Fitting In pt1

"Can we talk somewhere alone?" Gabriela leaned over the picnic table and whispered to her boyfriend though a rigid, artificial smile.

"Sure- yeah, of course." They excused themselves from the buzz of the family reunion and walked behind the pavilion. "Hon, are you OK?"

Her smiling mask had fallen, replaced by raw panic. "It was all going so well! I was getting along great with your parents. Then more of your relatives started showing up. We were talking. It was fine. But then as time goes on, I start getting these stern, weird looks for absolutely no reason. Not just from one person, but like, multiple people. Do they think I'm not good enough for you?" Even though no others were within earshot, Gabriela lowered her voice. "Is it because I'm not white?" She was a minority in Location City, but here in Flyover she felt ultra-conspicuously brown.

He put his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. They were rimmed with tears of frustration. He kissed her forehead tenderly. "No- Gabby, they love you."

She sniffled. "Then why are they giving me these looks? Are you saying I'm just imaging them?"

"Uh," he stalled.

Angry fires stoked in her eyes. "YOU KNOW AND YOU'RE NOT TELLING ME?"

He raised his hands to shield himself from the scorching heat she projected. "Well, and you're gonna think this is ridiculous, but it's probably because you're still on plate number one."

She was expecting a good reason, so she couldn't process this information. "I'm still on the what-now?"

"It's a potluck. Everyone brought food. You're not, uh, enjoying food- their food. If my family looks offended, that's why. If you haven't noticed, we're all big eaters." He patted his keg of a stomach.  

It finally sank in. "That's... it? Is that why you were miming at me with the fork earlier?" Gabriela gave a nervous, relieved laugh, then frowned. There was a reason she hadn't partaken much: the selection was sorely lacking. Picnic staples weren't healthy. Tables were altars that sagged under the weight of offerings to the twin gods of fat and carbs. Any fruit was canned and was either ruined by being trapped in whipped cream-slathered fruit salad, or it was suspended in sugary Gel-O. Even the veggies she had salvaged from a prepackaged snack tray were meant to be dipped in ranch dressing. He knew she was picky, why hadn't he warned her? "What am I supposed to eat?"  

"I don't know- a hot dog?" He winced as she stuck her tongue out. "Potato salad. Oh come on- try for me."

"For you." Gabriela smiled indulgently.      


Fitting In Pt2