What Z Sees Page 5

  Although lately Zara has become the kind of pretty that you imagine you might one day become. She doesn’t believe you when you tell her, which makes it both infuriating and endearing. She believes her freckles make her ugly. They don’t. Rather, they make her stand out. She became pretty accidentally, went from gawky and angular to willowy and sleek almost overnight. Braces off. New haircut that she did herself. So now all your extra weight makes you somehow immune to flirting and her accidental pretty-spurt makes everything she does flirtatious.

  She flirts without even knowing that she’s flirting, it’s like a constant flirt-fest. Every time she flicks her raggedly cut hair (on her, cute, on anyone else it would simply look like a bad haircut done with a lawn mower) back over her shoulders, two or three waiters stare at her. Every time she applies lip balm, which she does obsessively every fifteen minutes or so (how dry can her lips actually be? Is she doing it on purpose, after all?), some guy turns to watch. Even girls look at her. It’s like no one can look away, like she’s extra visible, even though she’s skinny, doesn’t take up that much space.

  You shift on your chair, which isn’t exactly comfortable, though you’d never complain out of fear that it’s your own fault that it isn’t comfortable, that it isn’t comfortable because you’re overweight. Do skinny people find wooden chairs like this more comfortable than you? You don’t know and you can’t exactly ask. Just in case it’s because you’re bigger that the chair hurts your butt. Just in case it’s your own fault you’re uncomfortable. Never, ever draw attention to yourself in that way, in a whiney way, in a look-how-big-I-am way.

  In other ways, sure. Like what you’re wearing. A pale blue sleeveless baby doll tunic that when you take it off is so large that it looks like one of Zara’s horse’s blankets. Tight black capri pants — to draw people’s eyes down and away from the offending chest — with beautiful flowers that you hand-embroidered down the sides in zealous shades of blue, pink, yellow, red and orange. Sort of the look-at-me-damn-it style you’ve slowly adopted over the years for your waist down. Really cute sandals with heels so high even you can’t believe they don’t snap under your weight.

  Which, for the record, is something you’d have to guess at. You haven’t stood on a scale since you were fourteen and the doctor weighed you and sighed and shook his head, like you were dying. That was enough for you. You never ever ever want to weigh yourself again. So you won’t.

  You’ll put it out of your head and just be you.

  But who are you?

  Zara Hexton’s fat best friend? The funny girl? Hamster’s girlfriend? That girl with the boobs?

  No, you’re Cynthia. Sin. You are your own person. People know who you are. You’re popular, whatever that means. Zara is constantly reminding you of it. How easy it is for you to be popular. How you never seemed to care about it and so people from all the different groups at school seem to embrace you.

  You aren’t that stereotype of the fat kid in the class that everyone picks on. Teases. Not you. You’re probably going to be the class president next year. You were VP last year. Everyone expects it, anyway. And your phone is always ringing. You always have something to do.

  You’re happy.

  You are.

  Happy, happy, happy.

  Happy enough, anyway. Today makes you happy. Seeing Zara and Axel and their family and friends and this restaurant with the wine bottle candle-holders with gobs of melted wax on the sides, the checkered tablecloths and the way the wind is hammering a sudden summer rain into the glass and the lights of passing cars appear to dance on the road, all of that is good. Generally, you are just content. A content person.

  A content overweight person with huge boobs.

  You eat another forkful of salad and your mum gives you a wink and raises her glass of Diet something-or-other at you. You glower at her. Most people, you like. But your own mother makes you so mad, you feel like you might explode from it. You can’t even say why. It’s irrational, this fury. It’s not like she’s done something, except maybe given you some bad genes from somewhere way back in the gene pool. But it’s everything she says, it makes you incandescent with rage. And what’s up with the wink? You aren’t going to suddenly become like the skinny actors and actresses that she worships simply by eating a salad. Besides, it’s Caesar salad and everyone remembers the flurry in the newspapers a few years back that claimed that eating a Caesar salad was like eating five pats of butter or something. But it’s sooo good. The crunchy lettuce. The garlicky bite of the dressing.

  Yum.

  And isn’t that the point of life? To be happy? To eat good food? To be surrounded by friends?

  Des leans over, knocking over a glass of ice water. The ice cubes tinkle onto your lap and you pretend to juggle them, which results in most of them falling on the floor. His breath smells strongly of the garlic shrimp that he’s eating vigorously. Sloppily. And these boys always smell like a barn, no matter how well-dressed they are.

  Hey, he says. I have a joke for you. So there’s two muffins in the oven, right? And one muffin turns to the other and says, man, it’s hot in here. And the other muffin goes, ARRRRRRRRRRRGH! (Here he screams so loudly that heads all over the restaurant swivel to look.) A TALKING MUFFIN!

  Hmm, you say. You raise an eyebrow at him. Hi-lar-i- ous, you pronounce slowly.

  Aw, he says. My nephew loves that joke.

  No doubt, you say. But ... well. I mean, who bakes muffins two at a time? That doesn’t make sense.

  Come on, he says. It’s funny. A talking muffin!

  Ha ha, you say. I still don’t see why there aren’t a dozen muffins. When I steal your joke and re-tell it, I’m going to make it a pan full of muffins.

  Okay, he says. You can steal it. Change it. It’s not mine anyway. I saw it on TV last night.

  He grins. He’s so appealingly sweet: one of those boys who you can instandy picture as both a baby and a middle-aged man. A face that fits equally well on both. He’s nice. And his accent makes everything he says and does even cuter. You sort of have a crush on him. Not like the crush you have on Axel, which is something that’s been part of you for so long that you can’t remember anything different. But something light, a crush-lite. You just like being around him. You feel the same way about Wick, really; he’s so preppy and remote and horsey and rich-looking, you hardly notice how funny- looking he is. That’s the thing. He somehow overrides his own funny looks, whereas Hamster — who is less funny- looking, empirically speaking — looks weirder because of his personality.

  It’s pretty dumb to realize that the only boy at the table who really doesn’t interest you at all is Hamster, and he’s yours.

  Thanks, you say to Des. Always looking for material.

  Which is true, you’re practising a stand-up act that you do every once in a while at open-mike night at an all-ages club downtown. The place is run by your uncle so you don’t actually know if he invites you back because you’re funny or if he’s just being nice. It’s the scariest, but also the best, thing you’ve every done. Next year, you’re going to organize a talent show for the school, you think. And you’ll have to participate because, well, you’re always involved: student council, drama club, whatever. You love being on stage. Love it. It’s where you belong. When you’re up there and people are laughing? That’s the best thing in the world.

  Your mum thinks you’re going to be an actress. Well, maybe she’s right. But not the token fat actress who always plays the pretty actress’s best friend. Not you. You’re maybe going to have your own show. Maybe you’ll be the first fat actress who isn’t known as the fat actress. You’ll just be a funny, pretty-faced, good-haired girl who happens to be big.

  Hey, maybe by that time, you won’t even be fat anymore. You could get a reverse boob-job, people do that. Even movie stars, you’ve seen it in Us magazine. That would make your mum happier than anything. And maybe if she was happier, she’d stop pissing you off so much.

  Maybe.

  She
just wants you to be different than you are, and that’s what hurts. She’s your mother! It’s probably because her mum raised her to believe she was fat, even when she wasn’t. It’s probably not her fault.

  Still, it sucks.

  And of course, if you got skinny, Hamster would dump you. Not that you’d care. In fact, it would be a relief. But he likes you fat. He likes fat. He’s a fat fetishist probably, or will grow up to be one.

  What a freak. How can you think that? You can’t think your own boyfriend is a freak, but he’s Hamster. How can you not think of him that way? Really, you should be honest. Break up with him. But the truth is that somehow having a boyfriend, even one as innocuous as Hamster, makes it seem more okay for you to not have a perfect body. You aren’t really sure how this logic works, but it does.

  You sigh. Tear off a hunk of white crusty roll and butter it vigorously. Oh well. Maybe someday you’ll care enough to want to dump him and dump all this extra weight. Not right now, though.

  Not yet.

  You chew and listen. Zara is trying to engage Gigi in conversation, which is kind of funny and also kind of embarrassing. Gigi’s loathing of Zara is so evident, it makes you want to reach over and bop her on the nose. At the same time, it’s hard to not be amused by Zara’s futile attempts.

  So, she is saying, Gigi, if you want to learn to ride I can teach you on Pudding Pop. You might love it! And it would give us a chance to hang out.

  No, says Gigi.

  Really? asks Zara. You’d be so good at it because you’re so ... um.

  Thin? you offer up helpfully.

  Athletic! says Zara triumphantly.

  I don’t do sports, says Gigi. I’m not “sporty.”

  The way she says sporty makes it sound like a kind of disease. You make a note to yourself to somehow work that tone into a routine of some kind. Sporty, you whisper to yourself. Practising. Sporty.

  Gigi shoots you a withering look. You shrug. Sorry, you say.

  Maybe we could go shopping then, says Zara.

  Shopping? asks Gigi, using the exact same tone.

  Shopping! you repeat gleefully, imitating her again. It’s too good. You can’t help it. Shopping.

  Or something, says Zara. Don’t you think we should hang out or ... something? I mean, you and Axel. And, well, it just seems like you and I should be friends.

  Gigi looks at Axel, who Des has in a headlock. He flails behind himself and nearly clocks her in the eye, which would have been funnier than you can stand. She suddenly leans across the table.

  I’m with your brother, not with you, she hisses at Zara. Got it?

  Um, says Zara. A flush creeps over her face, blurring her freckles together like a connect-the-dots.

  Wow, you say. That was rude.

  Zara tugs your sleeve. Washroom, she whispers.

  You excuse yourself, get up and follow her. She’s dancing as she walks, humming. Her flush fades. Once in there, she perches on the counter; closes her eyes.

  I just don’t get that girl, she says. She’s nuts. She’s just ... mean. She doesn’t make sense! She’s all, Oh, I’m so quiet! I’m so timid! But really she’s scary. What does Axel see in her?

  I have no idea, you say emphatically. None. She’s creepy and evil.

  Ugh, says Zara. Why was I even trying?

  Um, because of Axel? you suggest.

  I know, she says. Of course, for Axel. I give up, though. I can’t do it.

  I wouldn’t bother, you say. It won’t last.

  No, she says. Probably not. God, you’d think Axel would have better taste. Why doesn’t he go out with someone nice? Someone funny? Hey, you should date him.

  Ha ha, you say, ducking into a cubicle so she doesn’t see you blushing. You sit down, even though you don’t have to pee, and she keeps talking. You sort of hate talking while you’re peeing, but seeing as you aren’t peeing, you can’t exactly tell her to be quiet.

  You wouldn’t believe this day, she calls. God. The jump was so awful. It was the worst thing I’ve ever done. Look!

  I can’t see you, you say.

  Right, she says. Come out here!

  I’m coming! you say. Hang on. You flush for no reason and go back.

  She holds up her hand, which is trembling so slightly you’d never have noticed without her pointing it out.

  I never would have done it, you say, washing your hands. You’re much braver than I am. Braver and dumber.

  You lean over the counter and fix your lipstick. Your skin looks pretty good today, that’s one good thing. Sometimes it’s zitty, but right now it’s perfectly clear.

  I had to, she says. It was important to Maman. You know how she loves all that crazy stuff. I’m just so glad I didn’t die. I actually thought I might die. It was the most horrible thing. Awful. Don’t tell, though, okay? Don’t tell anyone because if Maman knew, she’d be so upset she made us do it.

  Was Axel freaking out, too? you ask casually, like you’re just being polite. You lean on the counter next to her. You would never sit up there like she is. Just in case. Maybe it’s not fastened well enough to the wall. It’s not like you’ve ever broken anything by sitting on it, but it’s your big fear. Frankly, you’d rather jump out of a plane.

  Totally, she laughs fondly. He totally was. Don’t tell him I said that, though! He’s pretending he loved it. You know what he’s like. He thought he was going to throw up. He thought he was going to crap himself.

  Aw, you say. Poor guy.

  Okay, she says, washing her hands, flicking some water at you. Let’s go back.

  Okay, you say. Sure. Happy birthday, by the way.

  Thanks, she says. I am having a pretty good day. I mean, obviously apart from the terrifying near-death experience. She laughs.

  I can tell, you say. You seem happy.

  Good, she says. I’m going to sing after dinner. You have to tell me if it’s any good, okay? I’ve been practising a lot. I think I’m getting better.

  Sure, you say. But it’s always good. You should be on American Idol or something. You’d win.

  You’re sweet, she says. You’re so sweet to say that.

  When you get back to the table, Zara leans on your arm, like you’re a chair. You don’t mind. Zara is just one of those people who is always touching someone else. Always leaning. Like she can’t quite stand up on her own. She’s telling a story about her horse, Cake, and how Cake cleared some amazing fallen tree on the trail, the tree looking perfect and green and leafy and intact and yet somehow tipped over from the roots up like a giant had pushed it. And Cake effortlessly jumping through the branches, scaring her because she couldn’t see what was on the other side, but the horse taking over and landing safely. She’s so fired up, so enraptured with her own description, she doesn’t notice that her dog-hair covered sleeve is trailing into your salad. Gross. You lift it out and kind of push Zara back up in her chair, and Zara doesn’t even pause in her rolling story, moving onto something about how fast the run was, in spite of the tree, how good Cake is lately, how amazing the weather is, how green the trees are, how beautiful everything is. Her eyes are glowing.

  Gigi rolls her eyes to herself as though no one is going to notice. You glare at her, but she’s not looking at you.

  If you’re jealous of anything, you’re jealous of all these people and their mad passion for horses. You don’t get it. You don’t ride. Well, obviously. What horse would want you on its back? And horses just naturally seem to shy away from you, like they know better than to befriend you. You don’t trust them. All that snorting and eye rolling, it’s like they’re too big to be pets and too animallike to be anything else. And, let’s face it, they stink. How you fell in love with all these horsey people is a mystery to you. You’re the odd one out in the group. The weirdo who doesn’t ride, who wouldn’t ride no matter what.

  Gigi doesn’t ride either, but she’s in the group by virtue of dating Axel. It’s like it’s by default. If she rode, you’d understand maybe what Axel saw in
her, something in common and all that. But she doesn’t. So what is it? She doesn’t do anything. Mostly, you figure, she just sits and stares at Axel. Stares and stares. Like a creepy ghost baby in a horror flick. Big pools of eyes in her eyebrowless pale face. Ick.

  Even your mum loves horses in a creepily passionate way that rules out much else in her life, which makes sense because it was her connection to Maman that made you all friends to begin with. She’s latched onto Axel and Zara’s mum because of the horses and — you shudder to think it but you know it’s true — because she has some stupid embarrassing crush on their dad, who is good- looking in an obvious way but also a complete jerk. Not that he’s ever around, but really. Not only is he an asshole, but he’s married. To her best friend! You hope that you’re the only one who notices the way she blushes when he’s around. It’s downright gross.

  You’d never be like that.

  You look over at Gigi, who is staring at you blatantly, her funny little fish mouth agape like Nemo. (She has that entitled look that only movie stars have, in spite of her paleness. It’s like she herself hasn’t noticed how insipid she is.) In light of the fact that she looks desperately bored, you give her a conspiratorial eye roll as if to say, “Horses? Whatever,” and you could swear that she actually shudders and goes back to sipping her water. Bending down to pick up your dropped fork, you see Axel’s eyes following your cleavage. Well, take that Gigi, you think, but then you notice Axel’s hand firmly in Gigi’s under the table. There’s no real explanation for why it makes you feel so sick. So mad. So ... jealous.

  No explanation at all that you can figure out, fat disgusting you.

  Zara

  Chapter 4

  SATURDAY MORNING, I wake up with cramps, the alarm nearly blasting me out of bed followed right away by Axel, silhouetted in the door. Shouting. His bad mood would have been palpable even if I hadn’t been able to see it, a cloud like shadowy hornets circling his whole body. It was like the air around him was shaking with it.