You and Me and Him Read online

  Mom starts in on her standard speech. I’m sure you know the one. Pretty face. Great personality. If you’d lose some weight. Blah, blah, blah.

  “Mom!” I interrupt. “Give it a rest!” I start to dish up some mac and cheese and discover I have lost my appetite. Putting the plate on the counter, I wipe my hands on the dishtowel and stomp upstairs.

  I throw myself on the bed, fuming at my mom’s oblivious efforts to reform me. I have been hearing this shit my whole life. And I mean my whole entire life. As a baby my cheeks curved like peaches. By the time I was walking, my legs drew affectionate pinches from my mother’s friends. But as I got older, the baby fat everyone hoped I would shed began to look like it was going to take up permanent residence around my middle, my thighs, my chins, and anywhere else it could take hold. When puberty hit about three years earlier than it did for most of the girls I know, hips and boobs rearranged the bulk a little, but the overall effect was the same. I have been on diets. I’ve seen doctors and nutritionists and counselors, and anyone else who might turn the cellulite tide. The thing is, I don’t remember a time when I didn’t take up more room than almost every other kid I knew.

  And it wasn’t that I was lazy. I was always busy. I roamed our neighborhood, riding bikes, playing in vacant lots, torturing my Barbies with a neighbor kid’s Tonka trucks. During the summer I’d swim for hours in the local pool, but even with double workouts and swim meets every other weekend, my fat cells defended their territory.

  So for seventeen years, my mom has expounded all the positive self-esteem crap that parents are told is good for their kids. And for the most part, it’s worked. I feel pretty darn good about myself, much better than most of the bulimic coat hangers who occupy the top of my high school hierarchy. But Mom can’t help mentioning the big “but,” or should I say my big butt? I want to be thin. Of course I do. Who would want to go through life fat? And I like who I am except for that one detail. But it’s a detail that nobody else seems to be able to see past.

  I lie on the bed awhile longer, scuttling back and forth between anger and angst. Then I realize. I’m not hungry. I sit upright and plant my feet on the floor. I passed up mac and cheese. Homemade mac and cheese. My own secret recipe homemade mac and cheese. I scan my memory, trying to figure out when was the last time I skipped a meal. When was the last time I didn’t feel like eating? Maybe when I got the stomach flu in eighth grade?

  I pace, cracking my knuckles as I process this new information. As someone who has tried every diet in the book, I am highly attuned to the combination of hope and fear that flutters around the beginnings of any weight-loss possibility. But then, as I pace, I start to think about the mac and cheese. And then my stomach rumbles and the moment passes. I flop back on the bed, trying to recapture that feeling—or lack of feeling, I guess—but it’s gone. I roll sideways, kick on my slippers, and pad downstairs for a bowl of pasta.

  The door to my parents’ room is shut, so I know Mom’s in there with her work. When she has stuff to do, she locks herself in the bedroom, sits up on their king-size bed, and spreads the piles of papers all around her. She wears those noise-canceling headphones, but she never has any music playing on them. She puts them on to keep out all the other noise.

  Dad is putting plates in the dishwasher. My dad is one of the only people I know who makes me feel physically small. He’s not overweight; but he’s built on a larger scale than the rest of the world. He used to play football, and even though he’s a little softer now than he was back then, he’s still a pretty impressive guy.

  “Hey, Monkey,” he says as I slide onto one of the stools. “What’s up?”

  I sigh, resting my elbow on the counter, my chin in my hand.

  “First day give you trouble?” Dad asks.

  I shrug.

  “Mom give you trouble?”

  I push back the cuticles of my right hand with my thumb.

  “She worries,” Dad says.

  “Why can’t she just shut it about my weight? It always ends with a fight.”

  “Your mom loves you, Maggie. You know that.”

  “You love me. You never make me feel like shit,” I say.

  “Maggie, watch the language.”

  “Sorry. You don’t make me feel like crap.” I pick at a glob of dried cheese on the counter. “Do you worry about me?”

  Dad is silent for a few moments, and this is a bit of a shocker. Things are always easy with Dad. It never occurred to me that he might be worried too.

  I scrape at the cheese harder, avoiding his eyes.

  “Like your mom does?” he says finally. “No. But I worry that you and your mom will miss knowing each other. I worry that you won’t see how amazing you are, or how amazing she is. I worry that you don’t give yourself or her enough credit.” He looks at me, and I feel like I’m eight years old, before all this stuff mattered, because I know that’s how he sees me. The tears come, and Dad leans across the counter toward me. He takes a tissue and dabs at the corners of my eyes, like he did when I was little.

  I give him a sad smile. “Thanks, Dad.”

  He dishes up a small plateful of macaroni and pops it in the microwave. When it’s hot, he grabs a fork and napkin, lays them on the counter, and presents me with the plate of steaming, fragrant mac and cheese, swirling it under his arm first in what is supposed to be a fancy waiter move.

  “Mademoiselle,” he says in this French accent that sounds more like someone from a former Russian republic. “Tonight we have a delicious pasta with zee fromage and zee crumbs of bread on zee top.”

  Then we both put on our best Julia Child and say, “Bon appétit!”

  I laugh and dig in. It’s delicious, if I do say so myself.

  “Remember,” Dad says. “You’re smart and strong and brave!”

  “You always say that.”

  “And I always mean it.” He puts his hands on my shoulders, kisses my cheek, and heads for his workshop.

  I try to finish my homework, but my mind keeps hopping around, from my fight with Mom, to my dad’s concern, to wondering about Tom and Nash, to trying to figure out what Kayla is up to. After a useless half-hour, I toss my pre-calculus book on the floor and go downstairs. I can hear Dad banging around in his workshop, fine-tuning one of his inventions. Mom’s door is cracked open.

  “Maggie,” she says as I walk past.

  I stick my head in the door.

  Mom is lying in a nest of papers. She shifts her headphones off her ears. “Honey, I’m sorry about earlier.”

  I shake my head. “No biggie.”

  “Still, I’m sorry. And dinner was delicious.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and head to the kitchen.

  I turn on the oven and start pulling out the ingredients for oatmeal cookies. I can’t play an instrument, and I can’t draw like Nash, but I can make damn good cookies. I learned from the best; my grandma was a master cookie maker. Like her, I get creative with the recipes. I invent all kinds of combinations, making up new versions of old cookies. I don’t want to eat all those cookies myself; I just like making them.

  So I give them away. I hand them out to people at school or people who come into Square Peg Records, where I work. I’m sure half of them throw the cookies away. If I’m honest, I probably wouldn’t eat something a stranger gave me in a record store. But that part doesn’t matter. I love seeing the surprise as it dawns on someone that I’ve given them something delicious for no reason at all.

  Tonight I’m going to make oatmeal with extra cinnamon, sunflower seeds, and something else. I haven’t decided about the something else yet. I’m blending the eggs and butter together when my phone rings.

  “Hi, Cece,” I say, adding some sugar to the bowl. “What’s up?”

  “I thought you were going to call me,” she says.

  “Sorry,” I say. “My mom started going off and I forgot. What are you doing?”

  “Homework,” she says. “You?”

  “Baking cookies.”


  “Oooooh! What kind?” Cece will eat as many cookies as I’ll let her. She’s one of those thin, waifish, smart girls who never gain a pound. Cece could be stunning if she wanted to play it up. But she has better things to do.

  “Oatmeal,” I say. “And something. I haven’t decided yet.”

  “My favorite!” she says.

  “They’re all your favorites.”

  “True! So what did your mom and you fight about?”

  “Oh, you know, the usual. Not meeting her rigorous standards.”

  “Yeah, I know the feeling,” Cece says. “I’m glad you and Nash are in English. It would be so boring without you. I was thinking about reading a biography on Jackson Pollock for my first outside reading book. Do you know any good ones?”

  “Cece, don’t do that just because Nash was a little intense today.”

  “I’m not. I’m really interested. Nash was telling me more about Pollock in calculus. You know he really changed the face of modern art.”

  “Okay. Cool. I just don’t want you doing stuff just because—” I stop, not sure how much to say. “There are a lot of good books out there. Make sure you choose one that’s right for you.”

  “Sure. Of course.” She’s quiet for a minute, but I know she’s still on the line. I can hear her breathing. “Soooo, Tom seems nice.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “He’s okay, I guess.” I know where she’s going with this.

  “You guys all seemed like you were really hitting it off,” she says. “So does Nash . . .” she starts. “I mean, is Nash . . . interested in Tom?”

  I let out a long breath. “Cece, Nash hardly knows the guy.”

  “Oh, okay,” Cece says. “Right.”

  “Cece, I’m sorry, but Nash is . . . You know you can’t expect—”

  “No, no. I’m good.” I can almost see her holding up her hands to ward off whatever she thought I was going to say. “So are you going to bring me cookies tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” I say. “In English. See you then.” She hangs up and I finish the batter. I decide to put dried apples in the mix, knowing they’ll taste sweet against the extra cinnamon. I wrap the cookies individually—it makes them easier to hand out—and put them in a bag for the morning. I save one, put it on a plate, and pour myself a glass of milk. The cookie is still warm, and the apple pieces are soft and tart on my tongue. I am happy with the result, but even as I eat it, I am thinking about my mom. I’m a fat girl eating a cookie: Will anyone ever see more than that?

  Chapter 5

  My second day of school consists of the same classes, same kids, same awkward lunch with Nash and Tom, same humiliating PE session with Ms. Perry. I have a sinking feeling that junior year is notorious more for the mind-numbing tedium than the challenging content. I usually love school, but sometimes I think the teachers go out of their way to make it tortuous. I know some of the kids do.

  I hand out most of the cookies, but I’m pretty careful about which Cedar Ridge students get to sample my creations. Lots of people beg, but only a few are worthy. The jerks from PE asked for some during lunch. Denied. They went on to make unimaginative comments about there not being enough cookies in the world for them to consider getting with me. As if.

  After school Nash and I pass through the door of Square Peg Records, and I let out a breath I don’t even realize I’d been holding. My boss, Quinn, gave me this job only after I came in begging three times a week for most of my freshman year. He really doesn’t need the help, but he got tired of telling me no. Basically, Quinn lets me work there out of the kindness of his heart. The record shop is a life-saving oasis in the cultural desert that is my town. My days at Square Peg are the best of my week.

  Quinn is straight up the coolest adult on the planet. He was born in Cedar Ridge but left for a brief, lucrative brush with fame when his postpunk band got some attention in the eighties. The band didn’t last long. I never got the full story, but I know Quinn got his heart broken in the fray. Anyway, the residual cash was enough for him to move back here and open a record store that would be legendary in Seattle but can’t possibly be making money here in Cedar Ridge. When we arrive, Quinn’s grooving to the Smiths’ Louder Than Bombs, singing along like he always does.

  “How do you do that?” Nash asks.

  “Do what?” Quinn says.

  “Know every lyric to every record you play in this place? You even know the B-sides. It’s freakish and slightly unnerving.”

  “It’s a gift,” Quinn says. “And maybe an occupational hazard.”

  Nash heads right for the import bins. On days I’m working, he usually hangs at Square Peg awhile, then plants himself at one of the downtown coffee shops until I’m done, anything to postpone going home.

  I throw my loaded backpack under the counter and start looking through a stack of records Quinn has sitting out.

  “Those just came in,” Quinn says, looking at something on his laptop screen. “From a divorce, I think. They had a garage sale, but the vinyl didn’t sell. I’m looking up the Lou Reed album to see if it’s worth anything.”

  I pull the album out of the stack and ease the record from its paper sleeve, holding it by the edges like Quinn taught me. “No scratches or warping,” I say, flipping it to side two. “A slight nick in the first track on side two, but nothing major.”

  Quinn puts on his reading glasses, which he keeps hanging from a chain around his neck like he’s some kind of 1950’s librarian. He bends down and examines the record from my angle. “Good eye,” he says. “I missed that.”

  He takes the record and slides it back in the sleeve. Quinn goes back to searching the Internet while I sort through the rest of the stack.

  I pull out R.E.M. and put it on the turntable.

  Quinn glances at me, but I see the corners of his mouth pull into a slight smile.

  The music begins and I crank the volume, singing along and dancing around behind the counter. The store is empty, except for Nash, so by the time Michael Stipe is belting out the chorus of “It’s the End of the World as We Know It,” we are all three flailing and pogo dancing like crazy people, screaming right along with him. I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye and stop mid-gyration as I realize Tom has come in and is dancing with us. Then the song is over and the guys are cracking up, breathless and happy for a moment.

  Quinn follows my stare. “Sorry about that! Just trying out some of the new merchandise. Best way to sell it is to know it firsthand.” He replaces R.E.M. with another Smiths album and returns to searching for info on the Lou Reed record.

  “Tom!” Nash pats his hair and straightens his shirt. “When did you get here?”

  “Sometime mid–dance party,” he says. “Is that a regularly scheduled thing? Or did I get lucky?”

  “You got lucky,” I say.

  Tom walks over to Quinn, holding out his hand. “I’m Tom.”

  Quinn looks confused.

  “New guy,” Tom adds.

  Quinn nods, shaking Tom’s hand, but I see he’s trying to put the pieces together.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask before Quinn can start wheedling information out of Tom. My voice sounds squeaky, and I let out this ridiculous little giggle that sounds like I’ve stepped on a herd of mice hiding behind the counter. Quinn stares at me. I clear my throat and will my voice to a deeper range. “So, what brings you to Square Peg?”

  “Nash is going to show me around. I came downtown early to explore a little on my own.”

  “Oh.” I look at Nash. He didn’t mention Tom was coming by or that they had plans.

  Tom is waiting.

  I guess it’s my turn to say something. “Cookie?”

  “Huh?” Tom asks.

  “You made cookies?” Quinn holds out both hands. “Gimme!”

  I hand him one of the last three wrapped oatmeal cookies, toss one to Nash, then offer one to Tom.

  Tom takes it, nodding, then holds it up to his nose, inhaling deeply. “Mmmmmm,” he says. “S
mells amazing.”

  “I think this cookie is my soul mate,” Quinn mumbles.

  Tom takes a slow bite, and his face rearranges into an expression I would bake all day to see. “Maggie, you clearly have a gift,” he says, spraying a few oatmeal crumbs onto the counter. He wipes them off with his sleeve. “Sorry,” he says. “They’re . . . I mean, seriously . . . Wow!”

  The three of them chew in silence as the Smiths sing “This Charming Man.” Looking at Tom, I know the kind of man they mean.

  “So.” Tom wads up the plastic wrap and looks around the store. “Slow day?”

  Quinn lets out a little snort. “You could say that. Slow day, week, month, decade.”

  “Well, vinyl’s a hard sell,” Tom says, setting down his backpack and starting to peruse the records in the sale bin. “But some of us understand its appeal.” He holds up a record and flips it over to look at the tracks.

  I smile. “So, Tom, you a big fan of tribal fertility chants?”

  Tom plops the record on the counter. “Yep,” he says. “I’ll take this one. And do you have any of the song stylings of Mr. Tom Jones? My mother says I was named after my great-grandfather, but my dad told me the name was actually in honor of Tom Jones.”

  I show him the Pop Music section, and Nash joins him there. They stand, heads together, looking at records and talking. I can’t hear them over the music, but Nash lets out an occasional staccato giggle I know is his nervous laugh. I return to the counter, and Quinn pounces.

  “Sooooooo? Cute. New. Available?”

  “Shhhhhh!” I whisper back. “Nash has dibs.”

  “You should go talk to him. Maybe Nash isn’t his type.”

  “News flash, Quinn: Neither am I.”

  “News flash, Maggie: Tom’s clearly a practiced flirt. Anyone could be his type.”

  Tom and Nash arrive at the counter with two more albums and a Square Peg Records T-shirt.