Chapter 3 - my stomach can handle anything

My first date went ok, but I didn't feel free to eat as much as I wanted in front of a boy that cute. I only had an appetizer and a main course, skipping dessert. Our next date, I filled up on burgers and fries beforehand until I was stuffed. Still, I couldn't help but try the delicacies at the restaurant.

We dated for about two months, on and off. I didn't tell my sister about him. She was too busy with meetings and lessons to notice when I was gone.

He was nice, but during our dates I was too preoccupied with the almost religious experience of fine dining. I became more comfortable and started to enjoy myself. I tried many courses, and learned the subtleties of red-wine reductions and sea bass; fresh churned butter and homemade pastas; rock salt and chocolate blueberry cheesecakes.

Without warning he said that we couldn't see each other anymore. I asked why.

"I'm just very busy these days," he said.

"That's not it!" I yelled. "Tell me the truth."

He hesitated, before saying, "I love a shapely woman... but..."

"But what!?"

"You get bigger almost every time I see you. I can't be seen around town with a fat girl... and at the rate you're going..."

"I'm not fat!" I said.

"I knew I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry," he said. "Forget I mentioned it. Please don't tell my uncle."

"You're about as interesting as a log, anyways. No big loss on my part!"

He got angry.

"You're one of the prettiest girls I've ever met. Maybe the prettiest. So I'm going to give you a piece of advice. Don't spoil your good looks like you are. I know uncle says you grew up poor, so you aren't used to being able to eat what you want. But I'm on the football team and you eat more than our linebackers that are trying to bulk up. I'm not exaggerating. Slow down."

I didn't say a word and jumped into a cab.

I noticed my reflection walking into the Four Seasons. I was shocked.

He was right. My dress was way too tight. My boobs were larger and spilled over the top of my bra. My hips were bulkier, and my belly formed a noticeable mass of flab around my middle section. My ass was bigger and arched upwards against my dress. Even my face looked fuller. I started to cry.

I ran inside and took off my clothes, examining the new flesh on my belly, feeling its squishiness. I felt strangely sexually aroused and soon forgot my sadness. I thought of him calling me fat and felt a guilty pleasure. I relived the scene in my head over and over

"You're fat! You're fat!"

I touched myself and came violently.

I cried again, feeling confused.

"He wants to see fat. I'll show him fat," I said.

I spent the next two weeks in bed drowning any confusion I had in the ecstasy of over-eating. I ordered room service constantly and stuffed myself full of treats all day long. I sometimes imagined seeing Mr. Alverez's nephew on the street again. This time I was much much bigger. He looked shocked, and I smiled. The thought turned me on and propelled me to eat more.

At the end of two weeks my sister came home early and saw me sprawled out on the bed, my belly engorged and distended. Two empty carts of room service sat on either side of my bed.

"Hermaninta," she said, "what are you doing?"

"Nothing," I said, covering myself with a blanket.

She looked at the trays. "What is all this?"

"Nothing!" I yelled. "Just leave me alone, ok?"

I realized we only had a few more weeks left in New York, so I went to restaurants by myself. Without an annoying date to talk to, I was free to be alone with my food. I could savor every bite. I felt like I was at an elite university and I was learning so much about what food could be. What it could taste like, how textures and temperatures could contrast. I learned about the secrets of umami, sweet, bitter, and salty. I stayed out late each night, eating back-to-back dinners in sometimes three or four restaurants. I ate until I was so stuffed that I had to hail a cab and slump into my bed. New York was a glorious, non-stop smoragsboard.

My sister finally confronted me during our last week.

"If you eat this much, you'll make yourself sick, or give yourself indigestion, or..."

I patted my ever-growing, ever-softening belly. "My stomach can handle anything," I said.

She pulled a box from under her bed. "I bought this," she said, and pulled a metal scale out. "If I'm to be an actress, I have to keep an eye on my weight. Please humor me, let's both weigh ourselves just to see. We can both try to keep in shape."

"I know what you're trying to do, Bella. It won't work."

"Please, just try."

I stepped on the scale and it read 188. Neither of us said a word. She stepped on the scale and it read 128.

"I don't want to be mean. I'm not trying to be mean. But, you realize that you weigh 60 pounds more than me now, and I am taller than you."

"So?" I said.

"So? What do you mean 'so'? When we came here we were almost the same size. Am I supposed to see you gain 60 pounds in only a few months, and come home to find trays of food scattered about, or see you eat four dinners in one night and not be worried? That's right, I asked Mr. Alaverez's assistant. I got it out of her, to look at your bills. You're out of control."

I didn't speak.

"I'm sorry to make you come here, my love. You weren't ready. I knew you weren't ready. I've always been afraid for you, if..."

"Afraid if what?"

"If we came to a place like this, what you would do."

We went to bed in silence. A few days later she flew out to L.A. to meet with the director and I flew back home to Mexico City.

My parents were shocked to see me.

"I know, I know," I said. "Please don't guilt me."

I went into my room dejected. I should have been sad to fight with my sister, or embarrassed to have gotten fat. I felt none of those things, however. I just felt loss, grief almost. I knew that I was poor again and wouldn't be able to eat luxurious food. I wouldn't be able to glut myself on delicacies whenever I pleased. I'd have to settle for stuffing myself from a dumpster outside a bar. My life seemed to shrink smaller.