“Yet we were all four and five,” I say for accuracy.
“You’ve always been very mature for your age, dear. An old soul in a new body.”
While her comment is disguised as a compliment, I’m not sure there isn’t more to it. “Do you think the other kids hated me?”
I count a full five seconds before she answers.Five.Which is a lot. “I don’t think they understood you, honey. I don’t think they had enough on the ball to actively dislike you.”
Oh. My. God.“Was I a freak?” I ask, full of panic.
“You were and are my special, beautiful girl,” she tells me.
Nothing about this conversation is making me feel better. In fact, I’m now starting to question everything I thought I knew about my life pre-diagnosis. “I didn’t eat paste, did I?” I’m only half-teasing.
“Oh, Finny, don’t be silly. Of course you weren’t a paste-eater. You did occasionally eat dirt, though.”
“Excuse me?” I’m tempted to hang up and go back to sleep and maybe wake up in a dimension where I’m normal.
“You liked its scent,” my mom tells me. “You used to say that it smelled alive and sweet.”
I’m sure it was alive. Alive with bugs and God knows what else. “I hope you stopped me.”
“It never hurt you, so what was the point? You didn’t do it forever.” She sounds so accepting that I can’t quite decide which one of us is more troubled.
Cutting to the chase, I ask, “In your opinion, Mom, do you think kids mostly liked me, or not?”
“I think nice kids liked you, and those lousy good-for-nothing bullies did not. But keep in mind, they’re probably all in prison now.”
“I highly doubt that,” I tell her. “They’re probably making six figures, lording it over their minions, while vacationing in Europe every summer.”
“Not Joelle Stinger,” she says.
Now she’s got my full attention. Whipping the comforter off my head, I sit up and ask, “What’s she up to?”
“About three hundred and fifty pounds, as close as I can tell.”
“What?” I am not a sizest, but Joelle always was. She would tell other girls their jeans were getting tight, and then she’d make mooing sounds at them. She is the last person in this world I would have ever thought would grow out of single digit sizes.
“She’s a manager at Cow Patty,” my mom says. “I guess her metabolism paired with her diet has caught up to her.”
Joelle Stinger is the manager at our old high school hangout. Don’t get me started on the name“Cow Patty.”For some reason, no one found it odd until after they left town. “Is she still married to Jacob Smart?” I ask. In high school, he fully supported her meanness. As such, I can only imagine what he thinks of her now.
“Sure is. That boy has moved to the plus-size section himself.Andhe lost his hair. All except for about four strands, which he combs over the top of his head like a horrible scarf.”
“Really?” I don’t want to be the kind of person who takes pleasure in someone else’s misery, but apparently I’m not as evolved as I would have hoped. This news is making my day.
“Yep,” my mom says. “He’s a big, bald fatty.”
A laugh escapes my mouth. Even though I’ve just discovered I was a dirt eater (not previously known to me) and not universally liked (totally known), finding out my bullies aren’t fairing as well as I thought they would helps restore balance to my world.
I throw my legs over the side of the mattress and relish the cool air on them. Then I ask my mom, “Do you think people thought I was undatable?” I largely ask this because no one in my hometown ever asked me out on a date. Zero people. Including the nympho who asked everyone to be his girlfriend, even the principal.
Instead of answering my question directly, my mom says, “I don’t think boys in this town were smart enough to realize what a treasure you were.” These passive/aggressive compliments are driving me insane.
Before I can express this, my mom asks, “Are you dating a nice boy now? Is that what this call is all about?”
“I have a new friend,” I tell her truthfully. “But we’re only fake dating.”
“What does that mean, fake dating? Either you’re dating or you’re not.” My mom is pretty literal herself and I once again wonder where she lands on the spectrum.
