Billie Girl

Chapter Five

I wanted to love Blake forever, but I had a distinct feeling that he would be destined to die tragically young and beautiful. It was not like he was eons older than me. He was only twenty- one, but he looked at least thirty-five. Which I had been told was not that old. But it sure felt far off. I knew that by the time I was that old, I would not only be a famous author, but also a director of movies based on my books. I saw myself on some set wearing a fashionable down jacket and prescription shades. I figured by then I would need glasses, and I would be telling the cinematographer (an elderly full-bearded man of forty with a reputation for sweeping crane shots) that I wanted the camera to swoop down from above on a scene loosely based on my fabulous little life.

Blake was driving fast. The car skidded at a red light.

"Careful, Blake. I'd like to make it to my Doc's office alive," I said.

"You'll live," he said, laughing.

We made it to the medical center in record time. You'd think I was in labor and had to make it there before I gave birth.

In front of the nurse I took off my Uggs and my belt and my extra extra large Banana Republic sweater, and I didn't dare look at the number when she weighed me. I asked her not to tell me my weight either. Just days before, I had split an entire pizza with my mother and I just could not face that digital truth. Once in my private room the nurse took my pulse, and she informed me casually that my blood pressure was a bit high. But I suspected that every girl in town probably had high blood pressure with that criminal undercurrent lurking in our formerly safe and snug community.

When my new doctor came in, he was wearing a turban. His first name was Hussein. He was a very sweet older man with a darkness around his eyes and the first thing that I asked him was, "Doc, am I fat?"

Amused, he shrugged his shoulders and said in his singsong accent, "No, I would not say you are morbidly obese."

"OK, so am I obese then?"

"You don't look obese to me."

"OK, then let's begin all over again. Am I fat?"

"No, Miss Billie, you are not fat."

"Would you mind writing that down on a piece of paper and signing it for me? Kinda like a Christmas present from my Doc to me?"

He smiled, and placated me by writing on a prescription script:

"Billie Moore is not fat."

"No," I say, "I don't want to be bossy, but could you please write:

"Billie girl is not fat."

"But your name is Billie Moore, no?" He asked.

"Yes, but all my friends call me Billie girl."

He straightened his glasses and pondered my request and then finally said, "I'm sorry, I don't think it would be appropriate for me to say Billie girl. But how about this compromise? Why don't I write, Billie Moore has a healthy BMI."

"Sure you can't just write the name Billie girl for me, just this once?"

"I'm sorry, I would have to talk to the administration to write that. And I don't think they will give me approval."

I decided to give my resident doctor from the Middle East a break, and I relented.

"OK, fine. Don't worry about it. You don't have to write anything down."

"You are a very humorous young woman." He was now monitoring my breathing with his cold stethoscope under my shirt, touching the small of my back.