Free Fat Angie by e. E. Charlton-Trujillo Page B

back, critically admiring her newest installment, a five-by-seven copy of the cell phone pic of the ultrasound cake. It was plastered in with precision among a wall collage of Johnny Depp’s tattoos, off-kilter postcards, artsy magazine clippings, and a 1950s ad encouraging women to eat tapeworms to stay thin. From the grin on her face, it was clear that her Wall of Thoughts So Twisted had reached masterpiece status.
    “What do you think?” KC said.
    Fat Angie was more uncomfortable with the image than she had been at the baby shower. The photograph was grainier than it had been on the cake, the result of a low pixel count on KC’s camera phone. The picture reminded Fat Angie of the printouts she had collected of the war in Iraq. Of the Shock and Awe bombings. Of terrains she had Google Earthed and circled in red marker as potential hostage havens for her sister.
    “It’s OK,” said Fat Angie, sitting on the end of the bed.
    But it wasn’t OK.
    “It’s actually very disturbing,” said KC, getting online to post the image on her various social networks. “I like that. People should be disturbed sometimes.”
    This was a peculiar notion to Fat Angie.
    A sort of secret code knock thumped on KC’s door.
    “Yeah,” said KC.
    A woman in trendy rimmed glasses, which clashed with the faded vine tattoo twisting along her arm, poked her head in.
    “Sorry, didn’t know you had company,” she said.
    “Esther, Angie. Angie, Esther.” KC hooked her arm across Esther’s shoulder. “This is my hippie mama.”
    “Quit it,” Esther said. “Good to meet you, Angie. The resident smart-ass has said a lot about you.”
    Esther shook hands with Fat Angie, who stared at the arm inked with fall leaves.
    “Did you do that?” Fat Angie asked.
    “The ink? Hell no, darlin’,” said Esther. “My first ex —”
    “Not my dad,” KC interrupted.
    “Don’t get me going on your dad,” Esther said to KC.
    “Esther,” said KC, struggling to remove her boots.
    Esther grabbed the heel of KC’s boot. With a few calculated pulls, the boot released.
    “You know I hate these boots,” said Esther.
    “You hate that
Dad
bought me these boots. The boots themselves are fine,” said KC.
    “Yeah, yeah. You know, you coulda told me you’d be hanging around. I would’ve left you something in the fridge.”
    KC and Esther stood face-to-face.
    KC said, “And what would that something be?”
    Esther pinched KC’s cheek. “A piece of your pretty face.”
    “Ha-ha,” said KC. “Don’t quit your day job.”
    Esther’s attention fell to KC’s forearm. The forearm that she was scratching beneath her T-shirt. Before Esther could reach for her arm, KC slid her hands in her back pockets.
    “How was the baby shower?” Esther asked KC.
    “Completely on the nine. I would’ve given it a ten but they didn’t have caviar. Oh, they loved the shirt, by the way,” said KC.
    “I bet,” said Esther.
    KC dragged Esther to the Wall of Thoughts So Twisted. “Check this.”
    “Is that a . . . ?” said Esther.
    “A fetus,” said Fat Angie.
    “Wow!” Esther said.
    “Yeah,” said KC. “Can you believe? Ultrasound pic on the cake?”
    “Huh?” Esther said, tilting her head as if a new angle would give some different meaning to the image.
    KC aimed her camera phone at Esther and snapped a picture.
    “That better not end up on your Wall of Twisted,” Esther said.
    “We’ll see.” KC smirked.
    “Angie, you need anything?” Esther asked. “I could bake some
taquitos.
”
    Fat Angie shook her head, mostly because Mexican food gave her gas.
    “Hey, paparazzo,” Esther said to KC, who was framing up another picture. “I’ll be in the basement with Mike.”
    “What’s Mike doing here?” said KC.
    “He wanted to get some practice in on that pig ear you scratched on.”
    “Don’t knock my skills, Esther. Besides, that ear is old.”
    “I’ll see ya’ll later,” said Esther. “Nice to meet you, Angie. Don’t let her