you could,” I said. “Why should you have to miss your reunion because of Jack?”
“I’m not missing it because of him,” she said in this defensive voice. “He told me I could go.”
“Big of him,” I muttered.
“Be nice,” M.J. said.
“Look, Cat. The reason I don’t want to go…it’s because of my weight. Okay? Are you happy now? I’m fat and I don’t want my old boyfriend and all my cheerleader pals to see me like this.”
Why am I so stupid? As long as I’ve known Bitsey, you’d think I could have figured that out myself. Trying to backpedal I said, “Come on. You don’t think anybody else has gained a few pounds?”
She shook her head and looked away. “It’s a rule. Only thin people or the really successful, filthy rich ones go to their reunions.”
“Actually,” M.J. said, “I’d been thinking you looked a little thinner lately, especially around your face.”
For the first time since she’d arrived, Bitsey smiled. “Really? I’ve been dieting,” she admitted. “I told myself that if I lost twenty pounds I’d go to the reunion.”
“Good idea. So, how many have you lost?”
“Nine.” Her smile faded. “In two months only nine pounds. Even with the Meridia I didn’t make a dent.”
“But nine pounds is a good start,” M.J. said. “Really, it is. When is this reunion anyway?”
“Three weeks.”
The wheels were spinning; I could see it in M.J.’s eyes. “What if you and I took a little trip down south together?” she began. “I could get out of here—I don’t mean your apartment, Cat. I mean this town. Southern California. The desert.” She leaned forward to grab Bitsey’s arm. “I could use a change of scenery, and you could go to your reunion—”
“But I don’t want to go—”
“And in between, I’ll be your personal trainer.”
Bitsey started laughing. “My personal trainer? You mean, like, exercise? I don’t think so.”
“Come on, Bitsey. I need to practice on someone. Think about it. I have to either get a job or get a husband. And since I’m not ready for marriage—I don’t even have a boyfriend—it’ll have to be a job. But what kind of job am I eligible for? I suppose I could teach ceramics, but somehow I don’t think that would even pay for my manicures. But I could be a personal trainer. I could.”
She was right. I leaned forward. “You know, that’s a good idea. You’re already an expert in all sorts of exercises, and God knows you’re a walking advertisement.”
“Please, Bits, let’s do this,” M.J. said. “Let me practice on you and get you gorgeous. We could have a really good time down in New Orleans. By the time I’m through with you, you’ll make all your old girlfriends jealous and wow that old boyfriend of yours.”
“Hey? What about me?” I asked. Despite my aversion to them ever meeting any of my seedy family, I was beginning to feel left out. Besides, without them here to keep me sane, I might murder Bill. Accidentally, of course. “I could use a little making-over myself, and I could definitely stand to run into one of my old boyfriends, so long as he’s single and rich and not allergic to commitment.”
“That would be even better!” M.J. exclaimed. “All three of us together.” She caught my hand in hers, then took Bitsey’s in her other. “Let’s do it. We all have reasons to visit, so why not go together? We can make it a road trip, and along the way we’ll all get gorgeous. We’ll look up our old boyfriends, and we’ll have a terrific time. Come on, Bits, what do you say?”
Bitsey wanted to do it; I could see it in her sweet, yearning expression. But she was afraid. Well, damn it, so was I. Bad enough to go back there and deal with my mother and her other lousy kids, but last night after my conversation with M.J., I’d dreamed about making out in a flat aluminum boat with a lanky Cajun boy. Sure as anything, I was setting myself up for disappointment.
But it didn’t matter, because suddenly I wanted this trip in the worst way. “I’m in. I’m going with M.J. to Louisiana.” I grabbed Bitsey’s other hand and stared challengingly at her. “It’s on you, Barbara Jean. Are you in or are you out?”
Bitsey
I have been on and off diets for the past twenty-two years.
I diet before every single holiday, before we go on vacation, before every major social event, and afterward, too. My closet is organized with size eights in the back, then tens, and so on and so forth. I wore the eights and tens during the eighties when Jack and I first came to California. During the nineties I graduated to twelves and fourteens. The millennium ushered in the sixteens. Now I’m in eighteens, but I’ve taken a stand. I refuse to go into size twenty. It’s getting mighty tight, though.
When the invitation came from my high school reunion committee, it seemed like an ideal way to motivate myself. I made an appointment with my doctor, started taking Meridia, and vowed that this time I would succeed. And at first I did. I lost nine pounds the first month. That’s pretty good. But since then I’ve lost nothing. I’m stalled. Nine pounds is not enough to return to New Orleans. Nine pounds is not enough to face Eddie.
Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. What is wrong with me? I wouldn’t be behaving like an insecure fifteen-year-old if a different name had been listed on the reunion committee. But there it had been: Edward Dusson, Cochair. Eddie Dusson. Harley Ed, I used to call him. Dangerous Dusson, the other cheerleaders had said. My heart hurts just to remember how much I loved him in high school, and how much he’d loved me. But if I walked up to him today, would he even recognize me?
Then again, who’s to say that he hasn’t gained a hundred pounds himself?
I can’t imagine that, though. Not Eddie. Besides, if he’s on the reunion committee, he must still be fit and trim, still good-looking, and probably rich by now, too.
If only I could go see him and yet not have him see me. It was almost a relief when Jack said he couldn’t get away from work. I didn’t have to decide; he’d done it for me. I could be angry with Jack and hide at home, and on the weekend of the reunion, I could sit two thousand miles away and pig out on Oreo and Jamoca Almond Fudge.
But I have more pressing problems than Eddie’s weight and his bank account. This morning I telephoned Margaret, and her roommate informed me that Margaret had moved out. I must have sounded like an utter fool, a mother too stupid to know what her own child was up to. “Yes. Two weeks ago,” her roommate had said in this “you poor, pathetic thing” voice. The snooty little brat.
It turns out my middle child, the one with the highest IQ but the lowest level of ambition, is living with some guy she’s never even mentioned to me.
I knew something was wrong. I knew it. I should never have let her live off campus. I should have made her stay at an in-state university. I should have realized that even at twenty-two she wasn’t responsible enough for college. Junior college maybe, but not a big liberal arts school.
I called her on her cell phone, and after three tries reached her.
