Free The Makedown by Gitty Daneshvari Page B

bitchily, suffocating on a mixture of shock and envy.
    I guess all those years of practicing by himself have really paid off. It doesn’t say much for me that a porn-obsessed fat dude living with his mother in suburban Ohio dates more than I do.
    “I’m taking my time; don’t want to rush into anything. Lots of talking and typing,” Barney says cockily.
    “Barn, have you
met
any of the women you’re dating?”
    “Anna, don’t get bogged down by semantics. I’m a playah now; I gotta roll.”
    “Barney, don’t talk like that, please. I’m embarrassed for you.”
    “I gotta go. Mother and I have a date at the cineplex.”
    “Wait, don’t you want to know why I called?”
    “Anna, I can’t miss the coming attractions. It throws off the whole experience.”
    “Barney, I’m quitting junk food tomorrow,” I proudly declare.
    “ 10-4, Anna. Over and out.”
    My brother shouldn’t be allowed to use the phone, as he is utterly incapable of communication. He cannot disengage from his own world of madness long enough to take in the magnitude of what I said: I, Anna Norton, have quit the junk! Well, I will be quitting the junk as soon as I finish my farewell dinner. Since Chinese food always leaves me craving more, I deem this the perfect first course.
    “Wong’s Garden,” a man hollers on the other end. His accent reminds me of Mother’s heinous Chinese impersonation. “What’s your address?” After I give my address, he pauses, then chirps, “No take your order. Sorry, I know you on diet.” Click.
    I am tempted to call back and berate the man, but I decide it’s a waste of time. Obviously, the man is a prankster. I don’t have time for such people; I have a good-bye party to throw.
    “Ray’s Pizza.”
    “Hi, I’d like to order two medium cheese pizzas and three large sides of ranch dressing.”
    “Address?”
    I state my building number and street name before he interrupts me, calling out to someone, “Junior, get me that lady’s address.” A few seconds pass before he returns. “What apartment?”
    “Fourteen.”
    “Sorry, girl, I’m under strict orders not to deliver to you,” the man offers amiably.
    “What? By who?” I screech with a mixture of indignation and alarm.
    “Some lady hit the block about an hour ago, explained your liver can’t process fat. The whole neighborhood is in on this; we’re going to make sure you stick to your diet.”
    I slam the phone down, my vision clouding with anger. I am barely able to dial the numbers, I am so irate. As soon as the ringing ceases, I start screaming,
“My fucking liver can’t process fat!!!”
    “Okay . . . I think you want Janice,” Janice’s husband, Gary, says uncomfortably.
    “Sorry,” I mutter between huffs of rage.
    “Hello?” Janice says perkily, exacerbating my frustration.
    “My
fucking liver
can’t process fat?”
    “Drastic times call for drastic measures,” Janice replies.
    “Who do you think you are? Stopping the entire neighborhood from delivering to me. It’s outrageous! Inappropriate! Unethical! Creepy!” I scream.
    “I’ve invested a lot in you, and watching you waste an entire week of healthy eating on these Friday-night binges is simply unacceptable,” Janice explains flatly.
    She has drawn a line. If I continue to yell, this will surely result in my firing. I sense Janice is at her limit with me, college degree or not. I stop. I look down at the black tights, A-line skirt, and ballet flats Janice bought me.
    “How long have you known?” I ask, choking on embarrassment.
    “Please,” she says with a sigh. “The whole time. Running off every Friday afternoon like you just got a new vibrator.”
    “Eww.”
    “I’m getting you ready for the world; stop being so damn ungrateful!”
    “Ungrateful? Look in the mirror— you act like I’m lucky to run errands for minimum wage! I’m an Ivy League graduate, you know. This shit is way beneath me!”
    “I admit that finding someone I can stand to be