Because Fat Girl

Chapter Six

The next few days were a blur of monotonous routine, going back and forth from Arcadia to Rodeo Drive, trying to forget about Drew Williams, Chris Stanson, and every other celebrity in this city. When I first moved to Los Angeles, I was completely starstruck. Growing up in a small town, celebrities were otherworldly, and if I saw one, I would text everyone I knew. I’d been under this delusion that if I could get near famous people, I would somehow become famous myself, so I’d scour the tabloids for where stars hung out and tried to casually run into one, hoping they would want to collaborate on a project, just knowing they would love me if they met me. It wasn’t long before I found out that famously gorgeous people only love other famously gorgeous people.

And I was far from famously gorgeous.

I could be pretty when I tried, and I was fashionable when my job required it, but thin, glamorous, and casually cool? Nope, nope, and definitely not.

It was lonely trying to find my place in this city. I almost moved to Portland, Oakland, or Brooklyn, places known for celebrating queers and fatties like me, but I was invested in Tinseltown, even if it wouldn’t invest in me. The few friends I knew from film school that still worked in the industry were struggling, giving it their heart and soul day after day, barely surviving the bloodied waters. A few years ago, our friend Lauren quit movies and went to law school, saying lawyers looked like saints compared to studio execs. All of this was to say that making it in Hollywood was hard. Really fucking hard.

But I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I could do hard things. Sure, I’d taken a b reak from filmmaking, but I was back now, working on a new script based on Cecily and me—our grief, our sisterhood, and our multi-generational roots that went deep in the small, farming town on the Mexican border where we grew up. It was a movie about how women and queers build bridges, and hold each other up, and it showed the power of marginalized communities coming together to help each other survive.

It was good, better than anything I’d done before, so I was dedicated to making this movie on my own terms, not letting the gatekeepers of Hollywood suck out its soul. My most grandiose dream was to shoot the film with my own diverse crew of women. Men could produce it, I’d still take their money, but I wanted us making the art, bringing to life the characters, telling our stories with our own voices.

To do that, I needed even more money, so I’d started taking on extra clients at Roussard’s. That morning, I had someone new named Mrs. Bertolli, coming in with her daughter “who refuses to dress like anything but a slob,” and I was hoping it would be a big commission makeover.

One look at the kid when she arrived in her baggy pants and loose button-up shirt told me she wasn’t a “slob.” She was butch. Or genderqueer, trans, questioning, whatever they identified with, but the kid definitely wasn’t a little girl who would willingly wear the form-fitting frilly dresses their mom wanted to force them into. As Mrs. Bertolli nitpicked her child in front of me, lecturing the kid to stand up straight, tuck in their shirt, and act like a lady, I knew I had a rough day ahead of me.

Keeping my job required placating the parents, the ones who paid the bill on their platinum Roussard’s credit cards. But keeping my soul required me to stick up for the kids who came in here, awkward teens who reminded me all too much of my own childhood struggles to find comfort in a world that was constantly telling me how wrong and bad I was.

“So,” I said, sitting across from them on the Personal Shopper sofas, “tell me about your event.”

It was a wedding, a big one from the sound of it, full of important people whose names the mother expected me to know, but I didn’t. Mrs. Bertolli explained that she wanted her daughter in something long, flowy, and maybe strapless, preferably with purple accents to match the wedding colors. “Everyone will be there.” She pointed to her child. “And I can’t have her looking like that.”

“We’ll find the perfect outfit for you.” I tried to make eye contact with the kid, to let them know I understood their struggle, but they were staring at the carpet.

“Yes, you will,” Mrs. Bertolli affirmed, matter-of-factly, like disobeying her was not an option.

“Now that I have the event details, why don’t you go get a coffee or snack while your child and I try some options?” I said, trying to be kind but forceful, letting Mrs. Bertolli know this was my domain, not hers.

“I’m not going anywhere.” She crossed her arms defiantly.

“I appreciate your desire to stay here. I really do. Most mothers don’t want to leave their kid alone, but I find that it helps the process immensely if it’s just me and the person wearing the outfit. Plus, it adds an element of surprise to come back and see the end result.”

“I don’t like surprises.” Mrs. Bertolli huffed. “I would prefer to stay here.”

“You’re welcome to go shopping, or get your nails done in the salon next door. My friends down in makeup could show you some new looks, or you can take this Vogue outside”—I handed her a magazine—“and enjoy a relaxing cup of coffee. We’ll take about ninety minutes, and I’ll have your child text you as soon as we’re done.”

The mother stood huffing for a moment, then declared she was going to get a manicure instead of wasting time waiting here, like it had been her decision all along. As soon as she was out the door, the kid visibly relaxed.

“So,” I said, sitting back down on the sofa across from my client, “what name would you like for me to use with you?”

“My friends call me Alex,” the kid replied. “But my mom says I have to use Alessandra.”

“What name would you like me to call you today?” I asked.

“Um,” the kid said, smiling shyly. “Alex is cool.”

“Hi, Alex, nice to meet you.” I extended my hand. They shook it, looking me in the eye for the first time. “Now, what pronouns would you like me to use with you?”

I guessed Alex was in middle school, and I wasn’t sure what they knew yet about queer culture, but I’d realized I was gay and gender nonconforming at twelve, and we didn’t have the internet back then, so I assumed Alex knew something, if only just a hint within themselves of the desire to live differently. Still, I clarified, in case they didn’t know they had options in how they wanted to live their life. “Do you like to be called she, he, or something neutral like xe or they?”

“I use they/them with my friends.”

“Would you like me to use the name Alex and they/them pronouns here?” Alex nodded before I clarified, “Even in front of your mom?”

Alex sat quietly, thinking for a while before meekly saying, “Yes please.”

“They/them it is.” I smiled. “Okay then, Alex, what do you imagine yourself wearing to this wedding?”

“My mom said I have to wear a dress.”

“Ah, yes, but again, she’s not here. So tell me, what do you want? If you could wear anything at all to this event, what would it be? Dream big. No limits.”

Slowly, Alex started opening up, telling me about how they hated dresses and the color pink but liked purple, that they’d seen this gray suit in a magazine and had dreamed of wearing it, but their mom would flip. I told Alex I’d deal with their mom and started taking measurements, their face lighting up at the excitement over getting to try on a suit.

As I headed out onto the floor to grab some options, I handed Alex the menu from the restaurant upstairs and told them to order whatever they wanted using the phone in the room. In a timid, sweet voice, they asked if I wanted anything. “I’d love an iced tea, please,” I said, smiling as I left.

Alex was too small for men’s clothes and too big for the boys’ section, but I pulled the options I could find, grabbing purple accent pieces, hoping to placate Mrs. Bertolli on the color scheme at least. I was starting to get nervous about Alex’s mother’s reaction as I walked back with the suits, but the giant smile on Alex’s face made all of my apprehension go away. We’d find a way to get Mrs. Bertolli to capitulate. I just knew we could.

As they put on the suit, Alex transformed from slouched over and insecure to proudly admiring how handsome they looked in the mirror. They had chosen a silvery gray slim-fit suit, with a light purple plaid shirt, dark purple tie, and matching dark purple pocket square. It looked fabulous. Alex beamed. My heart swelled with pride. These were the moments I loved my job.

They stood on the pedestal fidgeting, worry all over their face, but when Mrs. Bertolli entered, Alex couldn’t help but beam, throwing their arms out and twirling around. “What do you think?”

“This is a joke, right?” Mrs. Bertolli said.

Alex immediately deflated. The joy left their eyes. The slouch came back.

Mrs. Bertolli turned on me, glaring daggers. “Did I not specify that I wanted a long, flowing dress, maybe sleeveless, with purple accents? Did you not understand that?”

“Yes, Mrs. Bertolli, you said that, but that’s not what Alex wanted.”

“ Alessandra ”—Mrs. Bertolli emphasized her child’s legal name—“would walk around in sweats and a baseball cap all day if we gave her what she wanted. But this is a civilized event, and she needs to look civilized, not like some cross-dressing lesbian.”

“If you look at the magazines,” I said, trying to ignore the way she spat those last three words, “you’ll see that all the designers are putting their models in suits right now.”

“I don’t care about what’s popular in fashion magazines; I care about my daughter looking like a lady. I care about you completely disregarding my wishes and putting her in this man’s outfit, polluting her mind to think that this kind of behavior is okay.”

“Ma’am, I think—”

“Oh, I know what people like you think. I should have seen it in you when we walked in. Alessandra, I will be waiting outside in the car. Take off that disgusting outfit immediately and meet me there. You”—she turned to me—“I’ll be speaking with Mr. Roussard about this. He’s a dear friend.” With that, she stormed off.

I turned to Alex, who had tears in their eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“I should go,” Alex said, taking one last glance in the mirror before changing back into their jeans and baggy shirt.

“It gets better,” I apologized, hating myself for not having the right words to say, something actually useful, something actually true. I knew it might not get better, and chances were it would get a hell of a lot worse for Alex as they grew into themself, into who they truly were. I knew even if Mrs. Bertolli didn’t make Alex’s life hell, the rest of the world would. With trans healthcare bans in many states, conversion therapy on the rise, and the looming fear of gay marriage being overturned, I knew it never really got better for people like us, not fully, not like it is for straight and cis people.

As soon as Alex left the room, I sat down and cried: for them, for me, for my community, for the generation of elders we lost to the AIDS crisis while politicians mocked our deaths, for the queer and trans kids abandoned by their families, forced to grow up too soon in a world that shunned them. I cried for my gay friends lost to drugs and suicide. I cried for my younger queer self who turned to razor blades against her wrist to cope with the bullies in school and at home. I cried for my niblings, who I feared would do the same.

I cried and I cried and I cried.

Until Emmy walked in, reminding me where I was.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice the same leveled professionalism it always was. “But there is a client here to see you.”

“Tell them I’m busy.” I pointed to Alex’s suit discarded on the floor. “I need to clean this up.”

“I will put this away.” Emmy began gently placing the clothes back on the hangers. I couldn’t tell if she was being nice to me or just doing her job, but either way, I appreciated her stoic nature even more in that moment. No questions, just practical support.

As Emmy cleared the dressing room for me, I sat on the couch, taking deep, calming breaths, clearing my head and steadying my heart rate. When I’d finally gotten my emotions tucked back down, I stood, looked in the mirror, fixed the mascara that had smeared down my cheek, and reapplied my lipstick. Patting the last tears away, I put on a fake smile and walked out onto the floor to meet with my awaiting client.