Curvy Girls Can’t Date Soldiers by Kelsie Stelting

Twenty-Two

Nadira

The next morningwhen I came downstairs, Dad already had a breakfast casserole made and was sitting at the table eating a slice. As I approached the table, he took a plate from the stack and lifted a serving of casserole onto it.

“Thanks,” I said, settling into a chair. “Mom already gone?”

“Yeah, had an early advising appointment,” he replied, taking another bite. “I have a question for you, baby girl.”

I raised my eyebrows. “What’s up?”

“I want to take you out tonight. Show you how a man should treat a lady on a date.”

My cheeks instantly felt warm with embarrassment, and I almost checked to see if my brothers had heard him. They would never let me hear the end of it if they thought the only date I could get was with my dad.

“How does that sound?” he asked.

“Like taking a cousin to prom. But worse.”

He laughed. “It’s not like that, Dira! You’re growing up, getting ready to move out, and I’m realizing all we haven’t taught you. Indulge your old man, will you?”

I looked toward the ceiling. “Did you ask Mom if she thought I’d say yes?”

“No...” He fought a smile, and I pointed at him. “Shut up!” He used his hand to wipe the smile from his face.

I laughed. “What are we doing on this ‘date’?”

“Dinner, a movie. Pretty standard.”

“Glad to know you’re making it special,” I muttered.

He rolled his eyes. “So leave the car for the boys to take home from practice, and I’ll pick you up by the school entrance after you get out.”

Behind me, Terrell called, “We get the car?”

“That’s right,” Dad replied.

Once they got down the stairs, Carver fist-bumped Terrell. “Can we hang out at Waldo’s for a while?”

Dad shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

The boys crowded around the table, taking twice the amount of food I’d had. Since I knew we’d be going out after school, I excused myself to my room to get an outfit that would be more comfortable than my uniform. I always changed out of it as soon as I could.

As I went upstairs, a new message came across my phone.

Josh: Hey, how are you?

I looked at it for a moment, guilt twisting my stomach. How could I tell Josh I didn’t like him? That no matter how friendly he was, I would always compare him to Apollo? Since I couldn’t find the words for that, I texted him something different.

Nadira: Hey, I’m fine. Getting ready for school.

I set my phone on the bed and went to my dresser, reaching for a sweater and some leggings. I wished they would make leggings part of the dress code at Emerson. Regular pants were the worst. Skirts were only marginally better.

I stuffed the clothes in my backpack and then looked at my phone again.

Josh: Want to hang out this weekend?

I looked at the letters, my fingers hovering over the digital keyboard. Now that Apollo and I had talked on the phone, he knew what my voice sounded like. It would only be a matter of time before he found out who I was. Then Josh would hate me too.

I sighed and typed out a reply.

Nadira: Sorry, but I can’t.

I bit my lip. How did you turn someone down without hurting their feelings? I’d ask Des, but I had a feeling she didn’t give emotions a second thought when breaking up with a guy, especially since dating was all about fun to her.

Nadira: I’m going to be moving in a few months. I don’t think now is the best time to start something.

The second I sent it, a guilty feeling worked through my chest, but I locked the screen anyway and tucked my phone in the side pocket of my backpack. I needed to get to school.

On the drive there, I couldn’t help thinking about this “date” with my dad. If Apollo ever heard of it, I’d sound like the biggest nerd alive. But a part of me was thankful, too, that Dad was finally taking an interest in me.

No matter how much I hated high school, and no matter how much I looked forward to MIT, I would miss my family when I was gone. I hoped they’d miss me too.

* * *

After school, I changed into the leggings and sweater I’d tucked away earlier and then went outside to wait for Dad. Part of me was worried he wouldn’t show, so I breathed a sigh of relief as his car pulled up along the building.

He got out of the car, wearing nice clothes, not the sweats he usually dressed in throughout the week.

“What are you wearing?” I asked.

He lifted a finger. “Rule number one. A good guy should dress nicely for a date. If he’s going to run around in rags, you don’t want it.”

I shook my head, picking up my backpack from where it had been resting on the ground by my feet. “Any other obscure rules I should know of?”

“Yes.” He reached for the door handle. “A lady should never touch a door on a date. Car door or otherwise.”

“That’s so antiquated,” I said as I threw my backpack to the back seat.

“Chivalrous,” Dad corrected, waiting for me to get in. Once I was, he said, “Fingers out of the way?”

“Yeah.” I reached for my seatbelt as he shut the door and buckled in while he walked back around the car. Once he was inside, I said, “If you ask me, this was all a waste of time. We could have been on the road by now.”

“Dating isn’t about efficiency,” Dad said. “It’s about two people enjoying time spent with one another. If it’s with the right person, you’ll never want to cut it short.”

I looked out the windshield, thinking of Apollo and how, no matter how long I talked to him, it was never enough.

“Now,” Dad continued, “your date should ask you what kind of music you like to listen to or turn it off completely so you can talk. I happen to know you like 97.9, so I turned it there. If he plays it too loud and isn’t singing with you, you don’t want it.”

I rolled my eyes. “Noted.”

“Now, if a guy is always making you make plans for a date, you can just nope on out of there. In a good relationship, you take turns choosing so all the maintenance work doesn’t fall on one person.”

“Maintenance work?” I said. “You make relationships sound hard.”

“Trust me, when you’ve been together as long as Mom and I have, maintenance work is necessary. Even the best car will quit being good if you don’t change the oil every now and then.”

I pretended to be disinterested, but honestly, all the thought that had gone into this was flattering. Dad was really trying.

As we drove across town to LaBelle for supper, Dad told me about the appropriate ways to interact in a car. When he began talking about the... activities that were strictly off limits, my cheeks burned.

“Dad!” I cried.

“What?” he said. “I coach a college basketball team! I know more about teen boys than you do.”

I couldn’t disagree. “But that doesn’t mean I want to talk to my dad about it.”

“I’d rather you learn it from me than a magazine,” he retorted, pulling alongside the restaurant.

As he parked along the curb near the valet stand, I asked, “What sort of restaurant-arriving etiquette do I need to know?”

“Plenty,” Dad said. He handed the valet the keys, then walked alongside me toward the door. He put his hand on my shoulder blades. “Their hand goes any lower than this, and they’re just looking for one thing. You don’t let them get close.”

“Dad! Why are we talking about...” I lowered my voice. “That?”

Shaking his head, he said, “The good guys might not be thinking about it, but the wrong ones will be thinking only about it.”

The thought made me all squirmy. Were there really guys out there who only thought about sex? And what if I wanted the right guy to think about it? And if they did think about it, how did they bring it up? How did a person go from pen pals to phone callers to lovers?(Asking for a friend.)

Either way, I wasn’t about to ask my dad. “So, hand in an appropriate position,” I said. “Moving along.”

“Right,” Dad said, “so when we walk in, the waiter’s going to take us to the table. Your guy needs to pull the chair out for you.”

Thankfully, Josh hadn’t done that on our impromptu date. The thought of having a guy pull a chair out for me, and then try to push it in with my weight on it was... ugh. “Pass. Next.” We reached the door, and Dad held it open. “Gentlemen must be obsessed with doors,” I muttered.

Before Dad could reply, a host took us to a table. We sat, and Dad began looking over the menu.

“Now’s the part where it can get really bad,” Dad warned.

I raised my eyebrows. “You’re right. He could be a vegetarian.” My eyes widened. “Or lactose intolerant. No chance to share cheesecake!”

He snorted. “That would be awful.”

“Or if he talks with his mouth full.”

“Gross,” Dad said.

“Or if he’s boring.”

Dad chuckled. “Okay, so you’ve got this part down. But you know what definitely has to happen while you’re on a date?”

“What’s that?”

“He needs to ask about you. You’re too interesting to let that opportunity pass.”

I smiled, but that insecure feeling rose inside my chest, threatening to overpower the good time I was actually having. But if I really was that interesting, why did my parents always put me last? Why had I gone alone to every single school dance?

“Dira, you okay?” Dad asked.

I blinked quickly, trying to stem the new onslaught of tears.

He scooted his chair closer and rubbed my back. “What’s going on, baby girl?”

I shook my head, the words coming out of me as unbidden as my tears. “Dad, look at me.”

Dad’s mouth fell open, then closed.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I haven’t had that many dates. Guys aren’t interested in this.” I gestured at myself. “That guy I went to have coffee with? He’s the first person who’s even looked my way without throwing up in his mouth.”

Dad tilted his head, his forehead creasing. “Honey, that’s not true—”

“It is,” I argued, wiping at my eyes with the cloth napkin. “Guys don’t want to date a girl who could sit on them and literally suffocate them, Dad.”

“Dira...”

“And my skin?” I said, the lump in my throat aching. “Dad, guys think it’s contagious. People have called me herpes girl. Dalmatian. Leper. They’ve asked if my mom had sex with a panda.” I choked over my sob, each of the words marking my heart like vitiligo did my skin.

“Nadira,” he said, his voice hard. “You look at me, and you look at me right now.”

His harsh tone snapped me out of the sobs, and I sniffed, looking at him. His black eyes were hard, and the muscles around his jaw were tight.

“Just because someone can’t see your worth doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

“But, Dad—”

He shook his head and repeated, “Just because someone can’t see your worth doesn’t mean it’s not there. Even you. Do you understand?”

His words blindsided me, took the ground out from underneath me, but he kept speaking.

“Your body is not anything you have to apologize for. It is a tool that you can use however you choose. My players use their bodies for entertainment. Mom uses her body to carry around that massive brain.” He smiled softly. “Your body is your tool. No one else’s. They don’t get to use it or judge it or mislabel it as something it’s not. Okay?”

I nodded slowly, taking it all in. I’d never thought of my body in that way. Only as something to be fought against. Something to cover up or hide. But a nagging voice argued with him still. “What if I never get to find a guy who wants to go out with me?”

He spread his arms wide, inviting me in for a hug, and I hugged him back. Breathing into my hair, he said, “You’d never want someone to come at a bolt with a hammer, Dir. It would do more damage than good. That doesn’t make your tool bad. Sometimes it takes a while to find the right fit.”

The waiter arrived and looked at us awkwardly. “Do you need a few minutes?”

I nodded into my dad’s chest, thankful to have him on my side.