Fat Girl On A Plane. Kelly deVos
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And I’m broke,” I say. But Piper knows all this. At ASU, I’ve got a full ride. I know she’s giving me the opportunity to vent about my mom, but I already spent enough time thinking about Mom on the plane. So I tease her. “Remind me why you’re pre-law again?”
She pushes her dark, chunky bangs out of her face. “The way you say pre-law. Like it’s a naughty word or something. Someday when you’re a powerful designer, you’ll need someone to sue all those jerks who make knockoffs of your handbags. And you need to hurry up and get famous so I can sell this jumper on eBay. Pay off my student loans.”
I check us in. The whole process makes me feel like such a, well, grown-up. They ask if I want the bellman to bring up our suitcases. My mind races with questions about tipping and conversation etiquette. I mumble something and leave the counter.
Piper and I drag our own bags to the black elevator doors. “You ready for a wild night on the town, girl?” she asks. We make our way down a long hall. Our room is enormous, with more maple panels on the walls and oversize white pillows on the beds.
Trouble is, neither of us is really all that wild. Piper spends most of her free time watching Law & Order reruns and reading biographies of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. I’m usually home on Saturday nights prewashing my fabrics or learning to program my new embroidery machine.
Piper flips open the hotel information binder. “There’s a restaurant here. Parker & Quinn. Gourmet burgers. I guess you can watch the chef make them.”
I flop back onto the thick white comforter of my queen bed. “Great. I get to watch someone cook food I can’t eat.”
She rolls her eyes at me and flips to another page. “Okay. What about this? The Refinery Rooftop.”
I lean over her shoulder. “It’s a bar.”
“I have my fake ID,” she says. “And look. You can see the Empire State Building.”
We decide to go. I mean, we’re nineteen, we’re alone in New York and our room’s secured to Gareth Miller’s credit card.
Piper’s right about one thing. The view is amazing. Light from the Empire State Building beams through the terrace’s glass roof. It’s a whole building, a complete structure that seems to be saying, You can do it. You can get where you need to go.
And for somebody, sometime, this rooftop probably is romantic. Round lights are strung from iron posts and candles flicker on the long, wooden tables. But it’s Saturday night and the place is littered with middle-aged sales people discussing deals. And off in one corner is Roberta’s fiftieth birthday.
We take a couple of seats at the bar. Piper orders a lemon drop martini and I have a Diet Coke. She starts to argue but I hold my hand up. “You know I never waste calories on alcohol.”
“I wouldn’t call it a waste, Cookie,” she says with a wan smile.
I snort. “I would. I mean, I haven’t had a Dorito in two years. If I’m going off the wagon, send in the Cool Ranch, please.”
Piper stares at me. In the orange candlelight, her eyelashes cast long shadows down her cheeks. “So this is it, right? You’re finally going to meet Gareth Miller? Meet the man behind the door?”
I pause, struggling to come up with a way to explain the total weirdness on the flight. “Actually, I already met him. I guess his private plane broke down. He sat next to me. Got on when we stopped at DFW.”
She leans forward and slaps my arm lightly. “And you’re just now mentioning it! Tell me everything.”
I shrug. “There’s not that much to tell. I mentioned the blog. The interview. He asked about my mom.”
Piper bites down on her lower lip. “So, awkward?”
“A little.”
She replaces her worried expression with a leer. “Was he totally hot?” I break into hoots of laughter as she wiggles her eyebrows up and down.
Two guys sit near us at the bar, having a loud conversation that carries over ours. “—like it’s my fault she’s stuck in the back office. The senior analyst job involves travel,” the one nearest Piper says. “You think I can send that gal to Wuhan? The last time I sent a fat lady to China, the client’s daughter asked for tips on how to get her pet rabbit to gain weight.”
“Oh. Ouch. Cold,” the second man says, taking a long sip of a tall beer.
I realize Piper and I have both stopped talking and are watching the men in horror. I try to get a conversation going again. “So did you go to that seminar on the different kinds of law? Any thoughts on what kind of lawyer you want to be?”
Piper smiles. It’s actually more like a Cheshire Cat grin. “Yeah. There are a lot of cool branches of law. In fact—”
“—and I told her. Get rid of that candy dish on your desk. Hit the StairMaster once in a while. Then come back and talk to me about a promotion,” the man goes on.
We stop talking again. I check out the guy’s suit. I don’t understand people, but I totally get clothes. It’s an Ermenegildo Zegna. Navy. Two button. Wool. Easily $3K. This guy. The way his graying hair has outgrown its haircut but his shirt’s been recently pressed. Careless wealth. Easy power. A dangerous combination.
“Yeah,” Piper says, loud enough that it catches the attention of the douchelords. “We learned about this thing called employment law where I can sue rich assholes who won’t give promotions to fat women.”
Mr. Navy Suit turns to Piper. “That’s not illegal,” he says, glaring at her.
“Yet,” she replies, pronouncing each letter sharply and returning his glare with equal force.
The man drops a hundred-dollar bill on the counter and leaves the bar.
The bartender approaches us with another round and we order some food. Piper gets a burger and I ask for a chicken Caesar salad with the dressing on the side.
I grin at her. “I think you just chased a multimillionaire executive out of a swanky restaurant. You really are my hero.”
She snorts with laughter as a waitress arrives with our plates. I watch in envy as a bacon cheeseburger is slid in front of Piper. The corners of the cheddar cheese melt and drip. I force myself to get busy removing all but the five croutons I’m allowed to eat from my salad.
Piper doesn’t bother to pretend her burger is anything other than completely delicious. “You know, you could have a cheeseburger too, Cookie.”
“Not on the plan,” I say, poking at my bland chicken, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
“If your plan is causing you to make that face, I think it’s time for a new plan,” she says.
“We can’t all be Givers of Zero Fucks,” I say.
“Yes, we can.” Piper scoops up a few seasoned fries.
I glance at the Empire State Building. “If it weren’t for NutriNation, I wouldn’t even be here. Let’s face it. There’s no way NutriMin Water would’ve sponsored my blog if I didn’t use their product to lose weight.”
She grabs my bag from the back of my chair and rifles through it.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “What are you looking for?”
“Your crystal ball? Or maybe the multiverse goggles you use to see alternate dimensions. They must be in here, right? I mean, otherwise how could you really know for sure what would happen if you made different choices?” she says.
I grab my bag. “Oh, so it’s all just in my imagination? You heard those two guys. Fashion is even worse. Fashion is where they take thin people and call them plus-size models. Where they refuse to dress fat celebrities for events and say that size-six women are fat actresses.”
Piper takes a