“All of it.”
Caroline sets down her coffee. Starts and stops several questions. Looks out a window. Back at me. “Hm.”
“Fuck it, right?” I ask.
“Right,” she says, smiling. The tears well in her eyes. She’s just as shocked by them as I am. Then the tears well up in my eyes. And now we’re both half crying, half laughing at our own ridiculousness. She reaches across the counter and takes my hand. “Thank you.” She squeezes my hand. She swipes at her tears with her shoulder. “Actresses, am I right?” I laugh, and she bursts through her tears with an openmouthed laugh that’s so unguarded it breaks my heart.
Ellen walks into the room and immediately regrets it.
“Shit. I’m … uh … Caroline, your stylist is here,” Ellen says.
“That was fast,” I say.
“She was waiting for the call,” Ellen says without looking at us. “Figured you’d need her.”
“Ah, right,” I say.
“Can I send her in?” Ellen asks.
“Yeah,” I say, stepping off the stool. Caroline looks up at me. “Everything is going to be okay.”
“I believe you,” she says.
Caroline hops up from the stool and gives me a giant hug. “Yes, I’m still crying, but these are tears of joy now, okay?” she yells into the crook of my neck. I laugh.
Ellen walks in with Caroline’s stylist and we stop embracing each other long enough to welcome them into the kitchen. I walk over to Caroline’s breakfast nook and tuck into the banquette with my phone. I text Mom that everything is okay. She’s glad to hear it. We go back and forth about if I’m going to be home for dinner, and whether or not she can tell Mrs. Stanhope and Joyce Chen about the goings-on. I play along and act like she hasn’t already told them. I text Gus and confirm that we’re still on for our first event since he moved out of L.A. It’s up in San Francisco and is just a photo shoot for an interview that he’ll be doing later on in the month. It should be a pretty painless reentry. I’ll meet up with him for dinner in Mill Valley and we’ll head over to the studio together in the morning.
I scroll through my emails as the stylist has Caroline try on close to a thousand different looks. We decide on an off-the-rack fuchsia Christian Siriano faille petal gown. With its three-quarter-length sleeves, high neck, and leaf appliqué, the dress looks like something a punkish girl would wear to her grandmother’s afternoon tea. Caroline usually defaults to black and cream. Classic designers. Safe styles. She has never made it onto a worst-dressed list, nor has she made it onto a best-dressed list, either. This dress, with its bold color and spotlight style, marks a definite change. It’s unlike anything Caroline has ever worn and it’s perfect. Caroline’s hair and makeup are close to being done as morning becomes afternoon. She hasn’t practiced what she’s going to say. She’s been laughing and talking all day, completely unburdened. No lines to learn, she just has to be herself.
Just be yourself.
I know that I got broken like that lamp. And instead of trying to fix it, I decided that I should get a new me. It was easier.
The Fat Me is the Real Me.
That’s the dark secret I didn’t want anyone to know. I am unlikable. Difficult. Arrogant. Hard to get to know. And so uncool. No amount of weight loss or dyed hair or expensive outfits or the perfect husband is going to hide that anymore.
Thank … god.
I scroll through my emails and find the one from Shannon Shimasaki. The homecoming dance is tonight. And I’m taking the Fat Me as a date.
* * *
“No, I don’t have a ticket, I’m … I used to go here,” I say to the apparent ten-year-old behind the card table decorated with blue and gold streamers.
“Oh. When?” The look on her face is one of complete disbelief. Like someone my age could have gone to a school that is not now a Roman ruin.
“There. Olivia Morten,” I say, pointing at a name tag. The girl looks at the picture that’s on the name tag. Back at me. Back at the picture. “Yeah. I know. It’s me.”
“You look way different is all,” she says, peeling the name tag off its plastic backing and pushing it onto my boob with the finesse of an EMT searching for a heartbeat. I pay my money and the girl rattles off directions and door prizes and all the awards and king and queen, and she’s still talking even as I walk down the long hallway toward the ballroom. I’m wearing a dress that I borrowed from Caroline. Once she found out what I was going to do, she made sure I was wearing the best revenge dress ever. Never above a makeover montage, I went along with it. It’s a tight red dress that looks like it should be on some pinup girl painted on the side of a World War II bomber. Am I trying too hard? I should have dressed more casual. But, I couldn’t say no to the dress. Well, it was what the Fat Me wanted.
Caroline zipped the dress into its bag and I carried it right onto the lot where the late-night show is taped. Ellen and I watched from the greenroom and Caroline was funny and honest and irreverent. She sat in the chair just like she sits at home—one leg curled under her. She talked honestly about the pain of divorce, and she never got bitter and she never blamed anyone for what she said to that reporter. By the time she climbed into the car with Richard, she’d won everyone over simply by being real. She wasn’t right. She wasn’t perfect. She was just someone people could relate to. She was a human being.
I can hear the bass of the music from out in the hallway, as well as high-pitched titters of the teenage girls and the monosyllabic grunts of their gangly, awkward dates. Oh, god. I turn around and begin to walk back down the hallway. Why did I come? What was I thinking? I smooth the dress down and catch a pack of teenage boys looking right at my boobs. I spin around. Walk in. Back around. No. You don’t need to do this. Just because you never went to a homecoming dance doesn’t mean that you need to remedy this now, Olivia. Spin back around. Yes, it does. She deserves this. I deserve this. I get to go to homecoming, goddammit. I spin back around. Fine. Okay. Just walk.
I make a deal with myself. All I have to do is walk into that ballroom. See it. Just see it. Just let it know that it didn’t beat me. I am you, past. And you are me. And I’m here to say goodbye. And then I can walk right out and say that I’ve done it. That’s it. That’s all I have to do. And then I can go back to Mom’s and eat bean and cheese burritos and watch more episodes of the hot-vicar cozy mystery Caroline got Mom and me hooked on.
“I can do this,” I say. And I walk in.
The large ballroom is alive. Hundreds of people sit at round tables, stand in clusters, and fill the dance floor. The music is loud and everyone has come here to have the night of their lives. Including me. I take a slight step back.
“Olivia Morten?” A group of women are standing just inside the doors to the ballroom. I turn to look at them. Mary Benicci, Gretchen Bliss, and Shannon Shimasaki. The three girls who made my high school life hell. They look exactly the same. They sound exactly the same. “I’d heard you’d lost a ton of weight.” I smile at the women and then just keep walking. They’re only important if I make them so. I’ve finally broken free and there is no way I’m going to tether my happiness to whether or not these insignificant women cosign my ongoing successes.
I step out onto the ballroom floor. I’ll do one lap around the dance floor and then I’ll leave. For good. I walk. And watch. Kids laughing. Dancing. Couples fighting. Couples hugging. Girlfriends circling the wagons around a friend who’s been done wrong. Packs of kids dancing together. Taking pictures on their phones. Kids standing on the fringes being dragged onto the dance floor. I can’t stop smiling. It’s … it’s everything I thought it would be.
I settle alongside the dance floor by the concessions. I let myself move a little to the music. I close my eyes and sway. It feels good. I feel weightless. Somewhere deep inside of me I hear someone saying, “This is so fun!” And the voice gets louder and louder as the Fat Me stops being my dirty little secret and starts being me being myself. A group of kids gather around the dance floor
and I open my eyes. I turn to the two girls closest to me.
“This is so fun,” I yell over the music.
“Right?” the girl says back.
“You should get out there and dance,” the other girl says.
“Oh, I’m okay. You go! You go!” I say, getting all flustered at the prospect of being dragged out onto the dance floor by a pack of overzealous teenagers looking to give an old-timer a special moment.
The song changes over to Bruce Springsteen’s “Secret Garden.” I look at the girl standing next to me. I yell over the music, “I love this song!” She nods her head and then she and her friends bound toward their table before some boy asks them to slow dance.
I sway along with the song. The shimmering lights. A couple steps back. Another steps forward. They move left and then float to the right. The quiet murmuration of Easter egg–colored dresses pressed against dark-hued, ill-fitting suits. But, straight through the center like an arrow shot at the moon, Ben Dunn pierces across the dance floor as if no one else exists. An inky black suit and a crisp white shirt that lulls open with the weight of his starched collar. I watch him. All of him. Closer. His eyes on me. Closer. The song now muffled. The lights now dimmed. He stands in front of me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, unable to hide how happy I am to see him.
“Chaperoning. Remember?”
“I thought that was just the football game?”
“Nope.”
“Hm.” I look back over to the dance floor and smile. Sway with the music.
“Shall we?” he asks, extending his hand. The voice that was once buried so deeply is now right at the surface of my skin. She is me and I am her. And we are finally free.
“Hell yes,” I say, taking his hand. He leans his head back and laughs that crumbling, crackling barroom laugh of his. We walk out onto the dance floor and he takes my hand in his, tucking it close to his chest. He wraps his other arm around my waist and pulls me in close. An arched eyebrow and a curl of a smile and he moves us with the music. The rest of the dance floor fades away and it’s just us. I tuck in and feel his stubbly jawline against my face and let the smell of soap and fabric softener welcome me home. He leans down and brushes my face with his. I hold on to him. And we move. And sway with the music.
I’ve never felt more safe. And real. And seen.
When the song ends, we just stand there. Staring at each other.
“I was an idiot,” he says.
“When?”
“Always.” I laugh and he smiles.
“I’m getting a divorce,” I say.
“That’s too bad,” he says, smiling.
“No, it’s not,” I say.
“No, it’s not.”
I take my time. I bring my hand to the side of his face. His arm tightens around my waist and as I’m pulled closer to him, I laugh. It’s a nervous, dangerous laugh. And when he kisses me, it’s a joyous riot of a kiss that doesn’t scare me at all.
“I’d better get home,” I say, pulling away from him however many minutes later. “I mean, I have to get back to Mom’s. She’s making bean and cheese burritos.”
“Right. Okay,” Ben says, breathless. “Oh, shit. Wait. You’re shaking.” I hadn’t even noticed. He takes off his coat and holds it out for me. “I got you.” I thread my arms into the warmth that his body left. I smile. “What? What was that?”
“I was just thinking how thankful I was that the coat fit,” I say, laughing. He is confused. “At one time it probably wouldn’t have.” I wait for him to get it.
“Oh, right.”
“Yeah.” He’s about to say something. “We don’t have to … I…” I tilt up and kiss him. I wrap my arms around him and lean back. “You’re real. That’s all I need.” He nods.
“I can do that,” he says.
“Then we’re good,” I say.
I try to give Ben back his coat, but he says he’ll get it the next time he sees me. And I can’t wait.
The next morning, I wake early to find his coat hanging on the chair next to the desk where I did all my homework in high school. I wish I could show it to the Fat Me. Let her see that one day Ben Dunn’s coat is going to be in her room. But, she sees it. She’s here now. She knows.
I pad over to the coat and run my fingers along its fabric on my way to the shower. I get ready, have morning coffee with Mom, and am on my way to see Gus. Windows open. Music blasting. Maybe I played “Secret Garden” twenty or thirty times. Who’d blame me? I stop at giant gas stations and fill up on sparkling waters, hot teas, and any kind of road food I want. I throw my hair up into a ponytail and can’t remember a time I felt this alive. This free. By the time I hit San Francisco, it’s dusk.
As the Golden Gate Bridge comes into view, I’m smiling and crying and thankful and overcome and mournful and hopeful and excited and happy and thoughtful and nostalgic and scared and real. I’m finally real again.
I cross the bridge in reverent silence. The beautiful thunking of the bridge under my wheels is a religious thrum. The bay glistens below me and the fog rolls in above me. Once across, I find parking, pull Ben’s coat from the backseat, grab my scarf, and climb out of my car. I wrap the scarf around my neck as I walk toward the bridge, the lights of the city twinkling back at me. I lean over the bridge and breathe it all in. The air is just different up here. Blasts of crisp wind cleanse and brutalize me all at the same time. And all I hear is the water, and the thunk-thunk-thunk of the wheels on the bridge, and my own breath.
I stand back up and finally replay that fateful night. Thar She Blows. I look back out at the bay. How did I never see it? How did I not see that was the night I lost myself? How did I not see that was the moment I disappeared? That it was that night when I chose to believe I was so broken that I deserved to be thrown away. That I was hopeless and beyond redemption. How could I have been so wrong? I lean back over the side of the bridge and take in another deep breath.
I am not broken.
I am real.
And I am here.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I was sitting in my car. It was hot. And I was being told that my publisher passed on my latest book proposal.
Here’s the thing about That Moment: you don’t know it’s That Moment.
If you knew it was That Moment—the Maybe I Don’t Get to Write Novels Anymore moment—I … well, I’d disappear. I’m a writer. I write novels. I’m a writer. I write novels. Aren’t I?
Sitting in that car, time slowing like molasses, sweat dripping down my face, disappearing disappearing, I threw a Hail Mary. Throat choking, I pitched The F Word. That was three years ago.
Marilyn Monroe famously said, “If you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.”
Here are the people who were the best when I was at my worst.
Annelise Robey was the first hand to come over the cliff. Amy Einhorn, Caroline Bleeke, and everyone at Flatiron Books pulled me up, dusted me off, and got me to work.
Sarah, Amber, Sarah, Kate, Margaret, Erik, Cecil, Javi, Jay, Tom, The Shamers, Nick, Alyssa, Jenelle, Cindi, Sarayu, Jenn, Kerri, Julia, Mark and Sara, Garrett, Kate, Garrick, Neil, Matthew, Sanjana, Rocco, BuzzFeed lovelies, and Zack. Thank you. Thank you for being there. For being kind. And funny. And so smart and talented.
And my family. Resendizs, Jasos, Petersons, and Gallaghers. Mom, Don, Alex, Joe, Bonnie, and Zoë. You are my people. It’s us. Until the wheels come off. Ride or die.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
The F Word
by Liza Palmer
Welcome to the Reading Group Guide for The F Word.
PLEASE NOTE: In order to provide reading groups with the most informed and thought-provoking questions possible, it is necessary to reveal important aspects of the plot of this novel—as well as the ending. If you have not finished reading The F Word, we respectfully suggest that you may want to wait before reviewing this guide.
1. Discuss the novel’s opening line: ?
??There’s the truth and then there’s the lie that people want to believe.” How does that distinction apply to Olivia’s life?
2. At her dinner party, Olivia argues that celebrities shape our lives without our even realizing it: “Being a woman can be such a mystery sometimes, we unconsciously look to these celebrities as surrogate mentors for our own femininity. They appear to be so natural, that we look to them to set the standard.… I’d even go so far as to say that you owe your very marriage and current happiness to none other than Caroline Whatever-Her-Name-Is.” What do you think? How are celebrities portrayed in this novel?
3. Olivia claims that the “ugly truth about women and gossip” is “we only talk shit about the women we’re afraid jeopardize the things we have and want. That’s why when I was fat, people made fun of me, but no one gossiped about me. Why? Because nothing of theirs was ever at risk of being taken by me, least of all their men.” Do you agree? Discuss the various female friendships in this novel and how they are often tied up with jealousy, weight, and beauty. How do Olivia’s friendships compare to her mom’s?
4. Olivia argues, “Everyone has a story about who they are. Not just celebrities. Look at social media—we’re all pushing some version of the life we want you to believe. It’s all just PR.” Do you think social media has changed our relationship to fame and celebrity? To ourselves?
5. For Olivia, her obsession with her weight is tied to a much larger issue: “When a woman calls herself fat, she’s voicing the deep fear that she is, in fact, unlovable. It’s just easier to talk about juice cleanses and Cardio Barre than the deep abiding shame we fear is threaded into our DNA.” Do you agree? Why do you think there is still so much pressure on women to be thin? Why is weight so often tied to self-esteem?
6. Olivia reflects: “Caroline’s Super Hobo should meet my Sweaty Marble. They’ve turned out to be quite the similar pair of ghosts.” How do the various characters’ pasts both haunt and motivate their futures? In your opinion, how important is childhood in determining who we grow up to be?