The Sweet Potato Queens' First Big-Ass Novel by Jill Conner Browne Page B

most famous actress in the world if I don’t have y’all to lord it over? Let’s promise that we’ll never lose touch with each other.”
    She dangled a bag of corn chips from her hand. “Swear on this fag of Britos,” she said, mixing her words, and of course we all swore, knowing how seriously Mary Bennett took her Fritos. She called them the Manna From Heaven.
    There wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Each of us solemnly touched the Frito bag and whispered, “I swear.”
    I was the last one to make the vow, and as I did, memories of the last two years zipped through my brain: dancing to “Land of 1000 Dances” until I wanted to collapse, eating until I thought I would burst, laughing until my sides ached, and riding in a convertible with the wind whipping through my wig, singing “Tiny Bubbles” (the Queens’ theme song) at the top of my lungs. But most of all I remembered our long talks about our secret hopes and dreams—talks that were like stitches, knitting us together in a way that I thought would last forever.
    I rose to my feet, glass in hand, and demanded they all join me in a toast. “Repeat after me,” I said, “HERE’S to US…” They echoed it back to me, in tones more dutiful than enthusiastic, until they heard and roared the ending—of what was to become our battle cry—“and FUCK EVERYBODY ELSE!”

PART TWO
1974

Chapter
5
    Y ou’re up four pounds, Mrs. Mitchell,” I said to the portly woman with a poodle cut who stood before me in an overtaxed satin slip. I’d guessed the news was going to be bad when she removed almost everything, including her bobby pins, before her weigh-in, hoping she’d somehow cheat the scale.
    â€œI don’t know why,” she said, all red-faced and flustered. “I followed the diet to the letter.”
    Boy hidee, if I had a nickel for every time one of my clients said that, I could have bought my own weight-loss center.
    One or two pounds up didn’t necessarily indicate a cheater. Water retention could account for small fluctuations in weight, but four pounds ? Mrs. Mitchell had definitely been face-first in the feedbag—frequently.
    I consulted my clipboard. “So, you didn’t have cookies, cakes, chocolates, or doughnuts?”
    Her cheek twitched a little at the mention of “doughnut,” and I knew I’d hit pay dirt.
    â€œNow that I think about it, I recall I may have nibbled on a doughnut or two.”
    Make that one or two dozen doughnuts, I thought.
    â€œBut they weren’t those heavy cake doughnuts. They were Krispy Kremes, and they were just light as air. I assumed they didn’t count.”
    Ha! The things dieting women thought they could get away with! Snacks eaten on the run didn’t count, and neither did “tasting” food while cooking it. Cokes and alcohol surely didn’t count. “I just tinkle it right out,” said one clueless client, who claimed ice cream didn’t count either as long as it was nearly melted.
    If women consistently deluded themselves about something as simple as the food they put in their mouths, what other gigantic lies were they telling themselves?
    â€œMrs. Mitchell, this diet is so scientific and delicately balanced that the slightest deviation can throw it clean off track.”
    â€œI’ll try to be more careful,” she said, slipping back into her blouse. “But it’s hard to imagine that a couple of slices of cake would—”
    â€œCake?” I said with a raised eyebrow.
    â€œIt was carrot cake, which I assumed was perfectly acceptable since you people are always foisting vegetables upon me.”
    â€œAfter you get dressed, go in and see the nutritionist. She’ll tweak your food list, and remind you of which ones aren’t allowed.”
    People are always attracted to forbidden fruit, I thought as I closed the door to the