Because Fat Girl

Chapter Seventeen

All the way home from Chris’s house and into the evening, my mind raced, trying to come up with ways to keep Janelle on this project. She wasn’t just my best friend, she was also the best director of photography I knew and my right-hand person on set for so long I didn’t know how to make a movie without her. I tossed and turned all night, composing long diatribes in my head that I wanted to yell at Chris and Drew and imagining convincing Silvia myself to let Janelle stay. By the time morning came, I was so exhausted that it took me twice as long to get ready, making me half an hour late to work.

Janelle was standing by the door when I arrived, and she grabbed and pulled me into designer dresses as soon as I got in. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Rough night,” I said as Janelle fixed the collar of my jacket. “What’s going on?”

“Mr. Roussard is here,” she whispered. “With that mom.”

“What mom?” I asked.

“The queer kid’s mom.”

“Fuck.” Mrs. Bertolli had threatened that she knew the Roussard family, but everyone pretended to know someone in this town.

“Indeed.” Janelle picked a piece of lint off of my shirt and tucked it further into my pants. “I didn’t want you going into battle unprepared.”

“Thanks for having my back.”

“I always have your back.” She turned me around to pull more lint off of my shirt. “That homophobic bitch is going to give you shit, but just remember: you’re fine as hell.”

“And sexy as fuck,” I said, standing up straight and tall.

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

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

“Damn right,” she finished off, patting down my hair. “Now, go show them who’s the real boss around here.” Janelle walked out of Couture Gowns and straight down the escalators, like nothing unusual was happening.

I tried to compose myself in the same confident manner as I made my way to Personal Shopper, but I stumbled when I saw the short, round, mustachioed man standing next to Mrs. Bertolli.

“That’s her,” Mrs. Bertolli yelled before I’d even fully arrived in the department. “The vulgar dyke.”

“No need to be vulgar yourself, Olivia.” The man walked up to me. “Ms. Smith, do you know who I am?”

“Yes, sir.” Even if Janelle hadn’t warned me, I’d know Mr. Roussard’s face from the images of it plastered all over the store.

“And do you know why I’m here?” he asked.

“I assume it is because Mrs. Bertolli did not like the suits I picked out for her child, Alex.”

“Alessandra.” Mrs. Bertolli hissed the name. “Her name is Alessandra, not Alex.”

“Your child asked me to call them Alex, so I will respect that and call them Alex.”

“See, Richard,” Mrs. Bertolli fumed, “even now she’s pushing her lesbian agenda.”

Mr. Roussard sighed, looking almost as frustrated with Mrs. Bertolli as I felt. “Ms. Smith, I would like for you to apologize to Mrs. Bertolli.”

“With all due respect, sir,” I began, “I believe Mrs. Bertolli owes me an apology. And one to her child as well.”

“How dare you?” Mrs. Bertolli exploded. “I owe you nothing.”

“That was not a request, Ms. Smith,” Mr. Roussard said, looking even more fidgety than before. “Mrs. Bertolli is a very special customer, and we respect our customers’ wishes here at Roussard’s.”

“Alex was my customer, too, sir, not just Mrs. Bertolli.” I stood firm in my belief that everyone deserved to have their chosen name and pronouns respected, even children. “I am doing my job by respecting their wishes.”

“ Alessandra doesn’t know what’s good for her ,” Mrs. Bertolli spat, emphasizing her child’s birth name and gender.

“I believe your child knows better about their wants and needs than you do.” I knew I should pull myself back in front of Mr. Roussard, but I couldn’t stand there and let her hatefully misgender Alex like that.

“Are you going to put up with this kind of insolent behavior, Richard?” Mrs. Bertolli demanded.

Mr. Roussard sighed and looked at me. “I’ve seen your work history. I would hate to lose you, but you leave me no choice if you refuse to apologize for upsetting a customer.”

“Then I’ll take the choice away from you.” The years of painfully experiencing queer and trans erasure caught up with me, and anger overrode rationality in my mind. “I quit.”

Panic set in the minute the words left my lips, but there was no going back now. I couldn’t stay working here, not anymore, not after this.

“You can’t quit, because I’m getting you fired!” Mrs. Bertolli shouted.

“You can’t get me fired, because I quit!” I said, feeling childish yelling back at her but also more empowered than I’d felt in a very long time. I would never again apologize to a bigoted, transphobic, homophobic, entitled bitch like her, even if it cost me my job. I had savings and a movie deal in the works. I didn’t need this bullshit. “I will pack up my things and be out of here in an hour.”

“Now, no need to be hasty,” Mr. Roussard cautioned. I could tell his mind was weighing my outstanding sales record with the fortune Mrs. Bertolli spent here annually. “Let’s talk this through.”

“There’s nothing more to say.” I was calm and confident now that my decision had been made. “You want me to apologize to a customer for standing up for myself against her homophobic and transphobic remarks, and I refuse to do so, personally and legally.”

That got his attention. “We don’t need to bring legal into this.”

A group of customers and employees had gathered around us, far enough away to not be pulled into the tussle but close enough to hear it all. Mr. Roussard looked around, unsure of what to do next, especially with a crowd gathering. I saw Emmy standing there, arms crossed, scowling. I wondered if she was mad at me or Mr. Roussard. It didn’t matter, I wasn’t going to stop now.

“You’re right. And the generous severance package you’re going to offer me should guarantee that we don’t have to bring our lawyers into this.”

Before I could lose my nerve, I turned around and walked to the employee room where I kept my things. It took everything in me not to turn around and beg for my job back, but I could hear Mrs. Bertolli huffing about my unworthiness of any such benefits, and my relief at never having to work with someone like her again outweighed my fear of being jobless. I was high on self-righteous indignation. I felt strong, victorious, like Harvey Milk on his soapbox or Marsha P. Johnson throwing bricks at Stonewall—except obviously on a smaller scale. Still, I hoped that Alex heard about this encounter and felt empowered knowing that someone out there was willing to fight so they could wear whatever the hell made them feel like the fabulous human they were.

I grabbed my phone and texted Janelle a brief overview of what had just happened. She arrived minutes later, flushed from running up the stairs.

“That’s it, then?” she said.

“That’s it,” I replied, putting the last of my things in a bag.

“No going back?”

“I burned that bridge.”

“Good for you.” She gave me a big hug. “On to bigger, better, gayer things.”

My eyes started tearing as she squeezed me, and I pulled back, not wanting to fall apart here. “You should get out before Mr. Roussard sees you.”

“It’s not going to be the same without you here,” Janelle said. “Maybe I should walk away, too. Go out in a blaze of glory together.”

“Please don’t,” I begged, panic rising in me at the thought of Janelle quitting her job only to find out she wasn’t DP for this film after all.

“Don’t worry.” She laughed. “I’ll let you have your big moment all to yourself. But, hey, at least we’ll be on set together soon.”

Not sure what to say, I hugged my best friend, feeling like a complete asshole. Janelle had my back, always and forever, and here I was about to let her be kicked off my movie. Our movie! I needed to fight for her. I needed to not back down.

“You’re fabulous.” She pulled me in extra tight. “Don’t let anyone make you forget that, okay?”

With one last squeeze, Janelle let go and went back to work, leaving me alone. As I looked around the Personal Shopper room for probably the last time, the reality of the situation hit me.

Drew and Chris had bought the holding rights to my script, but they still had time to back out. No contract had been signed for me as director, and Focus refused to commit. This project could end up in the bin tomorrow, and where would I be?

It wasn’t my ultimate dream, but Roussard’s had been good to me. Sure, this place was full of superficial people severely out of touch with the way the average person lived in this world, but through Roussard’s I’d met queer kids like Alex, fabulous people like Shamaya, and yes, even the occasional movie star or two. This job had allowed me flexibility when my brother died, good health insurance, and above-average pay. That was more than most people could say of their work. I always imagined I’d walk out of here with my head held high, a decision I’d made consciously, not in response to some horrible client.

My phone pinged, and I pulled up a text from Janelle with a photo of us together years ago on the bleachers in front of the Oscars.

On to bigger, better, and gayer things! she wrote.

I smiled, wiped my face, and stood.

It was time for me to move on.

I gathered my things and was almost out the door when Emmy stopped me. “Diana, a word before you go.”

I nodded and followed her into the room where we’d dressed Chris Stanson together, not sure from her stoic face if I was going to get a lecture or a hug goodbye.

“I am very good at my job.” She presented this as fact and did not wait for me to agree before she proceeded. “Dressing people is my profession and my life.”

“Okay,” I said, no clue where this was going.

“You are making a movie with Chris and Drew, correct?”

“Correct.” I wondered how she’d found out but then remembered Emmy had her ways.

“Then take this.” She reached into her pocket and handed me a card that read Emmy Miller, costume designer .

“Are you asking me for a job?” Realization dawned on me.

“I am presenting myself for a position,” Emmy stated. “One I am extremely qualified for.”

“I consider you a strong candidate,” I agreed. Then, without thinking, I hugged her, catching both of us off guard. “It’s been nice working with you these past few years.”

“You as well,” she said, extracting herself from me and pressing down her skirt. “Thank you, by the way, for standing up for Alex.”

“Of course.”

“Very few people know this, and I prefer it to stay that way”—she looked me directly in the eyes—“but I am trans.”

“Oh,” I said, never sure what to say when people came out to me, even after decades of being out myself.

“I was Alex as a kid,” she continued. “I haven’t spoken to my mom, or anyone from my childhood, since I was fifteen.”

“Thank you for sharing your story with me.” I was genuinely touched.

“I trust you to keep this information between us,” Emmy said, turning around and walking out of the dressing room without looking back or saying goodbye.

And with that, my days of being a shopgirl were officially over.