"So, what can we do with this news story while we're waiting for din-din?" Emma asked. "Well, I guess we should have enough time to call it in. Are you up for it?" "You heard me this afternoon," she replied. "I'm a pro!" They found the number for the Inquisitor and the editor's name on a web site, and Lisha took up her position cheek-to-cheek with her friend. "Samantha Pepys, please," Emma said when the receptionist answered the phone. "I'm sorry, Ms. Pepys is on another line. Can I take a message?" "Sure. You can tell her that I've got a scoop about your cover-girl for the last couple of weeks that's so hot, I can only hold onto it for about two minutes before I call my friend Danielle Defoe at the Tattler and offer it to her. They don't give bylines, though, so I'll have to charge them double the price I'd charge you. So, I'd suggest you interrupt Ms. Pepys's call and let her decide whether to brush me off or not, instead of letting her find out that you blew this opportunity -- and I'll make sure she finds out." The receptionist didn't have a chance to breathe, let alone speak, and she was obviously smart enough to know when to stop running interference, saying, "Hold on a moment, please; I'll see if I can interrupt her."

Lisha looked at her friend admiringly, saying, "Where do you come up with this stuff from?" "I don't know -- too many late-night forties movies or something. They all talked like this back then." Another voice came on the line just then, a deep woman's voice, saying, "I don't like bullshit, so I don't like you already. This better be quick and it better be good." "You don't have to like me," Emma said. "You just have to like getting a story with photos and named sources telling you that this isn't the first time Lisha Goldrock's been fat. And the fifteen or twenty pounds she's gained now is nothing when you consider that she weighed 300-400 pounds in high school and started losing it at a sleepaway camp for fat girls right before eleventh grade. She's kept it off since then, but -- you know what they say about fat cells: they don't go away; instead they just sit there like little empty balloons waiting for the right meal to fill them up again."

There was silence on the other end for a second, then the voice spoke, a little less harshly, asking, "You said you have photos?" "A photo. Apparently, Miss Goldrock destroyed almost every fat photo that her family had. I got this one from a long-lost friend who was dumped by her -- but that's another story I might want to tell you if I think we can work together." Emma winked at Lisha, then pointed at herself, smiling. "And what about these sources? You can use their names?" "Absolutely. Head Counselor of the camp and High School Drama teacher. Both confirming that she was at least as fat as in this photo. I've written the article and I want byline and photo credit." "No problem -- if we take it. Fax me a taste." "I'll fax the photo." Emma got the number, then sent the picture over the lines, hearing the beep of the machine on the other end as the transmission concluded. "How much?" The woman asked. "Twelve grand." "Forget it!" "I'll gladly forget this whole conversation; too bad YOU won't when you see it on the Tattler's front page, knowing that you could've had it for half as much." "I'll give you eight." "No bargaining. I've got the photo in my hand and I can see the live subject, too -- looks like she's filling up those empty fat cells pretty quickly." "You're telling me that you can see her right now? You know where she is? She dropped out of sight last week and no one's talking." "I'm practically close enough to bite her -- if I felt like getting a mouthful of blubber, that is." Lisha giggled as Emma gave her a playful nibble on her soft upper arm.

"Okay," the editor said. "It's a deal." "Good!" Emma replied, "See, it's nice to play nice! And when I get some of these photos developed from today, I'll make sure you get first dibs. This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship." Emma told her to mail the check made out to Lydia Wickham to a P.O. Box in Delaware, telling Samantha that she'd mail the story to her right away and the photo as soon as she knew the check had arrived and been deposited, then finished up by telling her that she'd be in touch tomorrow.

"You were incredible!" Lisha said after taking the phone from her mentally exhausted friend and placing it back on the cradle. "Where'd you come up with that name and that box number? Are they real?" "Yeah. I did some consulting and web designing for a couple of -- I guess 'offbeat' is the best description -- groups, and I felt a little uncomfortable having them know where I was and who I was, so I incorporated in Delaware and I've got this service that picks up any mail for me and banks for me -- they'll even meet someone and pretend to be me, for a fee. A very hefty fee." "I hope, for a hefty fee, they'd at least have a beautiful hefty girl to play you!" "I'm not sure of that, but... I'll call tomorrow and find out if the check got NatExpressed there on time."

The timer buzzer went off just then and they walked, this time, into the kitchen, where the smell of garlicky tomato sauce had both their stomachs rumbling with anticipation. Emma opened a bottle of Cabernet, while Lisha got out the plates and divided the first tray of the steaming hot entree between their two dishes, piling it on, careful to avoid losing even the tiniest drop of sauce. They sat next to each other at the small, round breakfast table, carefully blowing on each of the first few fork-fulls to keep from burning their tongues.

"It's amazing," Lisha said, in between swallows, "that part you play on the phone. You think you know everything there is to know about someone, and then you discover some hidden talent..." "It really isn't so hidden: you weren't the only one who wanted to be an actress, y'know." "Of course I know that -- hell, when I first started doing this professionally, all I could think of was calling you up and asking you to read the lines for me so I'd know how to play them! You were much better than me, but..." "But, I was too shy. I played parts great in front of you, but, put me in front of an audience -- even as small an audience as there was during rehearsals -- and my voice would get quieter and quieter, I'd start tripping over my words, forgetting my lines. And the more screw-ups I made, the more nervous I got, and eventually, I'd feel myself totally collapse inside, so all I could do was walk off the stage and cry. It was such a miserable experience that I can't believe I tried it as many times as I did!"

The mighty mountains of veal parmigiana had been eroded to tall hills, and Lisha said, "I know why you did it. It's for the same reason that any of us do it: for the attention." Emma gave a sad smile, saying, "Yeah, just like at home: I wanted attention, but when I got it, it was so negative and so destructive, that it made me want to disappear and never be noticed again." They ate in silence for a moment, Emma, finally breaking the mood, saying, "But I was saved, and you know who saved me?" "Me?" Lisha asked, hesitantly. "Well, besides you -- I mean, you were there with me night and day, thick and... thicker." She smiled and continued, "But, y'know who I really think of as the person who made me feel like it wasn't me -- it wasn't my fault?" "No. Who?"

"Your mom." "Really?" Lisha asked, very surprised. "How?" Emma looked at her friend, saying, "She never said a word to me about what was going on at my house, but she didn't have to. I didn't understand most of this back then -- it's something I realized later. But she knew. Little things. I was over your house all the time after my mother married the fuckhead, and when my clothes got dirty, like they always did, she'd tell you to give me something of yours to wear and then she'd wash my clothes, and then -- instead of telling me to bring them home -- she gave me a drawer in your dresser and told both of us that it was MY drawer, remember?" Lisha nodded her head, saying, "Yeah, I do remember..." "And then, when it was time to go home for dinner, and I'd be getting ready to go -- she always asked ME if I wanted to stay. We never had to do that 'Can Emma stay, Mom, pleeeeeeeeeease!' And SHE'D always call my house, instead of making me call and tell them that I was staying. God only knows how she convinced them to let me stay night after night."

"I never really thought about the reasons for all this stuff," Lisha said, "but I remember when they moved that second bed up into my bedroom, my mom telling me that she was afraid it'd get all musty in the basement, and that if I had friends stay over..." "There was only one friend staying over," Emma said. "I remember she bought me a toothbrush and made a place in the closet for my stuff. She'd send me home occasionally, when she felt that my mom might be getting jealous or something, but she'd always have some kind of 'plans' for us so that I'd have a reason to come back the next day. When Bob tried to... the first time, I didn't even hesitate about where to go -- I went straight to your house, passing right by my mom's beauty parlor, and even though I didn't tell your mom how I got those bruises, I'm pretty sure it was she who called the cops on him. That's when I stayed at your place for a month straight." "That's right! That was in spring of tenth grade, just before we went to camp!"

"And that's something else I didn't think of until -- well, until I was in therapy last year. Who paid for me to go to that camp? My mom was blaming me for 'lying' about Bob at the time -- thank god, she finally got some help! -- and there was no way she could've afforded it anyway. Probably spent all the money on lawyers, and that's why she had to close the shop the next year. So, your parents must've paid for me!" "Are you serious?" Lisha asked. "Think about it. I called her up last Christmas after I got the card and the little gift she always sends me, and she was just as sweet as she'd ever been and sounded just as happy to hear from me as she always was. And -- I didn't want to come right out and ask her, so -- I just said, 'Thank you for everything. Thank you for always being there and for saving my life.' And she just gave a little laugh, saying, 'Where DO my girls get this drama thing from, anyway?' I just left it at that." Her eyes were all teary and she sniffled as she smiled. "There are some people..." Emma started, leaving the phrase hanging as her voice clogged up with emotion.

Lisha found herself reacting the same wet way, and she reached over and put her arm around her friend's bare shoulder, gently pulling her close, until Emma's head rested on Lisha's chest. After a few minutes of melancholy silence, Lisha couldn't resist putting on the mock wonderment and saying, "Wow! Now, if my mom's a saint, what does that make me?" The seriousness drained away quickly, replaced by a degree of levity; Emma sat up with a big smile on her face, put her palms on Lisha's shoulders and pretended to push her friend away, saying "It makes you a fat fool, who better finish her dinner before it gets cold -- or before I finish it for her!" They laughed and talked, filling in some of the meanings behind their shared but unexplored teenage years, at the same time filling their wineglasses with the spicy wine and filling their faces with more and more of the food, until their forks were scraping up the last few bits of solidified cheese left on their plates. "More?" Lisha asked. "Are you having more?" Emma replied. "Yes." "Well then it was foolish of you to ask -- of course I'm having more!" "Y'know," Lisha said, giving each of them half as much as the first time, " you don't have to do this. I'M the one who decided to get fat." "Well, my arm feels just fine, so I don't think you're twisting it. And -- despite the negative talk -- it's reminding me of when we were younger: the fun parts!" "All my parts are fun," Lisha said. "Well, I'll just have to take your word for it -- for now!"

Emma went to pour some more wine into their empty glasses, but discovered that they'd drained the bottle. "Are you drunk?" she asked. "I'm not sure," Lisha said, "but I'll let you know when my head clears!" "I'm barely buzzed! Well, we've inadvertently discovered one small advantage of being your weight instead of being mine -- you're a cheaper date to get drunk!" "Yes, but I could bankrupt a guy just by having him buy me dinner!"

If you've got any comments or criticisms, you can post them on the WeightBoard or e-mail me at: melaniebel@aol.com.

And don't forget to visit my website at http://members.aol.com/melaniebel