“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.
I’m not taking notes. I’m writing my manifesto.
“Do you have a question?” Amanda’s smiling at me.
I look around, and it’s just her and me in the room. My face gets hot and I gather my stuff. I have no idea how this whole thing is supposed to work.
She glances down at my notebook. “Cookie Vonn’s master plan,” she reads, slowly, because it’s upside down to her. “May I?”
She holds out her hand. She wants to see my list. I don’t immediately give it to her. But if I want to get to Parsons and get my happily-ever-after with Tommy, I need this to work. And for it to work, I may have to trust someone. I get the idea I can trust Amanda. It’s just a hunch.
I fork over the list. And she reads it.
1. Weigh 120 pounds.
2. Get out of the friend zone with Tommy.
3. Get killer size 6 wardrobe.
4. Get scholarship to Parsons.
5. Rule the world of fashion.
She stares at the list that I’ve been making on my Kero Kero Keroppi notepad. She cocks her head and tears out the sheet of paper.
I’m horrified and terrified that maybe she wants to hang it on the wall. The way restaurants display their first dollar bill.
And then I’m mad.
She rips the list in half. My mouth falls open as the two pieces sail into the trash can. “It isn’t going to work like that,” she says.
With my fists balled up, I suck in a big breath. I’m ready to tell her where she can stick her opinion.
But she cuts me off. “Losing weight is hard. And honestly it sucks. It takes time and work. And you could be doing great, Cookie. Then in six months or six weeks or six days, you’re tired. You pull out that list, and you won’t have anything you can cross off. That’s when people quit.”
She hands me a different notebook from her own bag. It’s labeled My Weight Loss Journey. At first, I think it’s really stupid. It has headings like My Weekly Goals and Five Things I Like About Myself.
She circles a section called Non-Scale Victories with a red marker. “This is what I want you to focus on. Did you drink all your water? Write that down. Did you take the stairs instead of the elevator? That’s the kind of thing. I want to see this next week. We’re out to feel and be healthy. The weight loss is a side effect.”
Amanda smiles and pats me on the arm. “You know, I get a lot of people in here trying to drop pounds to fit in a wedding dress or make somebody fall in love with them, and it never works. It’s like trying to win the Super Bowl to show people how nice you look in a helmet. If you’re not in it for the right reasons, you won’t end up any happier, no matter what you see in the mirror or on the scale.”
My gaze travels back to the posters of the grinning thin people. There’s a complete and utter lack of pictures of healthy people getting great scores on their cholesterol tests.
“I know,” Amanda says.
“Um...what?” I’m getting a bit worried that this lady is having my private thoughts beamed into her brain.
“That companies like NutriNation make a fortune selling the idea that fat is bad and thin is good. That’s the company talking.
“This is me talking,” she goes on, pointing to herself. “I’ve been doing this a long time, and I’m telling you, thin people aren’t any happier.”
I think Amanda is absolutely wrong. She’s never worked in fashion. In that world, not only are thin people happier, they’re the only people allowed to exist. Still, my lungs deflate and my self-righteous anger is gone. I take the book.
As I leave she says, “I think you will rule the world of fashion. I mean, look at you.” She waves her hand toward my chambray dolman sleeve dress and continues, “But for the record, you don’t need to be a size six to do it.”
For the rest of the day, I’m curled up in my Papasan chair making notes. I make a new list. Five things I really do like about myself.
1. I make clothes like a boss.
2. My eyes. They’re blue and the same shape as the drawings they always give you when they show you how to do your eye shadow.
3. My hair. I’ve been growing it out for three years and have finally gotten to the point where it doesn’t look like a rat’s nest when I wake up.
4. My sense of color. I see it in a way many people miss.
5. My teeth. Three years in braces has to pay off somehow, right?
* * *
I get my stuff packed for school. The next day, I’ll be starting my new project in my Clothing class. It’s an eveningwear assignment, and I’ve decided to prove that plus-size bridesmaid dresses don’t have to be a catastrophe. After her last batch of prom dresses, Grandma had six spare yards of radiant Chinese silk. When it moves, the fabric ripples like the teal ocean water that hits distant white-sand beaches. I’ve been hunting through the discount notions bin at the Sally’s Fabrics store for weeks to make sure I’m not another girl in a bad pastel dress with a butt bow when I go to my cousin Tina’s wedding.
It seems like everything is going to be okay.
Then all of a sudden it’s just another manic Monday and I’m late for AP History. My grandma says that a good education shouldn’t be only for the rich. So I’ve got a boundary exception that lets me go to Mountain Vista High School, which is the best in Mesa. And since the religious right loves to make their own clothes, the school has several good sewing and fashion-design classes.
But they don’t put the best school in a neighborhood like mine, and getting across town is my own problem. I haul ass each day for twenty minutes to park my beat-up old Corolla alongside the shiny Priuses and BMWs. The orange low-fuel light comes on as I wiggle my tiny car in between two Suburbans.
Mr. Smith, the history teacher, knows my situation and is mostly cool if I sneak in a couple minutes late and snag a seat in the back.
And that’s what happens today.
From that desk in the back of the room, I have a great view of my usual chair next to Tommy. It’s occupied by the owner of a sleek, black bob. The girl from the plane, the one who can only be Kennes Butterfield, is leaning over, copying Tommy’s notes. Touching his arm flirtatiously every now and then.
If there was one single moment when I realized that Kennes would try to take everything I’ve ever wanted, this was it.