"A Woman Can Never Be Too Thin"

Meeka’s fridge needs a sympathy card. There is nothing but that horrible Perrier, salad and a few grapefruits inside of it. A person can’t look at a fridge like that without feeling bad for it.


“It gets worse,” Meeka says and opens a large wooden door to reveal a cavernous kitchen pantry crying out for a food shop: a box of shredded wheat sits beside a jar of flaxseed oil; a small bottle of canola oil alone in a far corner; a box of raisins and an untouched bag of whole wheat flour rest beside a life supply of paper napkins and plastic utensils; a handful of chickpeas and pinto-bean cans complete the sad picture.


“Wait a second…so that day at my apartment, was that your first time you ever had pizza?”


She taps a hand along the kitchen’s gray granite island. “Well, no, I’ve had pizza before. I mean, when I’ve gone to hospital with father and…okay, that was pretty much my first time.” Meeka throws her head onto the island and peeks up at me between her arms.


“That is just wrong…that is just…wow,” Meeka’s huge white house suddenly feels like a sterile cage. And we are the hamsters trapped inside. “Why?”


“Mother feels that a woman can never be too thin. She’s obsessed with calories and eating right and watches me like a hawk.” From the look on Meeka’s face, it is clear she shares my caged-rat sentiments.


It occurs to me that my mother may not be so crazy after all. “But your mother is never home!”


“No, that’s not true. It just seems like that,” Meeka says more to herself than me.


“But you can’t live like this!” The injustice is met with a growling stomach and I find myself pining for the Pillsbury products crammed in our Meadowview fridge.


“It’s not that bad.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me. “Take a look at this.” Meeka opens a bottom drawer in the kitchen to reveal a stack of Yellow Pages. She heaves them out to reveal an over-sized bag of M&M’s. “Dinner is served!” she sings.


As mouth-watering as they look, visions of burgers and fries are floating in my head. “That’s not a dinner!”


“But that’s all Granny could sneak us. We could eat salad too, no?” She is holding the M&M’s bag like it’s a bomb ready to detonate. And in the House of White, I suppose this is scarily possible.


“Yeah…” I am thinking of Mr. McGee’s homemade Caesar Salad and how I couldn’t recall seeing a dressing in Meeka’s deprived fridge.


“Or we could have dinner at Meadowview…” She says Meadowview like it is the finest restaurant ever known. And sadly, if I were Meeka Jones, I’d have to agree.


“What about your mom? Won’t she be mad that you aren’t home for dinner?” I ask.


“Oh, she has a thing tonight. So, I’ll just leave her a note.” She is already grabbing our jackets, stuffing the M&M’s in her purse.


Outside, it has started to rain. When the phone rings I already know who it is.


“Your mother says the streets are flooded by Meadowview. She insists on picking us up,” Meeka says, her eyes dancing with adventure. “Do you think it’s really that bad? It’s just drizzling here.”


“No. But worrying is breathing for my mother.” I hurl my backpack back onto the floor. The way Sam Fluchter drove, we’d be awhile.


“You’re so lucky, Cowgirl.” She throws herself onto a white couch and rips open the M&M’s still stuffed in her purse. She tilts back her head and opens the bag into her mouth. I’ve never seen someone so feminine do something so masculine: a prima ballerina inhaling food like a football jock.