and felt marker across the table to Margaret. Her eyes became puzzled even before she spoke. “Well, now, you don’t look familiar.”
Still smiling, Margaret simply leaned forward and printed her name slowly and precisely on the tag. As she did that, Amelia slid the open registration book over the table toward her. Margaret peeled the tag from its backing, stood up straight and pressed it gently to the top of her dress, just over her left breast. Without giving Amelia a chance to read the tag, Margaret plucked the pen from her hand, signed her name in the book, leaving the address and phone number spaces blank, then handed the pen back.
Amelia’s eyes squinted a little through her glasses as she leaned forward, reading the nametag as she handed over a program booklet.
“Margaret?” she said. Her eyes quickly looked Margaret over from top to bottom. “Well, now, I can’t say that I remember a Margaret.” She turned the registry around and read the name. Her head snapped up, eyes wide. Her chin dropped as the pen slipped from her fingers and clattered to the table. “Fuller?” she whispered in unconcealed amazement. Then, louder: “Margaret Fuller?”
Margaret smiled again. “See you at the dinner, Amelia,” she said as she turned and walked away.
Behind her, she could hear Amelia talking to the other woman behind the table, her voice starting in a whisper, then rising in a high, befuddled yammer, only to plunge again to a hissing whisper.
Margaret couldn’t have stopped smiling then if she’d wanted to. She felt somehow taller than when she’d first entered the hotel.
She rounded a corner so she’d be out of sight of Amelia, took a seat on a maroon velvet loveseat beside a drinking fountain, put her purse in her lap and began thumbing through the program. The schedule began with cocktails in the King’s Lounge; that had started twenty minutes ago. After that, a “Reacquaintance Party” in something called the Queen’s Parlor — Margaret thought, Sounds like a gay bar in the Old South — where group and individual photos would be taken. Then, dinner and dancing in the Royal Banquet Hall.
The program booklet was scattered with pictures from old yearbooks: people mugging for the camera, couples caught unawares as they kissed behind the cafeteria, a group of boys throwing one of their own into the pool. Each picture had a caption beneath it, a one-liner that was meant to be clever but came off as tepid.
And then she saw one picture that made her smile fade away and made her stomach twist into a knot.
Margaret looked at herself. Her round face and double chin (with a bright, swollen pimple on the top one) filled the upper right corner of one page. Strings of melted cheese dangled from her mouth to the slice of pizza she’d just bitten into. The caption read, “Dieting to fit into that prom dress!”
Sucking both lips between her teeth, Margaret felt her breath coming in short, staccato bursts, and she knew if she didn’t stop that right away, she would hyperventilate. She also felt the back of her throat burn with tears, which she refused to let out because she didn’t want to spoil her makeup.
Her hands began to tremble as they held the booklet, then shake . . . and then they closed into fists, crumpling the program booklet between them until it was wadded into a ball.
A bathroom. She needed to find a bathroom. She’d get hold of herself, then she’d join the festivities.
As she stood, leaving the crumpled booklet on the loveseat behind her, she muttered under her breath, “Show them what a real fucking diet is . . .”
21
By the time Margaret walked into the King’s Lounge, the cocktail party was well under way. The second she passed through the long, dark entryway into the lounge, she saw a crowd of laughing, talking people, none of them identifiable in the dim, smoke-misted light, but most of them wearing the big, obnoxious nametags on their lapels, shoulders and breast
Still smiling, Margaret simply leaned forward and printed her name slowly and precisely on the tag. As she did that, Amelia slid the open registration book over the table toward her. Margaret peeled the tag from its backing, stood up straight and pressed it gently to the top of her dress, just over her left breast. Without giving Amelia a chance to read the tag, Margaret plucked the pen from her hand, signed her name in the book, leaving the address and phone number spaces blank, then handed the pen back.
Amelia’s eyes squinted a little through her glasses as she leaned forward, reading the nametag as she handed over a program booklet.
“Margaret?” she said. Her eyes quickly looked Margaret over from top to bottom. “Well, now, I can’t say that I remember a Margaret.” She turned the registry around and read the name. Her head snapped up, eyes wide. Her chin dropped as the pen slipped from her fingers and clattered to the table. “Fuller?” she whispered in unconcealed amazement. Then, louder: “Margaret Fuller?”
Margaret smiled again. “See you at the dinner, Amelia,” she said as she turned and walked away.
Behind her, she could hear Amelia talking to the other woman behind the table, her voice starting in a whisper, then rising in a high, befuddled yammer, only to plunge again to a hissing whisper.
Margaret couldn’t have stopped smiling then if she’d wanted to. She felt somehow taller than when she’d first entered the hotel.
She rounded a corner so she’d be out of sight of Amelia, took a seat on a maroon velvet loveseat beside a drinking fountain, put her purse in her lap and began thumbing through the program. The schedule began with cocktails in the King’s Lounge; that had started twenty minutes ago. After that, a “Reacquaintance Party” in something called the Queen’s Parlor — Margaret thought, Sounds like a gay bar in the Old South — where group and individual photos would be taken. Then, dinner and dancing in the Royal Banquet Hall.
The program booklet was scattered with pictures from old yearbooks: people mugging for the camera, couples caught unawares as they kissed behind the cafeteria, a group of boys throwing one of their own into the pool. Each picture had a caption beneath it, a one-liner that was meant to be clever but came off as tepid.
And then she saw one picture that made her smile fade away and made her stomach twist into a knot.
Margaret looked at herself. Her round face and double chin (with a bright, swollen pimple on the top one) filled the upper right corner of one page. Strings of melted cheese dangled from her mouth to the slice of pizza she’d just bitten into. The caption read, “Dieting to fit into that prom dress!”
Sucking both lips between her teeth, Margaret felt her breath coming in short, staccato bursts, and she knew if she didn’t stop that right away, she would hyperventilate. She also felt the back of her throat burn with tears, which she refused to let out because she didn’t want to spoil her makeup.
Her hands began to tremble as they held the booklet, then shake . . . and then they closed into fists, crumpling the program booklet between them until it was wadded into a ball.
A bathroom. She needed to find a bathroom. She’d get hold of herself, then she’d join the festivities.
As she stood, leaving the crumpled booklet on the loveseat behind her, she muttered under her breath, “Show them what a real fucking diet is . . .”
21
By the time Margaret walked into the King’s Lounge, the cocktail party was well under way. The second she passed through the long, dark entryway into the lounge, she saw a crowd of laughing, talking people, none of them identifiable in the dim, smoke-misted light, but most of them wearing the big, obnoxious nametags on their lapels, shoulders and breast
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