Fat Chance

  Fat Chance

  Book One of the Kingsley Series

  By Brandi Kennedy

  Text copyright ©2013

  Brandi Kennedy

  All Rights Reserved

  Dedication

  All my life, I have carried a dream in my heart.

  And I am so incredibly thankful to those who have helped me to bring my dream to life.

  For my children, who inspire me to keep going …

  For their daddy who has always said he is proud of me …

  For Jessica Schmidt, who helped to iron out so many of the kinks …

  For my favorite cousin, Dana, my ever so awesome editor, who lent her time and helped me clean up the garbage in my work, again …

  For Heidi Hoffmann, who worked to design the beautiful cover of this novel, just as she did the previous release …

  And for women everywhere, fat and thin, short and tall, rich and poor, who have ever felt unloved, unworthy, unpretty, and underappreciated.

  *Thank*You*

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  About The Author

  Follow Brandi Kennedy on the Web

  Other Titles by This Author

  Chapter One

  Standing there in the mirror, I survey the swimsuit I’ve squished myself into, so disgusted I could scream. I don't really need a swimsuit often, but I like to keep one around just in case, so now I’m standing here, frustrated, in the dressing room of the local plus size boutique. Of course, it has a cool, non-fat name, but I have always thought of it as Chubby Central. I hate my weight, and I really hate the fact that I have to shop in that store.

  The weird thing about me is that I don't mind fat on other people. I’ve often watched women shop in this store, women larger than me. I have admired their confidence, envied their sense of style. But fat on my own body? Yuck.

  I hate my body; I dislike my shape, I despise the parts of me that jiggle when they shouldn't, and I frequently curse the indented cellulite areas. I loathe the stretch marks that decorate my body, like the stripes of a tiger. Or a zebra.

  Really, I suppose I’m on the lower spectrum of the available sizes in the store, but it still just kills me to shop for anything here. Especially bathing suits, and I've tried two already. This is torture.

  The first one is sapphire blue, with a cute, sparkly motif that sits just between my breasts, as if tiny diamonds were spilling from my ample cleavage. As if my overlarge chest needs any more emphasis! The color is really nice against my skin, though and I even think I could live with the little sparkle thing. But then I do a little spin in front of that cruel mirror, and after that I give thanks that I am alone. The suit has a little skirt on it, nothing fancy and not very long. It’s pretty much just long enough to make my thighs resemble stumped-off tree trunks, and to reduce my decent-enough calves to insignificance, to cruelly transform my ankles into, well, cankles. Not that they don't usually look that way. But I am horrified by the lack of magic in that blue swimsuit, which makes the woman on the tag look spectacular. Taking it off, I scowl miserably, trying on the next one.

  This one is a beautiful green, like emeralds. It makes my legs look a little longer, and it is even somewhat flattering in the rear view, too. The green is really nice with my eyes, and it has great chest support. The fabric isn't at all sparkly or attention getting in any way, which is definitely nice. There’s a very faint pattern of v's that crawl up my torso, which I love because it is rather wonderfully effective at giving me a pretend waist. Wide shoulder straps help a lot with my heavy breasts, but it seriously makes my arms and shoulders look like a first grade clay project gone awry. This one, too, belongs in the reject pile.

  So here I stand, more and more depressed the longer I’m here, looking into my own image in the full-length mirror. Bathing suit number three is a rich color, a deep ruby red. With a high waist and boy short legs, it makes my torso look longer and therefore, thinner. But my legs! Oh, these thick legs! The short-shorts look of the suit is the only one that really gives ample coverage on the rear, but it makes my poor legs look awful, as if they are only six inches long and a whopping eight feet around. Not the kind of illusion I want to put out. Cursing a little, I toss this suit in the reject pile, too.

  I hate swimsuit shopping. It’s just too much time to spend, looking for a spandex getup that can make me look somewhat cute, in spite of the fact that I’m always somewhat soft. Usually, I just have to rate them mentally and choose the one that makes me look least like a busted can of biscuits, misaligned chunks of soft oozing dough squeezing out from odd places. If only I had a normal body. Even if I have to be fat, I do wish I could at least be more proportionate, maybe with only one body type, instead of being a mix-up of all the types.

  Finally, after I've begun to think I might drown in the pile of rejected bathing suits, I choose one. It’s a darkish cream color, which makes my perpetually tanned skin look bright and healthy. It contrasts nicely with my dark hair and brown eyes, and is cut miraculously well for my round body. I wouldn't say it’s slimming, exactly, but it is the most flattering of the pile now lying at my feet.

  Heaving a sigh, I change back into my regular clothes and lift the pile of bathing suits onto the bench in the dressing room. Slowly, I match each suit to the hanger it was originally on. Leaving them hanging on the rack outside the door to be restocked, I gather my courage and head self-consciously to the cashier.

  "I bet that color looked amazing with your skin tone," the girl says, passing the price tag under her scanner. I look briefly at her name tag; her name is Allie.

  "It was ok," I murmur, embarrassed. I really don't want to talk about it. Trying them all on and hoping each one would work, only to be disappointed repeatedly was bad enough. Mostly, I just want to go home and curl into a ball, though the impossibility of the idea definitely makes me smile to myself. I'd be a pretty big ball.

  "I tried this one in red the other day," Allie is saying to me, and I force myself to pay attention. "But it was just awful! I just stood there in shock, looking at myself and thanking the universe that no one else could see me! I did buy it in brown, though."

  "That's good," I say, wondering if she’s humoring my obvious lack of confidence. Feeling rude, I try to think of more to say. Event
ually, as she folds the suit into a bag, I manage to say, "I didn't see any brown today, but I generally tend to avoid swimsuits like the plague anyhow." Great, now I’m really embarrassed. What on earth do I say if she asks why? Can I say that I avoid them because wearing one makes me feel like an overstuffed sausage about to explode?

  "Me too," Allie laughs, and I feel a little more at ease. "I don't usually mind being a bigger girl, because I've learned to dress my body. But a bathing suit hides nothing, and I think that's hard for skinny girls too."

  Uh huh. Sure. I bet all those size four girls in the world just sit and cry in the dressing room mirror, trying to figure out how to deal with the horrible curse of their svelte stomachs and long legs. I don't say that though, of course. Instead, I bury my bitterness under false cheer and say, "Well, we all have our body problems, I suppose."

  Paying for the bathing suit, I leave the store and walk through the mall, heading toward the garage where I parked my car. On the way, I stop in a scented candle store and browse around. All my life, I have had a love of all things wax, and it is very rare for me to be home without there being a candle lit somewhere. In the bottom of the bathroom closet, I have a hidden stash box of candles, because my attention span never seems to settle on one smell long enough for the candle to actually run out.

  I sniff my way through the store, diligently avoiding anything food scented. For goodness sake, I have had to spend most of my life looking like I can't get away from an apple pie; the last thing I need is a candle that smells like one. This thought has me chuckling quietly to myself, looking around to make sure I’m not drawing strange looks, trying to imagine what the clerk might think if I walked up to him with an armload of candles that all smell of berries and cakes, cookies, pies and other treats. I could wink and explain my choices jokingly.

  "I'm on a diet," I'd say, "but you guys didn't have any salad candles."

  Not really brave enough for jokes like that, instead I choose a deep red candle in a heavy glass canister. It has a spicy sensual kick, patchouli interlaced with something sweet that I've never heard of before. The guy at the checkout line looks me over, taking my candle to scan it, and grins when he reads the label.

  "I love this one, it smells up the whole house," he says.

  "That's what I'm hoping for," I answer, smiling back at him shyly. I might not be a beauty queen, and I am certainly not any sort of model material, but I have a nice smile; straight white teeth tucked neatly into soft pink gums that didn't show too much. It is the one effort that I can make toward flirting without being mortified at myself.

  We chat while we waited for my receipt to come up, and he suggests a few other new scents he thinks I might be interested in the next time I stop by. Once the receipt ejects itself from the machine, I am on my merry way, looking forward to the scent of the candle filling my apartment. Other than the embarrassment of my Chubby Central shopping bag, the rest of the walk to my car is mostly uneventful.

  As always, I am grateful that Chubby Central isn't the actual name of the store, and I tease myself with the hope that somehow, other people walking through the mall could be unaware of what the specialty was in that store, that perhaps they might be too busy to notice the bright emblem on my shopping bag. I admit I tease myself also, with the pretense that I am slim and sleek and fragile, that is, until I walk in front of a store with mirrored windows that make me want to drown myself in a shameful vat of chocolate syrup.

  I round the corner quickly, to escape the sight of my round, lumpy profile, and hit the button on my key fob to unlock my car. Dropping my bags in the backseat, I ease myself gingerly into the driver's seat. For some reason, I always feel the need to creep into my car, gently. It’s like I have mentally increased my own weight so that when I sit in my car it’s as if I can feel it groaning under me. I have never admitted that to anyone because I know it’s completely ridiculous, but I can't seem to stop the thought from haunting me. I've often wondered if that’s the same sort of thing that causes things like anorexia, that sense of seeing yourself in a completely wrong way and knowing it, but being totally unable to do anything to change it.

  Chapter Two

  Rolling over, I listen as my cell phone buzzes against the nightstand beside my bed. I rub my eyes irritably and shove my hair back from my face with a groan. Swiping the back of my hand against my mouth, I make a face and try to remember what day it is. Saturday.

  Picking up the phone, I try to clear the fog from my head as I read the time on the display. Seven in the morning! Prepared to let loose a string of unkind words, I answer the call and growl an unhappy hello.

  "Well, hello, yourself." Janet chirps. The cloud of irritability passes instantly; Janet is like a mother to me, and after everything she's done for me, it’s simply impossible to be angry with her. Growing up in the foster system, I lived in a string of different homes through my preteen and teen years; Janet is really the only constant presence that I had in my early adult life.

  The variety of homes I lived in wasn't all bad though, I suppose. One woman taught me about puberty, consoling me as I cried in fear of the blood in my panties. Another taught me to shave my legs and under my arms, shocked that no one had taught me before. Yet another taught me to apply makeup, coaching me as I learned what colors worked on my face and developed my own style.

  I lived in mostly good homes growing up; ones filled with people who genuinely loved children and did their best to help me deal with what I'd been through in my early years. Because of the people I lived with and their heartfelt efforts to make a difference in my life, I've shared in family holiday celebrations, I've been given birthday gifts, and I’ve gone on family vacations. I’ve had good experiences, mostly, even in foster homes. Especially with Janet.

  "Hey, Jan," I mutter, sitting up on the edge of the bed. Looking down at myself, I sigh; glad that I am the only one who can see me. My shirt has completely twisted around me in my sleep and is now wedged under my breasts, twisted around the unsightly roll of my waist. I look like a smashed bag of gigantic marshmallows.

  "I woke you? Oh honey, are you still sleeping your Saturdays away?" Janet says, laughing, remembering when I was a teenager and she’d have to force me out of bed just to feed me lunch at two in the afternoon. She always used to joke that I'd sleep my life away if not for her. Remembering too, I laugh back.

  "You know it. Good thing you called or I'd have wasted the entire day," I mock. Making a face and poking at my lumpy belly, I ask, "What's up?" My always present inner voice answers, your weight, of course.

  Janet is the sixth, and the last, of the foster mothers, the only one that I've kept close contact with. I haven't seen her in person in a while, though, not since going to her husband's funeral. She’d been so glad to see me there, along with the other grown children she still held close to her heart. Chelsea and Renee really are Janet's daughters; beautiful identical twins, the result of a string of fertility treatments. Hungry for a little sister, they had taken me in as soon I was moved into their house, instantly, as if I were born into their family. I love them like my own sisters, and talk to one or the other of them almost daily.

  I could do without Rick though, and I am pretty sure that if I never see him again, it'll be too soon. Janet and her husband took him in not long after I arrived in their home; he was a drug addicted trouble-maker with a mean streak and a nasty personality. I still can't figure out why Janet keeps in contact with him, but if I had to guess, I’d say it’s because he’s was like me in that he has no one else. Maybe she feels obligated to try to save him, the way she did with me.

  "I called to ask you to come home in a few weeks," Janet says. "I want to have sort of a family reunion, you know?"

  Suddenly, everything in me goes into a minor panic. A family reunion!? I manage to keep from seeing everyone too often by living several towns away, sacrificing my time with Janet and my surrogate sisters in order to better avoid Rick. The jerk bought the house next door to Janet's. I used to
go home a lot, until he started making it a point to show up almost every time I did. Eventually, I just quit, and now I only really see Janet when she comes to me.

  Rick started out fine with me at first, but now he’s become one of the cruelest people I've ever met, critical about the size of my breasts, my legs, my arms, the roundness of my face. For years, he hasn't liked anything at all about me, from the way I speak, to the way I dress. He has often called me vile names and he targets me with verbal attacks when he can catch me alone. I still can’t believe how quickly he changed, back then, from a brother figure to an outright enemy.

  "I think I can swing it, Janet, but I'm not making promises," I say, already trying to think of a way to get out of going. I always make time to see Janet when she comes to town, and I invite her to visit me often. It’s the same between Chelsea, Renee and me; we invite each other over, we have old-fashioned slumber parties with movies and giggles and lots of noise. It isn't that I don't want to see them, but I know myself well enough to recognize how low my confidence is lately, and how unhealthy it would be to spend any time hanging around with Rick.

  "I'm still not stupid, Cassaundra," Janet chides. "You're a big girl now-"

  Believe me, I've noticed, my inner voice chips in.

  "-and Rick has grown up a bit since you last saw him," she’s saying. "You know, he really saw Jim as a father figure, and losing him hit Rick pretty hard. You should come; everyone deserves a second chance, Cass. Besides, you can't spend your life avoiding difficulty, can you?"