mention
the mess in my house.
I'm not sure if that's good or bad.
At least my room's fairly clean, and we make Mom keep her stacks out of the hallway.
Mom greets us in the kitchen with a big hello and hugs.
"Dinner's on the stove." She's wearing her gray hair pulled back in a bun, and when she gives me a squeeze, she smells like
fresh soap and powder. As she lets me go, she glances at NoNo. "I'm so sorry I made something with meat. We'll get your beans
from the cabinet. I—um. Yes. Sorry, sorry. We do have some lettuce, and there might be some raisins in the fridge."
NoNo grins at Mom. For some reason, NoNo always smiles at my mother even though she rarely smiles at anyone else. The two
of them head to the far cabinet, with Mom babysitting the fliers while NoNo gets her food.
"Your mom's a saint," Freddie whispers when only I can hear her. I roll my eyes and stop looking at Mom, because she has on
blue sweats like my dad, with lots of stains and holes. Home clothes. No way would I put mine on until my company leaves, even though my bra and underwear dig trenches in my shoulders and legs.
I wish my parents wouldn't wear their old sweats in front of my friends, but that's a lost cause. I know I'm as big as they
are, but I do my best to look clean and put together. It's sort of a fat person imperative—or maybe just a Fat Girl imperative.
Never look sloppy because everybody expects fat people to be slobs. I completely refuse to be a stereotype.
But my parents...
It's our house, Jamie, they've told me when I've asked. We're going to be comfortable in our own home.
Mom's a secretary at a car plant where they have to wear uniforms that barely come in her size. Dad works for a freight company
delivering packages, but at least his uniform fits. They're tired and sore when they get home, and I know what they think
about home clothes at home, so I don't bother saying anything.
Mom's stacks of junk terminate on either side of the kitchen table, and Freddie and I steer around them to get to the bowls
and the stew. A small television flickers on one cabinet. Dad stays glued to some game show, but he nods and waves. Dad's
eating out of a mixing bowl, and he has three pieces of cornbread stacked on a plate beside it. Mom doesn't have a bowl. She
never serves herself until everyone else is finished.
Freddie and I dip stew out of one of the two pots bubbling on the stove and snag the last pieces of cornbread dumped from
Mom's cast-iron skillet. Another skillet finishes and the timer goes off before we get spoons and napkins. Mom slips past
us to rescue the cornbread. NoNo's beans ding in the microwave, and she's found enough lettuce for a small salad with raisins and no dressing.
"Yuck." Freddie's voice cuts beneath the game show hollering, echoing my exact thoughts. "Who eats plain lettuce with raisins?"
Behind us, the television volume goes up, and Dad says, "Yes!"
"Has anybody ever told you plants have feelings, too?"
Freddie asks as we cart our spoils out of the kitchen, down the hall to my room, and close the door behind us—which still
doesn't totally tamp out the game show. "They react with all kinds of plant endorphin stuff when you slice them or tear them
or whatever."
"That isn't a scientific fact." NoNo balances her bowl of beans and plate of lettuce and her spoon without dropping her stack of fliers as she plops her bony butt on my ugly brown carpet. "It's still being studied."
From the kitchen, the game show bing-bing-bings.
Freddie settles on the floor across from NoNo and puts her bowl on the old squished shag carpet, too. Her cornbread's mashed
up in the liquid, the way she always wants it. "Well, if they ever prove plants feel pain, are you going to starve yourself
to death?"
"Of course not. I'll consume nuts and fruits collected after they fall from trees." NoNo looks at Freddie like she's stupid,
which compared to NoNo, she is. So am I. Everyone is.
"Oh, God."
the mess in my house.
I'm not sure if that's good or bad.
At least my room's fairly clean, and we make Mom keep her stacks out of the hallway.
Mom greets us in the kitchen with a big hello and hugs.
"Dinner's on the stove." She's wearing her gray hair pulled back in a bun, and when she gives me a squeeze, she smells like
fresh soap and powder. As she lets me go, she glances at NoNo. "I'm so sorry I made something with meat. We'll get your beans
from the cabinet. I—um. Yes. Sorry, sorry. We do have some lettuce, and there might be some raisins in the fridge."
NoNo grins at Mom. For some reason, NoNo always smiles at my mother even though she rarely smiles at anyone else. The two
of them head to the far cabinet, with Mom babysitting the fliers while NoNo gets her food.
"Your mom's a saint," Freddie whispers when only I can hear her. I roll my eyes and stop looking at Mom, because she has on
blue sweats like my dad, with lots of stains and holes. Home clothes. No way would I put mine on until my company leaves, even though my bra and underwear dig trenches in my shoulders and legs.
I wish my parents wouldn't wear their old sweats in front of my friends, but that's a lost cause. I know I'm as big as they
are, but I do my best to look clean and put together. It's sort of a fat person imperative—or maybe just a Fat Girl imperative.
Never look sloppy because everybody expects fat people to be slobs. I completely refuse to be a stereotype.
But my parents...
It's our house, Jamie, they've told me when I've asked. We're going to be comfortable in our own home.
Mom's a secretary at a car plant where they have to wear uniforms that barely come in her size. Dad works for a freight company
delivering packages, but at least his uniform fits. They're tired and sore when they get home, and I know what they think
about home clothes at home, so I don't bother saying anything.
Mom's stacks of junk terminate on either side of the kitchen table, and Freddie and I steer around them to get to the bowls
and the stew. A small television flickers on one cabinet. Dad stays glued to some game show, but he nods and waves. Dad's
eating out of a mixing bowl, and he has three pieces of cornbread stacked on a plate beside it. Mom doesn't have a bowl. She
never serves herself until everyone else is finished.
Freddie and I dip stew out of one of the two pots bubbling on the stove and snag the last pieces of cornbread dumped from
Mom's cast-iron skillet. Another skillet finishes and the timer goes off before we get spoons and napkins. Mom slips past
us to rescue the cornbread. NoNo's beans ding in the microwave, and she's found enough lettuce for a small salad with raisins and no dressing.
"Yuck." Freddie's voice cuts beneath the game show hollering, echoing my exact thoughts. "Who eats plain lettuce with raisins?"
Behind us, the television volume goes up, and Dad says, "Yes!"
"Has anybody ever told you plants have feelings, too?"
Freddie asks as we cart our spoils out of the kitchen, down the hall to my room, and close the door behind us—which still
doesn't totally tamp out the game show. "They react with all kinds of plant endorphin stuff when you slice them or tear them
or whatever."
"That isn't a scientific fact." NoNo balances her bowl of beans and plate of lettuce and her spoon without dropping her stack of fliers as she plops her bony butt on my ugly brown carpet. "It's still being studied."
From the kitchen, the game show bing-bing-bings.
Freddie settles on the floor across from NoNo and puts her bowl on the old squished shag carpet, too. Her cornbread's mashed
up in the liquid, the way she always wants it. "Well, if they ever prove plants feel pain, are you going to starve yourself
to death?"
"Of course not. I'll consume nuts and fruits collected after they fall from trees." NoNo looks at Freddie like she's stupid,
which compared to NoNo, she is. So am I. Everyone is.
"Oh, God."
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