Size 14 Is Not Fat Either

Well, okay. It’s pretty much all bad.

“Look who I found ringing our doorbell a little while ago,” he goes on. And although my heart thrills at his use of the word our, I know he doesn’t mean it in the domestic bliss kind of way I’d like to hear it. “When were you going to tell me your dad was in town?”

“Oh,” I say, glancing behind me to see if anyone from my gang is eavesdropping. Not surprisingly, they all are…with the exception of Sarah, who seems to have been hypnotized by the game.

“I was just waiting for the right moment,” I say, realizing even as the words are coming out of my mouth how lame they sound. “I mean…what I meant to say was….”

“Never mind,” Cooper says. He seems to be as hyper-aware as I am that everyone is listening to our conversation—well, what they can hear of it above the screaming and the band. “We’ll talk about it at home.”

Hideously relieved, I say, “Fine. Just leave him here with me. I’ll look after him.”

“He’s not bad company, actually,” Cooper says, gazing down at my dad, who is standing stock-still in the middle of the bleachers—unconscious that all the people behind him are trying to see around him—staring at the game. I guess it’s been a while since he’s been at a live sporting event. And the game is pretty exciting, I guess, if you’re into that kind of thing. We’re tied at twenty-one. “Hey. Is that popcorn?”

Sarah surprises everyone—well, okay, me, anyway—by showing she was paying attention to us all along when she shakes her head and says, not taking her gaze from the court, “It’s almost gone. Make Heather go get more.”

“Get me a soda,” Pete says.

“I could use some nachos,” Tom adds.

“No!” Magda shrieks, apparently at a call down below. “He really is blind!”

Cooper says, “What?” and slides down into the seat I’ve vacated. “What was the call?”

“Offensive foul,” Magda spits. “But he barely touched the kid!”

Shaking my head in disgust, I turn and make my way down the bleachers toward my father. He is still staring, enraptured, at the ball court.

“Dad,” I say, when I reach him.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the game. Nor does he say anything. The scoreboard over the middle of the court is counting down the time left in the game. There appear to be nine seconds left, and the Pansies have the ball.

“Dad,” I say again. I mean, it really isn’t any wonder he doesn’t realize I’m talking to him. No one has called him dad in years.

Mark Shepelsky has the ball. He’s taking it down the court, dribbling hard. He has a look of concentration on his face I’ve never seen him wear before…not even when he’s filling out a vending machine lost-change report.

“Dad,” I say for a third and final time, this time much louder.

And my dad jumps and looks down at me—

Just as Mark stops, turns, and throws the ball across the court, sinking it into the basket right before the halftime buzzer goes off, and the crowd goes wild.

“What?” Dad asks. But not me. He’s asking the fans around him. “What happened?”

“Shepelsky made a three-pointer,” some helpful soul shrieks.

“I missed it!” Dad looks genuinely upset. “Damn!”

“Dad,” I say. I can’t believe this. I really can’t. “Why’d you come to the house? You said you were going to call first. Why didn’t you call?”

“I did call,” he says, watching as the Pansies run from the court, high-fiving one another, their expressions ecstatic. “No one answered. I thought you might be trying to avoid me.”

“Did it ever occur to you I might not be avoiding you?” I ask. “That I just might not have gotten home yet?”

Dad realizes, I guess from the stress in my voice, that I’m not happy. Plus, all the action on the court is over for the moment, so he actually spares a second to look down at me.

“What’s the matter, honey?” he asks. “Did I screw up?”

“It’s just,” I say, feeling idiotic for getting so upset, but unable to help myself, “things with Cooper, my landlord…I mean, they’re delicate. And you showing up like that, out of the blue—”

“He seems like a nice guy,” Dad says, glancing over at where Cooper is sitting. “Smart. Funny.” He grins down at me. “You certainly have your old man’s approval.”

Something inside me bursts. I think maybe it’s an aneurism.

“I don’t need your approval, Dad,” I practically shout. “I’ve been getting along fine for the past twenty years without it.”

Dad looks taken aback. I guess I shouldn’t blame him. It’s not his fault what he seems to think is going on between Cooper and me isn’t.

“What I mean is,” I say, softening my tone guiltily, “it’s not like that. With Cooper and me, I mean. We’re just friends. I do his billing.”

“I know,” Dad says. He looks confused. “He told me.”

Now I’m confused. “Then why’d you say you approve? Like you thought we’re dating?”

“Well, you’re in love with him, aren’t you?” Dad asks simply. “I mean, it’s written all over your face. You might be able to fool him, but you aren’t fooling your old dad. You used to get that same look on your face back when you were nine years old and that Scott Baio fellow would come on TV.”

I gape at him, then realize my mouth is hanging open. I close it with a snapping sound probably only I can hear over the din of the gymnasium. Then I say, “Dad. Why don’t you go sit down with Cooper? I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Where are you going?” Dad wants to know.

“To get the nachos,” I say.

And stagger away to do so.

14

I saw the house where we used to live And remembered you, and all we did I always thought without you I’m sunk But the truth is, in bed, you kinda stunk.

“Ballad of the Ex”

Written by Heather Wells

I’m not totally unfamiliar with the layout of the Winer Sports Complex. I’d signed up for a twenty-five-dollar-a-semester aerobics class there last semester, after passing my employment probation, and had even shown up for one session.