“Ice Cream” by Margery Weinstein, page 3

        "Problems sound good when you call them 'classique,'" the girl giggled. "Actually, everything sounds good when you add 'classique' to it. So 'classique' just means whatever you're talking about has been around for a long time?"
         "'Classique' things are only around for a long time because people have wanted them for a long time," the mother said, eyes darting back and forth from the Chocolat Classique vat to her daughter, still leaning against the ice cream display case. "Fat is excess and isn't wanted."
         "Fat is fun because you get to have what you like," the girl said. "Mrs. Gregory says being popular isn't important; it's just important to have a few friends you really like. What if I think fat is my friend?"
         "I've heard of people who are afraid to lose weight because they think no one will like them if they're thin,” I said. “And then others who feel safer being fat, like the extra flesh gives them protection in case they fall on something hard."
         The mother was looking pretty brittle. Maybe it was the battle over Chocolat Classique. Maybe it was her bone structure. I suggested she try the cheesecake ice cream.
         "Sometimes I mix the cheesecake flavor with chocolate and add a dash of Caramel Swirl, to ensure I get as fat an experience as possible," I said. I was provoking her, but I also thought it might help.
         The mother looked down like she’d just given up. She stuffed her hand into her purse, surprisingly unadorned. I wondered what she had. Probably a wallet, a tiny package of Kleenex, a Blackberry, and keys that include a miniature spray tube of Mace. I wondered if she’d use it on me. Instead, she drew out a picture.
         "Do you know who this is?" she asked me. She looked sternly at her daughter, made sure to include her in the life lesson. "That was me at age 13," she said. The girl in the picture was pretty, looking not-so-different from the woman she would become. But she was prettier and rounder. She was soft and rosy with a relaxed smile on her face.
         "Yeah, I know it's you. You've shown me that already," her daughter said, rolling her eyes, and looking at me as if I should share in her annoyance. "My mother likes to remind me how 'miserable' overweight teenagers are by showing me a picture of herself when she was fat. I don't think she looks bad though, which makes her angry."
         The mother, did, in fact, seem to be getting peeved. Her cheeks flushed. "You don't get it," she spat out at the child. "This could be you. What if this were you?"
         "I don't think she looks that bad," the little girl said. "Not bad enough not to eat Chocolate Fudge Royale. Or Classique. Or whatever I want."
         "I think people like sweets like ice cream because they're the way people should be—pleasing and leaving you fast, but with a full feeling," I told them in a kind of spacey way people sometimes hated.
         The mother looked at me as though she were staring at a notch in the wall. She puzzled for a moment as though wondering what to do with me. And then she seized her daughter's hand and, with her daughter glancing back regretfully at the lost vats of glassed-walled treats, jangled through our wind chime doors, dragging their baby carriage entourage.
         Max had been listening all the while, satisfied to hear my Philosophy of Flavor Overlap and Overflow disputed. He wheeled towards me until his wheels stubbed my toes. "Superior customer service as always," he said sarcastically. "Inspect the vats before you close up," he said. "All of them—individually. I bet that kid likes to dip her spoon into everything twice."
         I nodded with an openly artificial, exaggerated grin and turned away, knowing he still wasn't ready to get rid of me. When I heard the wind chimes signal again—this time more violently—departure, I knew I was finally alone, and free to savor the ice cream colors, smells, and flavors (dormant if you didn't taste them but there nonetheless).
         I grew numb, and thought Veronica had a scent, and thought I could make it my signature perfume. "It's not bad to smell like you're getting fat, to smell like a fat girl," I said, regarding my slim shadow on the wall. I liked fitting into my clothes the way I did, but felt compelled to exude a fat essence—whatever I looked like.
-----
Page 1 2 3