150 Pounds (13 page)

As they neared the dog park Sinatra let out a high-pitched yelp and his furless body wiggled with excitement. Last fall she took knitting lessons with Aggie at Patricia’s Yarns up the street, and beneath his jacket Sinatra was decked out in a very festive blue and white sweater: Giants colors. There was a fenced-in park for big dogs, and a neighboring one set up for small dogs, but Sinatra didn’t know his puny size and preferred to gallop and chase tennis balls with Great Danes and pit bulls, for reasons Shoshana would never understand. She thought it might go back to his kennel days. When she adopted him, he was being nursed by a very large pit bull, much to the amazement of the shelter’s staff, but now that she knew Sinatra’s bewitching charms, she could easily see why the pit bull had chosen to mother him. Thus, Sinatra loved oversized dogs, and didn’t mind being occasionally stepped on or having his butt sniffed by dogs big enough to eat him for lunch.

“See, aren’t you glad you came outside?” she cooed to him, as she opened the gate to the park. She waved to a few regulars, and sat down on a bench to finish the latest beach read she’d bought last week because it made her feel warm. After a couple of minutes she looked up to see Sinatra riding on the back of a German shepherd. “Five-minute warning!” she called to him, like the mother of a preschooler. And sure enough, soon Sinatra seemed to sense it was time to go see Aunt Nancy, and he came trotting over.

White snow on the branches of the trees reflected off the library’s windows as she walked. It was hard to imagine the ashen boughs ever holding succulent green leaves again. She dropped off her library book in the metal box outside the building instead of going inside; it was so cold out that if she warmed up slightly she’d want to head right back home and get back into bed.

As she walked uptown, a snowplow with orange circling lights made beeping noises as a cop helped direct traffic around it. Over her sweatshirt Shoshana was wearing a black down jacket that went to her knees and had an attractive cinched metal belt that she felt gave her a waist. It came with a fake fur hood that matched Sinatra’s, and she now gathered it over her head for warmth. It framed the scene in an oval shape in front of her: the mailwoman pushing her mail cart with red mittens, two skinny Hispanic teenage girls wearing Day-Glo high-tops and skin-tight jeans pressed against one another, popping gum and giggling as they walked, a harried-looking mother pushing twin boys in an expensive-looking double stroller with a plastic awning down in front of them to keep the warmth in, a group of loud, laughing men walking to a late lunch, a father walking with his daughter balanced on his shoulders, her cheeks rosy from the cold. The last image made Shoshana smile. She missed her own father constantly, and something about happy father-daughter images always melted her heart because they made her remember him, which was a good thing.

She walked the three blocks over to Dunkin’ Donuts to meet Nancy and begin exercising, which hopefully would culminate with a glass of wine. The crisp, sharp winter air felt fresh and full of promise against her cheeks. She saw Nancy in all her leopard-print spandex glory, and waved, happy to see her friend.

What the hell do people
wear
to a cooking class held within a chic gym? Alexis was not about to don an apron. She was knee-deep in the hallway closet she shared with Billy. In terms of a “walk-in closet,” it was more like a “step-one-toe-into-closet.” Each time she went downstairs she stared longingly through the window at the Container Store’s organized shelving ideas, but she couldn’t afford any of them. She and Billy and Vanya had barely scraped together enough money for rent last month, and Chelsea was getting more and more expensive. Soon they’d have to (gasp!) move to an outer borough, something she and Billy had once made a blood pact not to do.

Half the time she couldn’t tell which clothing was hers and which belonged to Billy. She’d suggested she take the top bar and he the bottom, but when he hung up his clothes (which wasn’t very often) he mixed his stuff in with hers, and as he wasn’t that much larger than herself, she often ended up wearing his clothes. Seeing a flash of leopard print or having a soft fan of pink feathers brush against her cheek when she started rummaging around in there didn’t tell her anything; it could belong to either one of them. She was glad skin-tight leggings were hot right now, as she’d throw on a pair in black and one of Billy’s gray cashmere Ralph Lauren sweaters and leave several buttons open at the top, then loop a ton of thin gold necklaces around her neck, and pull on her knee-high black boots with the pointy heel that doubled as a weapon and could put someone’s eye out if necessary. For tonight she chose skinny black jeans and a lacy black bra with a gray, loose-fitting tank top that was open on the sides and showed her ribs. She loved monochromatic, solid colors and stayed away from anything overly feminine. She was so thin she was almost androgynous, and she wore mainly gray or black. On her feet she slipped on her favorite pair of black suede Ferragamo knee-high boots with four-inch heels. She found one of Billy’s sweaters scrunched and rolled up on the floor like a run-over animal on the road and put it over the tank for warmth.

She owned what she thought of as essential clothing; she’d get designer clothes at consignment stores, or she would save up her earnings from
Skinny Chick
until she could buy something rare and fabulous. She refused to shop at H&M or Target just to have a big wardrobe. She was careful, conscientious, and meticulous about her purchases. She might only collect one item of clothing a season, and would first stalk the store like a lion would a gazelle in the wild, stopping by Armani on Fifth Avenue to try on the same wrap dress five times, popping into Prada to measure a purse with a ruler, then practicing walking around the store with it, or heading on over to Saks (she loved the
smell
of the place, the little perfume sample wands, the rows of new clothing from every designer, even the dressing rooms!) and would slip on a pair of Michael Kors platform pumps and not buy them until a month later. Sometimes she had dreams about whatever piece she was contemplating buying.

She knew how best to dress her rail-thin frame and she didn’t mind not having breasts. In fact, she was proud of her little mosquito bites. Billy even had bigger breasts than she did when he dressed in drag, which he would from time to time if the mood struck. His chest was sculpted and when he wore a push-up bra he had minor cleavage. He complained her size-A bras were too small to fit around his chest, so she told him to fuck off and buy his own bra, which he did, in a C cup so he could stuff it with a pair of wobbly chicken-cutlet-like fake breasts he had left over from a photo shoot and take up an hour in the bathroom affixing.

Hollywood had, in the last ten years, made thin very
in,
and clothes being made these days reflected that. Why else call regular old blue jeans “skinny jeans”? American culture had finally caught up with Alexis’s shape and form, and she couldn’t be more thrilled about it.

She fiddled with earrings on her dresser, finally settling on a pair of square-shaped gold ones bought from a street vendor in Chinatown. While she avoided the cheap stuff when it came to clothing, bags, and shoes, she wasn’t snobbish about accessories and felt a surge of excitement when she found great, funky jewelry on the street. She wondered what kind of clothes the women that cute chef dated wore, and then was so surprised she cared that she paused in the hallway. She picked up men and discarded them like yesterday’s newspaper. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d dressed up for a boy. The thought bounced around her mind, shiny and exciting.

She locked the door to her apartment, passing the sound of her neighbor’s guitar playing. His name was Jack and he was in a small indie rock band that traveled most of the year. Billy fed his goldfish for him when he was on tour and Billy and Alexis would snoop around in Jack’s dresser, giggling about his leopard-print boxers. Jack worked out with hand weights and Billy would pump a few rounds of iron before getting bored and trying on all Jack’s tight black jeans.

Alexis took the stairs, bypassing the elevator in favor of exercise. She’d gone slightly over her caloric intake at lunch, enjoying half of a chicken salad with mayonnaise that Billy had brought home from work.

Outside, a great gust of wind and wet hit her, throwing her hair across her face in one sticky move. She picked it off her forehead, wiped the water out of her eyes, combed her stick-straight white bob with her fingers, and set forth toward Soho Gym. Alexis had a strut, which she’d learned by watching Kate Moss walk the runway. She liked Kate because she was the most petite supermodel, and therefore had a body similar to her own.

She turned on her iPod and strains of Woody Guthrie sounded in her ears. She loved folk music. It was a fact that always surprised people, though she didn’t know why. She was very patriotic. She loved Pete Seeger, Taylor Swift, Joni Mitchell, Phil Ochs, James Taylor.

The night was balmy; spring wet and windy. She regretted the sweater and considered stripping it and only wearing the camisole underneath, but she would not stoop to winding it around her waist. People who did that looked like mountain hikers. It was absurd. Hopefully the kitchen was air-conditioned.

Approaching her gym, she marveled at its wide, etched glass front windows and oversized modern steel doors. It was so much a part of her life, she was surprised she never took advantage of one of its special cooking series. The idea of being around so many
people
had been a turnoff (Alexis hated crowds), yet this was the first time the instructor was so damn cute. Soho Gym had a huge state-of-the-art cooking facility and hosted several guest chef appearances a year. If nothing else, she could use healthy cooking tips for
Skinny Chick
, she mused.

Someone new was working the front desk, a woman in her late thirties with her black hair in a braid and a sculpted body. She smiled at Alexis and beeped in her membership card. This annoyed Alexis (she didn’t like change) until she remembered Carlos said he was taking the cooking class tonight along with Sarah. Her usual routine was to enter the locker room and weigh herself, so it was odd to bypass it and instead walk in the opposite direction. It gave her pause. She still wasn’t sure why she’d impulsively signed up for this cooking class. She sighed and fiddled with her earring.

Alexis passed the weight room, strutted by the little spa that was attached to the gym, breezed through the trainers’ offices, until she finally came out into a high-ceilinged area that was spacious, with a modern design of bleached-blond wood countertops and shining steel stoves that took up a large portion of the room. On the wall were large black-and-white photos of various New York chefs such as David Chang and Mario Batali captured in stills while working at their craft.

She spotted Carlos and Sarah huddled in a corner talking with other gym members, some of whom she recognized. There was the chick who always did sit-ups with one of the medicine balls to conclude her workout. Talking to her was the Hispanic guy in his forties with gray sideburns who wore fingerless gloves to lift weights. Tonight he had on a suit, probably having come from work. There was the red-haired mother of three with the great legs whom Alexis always overheard complaining about her youngest son, who apparently was a troublemaker in the little day care at the gym. She looked relieved to be child-free. It was strange to see all the regulars in street clothes; like attending a costume party.