Free Fat Angie by e. E. Charlton-Trujillo

table.
    “Angie, what do you think about the cake?” asked Aunt Meghan.
    Fat Angie’s mother’s eyes cut to her. Her pretend smile clearly conveyed that Fat Angie was not to say what she thought. The Triple Threat descended on the table, along with other guests.
    “It’s a fetus?” Fat Angie said.
    “I know!” said her aunt. “It’s absolutely amazing, isn’t it?”
    “Connie.” Meghan held out the cake cutter. “As godmother of this new baby boy, will you cut the cake?”
    Connie’s face stretched to new lengths of fake smile. So much so that her right cheek shook ever so slightly.
    And so Fat Angie’s mother cut into the cake, dismembering the feet. Fat Angie flinched. Arms and legs . . . torso and toes. Fat Angie and KC backed away from the food table as women lined up, barbaric, cutting piece after piece, smiling and laughing, their mouths chewing on fetus image.
    “Give me your plate,” said Angie’s mother.
    Fat Angie reluctantly held her plate up. Part of a leg and foot stared back at her.
    “Come sign up for karaoke,” Meghan said to Connie. “We’ll do a duet.”
    “Be right there,” said Fat Angie’s mother. Then, to Fat Angie, she said, “Eat the cake. Pretend to be interested in what someone else needs.”
    Fat Angie stood there as her mother reentered the posh-posh gathering of matching plates and cups. Why could Angie not simply play along? Be as her mother suggested — normal.
    “Your mom’s kinda different,” said KC.
    “I’m sorry,” said Fat Angie.
    “For?”
    “I should’ve . . .” Fat Angie shook her head. “My family’s a little complicated.”
    “That’s not your fault,” said KC. “Come to one of my so-called family reunions. A competition of Coach purses, fake-and-bake tans, and motorcycle hippies.”
    KC eyed Fat Angie’s serving of cake. “Can I yum?”
    Fat Angie passed the plate to KC, who picked up a fork and ate what Fat Angie imagined was a toe.
    “It’s fine,” KC said, smiling with a smudge of gray icing on her upper lip. “Just eat it with your eyes closed. I do it with squid.”
    Fat Angie closed her eyes and ate very quickly — so quickly that her acid reflux refluxed. She sprinted out of the room.
    Four and a half minutes later, clocked by her Casio calculator watch, Fat Angie was still on the bathroom floor. She had hurled only for the first minute and twelve seconds after jamming her finger down her throat like Marcy Winters on the cheerleading squad. She spent the rest of the time hunched on her knees, staring at the cake remnants floating in the toilet bowl. They did not resemble a person’s image anymore. She could not understand why.
    The 1970s hit “Ring My Bell” boomed from the living room. The drunken women sang off-key. Fat Angie began counting out loud as her therapist would have suggested. She began to digress.
    The ambulance ride to the hospital . . . sirens wailing . . .
    Fat Angie squinted. She drew her knees to her chest and counted aloud from one. The song seeped through. . . .
    Her sister dribbling the basketball . . . crowds cheering . . . bombs . . . war . . .
    “Lester hates his name. He won’t respond to it.”
    She began counting from one again.
    Children screaming on the CBS Evening News. There was blood — everywhere.
    She counted louder, squinted harder.
Her sister —
    Fat Angie stopped.
    She could not remember her sister’s voice.
    Pause.
    Stop pause.
    “One two three four five six seven . . .”
    She counted so loud and ran the numbers together so quickly that she did not recognize the knocking on the door until —
    “It’s KC. You cool?”
    “Um . . . just a second,” said Fat Angie.
    Fat Angie lowered the seat and opened the door.
    “Hey,” said KC. “Can I . . .” She motioned to come in.
    Fat Angie perched on the toilet as KC leaned against the wall. Neither one of them really looked at each other for six and a half seconds.
    “I hate parties like this,” Fat Angie said. “These family