.

I put my hand on it, making sure the sign stays put. “That seat is reserved.”

“Yeah, for me, I guess,” she says. As she taps her foot impatiently, her head wobbles oddly on her neck, making it look like her chin-length bob is some kind of weird wig. “This is the only seat left on the plane.”

The way she says it—Like, duh, stupid, do you think I’d be sitting by you if I didn’t have to?

“It’s mine,” I growl. “They made me buy it.”

“It’s. The. Only. Seat. Left.” She jerks her head from side to side as she spits out the words. People are turning around. A flight attendant is making her way up the aisle.

“What’s the problem, girls?” the flight attendant asks.

“I need to sit here. Obviously,” Miss Money Bags says, smoothing down her thick black hair.

“This is my seat,” I say. “They made me buy it.”

The flight attendant glances around. “It’s the only seat left on the plane.”

“They told me at the gate that I’m too fat to fit into one seat and they made me buy a second ticket,” I say. I can’t get hysterical.

“But you can fit into one seat,” the flight attendant says.

“Mostly,” the girl adds.

“That’s what I told them. But they made me buy another seat anyway.” I want to cry but I don’t; I can’t. You cry, and people know they’ve got you. I’ve had years of practicing waiting until I’m alone. In the shower or in bed late at night.

“Well, if this young lady here sits next to you, you’ll automatically qualify for a refund. I’ll make sure your credit gets issued as soon as we land at JFK.” She smiles kindly at me. “It’s win-win for everybody.”

“I don’t want a refund,” I tell the woman in a dull, low voice. Everything is quiet on the plane. No one else is talking. “I’ve been humiliated at the airport. Had to wait on standby. Had to call my best friend and beg for money. Gotten escorted onto the plane with a man so old he could be my grandma’s grandpa. I had to carry this—” I shake the red sign “—like it’s my Scarlet. Fucking. Letter.”

Pointing at the seat next to me, I keep going. “I don’t care about refunds or win-wins. Or if this plane crashes into the fucking ocean. I want this goddamn seat.”

The flight attendant drops all pretense of friendliness. “We make the call on whether or not you need two seats.”

“I know. The nice lady in the terminal explained all this when she took my six hundred bucks.”

She sighs and turns to the other passenger. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go back to the gate and work this out.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” the girl demands. “Tell Cankles to move her red sign and the plane can take off.” She again tries to slide into the seat next to me.

The flight attendant places her arm across my row to block the girl and then backs her to the door as their conversation continues. “Since she has two tickets, I have to treat this like an overbooking situation. In these cases, the passenger with the last boarding pass issued gets booked on the next flight.”

“The next flight? Tomorrow?” the girl asks. Her voice is becoming higher pitched and semi-hysterical. “But I’ll miss...”

I don’t get to hear what she will miss. The instant she’s back on the entry ramp, another attendant closes the plane door with a thud. The guy on the other side of the aisle gives me a dirty look.

At the front of the plane, I spot a blur of curly, beachy hair. Tommy. The feeling of relief passes as my rational mind connects the dots. Tommy’s back in Mesa, and the guy up front is stowing his girlfriend’s purse in the overhead compartment.

I close my eyes as the pilot reads a bunch of announcements and the flight attendants give instructions. A few minutes later everything is quiet and still.

The plane charges down the long runway, the cabin lights dim and I try to picture myself up there in first class, holding hands with Tommy. That reality feels reserved for the posh and perfect. It’s a members-only club I don’t know how to join.

What I do know is that, after this trip, I’m not doing this again.

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


SKINNY: Later on Day 738 (#u7655f012-796f-5f0f-a838-79072f14cb21)

“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 (#u7655f012-796f-5f0f-a838-79072f14cb21)(two seats take me to New York) (#u7655f012-796f-5f0f-a838-79072f14cb21)

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 (#u7655f012-796f-5f0f-a838-79072f14cb21)

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 (#u7655f012-796f-5f0f-a838-79072f14cb21)

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.

Behind her the wiry photographic genius Bruce Richardson leans over the top step of a tall ladder. “Cammie! We’ve got light for maybe another thirty minutes. Get Leslie out here stat. And clear this street. The last thing I need is that fat ass in my shot!”

Cassidy eyes Richardson with the crazed expression of someone on the verge of totally losing it. “It’s Cassidy,” she mutters under her breath.

But we exchange glances and she chews her lower lip. We both know I’m the fat ass Richardson means.

“Please. Wait here, Cookie,” she tells me, and she disappears into the hardware store. I know she feels bad. For me.

But I don’t want her sympathy.

And I don’t want to be in fucking Whitefish, Montana.

“Cookie. Perfect name for that girl. The jokes almost write themselves,” Richardson says as I walk toward the coffee shop.


SKINNY: Day 738 and strange benefactors (#u7655f012-796f-5f0f-a838-79072f14cb21)

“Sure,” Gareth says, “I remember that issue of Par Donna. Richardson’s nothing if not memorable. And weird. The corsets and furs, I get. But what was with those rodeo clowns?”

I shrug. “Sorry. I don’t have much insight into his process. From what I could see, he spends most of his time on a ladder screaming at people.”

The flight attendant serves him his white wine with a dazzling smile. Gareth takes my soda and places it on my tray. I’m praying for a break in the conversation long enough that I can finally slip in my headphones. I’m pretty sure a woman across the aisle from me is considering tossing me from the plane and taking my seat.

“You been on a lot of shoots?” he asks.

“Nah,” I say.

“Not into the world of fashion?” he asks, arching his eyebrows.

I couldn’t help but smile. “My grandma taught me to sew when I was five. She’d put on Breakfast at Tiffany’s or Casablanca and we’d hand-bead wedding dresses. Claire McCardell said that fashion isn’t about finding clothes, it’s about finding yourself. That the girl who knows what to wear knows who she is.”

Gareth smiles a bit wistfully. “That’s kind of how I got started too.” I already know this.

“You work in fashion?” he asks.

I hesitate.

“I’m a blogger,” I say.

“You blog about fashion? Professionally?”

I nod and take my iPad out of the seat pocket. He puts his hand lightly on mine to stop me from turning it on. My stomach flip-flops at the touch of his slightly calloused fingertips.

“And I guess you’re not very good at it?” he asks with a smirk.

I drop my headphones and they land against the iPad screen with a click. “I’m guessing you’ve never read my blog. So how would you know?”

Gareth Miller chuckles. My face heats up. I hate his rogue appeal. I want to throw cranberry juice on his crisp linen shirt.

He ignores my death stare and continues to smile. “I’m Vogue’s Designer of the Year. I’m on my way to New York Fashion Week, where tickets to my show are nearly impossible to get. There’re a million fashion blogs. And, not to be immodest, but sitting next to me is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Shouldn’t you be trying to interview me? Working me over for samples or show tickets? Cookie, darling, I think you’re showing a real lack of initiative.”

He’s teasing. But still, the comment stings. I pride myself on my fashion expertise.

“Well, you’d be wrong. I already have an appointment to interview you.”

“Really?” he challenges. “Once we get to New York?”

“Yes.”

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and reads from the screen. “Huh,” he says in surprise. “On Sunday afternoon. This is your blog, Roundish?”

“Yes.”

Gareth shifts around in his seat. “It’s...uh...it’s a plus-size fashion thing?”

Ha! It’s my turn to smile. I finally feel like I’ve got him on the run. “Yeah. The title’s from that Karl Lagerfeld quote. You know, how nobody wants to see round women? Well, I do want to see them. And make sure they look and feel great.”

“Any particular reason you want to do plus-size when you’re not plus-size yourself?” he asks.

Yes. For every time I stepped into a store and they didn’t have anything in my size. For every time I found a designer I loved and then found that their stuff only went up to a size eight. For the fact that I had to lose weight in order to be taken seriously as a designer or blogger. That’s what I should say. Instead, I shrug. “Everyone wants to dress the super tall and super thin.”

He doesn’t look at me but continues to read. “You’re a finalist for the CFDA media award. My publicist seems to think you plan to demonize me. Create sort of a Karl Lagerfeld/Adele–type controversy.”

“My subscribers have questions.”

“What kind of questions?” he says, his eyes narrowing.

“I plan to have them ready for you on Sunday at 2:00 p.m.”

“Maybe you need background info? Maybe you want to ask how I got started?”

I shake my head. “You’re Gareth John Miller. You’re thirty-one years old. You were born in Santa Fe but moved to Kalispell at the age of two. Your dad’s a rancher. Your mom’s an artist living at Arcosanti. Your contact with her has been minimal. Your grandmother taught you to sew doll clothes at a young age. When you were a junior in high school, you made prom dresses for the entire cheerleading squad. The dresses became the portfolio you submitted with your application to Parsons. It’s still regarded as their best incoming student submission. You’re the youngest graduate in the school’s history. When you were twenty-four, Louis Vuitton Moët Hennessy offered to finance your label. But you turned Bernard Arnault down. Instead, your father mortgaged the family ranch and gave you $150,000 in working capital. Your three lines, Gareth Miller, GM by Gareth Miller and Gareth Miller Kids, earned over $90 million last year. And your brand is one of the few of its size without some offering of plus-size fashion.”

He watches me in a new way, sizing me up. “I stand corrected. You clearly do your homework. And you were planning to sit on this flight for four hours and not say anything to me?” He checks his phone again. “I think I paid for that seat.”

“It’s too late to take it back,” I say, remembering Gareth’s helpful publicist.

“I certainly wish I had read this email before I...so I would have known I’d be sitting next to...but I had to rush over here from...” he mutters. For the first time, he’s nervous. “That thing I said before...about the woman in the airport...”

I should so let him sweat this out. He’s chewing his lower lip in this annoyingly endearing way and I enjoy watching him way too much.

“I only plan to blog about what you say during our official interview.” Where I’m supposed to convince him to launch a plus-size capsule collection. My sponsors want tweets that trend.

He relaxes and smiles, again reading from his phone screen. “Ah, but it says here you’ll be blogging and tweeting live from my show. And I’ll be dressing you.” His brown eyes darken. “I think I’ll enjoy that very much, Cookie.”

“I’ll be wearing something you designed.” I correct him even as my insides wobble like one of Grandma’s Jell-O Bundt cakes. “I’ve been dressing myself since I was five.”

He folds his hands and rests them on the tray in front of him. He’s back in his element. “Right. Well. What would you like to wear?”


FAT: Three years before NutriNation and fat camp sucks (#u7655f012-796f-5f0f-a838-79072f14cb21)

“I’m not wearing that, you fucking fascist.”

I scowl at the Jack LaLanne look-alike. He’s holding out a green T-shirt. It’s got the words Fairy Falls printed on it in thick block letters. Along with an illustration of a pixie that could have been drawn by Andy Warhol on crystal meth.

Even better. There’s a pair of sweatpants in the same pukey hue.

“Then I hope you like hiking naked, Miss Vonn. We’re heading out at nine o’clock. Participation is not optional.” The crusty camp owner has dull gray hair. When he was young he probably had dull brown hair. His mouth extends into a dull, thin line. His bulging muscles want to bust out of the weathered camp tee he wears.

I glance around the small cabin. Some upbeat person would probably describe it as rustic, but I’d call it a wooden shack. There are two narrow, steel-framed bunks on opposite sides of the room, and a whiteboard hangs on one wall. Someone has written “Juniper Cabin. Bunk 1: Cookie Vonn. Bunk 2: Piper Saunders.” There’s no sign of my roomie. She arrived before I did and was apparently happy to join the Fairy Fucking Falls group activities.

“Walking around naked is actually illegal, Mr. Getty,” I say. “And I want the clothes I packed.” The ones I made. The ones that fit me perfectly. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to precisely tailor a pair of chinos? Or coordinate three different floral print separates? And I have a Moschino bag I almost lost an eye for during a fight at a sample sale.”

“If we’re going to have a problem here, Miss Vonn, I can always call your mother.” Menace laces Getty’s voice. He thinks he’s delivered the ultimate threat.

“You could,” I agree with a sweet smile. “And if, by some miracle, she comes to the phone, please tell her I would very much like to speak with her.”

Getty presses his lips into an even thinner, whiter line. “It’s simple, Miss Vonn. No uniform, no hike. No hike, no lunch.”

He comes back at nine to find me sitting on my bunk. Still wearing the chevron sweater I knitted and the midi skirt Grandma made from a hand-dyed jersey.

I’m reading a fantasy novel. Wishing I could jump into the pages and become a princess with a unicorn. Getty stands in front of me. He casts a gloomy shadow over me and onto the wooden wall of the cabin.

“Why did your parents send you here?” he asks. He flips through papers attached to the clipboard he carries.

“Chad Tate sent me here,” I say, “because he likes to fuck my mother. And fuck her over. So this is perfect. I’m here. And he’s spending Christmas getting laid on an all-expense-paid trip to a five-star resort.”

Getty ignores me. “They chose this camp because I get results. Ten pounds in three weeks. No exceptions.”

“There is no they,” I say. “My dad’s a doctor. He’s in Ghana as part of a Catholic medical mission. He would never have agreed to send me here.” I wrap my arms around myself. Truthfully, I have no idea what my dad would agree to. He’s been nothing more than a voice on the phone or bland messages in my email inbox for almost ten years now.

I stopped replying last summer.

Again the old man ignores me. “And the way I get results is simple. Calories out exceed calories in. That’s it. I don’t get involved in this Freudian, psychobabble, ‘food is your friend’ bullshit. I don’t care if Mommy didn’t hug you or if Daddy’s too busy to pay attention.” Deep folds emerge in Getty’s leathery forehead as he squints at his paperwork.

“I want my own clothes,” I say. I have to stay angry. It’s my only defense against Getty’s words, which hit a little too close to home.

He grunts. “And I hope that thought provides adequate consolation when everyone else is eating chocolate pudding at lunch.”

He slams the door behind him, creating a shower of dust that falls from the cabin’s roof. I keep reading.

It’s afternoon when I hear the hikers trudge through the camp. The cabin door opens, and it’s the first time I get to meet my gung ho bunkmate. She and I are about the same size, so it’s pretty easy to imagine what I’d look like in that horrid green uniform Getty is trying to force on me. Piper Saunders’s brownish red hair is tied in a bun on the top of her head.

She tiptoes into the cabin and sees me. Piper opens her mouth, on the verge of saying something, closes it again and spends a couple of minutes rifling through a trunk near her bed. The door smacks behind her when she leaves the cabin. She comes back a little while later, sits on the bunk across from mine in silence and chews a granola bar with deliberation. We’ve done nothing but stare at each other by the time she leaves for dinner.

By then, I’m a celebrity. A crowd gathers outside my cabin. I can hear them through the thin wood walls as they start to argue. Half of them think I’m the leader of a new resistance and they want to join my fat-ass army. Piper speaks for the other half. “She’s a stuck-up bitch. Her mom’s some big-time model in New York, so she thinks she’s too good to wear the uniform. I hope they let her starve.” She has a thick Australian accent.

I kick the door open. Everyone outside jumps back and then they exchange embarrassed glances. “Say that to my face. Say it. To. My. Face.”

My teeth are clenched and my fists are balled up. Piper’s shrinking back from me and I’m sure I can take her. Despite what she thinks, I didn’t grow up in a Fifth Avenue penthouse. In my neighborhood, you watch your back.

The crowd circles around us. I’m seconds away from starting a fight.

Getty pushes his way through the ring and grabs my elbow. He marches me to the camp office. I want to laugh as he tries to contact my mother. I know it’s Cassidy on the other end of the line. “I’m calling about her daughter.” Pause. “Thailand? Did she leave any contact information?” Pause. “Her grandmother?”

Getty turns to me, but I shake my head. “My grandma’s on a trip to the Holy Land. My mom was supposed to...” I trail off. It’s weird to admit that my grandma had to plead with Mom to babysit me. “My grandma had to go. The congregation paid for her trip.” It sounds defensive. Even to me.

Getty’s attention is focused on his call with Cassidy while I’m trying to make sense of how I ended up here. How Mom sent Chad Tate to pick me up. How he dumped me at this camp like a bag of dry cleaning. The tears well up.

But I beat them back as Getty hangs up the wall phone. “Well, well, Miss Vonn. It seems you weren’t exaggerating.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I say. “But my mother won’t be shocked if I refuse to shimmy into those sweatpants you provided.” My mother wouldn’t notice if I ran away and joined the merchant marines.

“No,” he agrees with a humorless smile. “But she also is unlikely to object if you don’t get dinner tonight.” He outright laughs as my stomach grumbles. “See you in the morning, Miss Vonn.”

Piper avoids me. It’s dark when she comes back to the cabin. Until lights out, she lies in her bunk, huddling against the wall. Even from across the room, I can feel her nervous energy. My sweater’s collar scratches my neck. The skirt leaves my legs cold and bare.

At ten, there’s shouts of “lights out.” Piper flips the switch near her bunk.

“Relax,” I call out into the night. “I don’t plan to attack you while you sleep.”

There’s silence.

Sort of silence. Crickets chirp. Outside a dying fire pops and crackles.

Then, “What’s your problem, anyway?”

Piper is asking this. Her voice is soft, girlish.

And I don’t know the answer. “You want me to limit myself to just one?”

She laughs. “I would kill to be you,” she says.

“Yeah, right,” I mutter.

The girlish tone in her voice disappears. “You look like a plus-size model. And if you’d just—”

“—lose weight I’d look just like my mother,” I snap. “I know.”

“You don’t want to look like her? You don’t want to look like Leslie Vonn Tate?” Piper sounds surprised.

“I don’t want to be anything like her,” I say.

“So,” she says slowly. “Why won’t you wear the uniform? It’s not that bad.”

“It’s okay, I guess,” I say. “It’s just that I make my own clothes. And what I wear is the one thing that I can...”

“Control?” Piper finishes.

Another silence.

“How’d you get stuck here?” I ask her, eager to change the subject.

She doesn’t answer right away. I start to think she’s fallen asleep when she almost whispers, “Online contest.”

“Wait. You wanted to come here?” I demand.

“Yeah, Cookie Vonn,” she says. “I wanted to come here. My family. My mum keeps saying we’re all big-boned. My brothers have such big bones, they get tossed from the cinema for taking too many seats. There are five of us. No one’s been asked to a dance.”

I say nothing.

“Coming to this camp is twelve thousand Oz dollars. So you can think I’m pathetic if you want. Maybe I am pathetic. I had to write this whole big thing. ‘How would Fairy Falls change your life?’”

“I don’t think you’re pathetic,” I whisper.

“I want to get married. To hang glide. To surf,” she says. “I want to go to the senior dance. My mum thinks the five food groups are meat pie, lamb leg, fish-and-chips, chocolate biscuits and lamingtons. This is my only chance.”

I should say something. I know it. About how life has to be about more than just one chance. How there has to be more to life than how we look on the outside. How happy endings can’t be reserved for the thin.

But there’s a knock at the door. A soft knock.

“Cookie? Cookie Vonn?”

I open the door a crack. That dickhead Getty called lights out a while ago, but the guy outside the cabin holds a small, battery-powered camping lantern.

“I thought you might want some dinner,” the guy says. Piper leans forward on her bunk, trying to catch a glimpse of what’s happening.

“Who’re you? And why do you care if I get dinner?” I ask.

He shakes the lantern next to his head of blond, curly hair. “It’s me. Tommy.” He says this like I should recognize him. Like we’ve been bosom buddies all our lives.

“Tommy who?”

He lowers the lamp and his shoulders slump. His camp tee is a couple sizes too big. It’d be a stretch to say the guy has twenty pounds of extra weight on him. Whoever shipped him off to fat camp is more evil than Chad Tate.

“Tommy Weston.”

The name doesn’t ring a bell.

“My mom works for the Cards. We met at the Cards versus Giants game.”

I think about that game. The only thing I remember is Chad Tate spilling beer on my new pair of oxford loafers.

“I see you at Donutville every Sunday when I pick up a dozen for church.”

Yeah, you and every other Catholic within a five-mile radius.

“Oh, come on! I sit behind you in Trig.”

That sort of rings a bell. Like maybe I’ve seen his poofy mop as I pass back quiz copies or something.

“Yeah, okay. Hi. What do you want?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Piper recoiling in horror. I’m pretty sure I’m losing whatever ground we gained during our heart-to-heart.

“I heard about the thing with Mr. Getty. And, well...my mom knows your dad... I thought you might be hungry... I thought maybe I should—”

I put my hands on my hips. “Chad Tate’s not my dad.”

“Yeah, sure. Sorry.” He holds up the lantern again. He’s like the blond boy from the cover of The Little Prince. Hopeful. And a bit lost. “So you don’t want to go on a picnic? See Fairy Falls?”

I bite my lower lip. “Fairy Falls is a real thing? Not just some bizarre-o marketing gimmick from the mind of Herbert Getty?”

“It’s real. We went up there this morning. It’s more of a walk. Took about forty-five minutes. Come see it.” He smiles and his teeth glow green.

I know I can’t hike in my skirt and wedges. “Did he put you up to this? Did Getty send you over here to trick me into wearing that Hulk costume?”

His mouth clamps shut and he shrugs. “Wear whatever you want. I’m just offering you a sandwich.”

Sandwich. I have no idea when Getty will let me eat, and that’s enough to motivate me. “Okay. Hang on.” I shut the door and tug on the oversize green sweats. Piper gives me a smile and a wave as I lace up my Converse and leave the cabin.

“Hey! Don’t hurt me, Hulk,” Tommy whispers as I join him outside.

“Ha ha. I’m wearing the sweats. Now, where’s my sandwich, Pavlov?” I experiment with the placement of the sweatshirt’s ribbed edge, trying to figure out which option makes me look less fat. No one option seems better than any other. And the green color is such a crime against humanity that it probably doesn’t matter anyway.

He dims the light and motions for me to follow him up the path. “You know, it doesn’t look that bad. Why did you make such a big deal out of it?”

I have to stay close to keep from tripping in the darkness. And I don’t say anything. Partially because the land has started to rise in an incline and I’m having trouble breathing. Partially because I no longer know the answer. Something about Piper got to me. Made me think that camp wouldn’t be all bad.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just go with the flow once in a while?” he asks.

“That’s what Churchill...said when the Nazis...invaded Poland.” I hope the panting isn’t too obvious.

“Ah, so you’re comparing me to Hitler now?”

The moon rises higher and higher in the sky and it feels like we’ve been walking all night. We finally come to a stop and Tommy turns the lantern to full brightness. He holds it up, illuminating the rocky edge of a water hole. White steam rises off the surface and sends a rotten-egg smell in our direction.

“The Grand Prismatic Spring,” he says in a booming voice. In a quieter tone, he goes on, “You should see it during the day. It looks like something from another planet. The colors change. Sometimes you see a deep blue, sometimes gold and then red.”

“It’s the algae,” I say. “And bacteria. This place is basically one big infection. And it smells like one too.”

He laughs, and we start walking again. Typical. I just caught my breath. I can hear rushing water ahead in the distance. Tree branches poke into the pathway and with another wave of the lantern, Tommy is saying something about fires and forest thinning. He’s not huffing and puffing like me.

He stops and spreads a camp blanket over a patch of moss, yellowish green in the moonlight. I stand near the edge of a rocky ledge facing into the darkness. Behind me, I hear a thud as Tommy drops his backpack, and in front of me, the patter of water rolling off the cliff. He joins me with his lantern and holds it up over a skinny stream of water.

“Fairy Falls,” he says.

“It’s not too bad.” I smile. In spite of my hatred for the camp, for Getty, for Chad Tate, there’s something interesting about the gray granite rock formations and the tree trunks that litter the hillside. It’s like the opening sequence of a bad teen horror movie. Or the site of a giant game of pick-up sticks.

“Come on,” Tommy says, grabbing my hand.

We sit on the cold blanket. From inside his backpack Tommy unpacks ham sandwiches, sea salt quinoa chips and apples. And chocolate pudding. It’s pretty gross camp food. But after the day I’ve had, it’s a gourmet feast.

“Look, I know you’re not happy to be here,” he says.

“Um, yeah,” I say in between bites, “is there a reason you find the prospect of eating lettuce wraps and getting up at four in the morning to jog so thrilling?”

Tommy shrugs and opens his pudding cup. “Jogging’s okay. I guess I don’t love salads. And we don’t have to get up at four.”

I put down my sandwich. “Okay. But why are you here? You’re...not fat.”

He smiles. “My mom had a weight problem growing up. She keeps going on and on about genetics and history repeating itself. So here I am.”

“That totally sucks.”

He thinks about this for a minute. “Well. It was either this or visit my grandma and spend the whole break trying to cross-stitch Walt Whitman quotes. And this is fun, right?”

I sigh. I knew he was playing the odds. It happens a lot. Guys will be nice to me in the hopes that I’ll go on the cabbage diet and end up strutting around a catwalk in a bra like my mother. People say we look alike. I’m the image of supermodel Lindsay Vonn Tate as seen in a funhouse mirror.

Before I can tell Tommy Weston to go screw off, he points at a small reddish blob on the horizon. “You ever watch Arcturus?”

I followed his gaze up to the night sky. “What’s that?”

“A star. Fourth brightest, actually. The Bear Watcher.”

I snorted. “Great. Now you’re Bill Nye the Science Guy.”

He ignores me. “My dad used to tell me this story. About how they used the light from Arcturus to open the 1933 Chicago World’s Fair.”

I sit cross-legged and stare at the star too. “How did they do that?”

Tommy turns to face me. “Well, they set up photocells and used several large refracting telescopes to—”

“Okay. Forget I asked,” I say, and we both laugh.

“The point is that there’s Arcturus. It can be this impersonal ball of gas floating around thirty-seven light-years away, having nothing to do with anybody or anything. Or we can take a telescope, focus its light and shoot it over a crowd of ten thousand people. And it’s up to us what we do.” He’s watching the dark sky. Wishing on a star.

There’s something sweet about him and this world he’s imagining. “So this is your dad’s version of a motivational speech?” I giggle. It sounds kind of weird.

“My dad’s a physics teacher. He likes to go with what he knows.”

We pack up the garbage and walk back to camp. The walk back is way more pleasant than hiking up, since it’s mostly downhill.

When we arrive at Juniper, he extends his hand. “Friends?” he asks.

“Friends,” I agree.

I watch him go over to the boys’ side of camp. Low, snow-covered mountains billow across the landscape behind him.

Inside my cabin, Piper’s still awake. “Some counselor brought your bag. Don’t worry. I said you were in the toilet. I guess Mr. Getty’s lawyer says, strictly speaking, he can’t refuse to give you food.”

I shrug and pull the bag into the corner near my bunk. “I think I’ll just wear the uniform. I mean, what’s the big deal, right?”

Piper grins at me. “Got anything else in there besides fancy clothes?”

Unzipping the bag, I hold up several magazines. “Can I interest you in a copy of Seventeen? I never leave home without one.”

Fairy Falls sucks.

Not being alone completely rules.


SKINNY: Day 738 of NutriNation and there’s nothing to eat (#u7655f012-796f-5f0f-a838-79072f14cb21)

Miller’s people have pulled out all the stops. I guess they must really be worried I’ll make him out to be the anti-Christ.

I ride in a fancy limo to the Refinery Hotel. The driver makes a point of telling me to have anything I want from the minibar. He tells me three times.

Finally he shakes his head. “You pretty girls never eat.”

My right eye starts to twitch. “When Gareth Miller rides in a limo do you think he eats?” The rest of the drive is pretty quiet.

The Refinery is an opulent palace of white marble and maple paneling. It looks like only cool Swedish people should be allowed to stay in the rooms. Piper hangs around in front, standing underneath a glass overhang, trying to fold a black umbrella. One awesome thing about this trip is that it’s also an opportunity to hang with my BFF.

“You made it!” she calls.

“You look great.” I point to her hair. “You’ve gone a bit darker.”

Piper nods. “Yeah. I’m trying to pull off Dannii Minogue. And, of course, I’m wearing a Cookie Vonn original.” She gestures toward her outfit like a game show model. She’s paired her platform heels and jeans with a sweatshirt I made. It’s my own pattern of distressed retro rockets inspired by the TWA Moonliner rocket I saw that one time Grandma took me to Disneyland.

Piper is my muse.

Hubert de Givenchy had his Audrey Hepburn. Calvin Klein got a decade of inspiration from Kate Moss.

I have Piper, who’s bold and beautiful and brainy. Someday, when I have my own brand, I hope girls like Piper will be standing at department store cash registers buying armfuls of my stuff.

The first year or so after Fairy Falls, Piper was pretty much the camp’s poster child. It was like she lived to eat lettuce wraps and read Runner’s World magazine. I’m sure somewhere in Wyoming, Mr. Getty was probably shitting himself with excitement at the thought of getting a new testimonial for the camp brochure.

She lost fifty pounds.

And then.

Her weight loss totally stalled. She got down to twelve hundred calories and exercised so much that she was even doing calf raises on the school bus. We Skyped twice a week, and I don’t think she cracked a smile in six months.

One day during a video chat, she leaned in close to her screen and said, “I’m a size twenty and I’m going to stay that way. I have become a Giver of Zero Fucks. I’m going to do what I want to do and be happy.”

And then she did.

My attention snaps back to a guy standing on the sidewalk. He starts to say something. “Hey! Are you from—”

Piper pulls me through the hotel’s sliding glass doors before the guy can finish saying Australia. We both roll our eyes. Piper gets this routine a hundred times a day.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” I say. “Can the guys at Columbia get any studying done with you around?”

She laughs, revealing rows of teeth set straight by her orthodontist dad. “I wish you were there. Remind me why you’re at ASU again.”

“Because it’s free. And I’m broke,” I say. But Piper knows all this. At ASU, I’ve got a full ride. I know she’s giving me the opportunity to vent about my mom, but I already spent enough time thinking about Mom on the plane. So I tease her. “Remind me why you’re pre-law again?”

She pushes her dark, chunky bangs out of her face. “The way you say pre-law. Like it’s a naughty word or something. Someday when you’re a powerful designer, you’ll need someone to sue all those jerks who make knockoffs of your handbags. And you need to hurry up and get famous so I can sell this jumper on eBay. Pay off my student loans.”

I check us in. The whole process makes me feel like such a, well, grown-up. They ask if I want the bellman to bring up our suitcases. My mind races with questions about tipping and conversation etiquette. I mumble something and leave the counter.

Piper and I drag our own bags to the black elevator doors. “You ready for a wild night on the town, girl?” she asks. We make our way down a long hall. Our room is enormous, with more maple panels on the walls and oversize white pillows on the beds.

Trouble is, neither of us is really all that wild. Piper spends most of her free time watching Law & Order reruns and reading biographies of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. I’m usually home on Saturday nights prewashing my fabrics or learning to program my new embroidery machine.

Piper flips open the hotel information binder. “There’s a restaurant here. Parker & Quinn. Gourmet burgers. I guess you can watch the chef make them.”

I flop back onto the thick white comforter of my queen bed. “Great. I get to watch someone cook food I can’t eat.”

She rolls her eyes at me and flips to another page. “Okay. What about this? The Refinery Rooftop.”

I lean over her shoulder. “It’s a bar.”

“I have my fake ID,” she says. “And look. You can see the Empire State Building.”

We decide to go. I mean, we’re nineteen, we’re alone in New York and our room’s secured to Gareth Miller’s credit card.

Piper’s right about one thing. The view is amazing. Light from the Empire State Building beams through the terrace’s glass roof. It’s a whole building, a complete structure that seems to be saying, You can do it. You can get where you need to go.

And for somebody, sometime, this rooftop probably is romantic. Round lights are strung from iron posts and candles flicker on the long, wooden tables. But it’s Saturday night and the place is littered with middle-aged sales people discussing deals. And off in one corner is Roberta’s fiftieth birthday.

We take a couple of seats at the bar. Piper orders a lemon drop martini and I have a Diet Coke. She starts to argue but I hold my hand up. “You know I never waste calories on alcohol.”

“I wouldn’t call it a waste, Cookie,” she says with a wan smile.

I snort. “I would. I mean, I haven’t had a Dorito in two years. If I’m going off the wagon, send in the Cool Ranch, please.”

Piper stares at me. In the orange candlelight, her eyelashes cast long shadows down her cheeks. “So this is it, right? You’re finally going to meet Gareth Miller? Meet the man behind the door?”

I pause, struggling to come up with a way to explain the total weirdness on the flight. “Actually, I already met him. I guess his private plane broke down. He sat next to me. Got on when we stopped at DFW.”

She leans forward and slaps my arm lightly. “And you’re just now mentioning it! Tell me everything.”

I shrug. “There’s not that much to tell. I mentioned the blog. The interview. He asked about my mom.”

Piper bites down on her lower lip. “So, awkward?”

“A little.”

She replaces her worried expression with a leer. “Was he totally hot?” I break into hoots of laughter as she wiggles her eyebrows up and down.

Two guys sit near us at the bar, having a loud conversation that carries over ours. “—like it’s my fault she’s stuck in the back office. The senior analyst job involves travel,” the one nearest Piper says. “You think I can send that gal to Wuhan? The last time I sent a fat lady to China, the client’s daughter asked for tips on how to get her pet rabbit to gain weight.”

“Oh. Ouch. Cold,” the second man says, taking a long sip of a tall beer.

I realize Piper and I have both stopped talking and are watching the men in horror. I try to get a conversation going again. “So did you go to that seminar on the different kinds of law? Any thoughts on what kind of lawyer you want to be?”

Piper smiles. It’s actually more like a Cheshire Cat grin. “Yeah. There are a lot of cool branches of law. In fact—”

“—and I told her. Get rid of that candy dish on your desk. Hit the StairMaster once in a while. Then come back and talk to me about a promotion,” the man goes on.

We stop talking again. I check out the guy’s suit. I don’t understand people, but I totally get clothes. It’s an Ermenegildo Zegna. Navy. Two button. Wool. Easily $3K. This guy. The way his graying hair has outgrown its haircut but his shirt’s been recently pressed. Careless wealth. Easy power. A dangerous combination.

“Yeah,” Piper says, loud enough that it catches the attention of the douchelords. “We learned about this thing called employment law where I can sue rich assholes who won’t give promotions to fat women.”

Mr. Navy Suit turns to Piper. “That’s not illegal,” he says, glaring at her.

“Yet,” she replies, pronouncing each letter sharply and returning his glare with equal force.

The man drops a hundred-dollar bill on the counter and leaves the bar.

The bartender approaches us with another round and we order some food. Piper gets a burger and I ask for a chicken Caesar salad with the dressing on the side.

I grin at her. “I think you just chased a multimillionaire executive out of a swanky restaurant. You really are my hero.”

She snorts with laughter as a waitress arrives with our plates. I watch in envy as a bacon cheeseburger is slid in front of Piper. The corners of the cheddar cheese melt and drip. I force myself to get busy removing all but the five croutons I’m allowed to eat from my salad.

Piper doesn’t bother to pretend her burger is anything other than completely delicious. “You know, you could have a cheeseburger too, Cookie.”

“Not on the plan,” I say, poking at my bland chicken, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

“If your plan is causing you to make that face, I think it’s time for a new plan,” she says.

“We can’t all be Givers of Zero Fucks,” I say.

“Yes, we can.” Piper scoops up a few seasoned fries.

I glance at the Empire State Building. “If it weren’t for NutriNation, I wouldn’t even be here. Let’s face it. There’s no way NutriMin Water would’ve sponsored my blog if I didn’t use their product to lose weight.”

She grabs my bag from the back of my chair and rifles through it.

“What are you doing?” I ask. “What are you looking for?”

“Your crystal ball? Or maybe the multiverse goggles you use to see alternate dimensions. They must be in here, right? I mean, otherwise how could you really know for sure what would happen if you made different choices?” she says.

I grab my bag. “Oh, so it’s all just in my imagination? You heard those two guys. Fashion is even worse. Fashion is where they take thin people and call them plus-size models. Where they refuse to dress fat celebrities for events and say that size-six women are fat actresses.”

Piper takes a sip of her drink. “Yeah. There’s fat-shaming everywhere. But it’s up to us what we do about it. I mean come on, Cookie. You’re going to design plus-size clothes but not be plus-size? You’re gonna live your life like you’re terrified of a fucking cheeseburger?”

“I’m not afraid to eat a cheeseburger,” I say. I’m not totally sure this is true, so I keep going. “And I hate to break it to you, but in fashion, I am plus-size.”

She frowns at me. “Well, I’m going to be the best lawyer on this or any other continent, and I’ll sue any fat-shamer who tries to stop me.”

“We can’t all be you,” I tell her.

“We can be whatever we want.”

Piper is totally wrong. In fashion, being fat is a cardinal sin. A cackling villain who kidnaps puppies and turns them into coats would be more popular in the world of fashion than a fat designer. But I hardly ever get to hang out with Piper in real life and I don’t want to waste our time arguing. I change the subject to Columbia, and we spend the rest of the meal joking about Piper’s awful new roommates.

We charge our meal to Gareth Miller’s corporate Amex and go down to our room.

I crawl into bed and turn out the lights but can’t relax. I imagine the five croutons I ate are having a fistfight in my stomach. I toss and turn. I think again and again of Gareth’s dark, brooding eyes as he says, I think I’ll enjoy that very much.

“Have you heard from Tommy?” Piper whispers from the other queen bed.

“No,” I say, trying not to think too much about this.

“And that’s not a problem for you?”

“No.” It’s pathetic, thinking about the time he kissed me. He made his choice, and there’s no going back.

“He’s a wanker anyway.” Piper turns in her bed a few times and fluffs her pillow. “Night, Cookie Vonn.”

I dream of a world full of Dorito-trimmed Christmas trees and curly-haired Ken-doll boyfriends.


soScottsdale

Title: Summer Sportswear on Sale

Creator: Cookie Vonn [contributor]

Ladies, can we talk about American sportswear for a second? It’s no accident that sportswear rose in popularity as the women’s suffrage movement gained steam. Think for a second about nineteenth-century clothing, about corsets, linen bonnets and petticoats that flowed over steel hoops. Women had places to go and things to do. But how far could they get in corsets that caused fainting spells, sleeves that didn’t let them extend their arms and skirts that caught fire if they turned their backs to the stove? Modern women needed separates like skirts and shorts and shirts that could be washed and worn, mixed and matched. Sportswear is where fashion meets feminism.

What does this have to do with anything? Well, niblets, with fall fashions hitting the racks, most stores are in full-on fire sale mode, putting summer styles on clearance. Meaning you can save big on a sportswear splurge. From a simple swimsuit by Tory Burch, to classic Wayfarer sunnies, to the Tommy Hilfiger striped nautical tee, after the jump, we’ll have sportswear essentials every girl ought to have in her closet.

Notes: Marlene [editor]: Love the historical primer but not sure if readers will care. Kill the intro and get on with the list. And do we really want to call our subscribers “niblets”?


FAT: One day before NutriNation (#u7655f012-796f-5f0f-a838-79072f14cb21)

“Sorry. Who are you with?” The hipster’s looking down his nose at me, through a pair of horn-rimmed glasses I suspect are fake. He stands behind a desk that guards the entrance of Gareth Miller’s narrow garment-district studio. Directly behind him is a tall, maple-paneled door.

Behind him is the studio. And I am about to go inside.

I’m dressed in my best work outfit. A fitted black tee with an off-center V-neck and a midi-length skirt from fabric I silkscreened with vintage arcade characters. Plus-size Donna Reed meets Freaks and Geeks.

As the guy rearranges his plaid scarf, I’m pinching the Donkey Kong on my stiff, cotton skirt. “I’m with SoScottsdale. It’s a Phoenix-based design blog.”

A second guy with knee-length shorts and a floppy cap joins Mr. Skinny Jeans behind the desk. It’s not lost on me that the two of them are crowded into a space I couldn’t fit in.

“SoScottsdale? What the hell is that?” says Mr. Skinny Jeans.

Mr. Floppy Hat reaches over Mr. Skinny Jeans’ shoulder and taps a few times on the computer’s keyboard. “Oh, you know. That new whack-a-doodle down at Blue PR wants us to do more regional stuff. Open up a couple of the reviews. Says we need more street-level buy-in.”

“Whatever the hell that means,” says Mr. Skinny Jeans. He stares at the monitor for a minute. “Yeah. I see it here. SoScottsdale. But someone’s already checked in. Kennes Butterfield.”

He gives me a dismissive nod. Like everything’s all worked out now. “But I’m with SoScottsdale. I’m Cookie Vonn.”

Behind Skinny Jeans, Floppy Hat snorts with laughter. He turns away, but I see his shoulder shake. “Well, you might want to tell them that, sweetheart. Kennes Butterfield’s the name they put on the list. She got here an hour ago.”

A chic woman with a pixie cut, clad in fitted jeans and an Elizabeth and James Dover tee, breezes in. She doesn’t stop at the desk. Mr. Floppy Hat holds the door while checking his cell phone.

The door is open for maybe ten seconds. I see a slice of Miller’s profile. Just his nose, really. And the edge of his dark hairline.

The door closes with a heavy thud. Closes on my opportunity to ask Miller how a kid from Montana created a fashion empire. To meet LaChapelle and personally plead with him for a scholarship. It’s over.

This is not how it’s supposed to be.

“But Gareth Miller’s in there.” I’m sort of stuttering. Like a stupid. Fucking. Idiot.

Skinny Jeans and Floppy Hat are both laughing. I leave through the front door as one of them says, “Yeah. This is his studio. He’s bound to be here once in a while.”

I’m standing on the curb outside Miller’s gray building as taxis whizz by and lights pop on in offices across the street. I’m having a meltdown. But for some people, it’s business as usual.

I pull my phone out of my bag.

“I’m sorry, Cookie. I really am.” This is how Terri answers the phone.

“What the hell is going on, Terri?” I say.

“Marlene had to send someone else to the preview at the last second,” she says. The wail of a baby drowns out her next sentence.

My teeth are clenched. I’m pacing and waving my arms. But nobody looks. Because this is New York. I could be in a flaming Big Bird costume and no one would notice. “Who?”

“Marlene will explain when you get back to the office,” Terri says.

“When I get back to the office? Terri, are you serious? Somebody should have explained before I made a total fucking ass of myself at G Studios.”

Terri’s voice is weak through my receiver. Taxis honk. Somebody yells something like “You can’t park in the red zone.”

“Cookie, you’re right. I should have called. But every surface in my house is covered in projectile vomit. I could barely get out of bed this morning. It sucks. And I get why you’re mad. But—”

I ignore her. I can’t turn off my temper. “I got up at the crack of dawn to be here by nine. I had to walk down here since I couldn’t afford to take a taxi and also eat. And by the way, the Continental is a total dump. I mean, what kind of room has four twin beds? Who’s supposed to be sleeping in there? One Direction without Zayn Malik? Oh, and I’m pretty sure the gangsters on the hotel stoop have a plan going to harvest and sell my organs. Then, I get to the studio and—”

“Cookie!” Terri’s using her angry-mom voice. “I know. Listen. I wanted to call. I should have called last night. While I was still feeling okay. But this girl, Kennes Butterfield, or whatever her name is, she missed her plane. And there was a chance she wouldn’t make it. I know how much you wanted to go. So I was hoping she wouldn’t make it.”

“She missed her flight?” I ask. I have a sinking feeling. The kind you can’t exactly explain. The kind that won’t go away.

“Yeah. Between you and me, this girl is a piece of work. I guess she got into a fight with another passenger. Got grounded at O’Hare.”

Silence. My rational brain tries to say its piece.

There are tons of flights out of O’Hare. People get in fights on planes all the time. There can’t be a connection between the glossy-headed bitch on my flight and what’s happening now.

Except that’s not my luck. Not my life.

Terri’s still talking. “Her rich daddy got her a seat on a private plane and she beat you to New York. Some people have all the luck, I guess.”

My stomach drops further.

“And look, I know it’s not ideal, but the girl’s not a blogger,” Terri says with a sigh. “She’ll pass you her notes and pics. You’ll still be the contributor of the article. You’ll get hits and some exposure.”

“If she’s not a blogger, what’s she doing there?” I ask.

There’s a pause. “Oh God. Justin’s gonna throw up again. Gotta go. Try and have a nice day in the city. We’ll work everything out when you get back.”

I stand outside where full sun now hits the studio building.

The one upside of being forced to buy the full-priced ticket is that I can change my flight. I’m going home.


SKINNY: Day 739 of NutriNation (#u7655f012-796f-5f0f-a838-79072f14cb21)

It’s nine on a Sunday morning when the limo driver drops me off at the studio. I’ve been told over and over by Gareth’s people that he’ll give me an hour. They say it in a hushed tone, like they’re telling me he’s going to be my bone marrow donor or something. It’s weird.

Skinny Jeans no longer works at G Studios, but there’s a guy behind the desk who was probably cloned in the same facility. Because Lumbersexual is the next iteration of the hipster evolution, this new front-desk guardian has a long beard, cuffed jeans and work boots.

“I’m—”

“Cookie Vonn,” the guy says with a smile. “Gareth’s inside. He’s expecting you.”

“Nice sweater,” I say as the door swings open.

“Thanks” is his friendly response to my sarcasm. He picks a piece of lint off the chunky, red wool.

Given that I’ve spent two years imagining what it would be like to pass through the maple door, the reality is a bit disappointing. There’s a small entryway that creates about three feet of space between a conference room and the main door. On the right, a narrow hallway lined with boxes of fabric, piles of gift bags and stacks of magazines disappears into darkness.

An elfin face pops out of the conference room door. “Wow. You are pretty.”

I fight off the urge to glance over my shoulder to confirm it’s me she’s referring to. I guess it’s nice to be complimented, but it doesn’t make me feel like I’m being taken seriously.

The woman holds the door open and motions for me to take a seat at a walnut-colored table. It looks expensive. Probably from Herman Miller. “I’m Reese.”

I shake her hand. Reese is my contact in Gareth’s office. We’ve been emailing back and forth for the past few weeks. She falls into a chair opposite me.

“Okay, so I know that Mr. Miller’s time is limited. I have a list of the questions I think I can cover in less than an hour. And I printed out my measurements, in case that helps us stay on schedule.” I try to hand her the small card but she just smiles. “It will help Mr. Miller pull the right size dress for me to wear.”

Gareth glides into the room and gives her a curt nod. Reese gets up and leaves, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click.

“My time isn’t all that limited. I prefer to take my own measurements. And please don’t call me Mr. Miller.” He’s wearing his charming smile, weathered jeans and cowboy boots. His roughly raked dark hair shoots up to create an effortless pattern. The strands hover in the air, on the verge of falling.

“Let me guess. Mr. Miller is your father?”

“That’s right,” he agrees. “Stand up straight and hold out your arms.”

I’ve been through the measurements thing a thousand times with my grandma and I know my digits by heart, but it seems like doing what he wants will save time. I’m surprised that the most uncomfortable moment is when he takes the waist measurement and not the bust. His hand rests for a second, very lightly, on my belly. Someone who wasn’t watching Gareth Miller’s every move probably wouldn’t have even noticed.

The more my face heats up, the more in his element he seems to be. I glance at his biceps and quickly look away.

He paces around me, making notes on a small sketchpad. “You’re blonde. But not exactly a winter.

“It’s your eyes,” he decides. “They’re blue.”

“Wow. They’re not wrong when they say how observant you are.”

Gareth chuckles. “The gold flecks. They make all the difference. Let you carry off warm colors. They probably look green when you wear green.”

He’s right. And I hate it.

“All right,” he continues, snapping the pad shut. “I know what I’m gonna do.”

He sits back down at the table and picks up the list of questions I typed up on my brand-new laptop. “Hmm. Yes. No. My grandmamma. At my ranch mostly. I hate the city. It doesn’t inspire me. There’s no such thing as a color philosophy. Color is mood. Season. Temperament. What’s the one thing a designer can’t live without? The right seamstresses and that is a matter of fact. I’ve never really thought about it, which frankly means it probably isn’t relevant at this point.”

I’m scribbling frantically on my notepad. “Typically, in an interview, I get to actually ask the questions. Listen to the answers. Ask follow-up questions.” He doesn’t answer my question about why the largest size he manufactures is a size ten when the average American woman is between a twelve and fourteen.

“And you’d describe interviewing someone like me as a typical part of your career up until now?” It’s sort of evil, the way he can insult me and still come across as charming. I know I’m in some kind of trouble because every time I breathe, I suck in icy air, feeling like I’ve swallowed a thousand mint Tic Tacs.

“You’re very modest.” I’m struggling to feel as irritated as I make myself sound.

“Modest? No. Hungry? Yes. I thought we might have a spot of late breakfast. You must be hungry since I made a point of telling them not to feed you at the hotel.”

Truthfully, I didn’t bother asking anyone about breakfast. It’s a meal I’ve always done without. “It’s really charming the way you’re referring to me like I’m a bear in Jellystone Park. Don’t you have to get ready for your show?” I ask.

He laughs again. “This isn’t Project Runway. We don’t run ’round like chickens with our heads cut off makin’ the clothes today. We did a full rehearsal last week. I’m in good shape.”

Now I’m mad for real. I don’t know much, but I know fashion. I know how clothes are made and what designers do to prepare for a show. “I only meant that on a show day there must be a lot of demands on your time. I can’t be the only person wanting to interview you today.”

“You’re not.” Gareth makes a token effort at appearing sheepish. But it’s a look that really doesn’t work for him. “And now I’ve offended you when I meant to do the opposite. Because there are a thousand people I could be talking to right now. And I want to talk to you.”

My cheeks heat as he goes on. “Ah, Cookie Vonn, whatever we’ll be to each other, let’s always be honest, okay? We both know that there’s only one question on this list you really want to ask. Only one you need to ask, because I get the idea you understand me pretty well. Will I make a plus-size capsule collection? Well, come convince me.”

My knees are jiggling at the hint that we’ll ever be anything more than a famous designer and the nerd following him around. But he’s giving me the opportunity. He clearly knows why NutriMin Water sent me and what they’re hoping I’ll get from him.

He stands up, and there seems to be nothing else to do but tail him as he breezes out of his studio. Reese runs in circles around him the way an overenthusiastic puppy might treat its owner. Gareth doesn’t stop walking as she talks loud and fast, saying things like, “Mitchie wants front row and there’s no way,” or, “They’ve gotten the feedback issue on the rear speakers addressed.”

He tells her only one thing. About the dress I’ll be wearing. “The Crista-Galli. In green. Size six. Send it over to the Refinery for Cookie to wear.”

There’s a car waiting at the curb. A dark, perfectly polished Town Car, which I’ll later find out is NYC code for dedicated, private driver. Gareth Miller never stops to think I won’t have breakfast with him. He holds the door open for me in a gesture so ingrained that he does it without looking up from his phone.

I scoot in all the way to the driver’s side, pressing my leg against the door, feeling claustrophobic at the thought of being in another close encounter with a man who could really be called devilishly handsome, a man who belongs in a Harlequin novel. I barely made it through the plane ride.

He slides in too, making a skeptical face at the distance between us. I notice the stubble on his cheek, that the first two buttons of his black shirt are undone, that his jeans are weathered in all the right ways. But more than anything, there’s a scent.

No one smells like Gareth Miller.

Like cinnamon and wild honey and cedar wood and fire.

I blurt out, “What’s that smell?”

Gareth does the first gentlemanly thing he’s done all day. He pretends he hasn’t heard me. “I’m sorry?”

I reach into my bag for my notebook, taking the opportunity to suck in a deep breath while my head is inside the massive bag. “Your fragrance. Are you wearing it?”

“Is that a backhanded manner of saying you like the way I smell?” And just like that, the gentleman is gone again. The devil has pushed the angel off his shoulder.

With a click of my pen, I make a great show of pretending to take notes. “I’m supposed to be writing about my experience here today. So I’m giving you a chance to talk about products that you sell.”

The grin widens. “Well, thanks for that. And in your official capacity as a dedicated reporter, I’d like to tell you I’m thrilled with my collaboration with the Keels Fragrance corporation who’ve helped me to bring my signature scent to market. I consider Gareth Miller Homme an essential for today’s modern man.”

We’re driving up Fifth Avenue, and I’m having flashbacks of my last visit to New York. This trip seems both easier and harder at the same time. The view is a lot better from the back of a private car. But for the first time, I feel like I’ve got something to lose.

Miller reaches out and takes my notebook so I’m left holding my pen in midair. “Off the record, I don’t wear it.” He moves over, tilting his head toward me in an invitation to join his secret world. “Between you and me, there’s a perfumeria near my ranch and the old lady there, she must be a hundred or something. In the village, they say she makes love potions. She mixes this for me.”

“Why not make your signature fragrance smell like...like...how you smell?”

“Some things aren’t for sale, Cookie.”

The way he says this, with his smile fading and his dark eyes crinkling, suggests he’s thinking hard about everything he’s put on the market.

But that passes fast and he smiles again. “Besides, if I sold this stuff to everybody, how would I get you to look at me the way you are right now?”

I turn toward the window so that he can’t see my mouth hanging open. We’re passing through the fashion district, where, in a few hours, he’ll present his show to a worshipping crowd.

I’m both relieved and disappointed when we arrive back at the Refinery. I realize that I must have taken things too far and that Miller has decided to have breakfast with someone a bit more pleasant. At least I won’t have any more opportunities to make myself look stupid.

When he gets out of the car, I’m back to internally freaking out again. I sit there like an idiot for a minute while he holds the Town Car door. I’m there so long that he leans down and waggles his eyebrows.

I’m getting out of the car, pushing my blue Goyard St. Louis in front of me. I scored it at a NutriMin event and it’s pretty much my prized possession, my go-to accessory when I want to feel fabulous. Trying to make a glamorous exit from the car, I swing the bag way too wide. Only Gareth’s fast reflexes keep me from whacking a woman who’s the spitting image of Betty White in the gut. But the near miss is startling enough that she drops her own purse. Drinking straws, sugar packets and several rolls of toilet paper scatter all over the sidewalk.

I throw myself down to the concrete and try to scoop the contents back into the woman’s bag. And I’m momentarily distracted by the fact that the woman’s purse is actually much nicer than mine. A vintage Louis Vuitton Noé bucket bag. Probably 1960s, judging from the darkening of the monogram pattern. The stitching is in excellent shape, but the leather tie is frayed and won’t keep the bag closed.

While I’m busy thinking about how they really don’t make things like they used to anymore, and wondering why someone with a $2,000 handbag needs to go around town swiping basic necessities, I become conscious of the fact that the woman is talking to me. Getting pretty agitated, really.

“Girl! Girl! I say. What in the world are you doing?”

This is what the lady is sort of shrieking.

What I’m doing is holding on to the end sheet of one of the rolls of toilet paper and trying to use it to drag the whole roll toward me, which is having the opposite effect from what I intend. The roll is bounding up the sidewalk and is several feet away. A businessman crossing the street steps on it on his way into the hotel.

Gareth kneels down, desperately trying to get the drinking straws before they’re all knocked into the gutter. The driver even helps us. He’s got fistfuls of dirty sugar packets that it doesn’t seem right to give back to the lady.

We’re taking up a lot of space on the sidewalk and people grunt and snort in impatience as they pass. The woman makes a couple of attempts to lower herself to join in our efforts to pick up her things, but she can’t make it down.

I realize that she’s probably got arthritis in her knees like my grandma, and she looks like she wants to cry, which makes me want to cry.

“Oh, there, now. There,” she says. “Please just give me my bag.”

I get up on my knees and hold it out to her, but Gareth takes it instead.

He gives the woman his most charming smile. “I sure am sorry about all of this.”

“I’m sorry too. I’m sorrier than he is,” I add, scrambling off the ground.

Gareth nods at me but the woman can’t take her eyes off him. He taps his driver on the arm. “I’ll be very busy for the next coupla hours and my friend Joe here will be bored out of his mind. Why don’t you let him drive you home? And on the way he can duck into the market and replace the items we’ve lost here.”

“Oh no, no, I couldn’t possibly...” the woman says, but she’s already busy sinking into the posh interior of Gareth’s car.

Before the driver slams the door, the woman bites her lower lip and stares at me. “Well, dear, I must say, I can’t recall ever meeting someone quite so uncoordinated. Lucky for you, you’ve got your looks.” She breaks into a smile at the sight of Gareth. “And you’ve got yourself a very nice fellow there. A real keeper.”

My mouth falls open. Here’s another first. Being pegged as someone’s sugar baby. I bite back a retort. I mean, I did almost knock her off the sidewalk.

Gareth waves the car off. It pulls away, and his face shifts into a skeptical mug. This isn’t a man who dreams of being kept by anyone.

“That was...uh...” I struggle to complete the sentence. Weird? Surprising? Older women seem like they’d rank right up there with fat gals and babies on the list of people Gareth would love to push onto an iceberg and send off to sea. “Um...um...nice?”

His devilish grin returns. “Ah, I’m offended by your shock, Cookie Vonn. I figured it was the least I could do, considering you seemed so hell-bent on tossing all that poor lady’s toilet paper into the street and making sure she has no sugar for her coffee.”

My face heats up. “I’m not sure how I was supposed to know that the lady was making her way through Midtown scooping paper products into her handbag.”

Gareth laughs. “Well, that’s New York for you. I only wonder what Georges Vuitton would say if he knew that the Noé bag could be used to hold twelve rolls of toilet paper instead of five bottles of champagne.”

I brush off my navy pleated skirt and laugh. “Well, he always was practical. I think he would have approved. After all, he only put the LV logo all over everything to prevent counterfeits.”

Gareth motions for me to follow him. “Funny, isn’t it? They added the design to stop counterfeiting and now it’s the very thing that makes counterfeits desirable. Sometimes, things don’t go as planned.”

Yeah. Funny.

He turns and walks about a hundred miles an hour, and I’m almost running to keep up with him as he makes his way to the hotel’s main restaurant, Parker & Quinn. Although the place is packed, a greeter meets us at the door with two menus in hand and escorts us to a giant booth in the very back.

On the table in an ice bucket, there’s a bottle of champagne, which the greeter uncorks before he leaves. Miller gestures for me to sit first and then moves in so close that our knees lightly brush. “Let’s try sitting together this time, okay? So we can hear each other.”

He pours me a glass of champagne, which I stare at because I’m nineteen, under the legal drinking age, and because I never waste calories on alcohol. “Let’s get the unpleasant stuff out of the way right now,” he says, also leaving his glass untouched. “Why don’t I have a plus-size collection? Because I own a fashion business. A business. I’ve never romanticized it. Never lied to myself and said I’m in it for some reason other than the money. If I just loved to make pretty dresses, I would’ve stayed in Whitefish and dressed Miss Montanas and Cowboy Queens.”

“But—”

He cuts me off. “But look how many overweight people walk the street. Look how many plus-size women there are. Someone has to dress them. There has to be profit there somewhere, right? Well, maybe. But the thing is you can’t just dress plus-size women, you have to also pull off something of a magic act. You have to make them look thin. Otherwise, they won’t be opening their pocketbooks. Especially not for clothes at a luxury price point.”

I’m starting to really hate the word overweight. What’s the ideal weight that everyone is supposed to be and why do people like Gareth get to decide who’s “over” it? Anyway, these are old arguments, and so infuriating coming from him. My anger is rising. “When did you get so lazy? You of all people. You know how to fit clothes. And I don’t buy for a second that it would be any harder for you to tailor plus-size. Your own grandmother couldn’t fit into the clothes you sell. What does she say to you?”

He shrugs. “Thanks for paying the mortgage again, Bubee.”

His cynicism catches me off guard. My imagination didn’t prepare me for a world in which Gareth Miller doesn’t love making clothes. But then I say, “Wait. She calls you Bubee? Why?”

“You’d have to ask her.”

He picks up the glass of sparkling gold. “Truce, okay? I promise I’ll give it some thought. We can discuss it more after the show.”

Now we’re getting somewhere.

“Can I tweet that?” I ask, fighting back a smile.

“Yes.”

I reach inside my bag for my phone, but he adds on to his statement. I wonder if he’s always like this. If, for him, everything is conditional, is quid pro quo.

“On the condition that you wait until after breakfast. And we have a toast.”

“Okay. What do you want to drink to?”

I learn that Gareth Miller likes to test people. “Lady’s choice.”

As I hold the flute by the stem like my mother does in her shoots for Movado wristwatches, I run through the options. To your health. To your show. To New York.

But I come up with something better. “To love potions. The kind they make in Montana.”

He doesn’t raise his glass, eyeing me in confusion. “What kind of love potions do they make in Montana? It doesn’t take much to make sure the bull and the heifer go to the hoedown and do the do-si-do, if you know what I mean.”

My face is flushing again and my palms break out in a sweat. “Didn’t you just spend the entire car ride telling me this charming story about a perfume shop near your ranch?”

He really laughs this time. Not a chuckle but a real belly laugh. “My ranch is just outside Camino a Seclantas.”

When I clearly have no idea what he’s talking about, he adds, “Remember Mr. Miller?” he asks. “My father’s ranch is in Whitefish. Mine is in Salta, Argentina.”

“Okay, then. To Argentinean love potions.” Whitefish is a world away from Argentina. Another reminder of the distance between Gareth’s world and mine.

Our glasses clink together as he says, “I’ll drink to that.”

I put the flute down and switch to the water glass in front of me. “I’ll have to get you to write that down so I can stop by next time I’m in the area.”

A waiter approaches our table, sees the menus we haven’t even opened and retreats in silence.

“Don’t bother,” Gareth says. “I’ll take you there after the show. And that, my girl, is a promise.”

“Sure. And I’ll treat you to Taco Bell at the ASU Student Union the next time you come to Phoenix,” I answer with a snort.

He takes the last swig of his champagne and tilts his flute in my direction.

“Welcome to the big time, Cookie Vonn.”


FAT: Days 1–2 of NutriNation (#u7655f012-796f-5f0f-a838-79072f14cb21)

“Welcome to NutriNation,” says a woman behind a gray counter.

This is the start of my new life.

I arrived home on Saturday night just as Grandma was about to walk up the street to her usual bingo game. She didn’t ask about the trip or why I was home early. I’ve always loved that about Grandma. That she knows when not to talk.

There were no messages from Terri or Marlene, no notes or emails to explain what happened in New York. I paced around my room, talking to myself and knowing I had to find something to do with my angry energy.

Someone always seemed to have the stomach flu on date night, so I was able to pick up an extra shift at Donutville. It was mostly dead, but the regulars were there at the counter and I was extra fake nice, refilling their coffee before they even asked. At the end of the night, there was a little over fifteen bucks in my tip jar.

Which worked out, because it costs twelve bucks and change to join NutriNation.

The next morning, I headed over to the meeting, which is in a new strip mall a couple of miles from Grandma’s house. They have one Sunday meeting and it starts promptly at noon. So here I am.

I meet Amanda Harvey. She’s pretty much Wonder Woman. During her intro, I find out she has five kids, two jobs and a weekly planner that would make Batman feel like a slacker.

There’s something odd about the way she dresses. Like she Googled “business casual” and hit the clearance rack with her Kohl’s Cash. She has thick chunks of coarse brown hair that she’s smoothed with a flat iron. If Mattel made a suburban mom doll, they’d use Amanda to make the mold.

Because fat people must be God’s inside joke, the NutriNation is sandwiched in between a Starbucks and a Fosters Freeze. “You’ll never see anyone from here over there,” Amanda says. “All my NutriNation people go to the Starbucks around the corner. I guess they think they’re invisible over there.”

Joining is easy. It occurs to me, midway through the process, that these people deal with weight issues for a living. And they know what they’re doing. They don’t weigh you in public, ask you for your size, measurements or age.

The scale display is behind the counter, so no one can see my weight. No one except me. Amanda discreetly passes me a weight-tracking booklet. And there it is. In neat numbers written with a cheap ballpoint pen. Three hundred and thirty-seven pounds.

It’s my first meeting, and I don’t talk to anyone. Before it starts, I don’t even look at anyone. After Amanda introduces herself, she points out a few people in the group. Kimberly is celebrating the loss of one hundred pounds. Rickelle sits next to me. She tells us how she dropped one-fifty and now runs marathons. Dave lost two hundred pounds while stubbornly refusing to stop drinking beer.

They’re talking about emotional eating. I don’t pay too much attention. I’ve spent a long time thinking that I’m fat because Grandma keeps too many cookies in the house.

But, man, it’s like Amanda’s got telepathy or something because she immediately says, “Now, we’ve talked a lot about how we can’t assume that people are overweight solely because they overeat. Likewise, we can’t make assumptions about why people overeat. Sometimes people eat because they’re stressed or bored or upset.”

In the seat next to me, Rickelle murmurs, “Or their mother came to visit and won’t go back to Cleveland.”

I can’t help but think of my mother. There’s no way I’d let her drive me to eat. When I was seven, she didn’t show up to my birthday party and sent her assistant with a cake. I tossed it in the trash. I’m not an emotional eater. But there are other memories. Of Grandma taking me for ice cream every time my mom forgot to call. Of my favorite grilled cheese when Mom took off with Chad Tate. I don’t want to think about these things, and I spend the rest of the meeting studying the posters on the wall that show frolicking thin people.

New people have to stay after the meeting. Amanda explains the program. Tells us how, for all of eternity, we’re going to be food accountants. Reading labels. Calculating how many points we’ll need to deduct from our daily food budget for our diet dinners. Entering stuff into the app or in our food logs.

There’s one big rule. You bite it, you write it.

If you eat twelve almonds, it’s two points. If you eat fifteen almonds, it’s three. So only eat twelve almonds. Otherwise, you’re screwed.




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