Fat Girl in a Strange Land Read online

  VII.

  For a while we are evenly matched — he has his moves, I have mine.

  We are of a height, and of a weight — if it weren’t for the masks and the colors of our outfits you might not be able to tell one from the other.

  He jumps off parapets as if they were the ropes, I dodge and somersault. He propels himself vertical and aims his feet at my chest, I feint away and fall onto him when he’s still prone. His elbow to my solar plexus. My knees to his chest.

  He draws up and away when one of his strikes loosens the binding on my breasts.

  “You are not El Panzón,” he says.

  “There is no Panzón, just me. La Gorda,” I answer.

  He spits — not at me but about me.

  “Better,” he says. “I’ll break you exactly as I’d break any other woman.”

  His attacks turn frenzied then, and after a volley that leaves me with ringing ears and limp arms, I turn myself toward City of Silver and run.

  I hear him laugh with delight as he gives chase.

  I know there is no safety left in my neighborhood — the respect that stayed Cabrakan’s hand at its borders is gone — and still, it is where I head.

  I stumble and fall exactly where the stone idol of la gorda was unearthed.

  He comes to stand over me, and in that moment looking up at him I notice that the seams of his mask form the outline of a skull.

  I hear a low growl as something flings itself at Cabrakán’s head. It is El Patojo, in full luchador regalia, and his foot connects with the skull’s jaw. Then he’s gone and I hear the distinctive slap of a tag.

  I struggle to my feet as El Súper Fly sails at Cabrakán.

  They tag in and out as if this were a movie that had been choreographed by a master. El Diablo Colorado, La Princesa, Los Enanitos. El Patojo again.

  He tags me.

  And then I’m in the ring with them — the team of my dreams, and of my heart.

  The people of City of Silver have always had their heroes and their villains in the ring, but they know when the lucha turns real. They come to stand behind us and around us and with us. I hear their roar and feel the trajectory of the clots of clay with which they pelt Cabrakan.

  We rout the killer of women. My father gets it on film.

  And as the spectators make their way back to their homes, we luchadores and luchadoras limp around giving each other high fives. Then we put our arms around one another and make our way back to my father’s house for a tequila and whatever food I can pull together on such short notice.

  There is never an end to evil, so we may have to fight again tomorrow, or the day after.

  But that’s okay — we’re behind the masks anyway.

  Sabrina Vourvoulias is a Latina newspaper editor, blogger and writer. An American citizen from birth, she grew up in Guatemala and first moved to the United States when she was 15. She studied writing and filmmaking at Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, N.Y.

  In addition to numerous articles and editorial columns in several newspapers in Pennsylvania and New York state, her work has been published in Dappled Things, Graham House Review, La Bloga’s Floricanto, Poets Responding to SB 1070, Scheherezade’s Bequest at Cabinet des Fées, We’Moon, Crossed Genres #24, the anthology Crossed Genres Year Two, and is slated to appear in upcoming issues of Bull Spec and GUD magazine.

  Her blog Following the Lede was nominated for a Latinos in Social Media (LATISM) award.

  She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband and daughter. Follow her antics on Twitter @followthelede.

  The Tradeoff

  by Lauren C. Teffeau

  * * *

  I thought I’d be shielded from the stares that have haunted me all these months leading up to the launch. But even within the transport’s walls, I am still me. The ship cannot protect me from myself — no matter how far away we get from Earth.

  Montgomery whistles when we enter the common area — our improvised base of operations for the next six months as we’re shuttled to Caldwell, a terraforming prospect nearly a quarter-century in the making.

  “Cozy, huh?” He looks my way, a boyish grin dimpling his plump cheek. It’s still a bit disorienting, seeing him like this: an inflated version of his old self.

  A noncommittal sound escapes from the back of my throat. Screens line the fore wall, displaying the grounds crew performing their final checks. Workstations butt up against smooth metal walls. Armchairs are corralled in the center of the room, and a flimsy-looking table for eight stands near the pantry door, if my memory of the ship’s schematics serves.

  “It’ll do.”

  He looks up from his wristcom. “Just like old times.”

  No, it isn’t. But I give him a slight smile that turns into a wince as my pack’s straps pinch the skin on the tops of my shoulders. “I’ll be in my quarters. Let me know once everyone’s on board.”

  “Of course.”

  I ignore his concerned look and lumber back down the hall. Busy adjusting my pack, I nearly run into one of the transport’s crewmembers coming the opposite way. We spend an extended moment pantomiming each other’s movements until I finally press myself up against the wall and suck in a breath.

  The crewman jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll just go the long way.” He backs up, his eyes saucers-wide before he finally turns away, his steps catlike along the corrugated metal floor.

  I let out a breath as my body sags back to where it’s most comfortable, all unwieldy and awkward.

  When I enter my stateroom, I throw my pack onto a small couch tucked underneath another wallscreen — this one depicting the rest of the spaceport in the distance, gleaming metal and plastic in the morning sun. I’ll put my things away later. Now, I just need… I don’t know what I need.

  I ease myself back on the bed and lay flat, listening to my body as it maps itself to the contours of the mattress, then makes new ones.

  The climate control system kicks on, but that’s all I can hear except for the beating of my heart — slow and steady and strong — despite all the stress I’ve put on it these last ten months. But orders are orders. Mission integrity and all that.

  The prep work has caught up with me. If it were possible for me to sleep the whole way to Caldwell, I would. I always want to sleep these days. But it’s my team’s responsibility to ensure the planet is terraformed on schedule. After doing all the planning, the simulations, it is finally my turn to make it all happen, for real, on my own terms. Clarinda Hilliard, creator of worlds. But I don’t feel all-powerful. I feel tired, a tired that sinks into my bones and hovers behind my eyes.

  The fat will eventually burn off, the planet will eventually warm up, and all will be right in the world again. I need to trust in that.

  My wristcom chimes — Montgomery alerting me that the remaining team members have boarded and we’ll be taking off shortly. I thank him, then shut my comm channel off entirely.

  * * *

  Three months in, we’ve settled into an almost normal routine. It’s easier being around others, rounded and fleshy like me. Montgomery looks like a wrestler gone soft. Liang, one of the engineers, is all belly with the same spindly legs he’s always had. Garcia, a research tech, is pear-shaped with expanding hips and thighs like some fertility goddess of old.

  I can’t tell how much the weight bothers the others — they laugh and joke like the people they were before. Sometimes I wonder why I’m the only one who’s different. How humiliating to think that after all I’ve accomplished, I’m still a vain little girl on the inside.

  We aren’t the first team to modify our metabolisms so we’ll store enough excess fat to supplement our energy levels for a mission. On Caldwell, we’ll be working 20-hour shifts every day for 18 months in an arctic climate. Every calorie will count. Our wristcoms will alter our sleep patterns, and the fat will keep us going. Nature’s batteries.

  We are still strong, still healthy, despite our extra weight — we have to be — but it isn�
�t a comfortable existence. My team got the best medical care, what with our biofeedback sensors and doctor visits twice a week. Yet my knees still ache after a long day on my feet and my back protests whenever I sit down. I could have dealt with the chafing and the sweat. And the pots of nanocream for the stretch marks. But the looks from others — that’s what had me cowering in my dark apartment, living like a recluse.

  When everyone is restricted to standard rations, fat people are an anomaly, a symbol of excess from decades long past. Back on Earth, after only four months of increased caloric intake, I stopped leaving my apartment except to go to work. Soon after, I turned off visuals during video calls with friends and family. They said they’d understand, that they wanted to see me before I was gone for almost three years, but by then I was already a stranger in a mountain of skin.

  Some nights I’d come home from work and fill the bathtub with water so hot my skin would smart as I held it over tub’s surface. But I’d get in anyway, pretend I was rendering away all that fat as I floated and sweated, and let the water tickle my ears and fill them with echoing sound.

  Once I caught glimpse of myself in the mirror — I was always so careful to avoid them — and threw a bottle of shampoo at my image. Shattered it into hundreds of fragments, reflecting hundreds of fat intruders that just stared back at me in disbelief. In disgust.

  I cut my hand later, cleaning up all that glass. I could have used the scar-blocker, but I let it heal without.

  I wanted the mark to remember: I chose this.

  I also chose every member of the team.

  We take our meals together — when you have to ingest as many calories as we do, it’s good to have company. The transport’s crew tends to keep to themselves, so it’s just the eight of us, day in and day out. Dr. Salus checks our vitals before each meal and adjusts our intake as necessary.

  Tomblin, my oxygenation specialist, starts fiddling with his wristcom, searching for which meal he’ll experience as he eats the nutrition bars everyone’s issued.

  “You should just put it on random,” Montgomery says. “That’s what I do.”

  Keston, another research tech, shakes her head. “Don’t listen to him. I tried that early on and got surprised by some Korean dish. Couldn’t get that flavor out of my head for a month.”

  “You just need to make sure your preferences are filled out properly,” Montgomery says.

  “What do you do, Commander?” Tomblin asks after punching a selection into his wristcom.

  “I don’t use the sensorium override at all.” I look up from the crumbled nutrients in my bowl and find everyone staring at me.

  “You eat it plain?” Keston asks, eyebrows raised.

  I nod. “I’d rather just get it over with.” My eye catches the thin white scar running down my index finger on the hand holding my spoon. I force myself to take another bite and start chewing. End of discussion.

  Slowly, the team members turn back to their own meals. When everyone finishes, I drill them about the planet’s habitat, geography, research protocols, and project goals. We go through emergency simulations over and over again until I’m sure one day they’ll to stop coming to meals. But they keep showing up, committed to the mission.

  It is only while we work that I am able to forget what I’ve become. I can be who I need to be.

  * * *

  My second struts into my quarters a few minutes before our scheduled meeting with Dr. Salus. All swagger and brash energy, Montgomery smiles, and for a moment, all his fat melts away, leaving the person I first knew.

  “You should invite me over more often.” His eyes flick around the room and land on the bed before darting back towards me. “Roomy.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “I wouldn’t want to be accused of favoritism.”

  “But I am your favorite.”

  I don’t know what to say to that so I cross my arms and contemplate the wallscreen, lights winking past in silent choreography.

  Montgomery clears his throat. “In all seriousness, we need to review the models of Caldwell’s tectonics.”

  “I know. We’ll get to it.”

  The door chimes. Salus. I code the door open, and she walks in. “Commander Hilliard, Lieutenant Montgomery. I wanted to update you on the team’s health since we’ll be reaching Caldwell in just a few days.”

  “Of course, Doctor.” I gesture for the three of us to sit. Montgomery lounges on the couch while the doctor and I take the armchairs.

  “The team’s suffered no ill effects from the metabolic suppression or the increased calorie regimen, yourselves included. The fat we’ve all stored for the mission should be sufficient, given our projected activity levels. However, Liang’s body, for some reason, is dipping into his fat stores now.”

  I glance at Montgomery. “Liang’s getting enough nutrients at meals?”

  “Yes,” Salus says. “Making him ingest more calories could negatively impact his digestive system. Right now, I’m monitoring his thyroid and neurotransmitter levels, but if his condition doesn’t improve and his energy stores can’t keep pace…”

  “We’ll need to reduce his shift load,” Montgomery says, his brow furrowed.

  “We’ll take a look at our timeline to see where we can accommodate Liang should this become an issue.” I catch Montgomery’s eye and he nods in agreement. “Any other concerns, Doctor?”

  She shakes her head. “That’s all I have. I’ll see you both in the morning.”

  We all stand awkwardly together before Salus heads to the door.

  Montgomery starts to follow but instead of leaving, he swings around to face me. “What’s wrong?”

  I blink. Over the years, I’ve learned to be wary of a serious Montgomery. “What do you mean?”

  He shrugs. “You seem distant. If traveling’s getting to you—”

  “It’s not the traveling.”

  He steps toward me. “But it is something.”

  Maybe it is — all the time spent thinking and not doing. Part of me is grateful he still cares. The other is angered my mood is so transparent. I shake my head. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

  “I’m your second-in-command.” His eyes search out mine. “You hand-picked me for this mission for a reason.”

  “Yes, because you know your stuff. Because you have my back.”

  He nods, then runs a hand through his sandy hair. “Promise you’ll tell me if it’s important.”

  I raise my hands. “I promise.” Montgomery’s impossible when he’s like this, like some protective older brother or—

  He goes completely still. “Did you know Mara called it off? Said if I took this mission — with you — it was over?”

  He waits for some reaction from me, for some acknowledgment of his words that I can’t give. I look past his shoulder, at the ship’s enviro panel riveted to the wall. “I think we’re done here, Lieutenant.”

  He doesn’t say anything. His breath ghosts against my cheek. I can almost taste him, and at that thought, my body floods with shame.

  The door whispers open, and he’s finally gone.

  * * *

  Despite our thermosuits, despite our extra girth, despite all the miserable cold showers we had to take to mentally prepare ourselves for the new climate, my first breath of Caldwell air filtered through my facemask is still a punch to the gut.

  Everywhere I look is white. The countryside is a study of textures — flat, striated, smooth, pitted, rocky, sharp — carved by wind and sun. Ildri looms to the north, a large, silent peak so much of the mission is riding on.

  Tomblin’s swearing behind me, and I try not to pause as I lead the team down the ramp. The orbiting space station assembled our base camp in advance of our arrival. Monochromatic engineering at its finest: all white plastics, gray metals, and black rubber.

  Montgomery has Barca do a quick inventory. It’s not that we don’t trust the team who set it up — I just want one of my people telling me we have what we need, not them.

/>   The space station liaison takes great care not to stare at us. I have trouble getting him to respond to me — only Montgomery’s deep rumble consistently commands his attention.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. As my waistline expanded, it was increasingly difficult to get people to concentrate on what I said instead of what my body looked like. And being a woman just made it worse. Until this mission, I didn’t realize how important a milestone standard rations were for our society.

  Tomblin and Garcia bring in a pallet of charges, some as small as a robin’s egg, others as big as an ostrich’s. Keston follows with sensors and drilling equipment. And the space station dropped off the converters before we arrived.

  Barca looks up from the equipment list on her wristscreen. “Everything’s accounted for.”

  “Good.”

  Ildri is our first project. Then we’ll fan out across Caldwell’s frozen wastes, following the fault lines the space station already mapped for us. Then it’s just a matter of drilling down into the ground, planting the charges, and setting up the converters.

  The real trick will be to ensure our efforts don’t cause undo stress to Caldwell’s tectonics until we’re ready for it. But that’s why I’m here.

  * * *

  “Commander, look at this.” Garcia calls me over to the control room display.

  She points at the electromagnetic field indicators fed in part by satellite data from the space station as well as our own sensors we set up at the base of Ildri, once a mountain of fire now at peace.

  And it needs to stay that way for a little longer, but the dancing lines tell me we’ve already upset the balance in setting the charges. Like vibrations along a spider web. Just the right frequency can shake the morning dew from the silken threads. Too hard, and the whole web collapses.

  “We need to stop drilling.”

  Garcia’s chubby cheeks look wan through the visor of her suit. “But that will slow the timeline…”