Queen of Babble

6

But speak the truth, and all nature and all spirits help you with unexpected furtherance. Speak the truth, and all things alive or brute are vouchers, and the very roots of the grass underground there do seem to stir and move to bear you witness.

– Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882),

U.S. essayist, poet, and philosopher

It takes five rings before Shari answers. For a minute I’m worried she won’t pick up at all. What if she’s asleep? I know it’s only nine o’clock after all, Europe time, but what if she hasn’t adjusted to the time difference as well as I have? Even though she’s been over here longer. She was supposed to have gotten to Paris two days ago, stayed one night in a hotel there, then traveled down to the chateau the next day.

But then again, she’s Shari-great at school stuff, not so good at everyday life stuff. She’s dropped her cell phone in the toilet more times than I can count. Who knows if I’ll even get through to her?

Then, to my relief, she finally picks up. And it’s clear I haven’t wakened her-because there is music blaring in the background. A song in which the refrain, Vamos a la playa, plays over and over, to a Latin beat.

“Liz-ZIE!” Shari yells into the phone. “Is that YOOOOOU?”

Oh yes. She’s drunk.

“How are yooooouuuuu?” she wants to know. “How’s London? How’s hot, hot, hot Andrew? How’s his aaaaaaaasssssssssss?”

“Shari,” I say in a low voice. I don’t want the Marshalls to hear me, so I’m ru

“Wait, let me see if I can find Chaz,” Shari says. Then she cackles. “Just kidding! Oh my God, Lizzie, you should see this place. You’d die. It’s like Under the Tuscan Sun and Valmont combined. Luke’s house is HUGE. HUGE. It has a name-Mirac. It has its own VINEYARD. Lizzie, they make their own champagne. THEY MAKE IT THEMSELVES.”

“That’s great,” I say. “Shari, I think Andrew told his brothers I was fat.”

Shari is silent for a moment. I am urged once again to Vamos a la playa. Then Shari explodes.

“He fucking said that? He fucking said you were fat? Stay where you are. Stay right where you fucking are. I’m getting on the Chu

“Shari,” I say. She is yelling so loudly I’m worried the Marshalls might hear her. Through the closed door. Over the TV and the ru

“I take it back,” Shari says, “I’m not going there. You’re coming here. Buy a train ticket and get over here. Be sure to ask for a youth pass. You’ll have to change trains in Paris. Buy a ticket there for Souillac. And then just call me. We’ll pick you up at the station.”

“Shari,” I say, “I can’t do that. I can’t just leave.”

“Like fuck you can’t,” Shari says. I hear another voice in the background. Then Shari is saying to someone else, “It’s Lizzie. That fucker Andrew works all day and all night and is fucking making her stay at his parents’ and eat tomatoes. And he said she was fat.”

“Shari,” I say, feeling a twinge of guilt, “I don’t know that he said that. And he’s not-who are you telling this to, anyway?”

“Chaz says get your far-from-fat ass on a train in the morning. He will personally pick you up at the train station tomorrow night.”

“I can’t go to France,” I say, horrified. “My return ticket home is from Heathrow. It’s nonreturnable and nontransferable and non-everything.”

“So? You can go back to England at the end of the month and fly home from there. Come on, Lizzie. We’ll have SO MUCH fun.”

“Shari, I can’t go to France,” I say miserably. “I don’t want to go to France. I love Andrew. You don’t understand. That night outside McCracken Hall…it was magical, Shar. He saw into my soul, and I saw into his.”

“How could you?” Shari demands. “It was dark.”

“No it wasn’t. We had the glow of the flames from that girl’s room to see by.”

“Well, then maybe you just saw what you wanted to see. Or maybe you just felt what you wanted to feel.”

She’s talking, I know, about Andrew’s stiffy. I stare blindly down at the water splashing into the tub.

The thing is, I am generally a very happy person. I even laughed after Alistair said that thing at the table, about me being a fatty. Because what else are you supposed to do when you find out your boyfriend’s been going around telling people you’re fat?

Especially since the last time Andrew saw me, I had been fat. Or at least thirty pounds heavier than I am now.

I had to laugh, because I didn’t want the Marshalls to think I’m some kind of oversensitive freak.

I think I succeeded, too, because all Mrs. Marshall did was shoot her son an outraged look…Then, since I guess I didn’t appear to be offended, she seemed to forget about it. So did everyone else.

And Alistair turned out to be quite nice, offering to let me use his computer in order to start my thesis, which I then worked on for the rest of the day, until breaking for a “curry supper” from the “takeaway” shop on the corner with the two elder Marshalls, the boys having gone out. We ate while watching a British mystery show, during which I only understood approximately one word out of every seven, due to the actors’ accents.

The thing is, I was determined not to let the fat thing get me down. Because despite what my sisters might think-and they were always more than happy to let their feelings on the matter be known to me, growing up-weight doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t. I mean, it does if you’re a model or whatever.

But in general being a few pounds overweight hasn’t ever kept me from doing what I wanted to. Sure, there were all those times I was the last one picked for volleyball in gym class.

And the occasional mortification of having to appear in front of a guy I had a crush on in a bathing suit at the lake or whatever.

And then there were the dumb frat guys who wouldn’t look twice at me because I was heavier than the kind of girls they preferred.

But who wants to hang around frat guys? I want to be with guys who have more on their minds than where the next keg party is. I want to be with guys who care about making this world a better place-the way Andrew does. I want to be with guys who know that what’s important isn’t the size of a girl’s waistband but the size of her heart-like Andrew. I want to be with guys who are able to see past a girl’s outward appearance, and into her soul-like Andrew.

It’s just that…well, based on Alistair’s remark, it seems like maybe Andrew didn’t see into my soul that night outside McCracken Hall.

The tomato thing, too. I TOLD Andrew-or wrote to him, actually-that I hate tomatoes. I told him it’s the one single food I totally can’t stand. I even went on, at great length, about how horrible it was, growing up in a household that was half Italian, hating tomatoes. Mom was always brewing up huge batches of tomato sauce to use in her pastas and lasagnas. She had a huge tomato garden in the backyard that I was in charge of weeding, since I wouldn’t touch the ugly red things and so was no help in the picking or cleaning department.