Although there are some New Yorkers
who have cars, most of us rely on public transportation. It’s easy, it’s cheap,
and you don’t have to worry about cab drivers flashing you the finger during
midtown traffic.
I’d prefer to take the subway. The
subway clientele are several orders of magnitude crazier than the bus
clientele, so it’s easier to blend in. After all, why would anyone stare at me
when there’s a demented guy humping a pole? But—and it’s hard to admit this—in
the last year, it’s become a bit of a tight squeeze to get through the subway
turnstile. I’ve gotten worried I’ll get trapped in it at some point, which has
made me shy away from the subway. Anyway, there’s a bus line that runs straight
from the university to my apartment.
Today, the bus ride home is
miserable. Usually, after my classes, it’s empty on the bus, but there must be
some event or something going on in the city because at least three-quarters of
the bus is filled when I get on it. I examine the remaining seats,
contemplating my options, and finally squeeze into the outer seat of an empty
double front-facing seat. I don’t like the front-facing seats because they
don’t give me as much room, but it’s my only option if I don’t want to stand. And
after working all day and taking classes all night, I don’t want to stand.
Of course, it’s too much to hope for
to just have a quiet bus ride home.
About halfway home, these two
adolescent boys board the bus. By now, people are occupying almost all the
seats, and one of the few empty ones is next to me. But I’m going to be honest:
there isn’t room in that seat for another person. I don’t take up two entire
seats, but I take up at least a seat and a half. Maybe a small child could fit.
But definitely not an adult.
So anyway, one boy pokes the other,
and they snicker. They’re laughing at me—I have a sixth sense about this sort
of thing. But I stare straight ahead and hope to God that they keep it to
themselves and don’t feel compelled to say anything.
But like I said, I’m never lucky.
After about a minute of giggling, one
boy says to me, “Hey, lady, how many fares did you pay?”
I turn my head away from him and
don’t answer, hoping he’ll give up when I ignore him.
“Hey,” he says again. “Did you pay
for two fares? Because you’re taking up two
seats!”
Haha. Hilarious. I never heard that
one before. What a creative and brilliant comment.
“You should pay a second fare,” he
continues. “One for you and one for your fat ass.”
I wish I were the kind of big girl
who could speak up to a jerk like that. A big girl who owns her curves like a rock
star. I could tell him he’s short and that his soul patch makes him look like a
pathetic loser. Or I could say something about how I’m proud of my body, no
matter what anyone else thinks of it.
But I’m not that kind of girl. So
instead, I sit there, my heart pounding. I’m a little nervous that everyone
else on the bus is going to rally up and make me pay a second fare. I wouldn’t
mind paying for two fares on the bus if it meant I’d get left alone.
Finally, I hear the voice of an
elderly woman speak up from the seat in front of me: “You two kids leave that
poor girl alone! What the hell is wrong with you?”
The boys laugh again, but they don’t
say anything more and move to the back of the bus. Relief washes over me. They’re
gone. It’s over—at least for now.
“Don’t let yourself be bothered by
stupid kids like that,” the old woman says to me, turning halfway in her seat. She’s
solidly built, and feisty, despite her white hair. Even though she rescued me,
I cringe. The last thing I want is to talk about what just happened. Also, I
know where this is going.
“Yeah,” I mumble.
“You’re such a pretty girl,” she
continues, beaming at me. “Beautiful
face. You just need to lose a few pounds and you wouldn’t have to deal with
losers like those kids.”
“Yeah,” I mumble again.
“Have you ever tried eating a little
less?”
God, this is almost worse than the
two kids harassing me. “Mmm,” I say.
Her face brightens. “And then you
could find yourself a nice boyfriend.”
Why does she assume I don’t have a
boyfriend? Just because I’m alone on a city bus at nine o’clock at night and
I’m (apparently) morbidly obese? Maybe I do have a boyfriend! Maybe I’m dating
some wonderful, sexy guy, and I’m on my way to see him right now.
Except obviously, I’m not really.
The sad truth is that not only do I
not have a boyfriend, but I’ve never
had a boyfriend. And here’s my biggest confession of all:
I’ve never even kissed a boy.
That sounds bad. But then again, I’m
only twenty-seven. I’m not fifty. There are plenty of years ahead of me for
boy-kissing.
Plenty of larger girls have
boyfriends. But I’m not some outgoing girl who knows how to flirt and show off
my big boobs and shake my juicy booty. I’m incredibly, almost painfully shy, especially around boys. And since
they’re not exactly falling over themselves to get to know me, that means I’ve
been perpetually single. I’ve been on many dates, thanks to set-ups by people
like Camille, but none resulted in even a second date, much less a romantic goodnight
kiss.
Do I want a boyfriend?
Sometimes. Sometimes I want it so
much, it’s physically painful.
But I’ve never known anything
besides being single. I’m used to it. I have plenty of diversions to occupy my
time. It isn’t all that bad.
Really.
_____
After I get off the bus, I pass the
bakery next to my house. Most bakeries close early, but just to torture me,
this one is open all day long. And they’ve always got amazing baked goods
displayed in the window.
Today the thing that catches my attention
is a cheesecake.
It’s not just a cheesecake. It’s a
luscious, creamy cheesecake with chocolate drizzled on top of it. My stomach
lets out a low growl—it looks so delicious. I want to break the window, grab
the cheesecake, and eat it with my bare hands.
I’ve been good today—I had yogurt
for breakfast, then that turkey sandwich for lunch, and a salad for dinner. But
it’s left me feeling hungry and unable to resist a cheesecake.
I know how many calories must be in
it. I’m the world’s expert at looking at a food item and estimating the number
of calories. I’m usually accurate within fifty calories. And that cheesecake
slice has got to be at least five hundred calories.
But I want it so badly, it hurts.
Resist, Emily! You can do it!
Would it be so tragic if I got a
slice of cheesecake? It’s not like I eat cheesecake every night. Just one slice
to reward myself for how good I’ve been this month. And it will make me feel
better about what happened on the bus. One bite of that cheesecake, and I won’t
be thinking about those boys anymore. Or that well-meaning old lady who made me
feel even worse than the boys.
Before I can stop myself, I am
marching into the bakery. A skinny kid is manning the counter, and he flashes
his teeth at me. “What can I get you?”
“I… I’ll have a slice of the
cheesecake in the window.”
The boy snickers. “Just one?”
“Yes,” I mumble.
A minute later, I’m walking out of
the bakery with a white paper bag filled with a big heaping slice of chocolate-covered
cheesecake. And now it’s all I can think about. I can’t wait to get home and
devour it. And then I’ll be good for the next six months. No desserts at all.
I swear.
When I get upstairs to my apartment,
I place my precious paper bag containing my cheesecake on the dining table and
go into the kitchen to get a fork. I live in a “cozy” two-bedroom apartment on
the Upper West Side with a single bathroom and something that the building
manager called a “kitchenette.” I wish I could say that I have the place all to
myself, given how tiny it is, but I don’t. So while I’m rummaging through the
utensils, which are totally disorganized, my roommate Abby wanders out of her
bedroom.
“You’re back!” Abby clutches her
chest in relief. “I was worried. You’re
usually back earlier than this.”
“Yeah…” Making those copies for
Brody ate up at least half an hour, everything considered. “I’m sorry. I
should’ve texted you.”
When I moved to Manhattan shortly
after college, I knew unless I wanted to live in a studio apartment the size of
a closet, I would have to have a roommate. That’s how Abby came into the
picture. We started as roommates, but now she’s morphed into being my friend. She
thinks she is, anyway. I’m not so sure.
I hear the crackling of a paper bag,
and I look up sharply. Abby is peeking inside the bag I left on the dining
table. “Oh, Emily,” she sighs.
I grit my teeth. I know what Abby is
going to say, and I don’t want to hear it. She’s a yoga instructor and a bit of
a health nut, and often I suspect that I’m more of a project for her than a
friend. A project she’s not doing very well with.
“It’s just a small slice of
cheesecake,” I say.
“It’s gigantic!” she says. “You
shouldn’t be eating this. I’m going to throw it away for you.”
And then, to my absolute horror, she
picks up the bag and tosses it in the trash.
“Abby!” I cry.
“I’m trying to help you, Emily,” she
says in her calm Yoga Abby voice.
“I don’t need your help,” I growl. “It
was one small slice of cheesecake.”
“Listen.” Abby smiles at me. “Can’t
you let me make you a dessert? I’ve got a delicious recipe from my Vegan cooking
class that’s less than a hundred calories for two servings.”
Let me assure you, Abby does not
have a “delicious recipe” from her Vegan cooking class. She baked me a Vegan
cupcake once, and I almost broke a tooth on it. When she makes something on the
stovetop, I stay in my room because the smell is so bad. But she’s trying, so I
don’t say anything.
“Please?” Abby asks.
My shoulders sag. “Honestly, I’d
rather just go to bed. It’s getting late and I’m exhausted.”
She nods and puts a hand on my
shoulder. “Be strong, Emily. You can do this—I believe in you. I’m here for
you.”
“I know.”
And then she hugs me. Of course, her
skinny little arms only get three-quarters of the way around me.
We retire to our separate bedrooms.
I sit on my bed, wincing as the springs creak under my weight. There’s an
indent in the center of the mattress where the springs have permanently
collapsed from the impact of my sleeping on it every night. I think about my
diet. How I watch every single morsel that goes into my mouth, and somehow it
doesn’t seem to matter. I just keep gaining. I don’t know what comes after
morbidly obese… horrifically obese? Shockingly obese? Whatever it is, I’m on my
way there. No matter what I do.
So I may as well do what I want.
I get up off my bed. I open the door
to the bedroom as quietly as possible—Abby is nowhere to be seen. I tiptoe into
the kitchen and open the garbage can. I pull out the white paper bag and sneak
it back to my room.
_____
I’m sitting in a normal chair in my
evening class today. I arrived very early and swapped out a chair from a
different classroom with one of these chairs. I’m not taking another risk about
not being able to get up.
I also sit on the end, on the same
row as the door. Partially because it was easier to drag the chair in. But
also, this way I could leave extra room for Brody to get inside and not have to
do like ten maneuvers to get his chair to turn around. My entire life involves
maneuvering around tiny spaces and feeling awkward about it, so I sympathize
with his frustration. I want to help the guy.
It pays off. Brody shows up and sees
that I’ve left a spot for him next to me, and he looks thrilled. He flashes me
a smile that makes his whole face light up. He has one of the most infectious
smiles I’ve ever seen—it’s almost impossible not to smile back. “Hey, Emily,”
he says.
He remembered my name. “Hey, Brody.”
“You remembered my name,” he says. He
looks as pleased I felt.
Because I’m going to be photocopying
my notes for Brody at the end, I spend a little extra time on them. Usually, I
take decent notes, but these are especially good. A few times during the
lecture, I look up at Brody and he grins at me.
At the end of the lecture, Brody
respectfully allows me a few seconds to heave myself out of my seat before he
clears his throat. “Hey, Emily, I hate to bother you again…”
“You want to copy my notes,” I say.
He smiles again. Christ, he’s cute
when he smiles. Even cuter than Jack. Except Brody isn’t gay. Granted, I
couldn’t tell with Jack, but in retrospect, the signs were there. Brody isn’t
gay though—you can just tell. I would bet my life savings.
“Yeah, I would,” he says. “Please?”
I notice he says “please” a lot. Even
though it’s proper etiquette and you’re supposed to say please, let’s face it,
most people don’t say it. But Brody always does. Considering how much he has to
ask for help with things, I guess it’s a good habit to have. He was raised
right.
“Of course,” I say.
“Thanks so much,” he says. “Your
handwriting is really good. Your notes are excellent.”
“I’m glad it helped you,” I say.
For the second time, we make the
harrowing journey to the copy machine. I watch Brody as he pushes his hand into
the joystick on his chair and his lower body bounces with the imperfections on
the floor. I’m curious why he needs that chair. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s
paralyzed. He goes a little slower this time, so I don’t have to jog to keep up
with him but I’m still walking more briskly than I normally do. Most people
don’t realize I can’t move as fast as they can, because I’m carrying around
more weight. And once again, we’re having trouble locating the copy machine. I never
realized how big this building was.
“What do you think of Dr. Nichols?”
Brody asks me.
“He’s pretty good,” I say. “I like
the lectures so far.”
“Are you trying to get a Master’s or
a doctorate?” Brody asks me.
“Just a Master’s,” I say. “For now. You?”
“Ditto,” Brody says. “I’m a code
monkey now and this is the only way I’ll ever get to advance at work.”
I wonder what sort of work he does.
A lot of people with a disability like Brody’s might just stay home and do
nothing. I appreciate his ambition.
“Oh, I know,” I say. “That’s my
situation too.”
“Not that I don’t like my job,” he
says. “But I’ve got higher aspirations, you know? I’ve been on kind of a hiatus
from the degree and now I’m trying to pick things up again. I took some classes
at Queens College but those mostly sucked. Anyway, it’s too big a commute from
where I live now.”
I look at him in surprise. “Are you
from Queens? Like, originally?”
Brody nods and raises his eyebrows
at me. “Yeah. Are you?”
“I am!” I say excitedly. It’s the
first time I’ve felt like we aren’t just making awkward small talk. “Where in
Queens?”
“Fresh Meadows.”
“Jamaica.”
Brody grins at me. “Did people ever
ask you growing up how you managed to get into the city all the way from the
Caribbean?”
“Yeah, all the freaking time,” I
laugh.
“Where’d you go to high school?”
Brody asks.
“Townsend Harris.”
Brody gasps. “You’re kidding! Me
too!”
“Well, it’s the only decent high
school.”
“That’s for sure,” Brody snorts. “Hey,
what year did you graduate?”
We determine we were two years apart
in high school—he was a junior when I was a freshman. I try to remember from my
freshman or sophomore years if I saw a guy zipping around the halls in a power
wheelchair. Seems like the kind of thing I would have remembered. But I’m
drawing a blank.
“Of course,” he says, “you were an
underclassman while I was a super cool senior. So we couldn’t have interacted
unless I was, like, pushing you down the stairs or something.”
I stare at Brody in surprise. He
doesn’t look like he’s in any position to be pushing anyone down any stairs,
although maybe he was a little more mobile back in high school. That doesn’t
seem like something he’d have done at any age though. Maybe it’s just his face
deceiving me, but he seems like one of those genuinely nice people.
“I’m kidding,” he finally says when
he sees the shock on my face. “Seriously though, what’s your last name?”
“Davison,” I say.
“Emily Davison.” He rolls my name
over his tongue. I have such a boring name, but I like the way it sounds when
he says it. Some of my irritation over not being able to find the copy machine wanes.
“What’s your last name?” I ask him.
“Nolan,” he says. And before I can
comment, he says, “Yeah, I know, Brody Nolan. Could I be any more Irish?”
“Could be worse,” I say. “Your name could
be… Seamus Murphy.”
“Or Flynn McMahon.”
“Or Finley O’Sullivan.”
Brody finally laughs. “Okay, you’re
right. Could be worse. But Brody Nolan’s pretty bad. Especially with my face.”
I look at Brody’s face. As I’ve said
before, he’s got a pretty attractive face. He’s really good-looking. So I have
absolutely no idea what he’s complaining about. He doesn’t even look Irish
aside from the hint of red in his hair, not that Irish guys are intrinsically
bad looking or anything. “What do you mean?”
“I have freckles!” Brody says.
I look closer, close enough to smell
his spearmint breath, and my own breath catches just a bit. It turns out he’s
right. He has light freckles, mostly over the bridge of his nose and over his
cheekbones.
“They’re practically invisible,” I
point out to him.
“They were horrible when I was a
kid, but they mostly faded when I hit puberty,” he explains. “But if I went out
in the sun without sunscreen, I’d have a serious recurrence.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have noticed them.”
“Most people don’t.” Brody shrugs. “But
that’s because most people aren’t paying much attention to my face, you know?”
You can’t accuse Brody of not having
self-awareness. He’s right—you see a guy in a power wheelchair and his face
isn’t the focus of attention. Nobody looks at my face either, except to tell me
how exquisitely pretty it would be if only I dropped a hundred pounds.
“Hey,” Brody says. “Are you by any
chance related to Cammy Davison?”
I freeze. He’s talking about
Camille, of course. Back in high school, everyone called her Cammy. Then she
went to college and reinvented herself as Camille. It shouldn’t surprise me he
knew Camille—she was very popular. “Yeah, she’s my sister.”
Brody’s eyes widen. “Wow, you’re
Cammy’s sister? That’s… surprising.”
He doesn’t have to say what he means
by that. Everybody is always surprised I’m Camille’s sister. Because she’s
beautiful and I am… me.
Brody notices my expression. “I just
mean… she had blond hair, right? And you… you have darker hair.”
Right. Because that’s the only
difference between me and my sister. It isn’t like I’ve been through years of people telling me how pretty my
sister is. If she’s skinny, why can’t I be?
I would have thought somebody like
Brody would be more sensitive. But apparently, he thinks just like everybody
else.
We turn yet another corner. My
thighs are starting to hurt. Why are we having so much trouble finding this
copy machine each time? When I get home, there’s going to be an angry red rash
all over the insides of my legs. He doesn’t get it. All he has to do is push
that joystick.
Brody is looking down the hall and
frowning. “Wasn’t it right here?”
“Obviously not,” I snip.
He scratches at his chin with his
curled-up right hand. “Maybe it was in the other direction…”
Oh no. I am not walking all the way
back the way we came. My thighs will literally start bleeding. I mean, does he
think I have all night to do this
with him? I’m sure he wouldn’t drag Cammy
all over the floor trying to find a copy machine. No, Camille is the sister
everybody loves and I’m the one people take advantage of. Like by bugging me
for my notes every single lecture. I’m
the only idiot who would agree to do this.
“I’m sorry,” I say in that same
clipped voice. “I have to get going. I can’t spend half an hour wandering the hallways
with you after every class.”
That infectious smile dies on his
lips. “Oh…”
“Sorry,” I say. “Maybe you should
ask somebody else next time.”
“I apologize,” he says quietly. “I
don’t want to be an imposition. I’ll just ask Dr. Nichols to give me copies of
the notes from now on. I won’t bother you again.”
“Well, that just makes more sense,”
I say, pushing away a stab of guilt in my chest. “He’s the professor, so I’m
sure his notes are better than mine.”
Brody nods and flashes me a tight
smile. “Yeah.”
He looks so hurt, I immediately want
to take it all back. I shouldn’t have been mean to him. I’m just feeling cranky
because my thighs hurt so much, and also I went out on a date with a gay guy
last night. And then when he compared me to Camille, that was the straw that
broke the camel’s back. But I didn’t feel like he was taking advantage of me.
He seems like a nice guy. He probably barely even knew Camille.
As I stand there, trying to figure
out if there’s something I can say to make it right again, Brody does a
one-hundred-eighty-degree turn in his wheelchair. He zooms down the hall to get
away from me as fast as he can, and I can tell he’s never going to talk to me
again. And that thought makes me really sad.
Great chapter but I got ahead of myself with my comments last time. There’s her snarky self about the copies 😆
ReplyDeleteGreat chapter but I got ahead of myself with my comments last time. There’s her snarky self about the copies 😆
ReplyDeleteNo, but you were right... she's much nicer to him in their initial meeting. In the original version, he asks her to help him, but in this version, she volunteers.
DeleteCan't wait for the next week! I love the nicer version of Emily!
ReplyDeleteThank you!
Ohh i remember this the first time around—really made me pissed at Emily. But I like her haha I guess it's a pretty natural reaction. We're only human. And I remember why I liked Brody so much; he's cute! So cute. And sweet. Looking forward to seeing how it goes the next chapters! Really excited. Your writing is always so so good, I wish I had half of your creativity to make those scenarios. Thank you for posting and keeping us happy over here, haha
ReplyDeleteLooking forward to the next update!
So nice! I didn't read it the first time, but I'm really enjoying it now. Can't wait to find out how things go for them. I really feel for Emily. Well, at least Brody will give her some looooove she deserves, heh
ReplyDelete