Fat Girl On A Plane. Kelly deVos

a fucking cheeseburger?”

      “I’m not afraid to eat a cheeseburger,” I say. I’m not totally sure this is true, so I keep going. “And I hate to break it to you, but in fashion, I am plus-size.”

      She frowns at me. “Well, I’m going to be the best lawyer on this or any other continent, and I’ll sue any fat-shamer who tries to stop me.”

      “We can’t all be you,” I tell her.

      “We can be whatever we want.”

      Piper is totally wrong. In fashion, being fat is a cardinal sin. A cackling villain who kidnaps puppies and turns them into coats would be more popular in the world of fashion than a fat designer. But I hardly ever get to hang out with Piper in real life and I don’t want to waste our time arguing. I change the subject to Columbia, and we spend the rest of the meal joking about Piper’s awful new roommates.

      We charge our meal to Gareth Miller’s corporate Amex and go down to our room.

      I crawl into bed and turn out the lights but can’t relax. I imagine the five croutons I ate are having a fistfight in my stomach. I toss and turn. I think again and again of Gareth’s dark, brooding eyes as he says, I think I’ll enjoy that very much.

      “Have you heard from Tommy?” Piper whispers from the other queen bed.

      “No,” I say, trying not to think too much about this.

      “And that’s not a problem for you?”

      “No.” It’s pathetic, thinking about the time he kissed me. He made his choice, and there’s no going back.

      “He’s a wanker anyway.” Piper turns in her bed a few times and fluffs her pillow. “Night, Cookie Vonn.”

      I dream of a world full of Dorito-trimmed Christmas trees and curly-haired Ken-doll boyfriends.

      soScottsdale <New Post>

      Title: Summer Sportswear on Sale

      Creator: Cookie Vonn [contributor]

      Ladies, can we talk about American sportswear for a second? It’s no accident that sportswear rose in popularity as the women’s suffrage movement gained steam. Think for a second about nineteenth-century clothing, about corsets, linen bonnets and petticoats that flowed over steel hoops. Women had places to go and things to do. But how far could they get in corsets that caused fainting spells, sleeves that didn’t let them extend their arms and skirts that caught fire if they turned their backs to the stove? Modern women needed separates like skirts and shorts and shirts that could be washed and worn, mixed and matched. Sportswear is where fashion meets feminism.

      What does this have to do with anything? Well, niblets, with fall fashions hitting the racks, most stores are in full-on fire sale mode, putting summer styles on clearance. Meaning you can save big on a sportswear splurge. From a simple swimsuit by Tory Burch, to classic Wayfarer sunnies, to the Tommy Hilfiger striped nautical tee, after the jump, we’ll have sportswear essentials every girl ought to have in her closet.

      Notes: Marlene [editor]: Love the historical primer but not sure if readers will care. Kill the intro and get on with the list. And do we really want to call our subscribers “niblets”?

       FAT: One day before NutriNation

      “Sorry. Who are you with?” The hipster’s looking down his nose at me, through a pair of horn-rimmed glasses I suspect are fake. He stands behind a desk that guards the entrance of Gareth Miller’s narrow garment-district studio. Directly behind him is a tall, maple-paneled door.

      Behind him is the studio. And I am about to go inside.

      I’m dressed in my best work outfit. A fitted black tee with an off-center V-neck and a midi-length skirt from fabric I silkscreened with vintage arcade characters. Plus-size Donna Reed meets Freaks and Geeks.

      As the guy rearranges his plaid scarf, I’m pinching the Donkey Kong on my stiff, cotton skirt. “I’m with SoScottsdale. It’s a Phoenix-based design blog.”

      A second guy with knee-length shorts and a floppy cap joins Mr. Skinny Jeans behind the desk. It’s not lost on me that the two of them are crowded into a space I couldn’t fit in.

      “SoScottsdale? What the hell is that?” says Mr. Skinny Jeans.

      Mr. Floppy Hat reaches over Mr. Skinny Jeans’ shoulder and taps a few times on the computer’s keyboard. “Oh, you know. That new whack-a-doodle down at Blue PR wants us to do more regional stuff. Open up a couple of the reviews. Says we need more street-level buy-in.”

      “Whatever the hell that means,” says Mr. Skinny Jeans. He stares at the monitor for a minute. “Yeah. I see it here. SoScottsdale. But someone’s already checked in. Kennes Butterfield.”

      He gives me a dismissive nod. Like everything’s all worked out now. “But I’m with SoScottsdale. I’m Cookie Vonn.”

      Behind Skinny Jeans, Floppy Hat snorts with laughter. He turns away, but I see his shoulder shake. “Well, you might want to tell them that, sweetheart. Kennes Butterfield’s the name they put on the list. She got here an hour ago.”

      A chic woman with a pixie cut, clad in fitted jeans and an Elizabeth and James Dover tee, breezes in. She doesn’t stop at the desk. Mr. Floppy Hat holds the door while checking his cell phone.

      The door is open for maybe ten seconds. I see a slice of Miller’s profile. Just his nose, really. And the edge of his dark hairline.

      The door closes with a heavy thud. Closes on my opportunity to ask Miller how a kid from Montana created a fashion empire. To meet LaChapelle and personally plead with him for a scholarship. It’s over.

      This is not how it’s supposed to be.

      “But Gareth Miller’s in there.” I’m sort of stuttering. Like a stupid. Fucking. Idiot.

      Skinny Jeans and Floppy Hat are both laughing. I leave through the front door as one of them says, “Yeah. This is his studio. He’s bound to be here once in a while.”

      I’m standing on the curb outside Miller’s gray building as taxis whizz by and lights pop on in offices across the street. I’m having a meltdown. But for some people, it’s business as usual.

      I pull my phone out of my bag.

      “I’m sorry, Cookie. I really am.” This is how Terri answers the phone.

      “What the hell is going on, Terri?” I say.

      “Marlene had to send someone else to the preview at the last second,” she says. The wail of a baby drowns out her next sentence.

      My teeth are clenched. I’m pacing and waving my arms. But nobody looks. Because this is New York. I could be in a flaming Big Bird costume and no one would notice. “Who?”

      “Marlene will explain when you get back to the office,” Terri says.

      “When I get back to the office? Terri, are you serious? Somebody should have explained before I made a total fucking ass of myself at G Studios.”

      Terri’s voice is weak through my receiver. Taxis honk. Somebody yells something like “You can’t park in the red zone.”

      “Cookie, you’re right. I should have called. But every surface in my house is covered in projectile vomit. I could barely get out of bed this morning. It sucks. And I get why you’re mad. But—”

      I ignore her. I can’t turn off my temper. “I got up at the crack of dawn to be here by nine. I had to walk down here since I couldn’t afford to take a taxi and also eat. And by the way, the Continental is a total dump. I mean, what kind of room has four twin beds? Who’s supposed to be sleeping in there? One Direction without Zayn Malik? Oh, and I’m pretty sure the gangsters on the hotel stoop have a plan going to harvest and sell