No chocolates for me, I realized, sighing. No nibbling at the heart-shaped cookies people would bring into the office. No celebrating the holiday in the way I’ d come to know it: as an excuse to consume mass quantities of sugar with joyous abandon. Not after seeing how much I weighed.
Then again&
I leaned over to pick up the scale. Then I placed it directly into the trash.
#17: Throw away my bathroom scale.
That Marissa was a genius, I thought as I scrambled an egg for breakfast-compensation for the damage I’ d be doing later to my blood sugar. Getting rid of that scale had been positively liberating. So much so that I’ d have tossed away my body shaper underwear, too, if it weren’ t for that one blue dress that I look lumpy in without it.
SHORTLY AFTER LUNCH-I’ d had a chicken salad to make up for the damage I in fact did to my blood sugar-I popped into Susan’ s office. ‘ Am I still on to baby-sit tonight?’
She peered around a bouquet big enough to be mistaken for shrubbery. That was her husband, Chase. More is always more. ‘ If you don’ t mind-I’ d be forever grateful. We’ ve got reservations at Nic’ s. Chase’ s mother offered to watch the boys, but she had that toe surgery the other day. I hate to ask her to run after a couple of five-year-olds so soon.’
‘ It’ s no problem,’ I assured her.
I knew it was a special holiday for them since-and only Susan could pull this off-they’ d met on Valentine’ s Day. It was back in college, when she and I were at a bar refusing to feel like losers because we were stag. At one point, a drunk guy the size of an army tank bumped into Susan, making her spill her drink over herself. Then he lumbered on without an apology. Chase-who stands six feet two and at the time probably weighed 120 pounds dripping wet-came running over. He tipped his chin in the lunk’ s direction and said, ‘ You want me to kick his ass?’ We gaped at him for a moment, stunned, and he said, ‘ I’ m kidding. The guy’ d smash me like a bug.’ Susan was instantly smitten, and I’ m pleased to report that Chase has since filled out nicely.
They live a few miles from me in Brentwood, in a three-bedroom ranch-style house that they bought for a song at an auction and that-thanks to California’ s ridiculous real estate market-was recently appraised at more than a million dollars. I call it the palace even though it’ s only about 1,600 square feet.
I arrived at the palace at seven o’ clock. Susan had already fed and bathed C.J. and Joey and dressed them in their pajamas. ‘ Hey, beasts!’ I called to them in the living room, where they played with Legos.
C.J. and Joey-identical twins-were dark and gangly like their father. The only way I could tell them apart is by the scar Joey got when he fell off a table as a toddler. Joey squeaked an excited, ‘ What’ s that?’ when he noticed I held a big box, hopeful it was a treat of some kind. He and his brother went back to their Legos when I showed them it was only a bunch of Marissa’ s yearbooks.
‘ I figured tonight might be a good time to look through them,’ I explained to Susan as she and Chase tossed on their coats.
‘ Good luck& hope you find what you’ re looking for. And thanks again for doing this,’ Susan said. ‘ We won’ t be long.’
‘ No later than ten,’ Chase added. ‘ I plan to be home in time to get my Valentine’ s Day booty.’
Susan grinned at him. ‘ Then that chore is out of the way until Easter.’
‘ Ah, I’ ll wear you down before that. Besides’ -he grabbed his keys and pulled on the door-’ you’ re forgetting about Presidents’ Day.’
‘ Shut up with your boasting about your sex life!’ I cried as they waved good-bye to me and the boys.
Once they left, I warmed up pizza for myself and proceeded to do what I always did when watching C.J. and Joey: let them run wild. Allowed them to pull out toys and games and balls and never made them put the old toy away before bringing out something new. Eat whatever they wanted. It was okay, the way I figured it, since I didn’ t baby-sit that often. It has occurred to me that that may be the reason I don’ t baby-sit that often.
The only time I scolded them at all the entire evening was when I noticed they’ d left the door open to the cage of their guinea pig, Aunt June, named after yours truly. (Susan said it was proof of the boys’ affection for me; I suspect there may have been prompting on her part.)
‘ We always keep it open,’ C.J. explained when I showed him the unhooked latch.
‘ Doesn’ t she escape?’
‘ Nope.’
Joey then grabbed a sprig of parsley from the refrigerator to demonstrate. Even when he held the treat just outside her reach, she merely leaned on the base of the door and squealed. He tossed the parsley into the cage. ‘ We asked for a dog.’
It was a little after nine o’ clock when the boys finally passed out on the living room floor. I had to step over C.J., curled up at my feet, to get the box filled with yearbooks.
Wrenching as it was, I made myself thumb through every one in search of Buddy Fitch. But there wasn’ t a trace of him. No one named Fitch at all.
So he wasn’ t a high school classmate. Although it meant that the search continued, I felt a degree of relief. I’ d been weaned on teen movies where the basic principle is survival of the fittest, so I feared the worst. I’ d concocted all sorts of scenarios regarding who Buddy Fitch might be. Most involved him starring as a wealthy, popular jock-think Steff, the head ‘ richie’ in Pretty in Pink-a boy who would have gotten his jollies from abusing Marissa for being fat.
And she was, too. Fat, that is. Poor kid. Her yearbooks showed the progression as she started out chubby in junior high and got heavier and heavier over the years. As if that weren’ t tough enough, there were photos of her in the marching band, in the glee club, and as a member of the chess team. Why didn’ t she just have a ‘ Kick Me’ sign sewn permanently to her back?
Marissa had a pretty smile in her senior picture, though, and it seemed genuine. Maybe her thought bubble would read, Thank God I’ m almost out of here! Or-who knows?-maybe she enjoyed high school. After all, when I was in school, I thought I had a good time. It was only after I graduated and got out into the world that I realized how miserable I’ d actually been.
One thing was certain: I was going to have to do some serious legwork to find Buddy Fitch. I’ d need to know who he was and what he did before I could determine what sort of payback he had coming.
And I’ d better get a move on. A month had already ticked by, and I’ d completed only four of the tasks. (I’ d have claimed five, but when I mentioned to Brie about how I pitched my idea to Lizbeth at the staff meeting, she’ d exclaimed, ‘ You call that pitching?’ and I didn’ t dare cross it off.)
After setting aside the last yearbook, I pulled the list from my purse.
20 Things to Do by My 25th Birthday
1. Lose 100 pounds
2. Kiss a stranger
3. Change someone’ s life
4. Wear sexy shoes
5. Run a 5K
6. Dare to go braless
7. Make Buddy Fitch pay
8. Be the hottest girl at Oasis
9. Get on TV
10. Ride in a helicopter
11. Pitch an idea at work
12. Try boogie boarding
13. Eat ice cream in public
14. Go on a blind date
15. Take Mom and Grandma to see Wayne Newton
16. Get a massage
17. Throw away my bathroom scale
18. Watch a sunrise
19. Show my brother how grateful I am for him
20. Make a big donation to charity
I’ d made a start, I knew, but there was so much left to do. If I was going to succeed, I needed to hunker down and stay on track. Next Tuesday I’ d handle #6, Dare to go braless. Most of the staff would be off at a rideshare fair. I’ d be able to go the whole day without encountering many people.