Because Fat Girl

Chapter Two

My best friend scoffed when I said I was going to wear a simple black GANNI dress and Tory Burch flats to the LACMA party. She sat across from me in the booth at our favorite Thai restaurant the next day, vetoing all the options I showed her. “You cannot roll up to Chris Stanson’s house looking basic.”

Janelle Zenon and I met as incoming freshmen at UCLA film school, the two queer kids in a sea of geeky white dudes who all thought they were going to be the next Tarantino. It was Janelle who got me the job at Roussard’s when I was struggling to make rent and pay for my senior thesis film. They were hiring extra help for the holidays, and she’d dragged me to the job interview, promising it would be an easy way to pay the bills.

She was right; it was easy money. A little too easy. Instead of pursuing the shitty-paying director’s assistant roles my fellow graduates had taken, I worked my way up the Roussard’s ladder, enticed by the high-paying commissions I made from selling clothes I couldn’t fit in or afford. It was fine in the beginning, when I had the time and energy to work at Roussard’s and hustle for film gigs on the side, but then my brother died and took my ambition with him. These days, the closest I got to making movies was watching Emmy dress the stars of them.

Janelle hadn’t let Roussard’s consume her like I had. A talented cinematographer, she was the best director of photography to come out of our program, yet she always seemed to lose the big jobs to people “with more experience” and “a style closer to what the director was seeking”—a.k.a. straight, white, and male. Those same “more experienced” cinematographers, however, would have to hire Janelle to come in and consult on scenes involving Black actors, which they had little to no practice in lighting. That sums up white privilege right there: the world is lit up for your skin tone.

Despite our setbacks, neither of us had abandoned the dream of making a movie together, and with Janelle’s encouragement, I’d started writing scripts and putting myself out there again.

“This party is our ticket to network with the big dogs,” Janelle said as we ordered our lunch. “We have to go all-out. Make a statement. Think Cinderella going to the ball.”

“Except we don’t have a fairy godmother to come bibbidi-bobbidi-boo us some gowns and a carriage.”

“No, but we have connections at Roussard’s,” she replied. “And your film fund.”

“Which I refuse to tap into for an outfit to a random party.”

“This isn’t just some party! This is exactly the kind of event you’ve been saving for,” Janelle argued as a waiter dropped off our food. “It will be years before you make enough money to fund a film on your own. Even if you want to make an indie film, you’ll still need five hundred thousand dollars bare minimum. And I know you don’t have close to that much saved. So you’re still going to need investors. This is the kind of party where you can meet them! But you’re not going to attract anyone looking like you’re going to a funeral.”

I sighed, resigned to the fact that she was right. “What do you suggest?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Janelle grabbed her phone and opened up JIbrI’s latest collection, a designer whose outfits I’d drooled over for years. The clothes were gorgeous, fashionable, and colorful—total showstoppers.

“We aren’t Emmy,” she said, grabbing a spring roll. “We don’t get invited to Hollywood parties every week. This is your opportunity to hobnob with the elitest of the elite here in town. You’ve got one chance to shine like the star I know you are. Wear something so bright that they can’t help but notice your brilliance.”

“These are from the spicy curry.” I motioned to my tears, the ones that had pooled during her pep talk.

“Sure they are.” Janelle winked.

“I have only one problem.” I pointed down at the JIbrI site still up on her phone.

“What?” Janelle asked.

“How do I choose which fabulous skirt to buy?” I laughed, scanning the assortment of colorful options.

By the end of our meal, we had our whole outfits planned. “We can get our hair and nails done at that salon around the corner, the fancy one with the blue awning. I know someone who can get us a discount on services.”

“You mean the owner that you slept with?” I smirked, counting out my cash as the bill came.

“Those details don’t matter right now.” She placed down her credit card. “What matters is that we’re going to get a discount on our brow wax before Julio in cosmetics does our makeup for us. I’m thinking high femme, full face for you, and a subtle stud vibe for me.”

Janelle continued to plan everything, never pausing to see if I agreed with her ideas. Her enthusiasm was contagious, though, and soon I was chiming in, both of us acting like we were celebrities headed to the Oscars, which we someday soon would be.

…

By the time the big night arrived a few weeks later, we looked like we belonged on a red carpet.

“Damn, I look good.” Janelle posed in front of me, fully dressed and ready to party. She wore a white suit with black trim on the lapel and a very light pink shirt underneath. Her pants were white skinny cut, paired with her favorite crushed velvet Gucci shoes and matching bow tie.

“We clean up well,” I said, glowing in my JIbrI atomic tangerine skirt and sunshine yellow shirt with large structured sleeves and an open back, both items accentuating my curvy, hourglass figure. I was worried the colors wouldn’t work with my olive skin, but Janelle assured me they would pop, and she was right; I looked like I’d walked out of a Mondrian or Lichtenstein painting. To complete the look, I added a Kate Spade x Darcel pop art clutch that I’d gotten years ago in a rare splurge moment, and the whole thing felt perfect for a modern art museum gala.

My collarbone-length, dark-brown hair was parted in the middle and slicked back into a low twist at the nape of my neck, showing off the large sparkling hoops that had cost a hell of a lot, considering they were Swarovski crystals, not diamonds. I planned on taking them back immediately tomorrow. I hated being that client who bought something and returned it after an event, but they were way out of my budget, even with the film fund’s help.

“We’re fine as hell,” Janelle said as we preened ourselves in her full-length mirror, a ritual we’d had since college. We never left for a party without stopping to stare at our reflections and shower each other with confidence-boosting compliments.

“And sexy as fuck.” I stared at the glowing image reflected back at me. This was the kind of outfit I’d always wanted but never let myself splurge on. I tried to forget about the cost and instead focus on how it made me feel like a bright star who deserved to be in a room full of A-listers. Because tonight, I was.

“People are lucky to share space with us,” Janelle said.

“They should pay us to be in their presence.”

“Damn right,” Janelle agreed.

“Damn right,” I repeated. “Tonight, we are the works of art.”

“It’s charity simply showing up and letting them get a glance of our grandeur,” Janelle replied.

“Now, let’s go do our good deed for the week and share our greatness with the world.” I grabbed my clutch, Janelle looped her arm in mine, and together we headed downstairs to hop in a cab.

Our driver was chatty, pointing out celebrity homes and tourist attractions as we wound our way up into Beverly Hills. Janelle mentioned we were locals, but he didn’t care, taking his role of tour guide for the evening very seriously. He seemed impressed as he let us out next to limos and Lamborghinis, and we tipped him extra after he wished us a fun night being rich and famous.

It wasn’t hard to tell which house was Chris Stanson’s, with bright lights and even flashier people surrounding it. I was grateful for my cute yet comfortable Sarto flats as we hiked our way up a steep entrance to a security checkpoint where a very large guard asked for our invitations and IDs.

“These are made out to Emmy and Coffee Girl,” the guard said, glancing at our documents, then back at us. “Neither of those names match your IDs.”

I took the invitations back to inspect them, and sure enough, they were made out to Emmy and Coffee Girl. I wanted to punch Chris in the face for it, but mostly I kicked myself for not checking this sooner.

“Yes, well, that’s what Chris Stanson calls us.” I pointed at Janelle, then at me. “Emmy and Coffee Girl.”

The security guard looked down at our IDs again, over to our invitation, and back to a list he was holding. “I’m sorry,” he said, handing us back our stuff. “I can’t let you in.”

A very chic and pretentious couple behind us snorted as they pushed me aside to hand their paperwork to the guard, sure in the knowledge that they were cool enough to be on that list. Not me, though. I was just some Coffee Girl to Chris Stanson. Why had I been so stupid to think he would let me into his home?

“I can’t believe I spent so much money on this outfit just to wear it in a cab!” I cried.

“Our driver did make a big deal out of how fabulous you looked,” Janelle pointed out. “That’s something.”

“At least someone noticed me tonight,” I replied as more people filed past us and into the event.

“There’s got to be a way to get in.” Janelle refused defeat. “Can you call Emmy? I guarantee you at some point Chris Stanson has given her his number. Maybe she could call him?”

“Wait, you’re brilliant.” I took out my phone.

“You’re calling Emmy?” Janelle asked.

“No, even better,” I said, shooting a rapid text. A few minutes later, a smiling twentysomething wearing a tuxedo and an earpiece came running our way. “Bradley!”

“Diana!” he said, giving me a very quick hug. “You look amazing! I’m so sorry about this mix-up.”

“Are they with you, sir?” the guard asked Bradley.

“Yes, John, they’re good to go inside,” Bradley replied. “Their names should be changed now on the list.”

The security guard pulled up a list on his tablet, double-checked it, then moved aside to let us in. “Enjoy your evening.”

“Thank you so much!” I said to Bradley as we made our way past security.

“Oh, of course, and I’m sorry about that—Chris thought it was funny calling you Coffee Girl,” he explained.

“It’s not,” I said.

“That’s what I told him, but he’s Chris.” Bradley rolled his eyes. “Anyways, I gotta run, but it was nice to see you again, Diana. Let’s get coffee sometime. Or wait, no more coffee. Chris ruined coffee. Let’s get tea.”

We hugged goodbye, and Bradley ran off to put out another one of Chris Stanson’s fires.

“Who was that?” Janelle asked.

“I’m so sorry. I should have introduced you,” I apologized. “That was Bradley, Chris’s assistant. He comes in to pick things up for Chris, and we chat. He’s a good guy.”

“That whole making-friends-with-everyone-you-meet thing sure does pay off.”

“Us peasants gotta stick together,” I said, looping my arm through hers and taking a deep breath as we approached the large, black, open front door. “Ready?”

“Born ready,” Janelle said as we gathered all the confidence we had and strutted into Chris Stanson’s home like we belonged there.