Big Girls

Abstract

Big Girls D.J. Thielke (bio) It being her birthday and a Friday, Bethany's mother talks her into swinging by Taco Bell after school. "You love Taco Bell," her mom reminds her as they pull into the parking lot. She's been doing that a lot, telling Bethany the things she loves in a goading, slightly baffled voice: you love Taco Bell, you love school, you love your Aunt Meryl! Aunt Meryl—who's sitting in the front even though it's Bethany's birthday—makes a face. "You love that dog food?" she says. But does that stop Aunt Meryl from shouldering her way through the door and up to the counter first? Ever since Aunt Meryl moved in with them a few months ago, Bethany's mom keeps saying how they need to be patient, gentle. "Your aunt's fragile right now," she says, but Aunt Meryl doesn't seem fragile; it seems as though fragile things should run, squealing porcelain peeps of terror, from big, blundering Aunt Meryl. Inside, the décor is comforting in the repetition: everywhere the pink and purple and yellow colors, everywhere the bell bursting free. Bethany orders and heads for a booth. She feels better in the booth: the table hiding most of her, the wide plastic bench with plenty of room, and she can put her backpack next to her, blocking anyone's view. Her mom and aunt arrive with the tray, the tacos in their wax paper stacked in their cheerleader pyramid, the strings of cheese on Meryl's Mexican pizza like prostrated stick figures, volcanic sacrifices. Bethany accepts her three burritos, starts in on the first. The first bite is mostly the crimped edges of overlapping tortilla folds, but the next bite is chaos, the goopey explosion peeking out below her teeth marks, and then she stops paying attention to each bite, lulled into the comforting stupor of the in and in and in of food. "So," her mom says, "your first day as a fourteen-year-old." She does a squirmy happy dance in her seat. "How was school?" She takes a bite of a soft taco and smiles at Bethany over the translucent spiked lettuce poking over the top. Bethany takes another bite of burrito so she doesn't have to answer and shrugs into the silence. In homeroom that day, J.C. Young, who sits behind Bethany, started kicking the sides of her butt that hang over the chair. She took the first time as an accident, but the white noses of his sneakers reappeared and batted—one, two, left, right—at her again. When she still didn't do anything, he pretended to pass her butt back and forth between his feet. J.C.'s a soccer player. Really good, apparently. Once, Bethany imagined Future Bethany saying in a speech, a bully toed my butt as if I were a soccer ball. This is how Bethany gets through stuff like J.C. —by thinking about what Future Bethany would say. Because Future Bethany? Future Bethany is great. More than great. Amazing. Future Bethany is always receiving an award or being interviewed, always smiling and explaining exactly what crap real Bethany is having to live through. When Future Bethany tells the story of J.C., the crowd gasps, boos— maybe J.C. is even in the audience, slumping down in his seat, feet twitching with shame. [End Page 64] I was so fat, Future Bethany explains, he put his feet on either side of me and jiggled, making motor sounds, pretending I was a boat. Again the crowd shakes their collective, sorrowful heads; again Future Bethany just smiles. Because there's nothing wrong with saying you were fat when you aren't fat anymore; nothing to be ashamed of when you look the way Bethany will look and have done the things Bethany will do. "Well, what do you know," her mom interrupts. She's smiling and pointing up. Bethany looks up, sees nothing, looks back at her mother, her insistent smile. "The song," her mom says. "Sounds familiar, doesn't it?" It's an INez song—a singer/songwriter Bethany likes okay. INez is...