A bowl of mixed balled melon with a side of cottage cheese (my mom’s extremely sad idea of dessert), a homemade apple-cider-vinegar facemask I found online, my fluffy notebook of achy feelings, and my completely unwritten essay for my summer program application. I am the picture of Friday-night excitement.
Callie called in sick to work today, so I was left to close the gym up by myself. I guess it’s not that big of a deal. I could do that job in my sleep, but I know she wasn’t sick unless you can get physically ill from your own self-induced drama.
I feel judge-y. I’m trying so hard not to be judge-y. But what kind of person trashes someone else’s cell phone and causes a huge scene in the middle of school? I wasn’t there to witness it, but Amanda was, and she gave me every gory detail. Breaking up with someone is bad enough . . . I imagine, at least. Seeing as I’ve never had a boyfriend outside of the few random summer flings at Daisy Ranch. (Translation: two awkward summers of hand-holding with Scotty Pifflin and then James Ganns the following summer and one half kiss when Greg Kassab missed my lips in the dark and instead got the corner of my mouth.) But why would you want to make it worse with a public breakup? Why would you want to draw more attention to yourself?
But maybe girls like Callie don’t think about the expense of drawing more attention to themselves. It’s something I consider every day. It’s like a cost benefit analysis. Is this floral tunic too loud? Is me being happy wearing it worth the attention it will cost me? Is my backpack covered in patches and stitching just one more thing for people to make fun of? How much do I have to love it for that to be worth it?
I can feel my facemask hardening, letting me know it’s time to rinse. After a quick trip to the bathroom, I return to my computer, where my blank document awaits me. The essay is due in a matter of weeks and I’m not the type who can just wing it the night before and I still have to figure out my audition tape. I have my suit and my script mostly written, but I still need a cameraman, and the only person I know who’s familiar with AV equipment is Malik.
I scroll through my video library and land on Legally Blonde, starring Reese Witherspoon. A good rom-com for background noise is just as good as any playlist if you ask me, and Legally Blonde feels especially relevant.
I push the laptop back and reach for a fresh sheet of paper and my freshly sharpened GIRL BOSS pencil.
My mom stopped using her camcorder to record my childhood memories when I was ten years old and already shopping in the women’s plus-size section of Russle’s. I was the kind of fat that video couldn’t hide. Pictures were still safe, though. My mom was a master of all the various flattering angles.
I stare down at the words. They’re going to see my audition tape. It’s not like they won’t know that I’m fat. But do I have to talk about it, too? I shrug. It’s just a rough draft, right?
I’m still fat. That hasn’t changed. What’s different now is that I’m ready to be on camera—unflattering angles and all. I’ve spent years dreaming of following in the footsteps of women like Barbara Walters, Lisa Ling, Diane Sawyer, Christiane Amanpour, and even my own local anchor, Samantha Wetherby. I think so many of us waste too much time dreaming of the things we believe we can’t have. But I’m done dreaming. I’m ready to make my dreams my reality.
The messenger on my computer pings. I drop my pencil and push my papers aside as I pull my laptop closer.
Malik.P99: that group project in psych was the worst
I sit there for a moment, my fingers hovering above the keyboard. Why is it that he can talk to me so freely when we’re both hiding behind a screen? How is that fair? Especially after everything I said last week. I know Amanda had told him I had my wisdom teeth taken out and that I was under the influence of painkillers, but still I haven’t made any effort to take it back.
I know that logically he’s probably just shy and everyone thinks I should put myself out there. But I’m having a really hard time thinking about things logically right now. Maybe it’s that dumb comment that Callie made in front of Mitch earlier in the week. I should have just shaken it off, but I couldn’t. It stuck with me.
So now with my cursor blinking in the compose message box, part of me can’t help but wonder if the real problem is me. My head pieces it all together so easily. He went to the Sadie Hawkins dance with me out of pity, and now he’s reminded of it every time we see each other in class. Or maybe he really does like me. It could be that what he tells me from behind the screen is the real deal, but he’s just too embarrassed to act on any of it in real life.
I know thinking like that isn’t gonna get me anywhere. And it’s the exact reason why I’m not going to fat camp and obsessing over diets with my mom anymore, but all those horrible thoughts still exist. I’m just trying to figure out how to live in spite of them.
Despite all my doubts, I choose to believe I’m the girl who can tell a boy that her feelings are way more swirling-heart emoji than they are handshake emoji. Also, Elle Woods resolving to go to Harvard in the background doesn’t hurt. I take a deep breath and begin to type.
aMillienBucks: I feel like you’re two different people. There’s the Malik I see during school Monday through Friday and the Malik who talks to me at night through a screen. I can’t do it anymore. Either you talk to me in person the way you talk to me through this screen or you don’t talk to me at all.
I hit send before I can even check for spelling errors, which is huge, because I believe in accurate spelling just about as much as I believe in the Oxford comma and the truth that Andie and Duckie should have ended up together in Pretty in Pink.
It’s a few excruciating minutes before he responds, and I feel like I’m about to break out into hives.
Malik.P99: Can I come see you?
My heart skips like one of Willowdean’s old Dolly Parton records.
aMillienBucks: Right now?
Malik.P99: I know it’s late.
I check the clock in the corner of my screen. It is super late. If my mom caught me with a boy this late at night, she would shriek until she turned into a pile of ashes before my very eyes.
aMillienBucks: be outside my house in an hour.
Malik.P99: Ok
I have never snuck out, but it’s time I start doing things I’ve never done before. And if Malik is going to go out on a limb, I’m willing to meet him.
I’m too nervous to duck out the front door, so I make plans to climb out my window. Thank goodness we live in a one-story.
I do a quick once-over in the mirror and cover up any major blemishes with concealer before adding my favorite tinted ChapStick. Once my parents are in their room and the hallway light is turned off, I brush my teeth, not bothering to keep quiet. It’s part of my nighttime routine, after all.
I sit in front of my alarm clock, which looks like an old telephone with a spin dial, a gift from my mom on my eleventh birthday. I’m always surprised by how good I am at sneaking around. It still shocks even me that I managed to keep the pageant a secret from my mom all the way up until the week before. But actually sneaking out? This is a whole new level of deception for me. I try to feel guilty, but I don’t. Not even a little bit.
The clock strikes midnight, and I drop my phone into my purse. After opening my bedroom window, I carefully lift the screen.
I will be totally honest and say that fitting through a tiny bedroom window was not in the Fat Girl Manual. But as the cross-stitch hanging above the scale in my mother’s bathroom reads, WHERE THERE’S A WILL, THERE’S A WAY.
Our back fence is notoriously creaky, so I’m extra careful when I open it just enough for me to squeeze past.
And there’s Malik, waiting for me under the streetlight across from my house. He leans up against a dark green Toyota RAV4, which is technically his sister’s, but he’s been allowed to use it since she left it here when she went to college in Boston.
I can say, without an ounce of embarrassment, that I have dreamed of this exact moment. Malik waiting for me across the street from my house beneath the flickering light of a streetlamp, with his fists balled up in his pockets and his penny-loafer-clad feet crossed at the ankles.
If this were one of my movies, I’d cross the street to him and we’d kiss and that would be the end. We’d live so happily ever after that the credits would roll and you wouldn’t even need to have any more details, because the rest of our lives would be wonderful, boring bliss.
But this is real life, which means this is the hardest part of all. And one of us has to break the silence.
“Hi,” I squeak.
His Adam’s apple rolls forward as he swallows. “Hey.” And then a second later, he adds, “I was scared you wouldn’t be able to get out.”
Why is the talking part so hard? Surely the kissing part is way easier to make up for all the trouble it takes to talk. I hold my arms out. “Well, I did.”
“Maybe we should go somewhere.”
“Okay.” I hadn’t even thought of where we might go or what we might actually do. “Lead the way.”
Once we’re both buckled in, Malik reaches for the radio, but then I guess he thinks better, because he pulls back. “Guess I came here to talk, didn’t I?”
I bite down on my lips, trying to minimize my smile. He turns off my street like he knows where he’s going.
“I’m shy,” he finally says. “And not in some kind of endearing way. It’s like crippling sometimes.” He pauses. “I get so in my head and I overthink every little thing. But I don’t want to be that way with you.”
“I don’t want that either,” I say quietly.
“It’s so easy to talk to you. It’s like I’m not even talking to anyone.” He shakes his head and lets out an exasperated sigh. “That didn’t sound right. I just meant that the way I feel when we’re talking online or texting is the way it feels to, like, talk to my sister or cousins. Not that I think of you as a relative or something! But like that head thing is gone. When we talk at night, I don’t think about if something will look or sound stupid. I can just be me.”
“I get that.” I’m economical with my words. I don’t want to spook him.
“But in person . . . well, first off, we’re at school. And everyone there thinks I’m just . . . when you don’t talk much, people make up this version of you that exists in their head. And it’s especially worse when you’re the only Indian kid in school. Like, I was just walking to class the other day and some kid asked me if I could look at his phone and tell him if he had a virus. Just because I look like every tech guy he’s ever seen in a movie.”
Something about his words comforts and frustrates me at the same time. I very much know what it means for people to create expectations of you based on appearance, but at the same time, I fit in here in a way that Malik doesn’t. I’m white. So as he slows to a stop at the red light before leaving Clover City, I don’t ask where we’re going. I only say, “I’m so sorry you have to deal with that.” Comparing my situation to his doesn’t really do much, but I want him to know that he’s not alone. “People have certain ideas of me too.”
He turns toward me, and our gaze locks in unspoken understanding. I hold my breath, scared that the slightest sound will cause this moment to dissolve.
“Anyway,” he finally says as the light turns green, “I’ve just never been good at showing people the real me. Sometimes it’s just easier to let them believe in the version of me they’ve built in their heads.” He clears his throat. “You want to listen to some music for a little while?”
I nod. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”
He reaches for a mix CD that’s been written across in black Sharpie and says COUNTRY MUSIC THAT DOESN’T SUCK.
He holds up the CD. “No plug-ins for my phone in the car, so I gotta make my own mixes.”
“You listen to country?” I ask, not doing a very good job of masking my surprise.
“Only the kind that doesn’t suck,” he responds with the hint of a grin.
Everyone in the world probably thinks it’s some kind of requirement to love country music if you live in Texas, but to be honest, I only started giving Dolly Parton a try after getting to know Willowdean. I’m more likely to turn on a movie or a TED Talk for background noise, but sometimes the only thing that can put me to sleep is Dolly’s Blue Smoke.
But Malik’s taste in country is a little folksy and more updated. They’re the kind of songs that you magically know the words to before the whole thing is even finished. And soon enough I’m singing along to an Old Crow Medicine Show song. At least that’s what Malik tells me.
He looks to me and grins.
My cheeks burn as we turn into the only gas station we’ve seen since leaving town.
All the lights seem to flicker like the electricity is being pumped out like gasoline. The sign above the convenience store reads QUICKIESHOP, but Malik circles around to the back, where I expect to find a grimy back door and a pair of Dumpsters, but instead there is a diner called the Bee’s Knees. The bricks are painted in black-and-yellow stripes and the huge window stretching from one side of the diner to the other covers the back parking lot in a warm honey glow.
“I’ve never even heard of this place,” I tell Malik.
He turns off the music and unbuckles his seat belt. “Most people haven’t. That’s the best part.”
I follow him inside, and the older woman behind the counter with a name tag that reads LUPE says, “Hey, hon, your usual spot is open.”
Malik leads me to the booth farthest from the front door and asks, “Is this okay?”
I eye the tiny booth and hope I can suck it in enough to make it work. I nod.
Malik sits down and immediately pulls the table closer toward him to give me a little more space. “Thanks,” I tell him.
I can’t even bring myself to make eye contact with him. Not because I’m embarrassed, but because for once it’s nice to not be the only person in the room who is aware of the space my body takes up. To me, the gesture is so sweet that I feel a lump in my throat forming.
“Of course,” he says.
Love is in the details.
“How’d you find this place?” I ask.
He reaches behind the mini jukebox and hands me a menu. “Priya. My older sister. This used to be her hangout. Everything in Clover City shuts down by ten or eleven, so the only twenty-four-hour diners we have are crawling with people from school. But this place is a little out of the way.”
“I’m never really out that late, but that makes sense.”
“My parents aren’t what you would call strict,” he says. “My sister and her friends would study here all night. When I was a freshman and she was a senior, she started bringing me with her. Plus this is one of the few places still open when I get out of work on Fridays and Saturdays.”
Malik works at our only movie theater, the Lone Star Four, and it’s like this whole facet of him that I don’t even know. “When did you start working at the theater?” I ask.
“Last spring. If Priya was going to leave me her car, I had to find a way to pay for gas. I love it there, but late-night weekend shows put me home so late I’m already jonesing for breakfast.”
“Must be nice not to have strict parents. My mom is beyond strict. She would never let me have a job where I work that late.”
He shrugs. “It’s sort of weird. With my aunties and uncles . . . they’re in their kids’ business all the time. Priya says they’re like ingrown hairs.”
I laugh. “That’s an interesting way of putting it. What makes your parents different?”
“Well . . .”
“I’ll be over in a sec!” shouts Lupe from across the diner.
“Thanks,” calls Malik before turning back to me. “I mean, it’s not that weird for my family or for Hindu culture, really. Especially with the older generations.” He pauses for a moment. “My parents had an arranged marriage.”
That is definitely not what I expected to hear. I smile maybe too widely. “Wow!”
“But they love each other. They really do.”
I lean in a little. “You don’t have to convince me.”
“I know,” he says, “but it’s sort of crazy, because sometimes I feel like they were meant to be. Like, they were specifically built for each other.”
“Must be nice,” I say. “So does that mean you’ll . . . get married that way, too?”
“I don’t think so,” he says. “My parents told me and Priya that we can decide if we want their help or not.”
“Oh. Okay.” I hold up the menu, trying to cover the relief spread across my lips. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to marry the guy. Or maybe I will someday! Who knows? But that’s on the table still. So that’s nice, I think.
“Anyway, my parents couldn’t have kids for the longest time. It’s not like all they ever wanted was kids. My mom was a literature professor up until she retired a few years ago, and my dad’s an engineer. Not having kids was a bummer, but they like being the cool aunt and uncle, too. Then when my mom was forty-three and my dad was forty-eight, they had Priya. According to my dad, she was their miracle. And then two years later, I was their surprise. My mom gave me her maiden name, Malik.” He pronounces it differently than me and all of our teachers do. It sounds like Mah-lick instead of Maleak. “She has four sisters and no brothers, so it was her way of passing it on.”
“That’s amazing.” I wince a little. “But have I been mispronouncing your name this whole time?”
He laughs. “Well, I answer to both pronunciations. Even my sister pronounces it the way you do. Unless she’s pissed, then she pronounces it like our parents and my aunties.”
“That’s such a great story about your parents, though.”
His sparkling-white teeth peek out from behind his lips as he smiles. “Yeah.” He nods along. “Yeah, it sort of is. So they’re just a little more chill, I guess. Priya thinks it’s because they’re older and they’ve watched all our cousins grow up.”
“What can I get ya?” asks Lupe as she makes her way over to our table. Her uniform is a bright mustard-colored dress with a thick black belt and black piping on every edge. I immediately like her, and I think it’s because the woman is built like a snowman and that’s not too far off from my apple-shaped body.
I glance down at the menu. “I’ll take the funny-face pancakes and a side of hash browns and a root beer, too.”
Malik takes my menu and joins it with his behind the mini jukebox. “Waffles and grits, please.”
Lupe clicks her tongue. “Good choice, hon. What to drink?”
“Dr Pepper.”
“Got it,” says Lupe as she turns back for the kitchen.
A group of greasy-looking guys pours in from what I’m guessing was a shift on one of the oil rigs outside of town. “Sit wherever you like,” says Lupe. “Bathroom’s in the back if you want to wash up first.”
I watch as they all file past us for the restrooms, and most of them do that Southern gentlemen’s nod I’ve seen my whole life.
I slide to the end of the booth and study the jukebox for a moment. “We should play a song,” I say.
I reach into my purse for a quarter.
“It’s free,” says Malik.
“What? Really?”
He nods. “Told you this place was worth keeping hidden.”
I scroll through until I land on “Under the Boardwalk.”
“Oh yes!” shouts Lupe from the kitchen. “Play ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ next!”
“Okay!” I call back, not sure if she can actually hear me. I scroll through until I find her request.
“Thanks for coming out with me tonight,” says Malik.
“I like this place,” I tell him. “And I like you.”
I hold my breath, waiting, waiting, waiting. I think I’ve been holding my breath since the Sadie Hawkins dance when he kissed me on the cheek.
He licks his lips and sucks in a breath through his teeth. “I like you, too,” he finally says. Out loud. To my face. Without a single screen between us.
The table rocks as Lupe slides our plates across the surface. “Funny-face pancakes,” she says, “a side of hash browns, and waffles and grits. And a DP for the gentleman and a root beer for the lady!”
We both look up and say thank you in unison.
After she leaves, neither of us says anything else. We eat our food, which is amazing, or maybe it’s just this moment that makes everything taste so good. I smile the whole time. I smile harder than my funny-face pancakes.
On our way out the door, Malik takes my hand as I walk down the steps. His hand is slick with perspiration. It reminds me of when he escorted me for the pageant. At the time I couldn’t tell whose hands were sweating, because I was more anxious than a hummingbird. Now, understanding how shy he really is, I see what a big challenge that was for him.
After I take the last step, I expect him to let go, but he doesn’t. He holds my hand as we walk to the car, bathed in warm light from the Bee’s Knees. His car is parked just outside the pool of light, and when he walks me to the driver’s-side door, I eye the pitch-black flatlands that surrounds us. The sky above is stitched with endless stars, and I think that this would be the perfect moment for us to share a kiss. A real one. One on the lips.
Because he’s been so brave tonight in ways that are not comfortable for him, I turn to Malik and say, “Remember . . .” I take a deep breath. “Remember my painkiller-induced text messages from last weekend?” I try not to sound as mortified as I feel.
He snickers to himself. “How could I forget?”
“Well, I still want to kiss your face.” I say it too fast, before I can stop myself.
I think I hear him gulp. “You do?” he asks.
I inch closer, my mint-green-and-black polka-dot hand-painted Keds kicking up loose dirt.
“I really do.” And I kiss him. I touch my lips to his, which are soft and maple-syrup flavored.
His lips press into mine and both his hands trace up my arms to my shoulders and then up my neck until he’s cradling my face in his hands just like in all the movies I love so much. I fumble with my hands, unsure of what they should be doing or where they should go, until I just let them drop down by my sides. My whole body goes numb in a wonderfully tingly way, and for a moment I think Malik is actually holding me steady with his lips.
I pull back, because if I don’t, we’ll be here for days. He takes my hands in his, like he’s unwilling to end our physical contact entirely.
“I liked that,” he says. “Very much.”
“Maybe we could do it again sometime?” I ask before I lean in for one more kiss. And this time I even sneak in a little tongue.
On the way home, we talk about small things like class and Uncle Vernon’s gym and how Malik goes to Portland and San Diego every summer, because most of his family lives in those two places. And he tells me about how his dad moved here for an engineering job but actually took it because he’s always been obsessed with westerns and has always wanted to live in this part of Texas or Arizona or New Mexico. His mom hates it, but their compromise is that they’ll move to a breezy beach town when his dad retires after both Malik and his sister are out of college.
We listen to more music, and when there are a few more songs he wants me to hear, we take a couple extra laps around my neighborhood as he holds my hand.
When he pulls up in front of my house, I let out a big yawn that I’ve been sitting on for a while. It’s already three in the morning. I don’t have to be at the gym until noon, but I know that tonight I’ll barely be able to sleep.
In his car, we share one more kiss. And this one feels more urgent, like we’re trying to hold on to something we’re not quite sure we can re-create.
When I crawl back in through the window, I lose my balance and somersault inside, nearly knocking over my nightstand in the process. It sounds like an elephant is bowling just down the hall from my parents.
I sit there in the dark for a moment, expecting one of them to rush in. But nothing. I slip back into my pj’s and crawl into bed. I can’t shake my disbelief. Malik and I went on a date. I think it’s safe to call it a date. He said he liked me—with his mouth! Then he used that same mouth to kiss me. After I kissed him first, which—OH MY GOSH—I’m just realizing is a thing I did. (Willowdean—and maybe even Callie, too!—would be so proud, I bet.) And I snuck out for the first time ever and I didn’t even get caught.
If somehow each person in the world is only allotted a certain amount of good luck in life, I’m scared I’ve spent all of mine tonight.