Sarai Walker - Dietland

To: DaisyChain

Subject: **confidential**

Dear Kitty,

I have really small breasts. They aren’t even really breasts. I mean, I have nipples, two pink buds, but there is virtually nothing underneath them. I might as well be a boy. My grandmother is giving me $5,000 when I graduate from high school in June. I want to study art history at Stanwyck College next year, so I plan to take the $5,000 and go to Italy in the summer to look at art. But maybe with the money I could get breast implants instead. What do you think? I know I seem shallow, but even though I’m smart, I think having bigger breasts would make me feel more normal.

Love,

Alexis J. in L.A.

How had I done this job for three whole years? If I’d printed out all my responses, they would have been as thick as a pile of books—books that I had written, but not in my own voice.

I stared at Alexis’s message on my screen, my finger hovering over the delete key, but obliterating her didn’t seem like the right thing to do. I knew how I would have responded to her if I’d still been working for Kitty: “You don’t need breast implants, Alexis! You’re beautiful the way you are!” Kitty insisted that I use that last line as much as possible. I told her it wouldn’t ring true, since she had never seen the girls who were writing, but Kitty had said that was irrelevant. All girls are beautiful, she liked to say, but she only featured the usual models in the magazine.

I decided to respond to Alexis from my personal email account:

From: PlumK

To: dolcevita95

Subject: Re: **confidential**

Dear Alexis J.,

Kitty never bothers to reply to these messages herself, but maybe I can help you. You’re at a fork in the road, and for argument’s sake, we’ll imagine you taking the path that begins with two silicone pouches being inserted into your chest. You’ve obtained the breasts of your dreams. You max out two credit cards buying revealing clothes, because hey, what’s the point of having huge breasts if you can’t show them to people? The attention you receive from men is exhilarating, and as such, during your first semester at Stanwyck College, you spend more time at parties than you do studying Frida Kahlo. You meet men at parties who rarely look you in the eye because they’re too enamored with your graduation present. You sleep with a lot of them. You repeatedly turn up late for class, hung over, without having done your homework, and before you know it your grades plummet and you’re kicked out of college. You move out of your dorm and into a Torrance apartment complex called Pacific Gardens with two other women and take a job managing a dental practice. Your boss, Irwin Michaelson, D.D.S., a fifty-one-year-old widower, compliments you when you wear low-cut blouses. In between drilling holes in people’s teeth, Dr. Michaelson likes to drill you in the supply closet. Pretty soon you become Mrs. Irwin Michaelson, D.D.S. You move into his condo in Santa Monica and quit your job because Irwin says that no wife of his needs to work. You learn to have a gourmet dinner ready for Irwin when he gets home from work each night; otherwise, he goes berserk. You begin to wonder whether his first wife died in a scuba-diving accident, as he claims. Your Internet searches for “Gloria Michaelson, scuba death” don’t return any hits. You consider leaving Irwin and returning to school, but he knocks you up and the two of you buy a house in Redondo Beach. Before you know it you’re thirty years old, with a son named Irwin Jr. and twin daughters named Maddison and Maddalyn, driving a Kia Sedona, the inside of which smells like stale french fries and baby shit. Irwin, you suspect, is having an affair. You start to drink. A lot. Irwin says you look a bit baggy, so you get a tummy tuck and lipo, but it doesn’t help. He announces the day before your tenth wedding anniversary that he’s divorcing you to marry Angie, a new dental hygienist in his office. You offer to supersize your breasts and he accuses you of implying that he’s a superficial prick. You threaten to take him to the cleaners in divorce court and he laughs. Ha ha ha! You threaten to accuse him of being a wife beater and he throws the tiki statue you bought on your honeymoon to Oahu; it ricochets off your eye and shatters on the fireplace mantel and you have to wear an eye patch, like a pirate. You don’t say anything else, because you fear you might end up at the bottom of the sea like the first Mrs. Michaelson. Irwin leaves and doesn’t come back for three days. When he returns, the police arrest him for domestic abuse. As they cuff him in the driveway, he screams, “What have I ever done to you, you ugly cow?” The whole neighborhood pretends not to hear. Maddalyn cries. Or is it Maddison? You hire a private detective to take incriminating photographs of Irwin and Angie in flagrante delicto, since it’s the only way you can ensure that after your divorce you can continue living the life of an upper-middle-class mother of three in Southern California. Without half of Irwin’s bank account, you’re screwed.

Not a pretty picture, is it, Alexis? Do you really want to end up a lonely, bitter housewife with a drinking problem? Be grateful for your A-cup. Go to Italy next summer. Eat lots of gelato.

Love,

Plum

P.S. If you give me your address, I’ll send you a signed copy of Fuckability Theory.

I stayed at the coffeehouse until it closed, responding to the rest of the girls in my inbox, offering them each a signed copy of Marlowe’s book or Verena’s, whichever they preferred. Then I clicked open the spreadsheet of 50,000 email addresses that I had sent to Julia, which was still on my desktop. I would email the girls in batches, offering to send them books, which we could discuss if they were interested. Even if only a handful of them agreed, it would be worth it.

I had wanted a project of my own. Perhaps this was a better use of my time than stealing underwear. I’d write to Kitty’s girls illicitly, becoming a different type of outlaw.

WITHIN ONLY A FEW DAYS of starting my new project, I had numerous requests for copies of Fuckability Theory and Adventures in Dietland. I spent hours each day addressing envelopes and lugging packages to the post office, which left less time for roaming around the city, getting into trouble.

Returning from the post office one afternoon, I turned the corner onto Thirteenth Street and saw Julia teetering down the sidewalk ahead of me, pulling a small suitcase. She was wearing her trench coat, as usual, and when she turned around—paranoid as ever—she noticed me following her. Having been discussed but not seen for so long, Julia had taken on a mythic quality. Seeing her was like spotting a nearly extinct creature; I had the urge to take a photograph or maybe look at her through binoculars.

“I’ve come for the night,” she said when I caught up to her, black streaks on her cheeks.

“What happened to your face?”

“We had a spill at work. Mascara,” she said, trying to wipe it off. “It has not been a good day, if you must know. We were unpacking a shipment. One of the interns—Abigail or Anastasia or something—actually crawled into a crate and was nearly crushed to death by several thousand eyebrow pencils. Now she’s limping. They are completely useless, those girls. Little Kittys, all of them.”

“Kittens.”

She asked me to walk ahead of her and she would follow. I was relieved that Verena and Rubí had gone to Washington, D.C., for the day to attend meetings about Dabsitaf; Verena would not have welcomed Julia’s presence.

Marlowe was startled at the sight of the two of us coming through the door of Calliope House. “She’s alive!” said Marlowe, giving Julia a quick peck on the cheek. Julia’s expression remained blank. She entered the living room, removing a plastic bag from the front pouch of her suitcase. It was filled with cosmetics.