Chapter Three
Wisdom comes with age. Wrong, wisdom comes with mistakes. Age is just a number
—fact
Tensanne
“HEY, HUN,” RONNIE smiles, leaning on the wall, waiting for me after class, “How was your class?”
Shaking my head, feeling anxiety wiggling along my skin, “The fifth level of hell would be an accurate description,” I mumble recapping the disaster that was my Psych 1201class.
“God, what assholes,” she spews. The curse word in her debutante southern twang makes me smile. I love when Ronnie cusses with her deep southern accent it reminds me of Jessie from Toy Story on a rampage.
“I don’t know, Ron,” I sigh, tired of the anvil of sadness weighing me down. “I think it’s time for me to go back home. Maybe take the university up on its offer to take satellite courses until my senior year? I don’t think I’m ready for college life.”
“Ah, no, Sweetie. Don’t let a few twatballs send you running home. Home isn’t that great for you right now either. This is where you belong.” Taking both my hands, she meets my eyes. “Give it a little longer. Please? I have an idea. Let’s go out tonight,” she exclaims. “There’s this little store downtown I want to check out. We’ll go out to eat, do a little shopping. Come on let’s have some fun.”
“I don’t know,” I reply.
“Yes, yes,” she sings, dropping one hand and dragging me with the other, my legs struggle to keep up with her long strides. “We’ll get all dolled up and go check out that new Italian place, Marco’s. Then we’ll check out the little store. It’ll be great. You’ll forget everything and have fun.”
“Yeah, great,” I deadpan.
Reaching the room, Ronnie skips off to the bathroom to get ready. Tilting my head to the side, I look at the contents of my closet. Dressed up, I think, looking at my clothes. I own one dress. A denim jumper that goes all the way to my feet. Oh well, I think, sliding a pink blouse over my head, draping the potato sack style dress over my head letting it drop to my feet and slipping my feet into my black Chucks. Straightening my messy bun. Checking my look in the mirror thinking a tent, I’m wearing a tent made from blue-jean material. Fuck it, this is as good as it’s going to get. Thinking about Ronnie’s dolled up idea, I decided to go with it, grabbing her mascara, I make my first attempt at wearing makeup.
My mom is such a natural beauty, she never needed makeup. I was always too interested in books to ever show interest in wearing anything on my face so taking off my glasses, squinting in the mirror at my fuzzy reflection, I bring the wand to my lashes and stab myself in the eye. Through the burning pain and tears, I wish I would have asked before I tried to use it. I’m blind without my glasses and now I’m even blinder through the irritation.
Carefully putting my glasses back on, Ronnie steps back in the room. She looks me over all the way down to my black shoes. Tilting her head with a look of concern when she notices my swollen, red eye with black streaks running down my face from the tears caused by her evil mascara wand.
“What the hell happened and what are you wearing?” she asks, her lips pulled tight trying to contain her laughter.
Waving the offending wand, I reply, “This happened. I had a bit of an argument with your mascara.” Looking down at my clothes and back up to her, I ask, “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
Grabbing a makeup wipe, she gently cleans the black streaks off my face. “Nothing, there is absolutely nothing wrong with what you are wearing. Except for the red, angry eye, this outfit is one hundred percent you,” she says, a smile lighting her eyes. “Now, let’s go. I’m starving and I heard this place has the greatest Portobello Ravioli and garlic butter breadsticks.”
My stomach grumbles at the anticipation of yummy food. Oh, who am I kidding? My stomach is always grumbling.
Walking single file out the door, I take in Veronica. She’s spectacular in a pleated, flirty knee length pink skirt and white silk blouse with her blond hair falling in perfect waving curls. High heeled Louboutin’s making her even more statuesque and leaving me feeling, even more, frumpier and round.
I’m what most would call the designated ugly fat friend, or DUFF, in this duo. I know Ronnie would never think of me that way and she would kick my ass for thinking it but my poor self-esteem is wreaking havoc on my mind while we make our way out of the building to the waiting Uber. She’s the beauty and I’m the beast.
Telling the driver to take us to Marco’s on Main Street, Ronnie and I chat about classes and her upcoming Sorority events. Some of the stress from the last week eases the farther we stray from campus. The valet opening the door alerts us to our arrival. We thank the driver, link arms and walk to the door of the restaurant.
Marco’s opened a few months ago, around the beginning of the school year. They are usually packed bringing in customers from larger surrounding towns with their famous Italian food but being the middle of the week, they don’t appear to be too busy. We should have made a reservation but we’re going to try our luck anyway.
Outside the restaurant, there is a long green and red canopy covering the sidewalk leading to the door with a man in a nice suit holding it open. He smiles to Ronnie with warm eyes but I could swear when he looks to me he sneers as he takes in my attire; surely, it’s my imagination.
Inside, the foyer is stunning. Deep mahogany wood covers the walls with red padded benches leading around the edge of the room for waiting for patrons to have a seat. An opening next to the hostess station leads to a bar where a few customers sit having an evening cocktail. Stepping up to the hostess with hopeful looks on our faces, inhaling the thick wonderful smell of oregano and basil, my mouth waters. I can taste the savory scent of the air.
“Hello, welcome to Marco’s. Do you have a reservation?” the hostess greets with a warm smile to Ronnie.
“No, Ma’am, we don’t. We’re hoping you have a table for two available?”
Darting her eyes around Ronnie the hostess, looking me up and down, she curls her lip in disgust. Turning her attention back to Ron, “I’m sorry, without a reservation we are all booked up right now. Perhaps you should try the fast food establishment down the street?” she quips. I feel her words like a slap to face knowing she is denying us because of me.
Glancing around the podium into the restaurant, I notice that the place is empty. Ronnie being the polite person she is, smiles. But this isn’t her normal charming smile, this smile is malicious and angry.
“Well, alrighty then,” she sing-songs syrupy sweet with her accent thickening. “I guess we will take our business somewhere else. I’ll make sure I tell Mama and Daddy Leeland about the wonderful hospitality Marco’s offers to its customers. How they offer up good business to other restaurants in town and how biased they are based on first impressions.”
Did I mention that Ronnie’s Dad is Mayor? I feel like Julia Roberts right now when Richard Gere goes off on those nasty shop ladies in Pretty Woman.
The hostess gasps when she realizes what she’s done, recognizing Ronnie’s last name, she quickly starts stumbling over her words in retreat of the venom she spewed. “N-no, w-wait, Ma’am. I-I’m sure I can find something, give me a minute. Please?”
“Oh, no, Sugar. That’s fine,” she sasses drawing out the ‘ine”, grabbing my hand, she throws her hair back, holds her chin high, turns on her heel, swishing her hips making her skirt float, she drags me back out the door with the hostess trailing behind us still mumbling her apologies.
When we reach the sidewalk, she’s fuming. “Oh, the gall of some people. That snarky bitch, looking at you like you were gum on the bottom of her shoe. They weren’t even busy. Why I never. Just wait until I tell Daddy,” she rages, flailing her arms around in the air. Taking a gulp of air, she looks to me. Seeing the hurt in my eyes, she calms, looping her arm with mine she grits a smile, “Come on, baby girl, we’ll walk down here and eat,” she says, stomping down the sidewalk dragging me behind her.
I should be angry at the way we were treated but after the train ride through Hell, I have been on for last month of my life almost nothing can take me lower than I already am. I’m saddened that people are so shallow and they judge others so harshly but I learned a long time ago people suck and I’m just trying to go with the flow. Hoping for a brighter light somewhere down the line. It’s easier to be invisible than to stir turds and create a scene.
Small shops line both sides of the street. Jalapa may have a college but it’s still a one-horse town. A Trader Joe’s, a Subway, a small specialty coffee shop, a quaint little market for Mexican foods leads to a sweet little 50’s style diner. Located right on the corner of Market Street and Main Street, Mr. Dave’s.
We stroll through an opening in a split-railed fence into a patio eating area filled with round plastic tables each topped with a red umbrella. Being November in Indiana, eating outside isn’t a possibility. Even though it’s an unseasonably warm 55 degrees right now, we decide to eat inside.
Stopping just inside the door, you journey back to the sock hop era. Wire back chairs with red padded seats and little round tables spread out on a black and white checked floor, a few small high-back booths sit along the outer edge of the wood paneled walls, facing windows showing the quiet streets outside. To our left is a long counter with a menu chalk board above it and workers rushing around in an open kitchen. The smell of fried food and grease making my already rumbling hungry stomach gurgle out loud.
Placing a hand on my stomach, I feel a rush of heat gather at my neck rising over my cheeks, “Sorry”.
A young girl standing behind the counter in front of the register, wearing a red shirt, black slacks with a checkered hat on her head greets us with a warm smile, “You’re in the right place for a growling stomach. Hi, my name is Stacy, may I help you?”
Looking up at the menu I see they boast ‘the best-breaded tenderloins in the country’, so that’s what I’ll try. Ronnie orders herself a veggie basket with a side of ranch dressing, a grilled tenderloin, and a Diet Coke. My mouth gapes at the amount of food she ordered.
Winking, she whispers, “Screw the diet today. I’ll just run it off tomorrow.”
I place my order for a tenderloin, fries and a root beer. Knowing I will not be burning off the calories later but not having the where with all to care. The girl takes our order on a menu pad, rings us up on an old push button cash register and gives us our total. Once we pay, she hands us a red, round plastic disc with the number twelve on it, telling us she will call our number when our order is ready. Taking our number, we select a booth by the windows so we can watch the world outside while we eat.
There is never a whole lot of bustle in Jalapa. The town shuts down and rolls up the streets at dark except for the handful of bars that stay open and a few all-night convenience stores. When the college lets out in May the town goes back to its sleepy ways until August when it once again floods with students. JSU is the heartbeat of this town, it thrives nine months out of the year and skates by the other three.
A few other customers litter around. A group of older men, probably in their 60’s, sit together at a collection of pulled together tables. They seem very comfortable, leading me to believe they’re regulars. Each has a small cup of coffee in front of them. I smile to them as we pass, none return it, but each looks to Ronnie with appreciation in their eyes.
Just as we get seated, our number is called. Ronnie bounces up and goes to retrieve our food. When she returns, we dig in, she’s grabbing my fries before I have a chance to drown them in ketchup and I’m grabbing her onion petals before she floods them with ranch. I sink my teeth into a breaded tenderloin twice the size of the bun it sits between, it’s warm greasy goodness settling my starving stomach. Through mouthfuls of food, she tells me about the little store she wants to go to.
“It’s the cutest little bookstore, but it’s more than that. I can’t wait to check it out,” she gushes. “A couple of my sorority sisters went there last week and they said it’s amazing. Full of books you can’t find anywhere else and other unique trinkets; I think you’ll love it.”
Her enthusiasm is contagious; it spreads to me lightening my mood some. I, too, am looking forward to seeing this store.
With our hunger sated we collect our trash, Ronnie excuses herself to the restroom. While I wait, I catch some of the conversation the old men are having. It ranges from golf to politics to farming, it’s all over the place which makes me smile at their randomness.
My smile slowly fades when one says, “Remember, here a while back, it was all the rage to wear those skin tight black, spandex style pants?” I’m sure he’s referring to leggings, I lean closer to hear what he’s saying when another in the group responds.
“Yeah, Freddy. I remember those.”
“You know, you would walk into Walmart and all these huge women would be wearing these skin-tight pants, busting at the seams with fat squishing out everywhere, it was nasty,” Freddy says, shaking his head in disgust.
“Yes, some women aren’t meant to wear that kind of stuff,” another adds.
“Imagine what it looks like when you take those off and release all the shit they’re holding in,” the third man comments, shivering in revulsion.
“I’m sure glad that phase has passed. It was a scary time to shop at Wally World,” Freddy chuckles.
I’ve heard enough. Grabbing our tray and dumping its contents in the trash, I speed walk toward the restroom to wait for Ronnie. Their words run on a loop in my head, churning the food I just ate. My heart is pounding, my skin itches, I restrain myself from marching back out to them. I’m pissed I stood there and didn’t call them out on their bullshit and angry at myself for letting their words bother me. They knew I was there. They knew I was a large girl, yet they still let their harsh words fly.
Not a one of those men were perfect, none were what you would look at and think, he was probably good looking when he was younger or wow, he’s a silver fox, yet they felt they could judge based on what they thought. Dickheads, complete asshats. A woman should wear whatever she feels comfortable in; not what others think she looks good in. You know what they say about opinions? They’re like assholes; everybody has one.
I live in leggings and yoga pants. I would have been one of those women to cause them disgust, had they seen me. I shouldn’t give a fuck what they think but now they have me questioning the clothes I have worn for years. Do others look at me a get disgusted by what I’m wearing?
Taking deep breaths, I force the rage out of my body, feeling a wave of sadness swallow me. I can’t tell Ronnie about this, she will go southern crazy on them if I do. She would explode like a volcano and that’s not good for her family name. I don’t understand why people feel the need to be so cruel and hypocritical.
Ronnie exits the restroom, placing a fake smile on my face, attempting to hide my despair, “Let’s go shopping,” I say.
Sensing something’s not quite right, she asks, “Are you ok? Your face is all red.”
Looping my arm with hers once more, blowing out a huge breath, I respond, “Yep, yep.”
Holding my head high, we glide back through the restaurant, not even giving the old men a cursory glance when we pass. Crossing to the other side of Main Street, I look at the shops on this side of the street. Walking silently together, enjoying the fresh night air, Ronnie jerks me to a stop at a small clothing boutique, insisting I need some new undergarments, she pulls me inside.
I’m measured, the sales lady also being large chested is understanding and very helpful while we find bras to fit me. When we leave, I have several new bras and the panties to match. I refused to get the thongs Ronnie kept showing me telling her there is no point in wearing them if they just get lost in my rolls and I can’t stand the string up my ass. She’s frustrated with me but assures me I will feel prettier with Victoria hiding her secret under my clothes. After the amount of money she spent for such a little bit of material, I’ll take her word for it, no secret should cost that much.
Bags dangling from our fingers, we stop in front of a store that looks like it belongs on the Las Vegas Strip. Bright flashing lights, a large neon hand glowing in the window on the left with the words ‘palm readings’ flashing in the middle, twinkling lights in the window on the right boasting the name of the store, Sit and Read for a Spell.
A bookstore/magic shop? This is where she wants to go?
“You want to go into a magic store?” I ask turning to her with wide eyes.
“It’s run by Gypsy’s,” she beams bouncing on her toes. “A little Romany family owns the store. The sisters at the Zeta Phi Beta house say it’s very warm and welcoming. Plus, it has some really great books—books I can only get online,” she continues, grabbing my hand and pulling me through the door. “Come on, take a chance.”
“But it says they do palm readings and tarot cards,” I protest, “You know there is no science involved, right? Just like a man’s penis can’t be judged by the length of his fingers or the size of his shoes. A deck of cards can’t predict your future. A wrinkle in your hand can’t determine how long you’ll live. You know all this, right?” My protest rings on deaf ears while she drags me through the door.
“Yes, Ten, I know this. We’re here for books. BOOKS, girl” she grins. Ronnie’s quest for paperbacks is unparalleled, you don’t get between her and her book boyfriends.