Such a Pretty Face by Annabelle Costa

Chapter 4

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.