Excerpt from Dougly of Selby-Dale, a novel in progress.
Miles hides his nose under the menu and watches multiple conversations. Dougly’s family resemblance of is striking. Each member uses a napkin to rub and de-fog their hefty eyeglasses. Round bodies force them to sit at a distance from the table and roll forward when speaking.
“I hope they hurry,” Dougly says to her sister at the end of the table. “I’m starving.”
“Me too,” Donly shouts back. “I could eat a whole platter. I won’t stop cuz Fishel ain’t here. I need him to eat off my plate and tell me when I’ve had enough. He loves the huge portions they give you. That reminds me of something funny he said…”
She directs her focus to the candle but her words towards her parents. Their eyebrows, raised above the menus already memorized from years of patronage, react to their daughter’s storylines.
Dougly jabs Miles under the table.
“It’s been forever since you came with us. Why so long? You too good for Guido’s?”
“Homework.”
“Homework every Tuesday night?”
“Sometimes rehearsals for the school play.”
“Well, you don’t got rehearsal all the time.”
“And my old man yells at me to do chores—or else.”
His eyelashes are telling, and Dougly leans in to challenge him further but is distracted by her grumbling stomach.
“Uh, I haven’t eaten anything all day, really.”
She shakes her ponytail, flinging ice chips and water in all directions, and tightens a blue scrunchie. Miles gets a whiff of her strawberry shampoo. Below the table, she kicks off a boot and rubs her wet sock on the cold floor.
“I love ravioli so much. Why don’t you come every week? You’re too skinny.”
“I’m not that skinny anymore.”
“I bet I could bench press you!” She motions a barbell lift, puffing her cheeks and squeezing her eyelids shut.
“Yeah right, She-Ra.”
“Well, ya can fill up tonight. Bonnie’ll treat you like you’re one of us and give you extra cheese on top.”
“I don’t like a lot of cheese.”
“Yeah ya do,” she says, shaking her head. “Everyone likes extra cheese. And there’s always leftovers for doggie bags—you can have it for lunch tomorrow.”
“I don’t—”
“You’re way too skinny. I don’t get it. You like never gain nothing.”
Dougly slides out a breadstick from a mason jar, twirls it like a wand, and stabs it into a brick of soft butter resting in a ceramic dish. “Meanwhile, I get fat just from the air!”
“Hey, we burned lots of calories getting here.”
“That’s for sure. We’re getting a big dessert after that work out. My legs are sore just walking here. It felt like gym class.”
“Hah, you never go to gym.”
“Sometimes.”
“Girls are lucky. You can just say, ‘I got my period,’ and go to the locker room and smoke.”
“Yeah, we’re real lucky.”
“I have to run around with the sweaty guys.”
Dougly’s father interrupts, rubbing his belly and pontificating on the latest episode of a favorite sci-fi TV show. Miles casts his eyes across the table—his coat is sandwiched near the bottom of the chair—and looks over to the front door, opening to let in another snow-capped family. He flips over the menu and taps a calendar of specials; the day of the week had slipped his mind. He shrinks below the menu, hoping the waiter will not notice him.
The blizzard pounds on Guido’s windows and inspires a collective “ooh.” Dougly hears Miles’ stomach grumble.
“You too! Where the hell is Bonnie? Whaddya want to drink?”
“Whatever you have is good for me.”
Bonnie, the waitress, bursts out of the kitchen.
“Bibs! Bibs for everyone!”
She sports a black bouffant wig, wider than her hips, and punctuated by a big barrette. She begins with the patriarch, tying on a large plastic bib featuring a red caricature. Doug cranes his neck and holds out his arms.
“There you go, my big fella. I know you won’t miss a drop.”
Bonnie moves to the women, who raise their chins in anticipation of the same treatment. She pauses to size up Miles, face sinking into his shoulders.
“Hmm, let me see. Let’s go with this.”
She pulls out a compressed plastic bib from her apron pocket, shakes it open, and expertly lassoes his neck from behind.
“There you go.” She smooths the undersized bib, caressing his chest, and he squirms. “Oh, he’s ticklish! Don’t worry, good-looking, the kid’s size won’t fit you for long. Your chest will be growing any day now, and you’ll be eating like a bear.”