The Queen of Everything Read Free

diet bimbos we saw so many of, who knew the fat
grams in a pretzel stick, and who only wanted to hear how little they needed
what they came for. Diet bimbos pissed me off. I couldn't imagine what they did
to the truly overweight. On behalf of the real sufferers, I always tried to do
what I could during a diet bimbo's Game Plan Consultation. I'd find slices of
fat they never knew existed and measure them for long periods of time with my
tape. I'd shake my head when I wrote things on the clipboard and mutter "Whew" a
lot. I'd be extra cheerful and say things like, Now, we shouldn't think
Fritos are the fifth food group!
    I didn't think I could be mean to this woman.
"I have a brochure," I said.
    "As long as it covers price. My husband tends
to be tight fisted, bless his heart." People tended to say this, I noticed,
whenever blessing seemed the last thing on their minds. "The first time he ever
went to Costco, I swear he got a hard-on."
    It's not too often that someone says hard-on when you've just met, I thought, but okay, fine. Besides, her
voice had an ever-so-slight Southern lilt, harsh twangs polished smooth; it was
the kind of accent that can make even a word like hard-on sound harmless
and sweet as a mint julep drunk from a porch swing.
    "Oh, boy," I said. I mean, what do you
say?
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    "Tell me, do we know each other?" she asked,
leaning in to examine me with one eye narrowed. "I never forget a lovely
face."
    I actually blushed. "I'm not sure," I said. Lovely. It was the word I had thought so perfect for her. I wondered if
it could actually be true. Me, with my curly brown hair (chestnut, my mother
called it), and legs that seemed too long. My mother said I was beautiful,
Melissa said she wished she looked like me, but compliments from your mother and
your best friend don't count. I'm embarrassed to admit what pleasure that lovely gave me.
    "You must know my sons," she said. "Markus and
Remington D'Angelo? Parrish High? They were new last year."
    I did know her sons. At the name Markus an
image swam up. Tall blond boy, quiet. Hands stuck into the pockets of a swim
team jacket. But more than that, I knew her house. It was the recently built one
behind our neighborhood in the Crow Valley. Nothing you could overlook. A huge
new faux Tudor with its own airstrip. It dwarfed the quaint house of Little
Cranberry Farm on the adjacent property. It was the kind of house that made my
mother scream.
    "Oh, right," I said.
    "I thought you must know them. I'm Gayle." She
extended her cool fingers, and I took them for a moment. I hoped she
didn't
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    notice the shade of pink on my own nails, which
suddenly seemed silly and girlish and was peeling besides. "And you are ...
?"
    "Jordan MacKenzie," I said.
    "MacKenzie?" She pointed one ear at me as if
offering it a second chance to get it right. "You don't happen to belong to Dr.
Vinee MacKenzie, do you?"
    Normally I would have said that I don't belong to anyone, but she was so nice that I only nodded and smiled. At
this, she grasped my hand and hushed her voice. "I can't believe meeting you
like this. I think your father is just wonderful."
    It was the way a middle-aged woman would react
if she'd just met the daughter of, say, Elvis. I wondered what my father had
done to deserve it. Believe me, if you heard my father sing, you'd know no one
was going to throw their underwear at him, even those waist-high control-top
ones that women my mother's age wear. And I didn't think that a free glaucoma
check or sunglasses frames at cost would cause someone's voice to get all
breathy like that.
    "Thank you," I said, which I was embarrassed
for later. It's not as though I could take credit for my choice of the
guy.
    "You have his eyes," she said. She studied me.
"Beautiful deep brown. You must have to fight off the boys with a stick! My
goodness, I
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    would kill for that figure of yours. I bet you
are your daddy's little girl."
    That thought made we