Mona Awad - 13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl: A Novel

W e went against the universe at the McDonalds on the corner of Wolfedale and Mavis. On a sunny afternoon. Mel and I hate sunny afternoons. Especially here in Misery Saga, which is what youre allowed to call Mississauga if you live there. In Misery Saga, there is nothing to do with sunny afternoons but all the things we have already done a thousand times. Weve lain on our backs in the grass, listening to the same Discman, one earphone each, watching the same clouds pass. Weve walked in the woodlot pretending to pretend that it is Wonderland, even though when you stand in the heart of it, you can still hear cars going by. Weve eaten dry cupcakes at that dessert place down the road where all the other kids go. We dont like other kids but we go anyway, just for the bustle. Weve sat behind the bleachers sharing Blizzards from Dairy Queen, the wind making our Catholic school kilts flap against our stubbly knees. Our favorite was the one with the pulverized brownies and nuts and chocolate sauce, but they dont make it anymore for some reason. So were at the McDonalds on the corner eating McFlurries, which everyone knows arent as good as Blizzards, even when you tell them to mix more things in.

Were bored out of our minds as usual, having exhausted every topic of conversation. There is only so much Mel and I can say about the girls we hate or the bands and books and boys we love on a scale of one to ten. There is only so much we can play of The Human Race Game, which is when we eliminate the whole human race and only put back in the people we can stand and only if we both agree. There is only so much we can talk about how wed give it up and what wed be wearing and with which boy and what hed be wearing and what album might be playing in the background. Weve established, for the second time today, that for Mel it would be a red velvet dress, the drummer from London After Midnight, Renaissance wear, and Violator. For me: a purple velvet dress, Vince Merino, a vintage suit, and Let Love In, but it changes.

So we decide to do the Fate Papers. The Fate Papers is Mels name for when you tear off two small bits of paper and write No on one piece and Yes on the other. You shake the two balled-up pieces in your hands while you close your eyes and ask the universe your question. You can ask aloud or in your mind. Mel and I both prefer in your mind but sometimes, if it is an urgent matter, like now, we ask aloud. The first paper that drops is the answer. Now we are asking if Mel should call Eric to see if he likes the CD she made him of her favorite Lee Hazlewood songs. The Fate Papers already said No, but were doing two out of three because that cant be right even though the Fate Papers are never wrong. Next, we are going to ask if I should try talking to Vince Merino again after yesterdays fiasco attempt.

The Fate Papers say No to Mel again, then No to me.

The universe is against us, which makes sense. So we get another McFlurry and talk about how fat we are for a while. But it doesnt matter how long we talk about it or how many times Mel assures me shes a fucking whale beneath her clothes; I know Im fatter. Not by a little either. Mel has an ass, Ill give her that, but thats all Ill give her.

If I win the fat argument then Mel will say, so what Im way prettier than she is, but I think face-wise were about the same. I havent really grown into my nose yet or discovered the arts of starving myself and tweezing. So Ill be honest with you. In this story, I dont look that good, except for maybe my skin, which Mel claims she would kill for. Also my tits. Mel says theyre huge and she assures me its a good thing. Maybe even too much of a good thing, she says. Its Mel who got me using the word tits. I have trouble calling them anything even in my thoughts. They embarrass me and all the words for them embarrass me, but Im trying, for Mels sake, to name my assets. Even with my skin and tits, though, its still Mel who looks better. Shes got psoriasis and a mustache she has to bleach and still. Its definitely Mel who has any hope in hell with any of the boys we like. Which is I guess why she claims the men at the next table were looking at her first.

I hadnt even noticed them. I was busy eating my Oreo McFlurry, hunting for the larger pieces of Oreo that sometimes get trapped at the bottom, which I hate. Its Mel who points the men out, saying three oclock to me without moving her lips or making much noise. I turn and see three businessmen sitting in the booth next to us, eating Big Macs. I assume they are businessmen because they are wearing business suits, but they could just as easily be suit salesmen or bank tellers. At any rate, they are men, their hands full of veins and hairs, each pair of hands gripping a bit-into Big Mac.

Mel says they are totally checking her out. I look at them again and none of them seem to be looking at us. They dont even seem to be looking at each other. Theyre looking at their burgers or into space.

No, Mel says. They were looking at her tits. Mel is exceedingly proud of her tits. What she loves most is the mole on the top of her left breast. She wears Wonderbras and low-cut tops to show it off.