Killer Calories

Bernadette, can I talk to you for a minute... out here?”
    “Well, I’m in the middle of my initiation with Ms. Reid
    but—”
    “That’s okay, Bernadette, really,” Savannah interjected. “I have to read these papers over before I sign them anyway.”
    Bernadette looked distressed. “They’re just standard release forms that say—”
    “I know, but I never sign anything without reading every word. See, my cousin’s first husband’s brother, the one from New Jersey , well, he was a lawyer, and he always told us to-“
    “Okay, okay.” Bernadette bounded out of her desk chair—-everyone seemed to bound or bounce or bop around here, Savannah noticed. Maybe there was something to this health kick after all. “I’ll go see what Tammy wants and get right back to you.”
    “No problem... take your time. I read slowly.”
    Bernadette left the door open a crack, so Savannah could hear the trumped-up question Tammy was asking her in the hallway, something about scheduling problems between herself and another aerobics instructor.
    One quick glance around the three-desk office told Savannah that this was a fairly organized establishment. She was sitting at Bernadette’s enrollment /initiation station. The other two desks, fortunately unoccupied, were marked by small brass plaques as: Sandra Cummings—Bookkeeper and Louis Hanks—President.
    With a quick glance toward the doorway, Savannah hurried across the faded red carpeting to Lou Hanks’s desk. No doubt it would yield the juiciest secrets. Or at least, it would have, if it hadn’t been locked.
    Although she was an expert in the fine art of lock-tumbler manipulation, Savannah decided she didn’t have time to pick it. So, she scuttled over to the bookkeeper’s desk.
    Fortunately, the top two drawers were unlocked. The first drawer contained the usual office supplies. But in the second, she found a pile of unpaid bills. Having gone through a time of financial struggles herself this past year, getting Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency on its limping feet, she knew grossly overdue notices when she saw them.
    Some were from the Internal Revenue Service and threatened dire consequences if large sums weren’t paid within the next ninety days. Apparently, some sort of federal lien had already been placed against the Royal Palms Spa.
    She would have loved to scour deeper, but she could tell by the tone of the conversation in the hall that their talk was coining to a close.
    The moment her rear hit the chair, Bernadette bounced back into the room, toga aflutter.
    “Well?” she asked, nodding toward the release forms. “Would your cousin from Jersey approve?”
    Savannah thought of the days ahead—the grass-drink concoctions, the unflavored yogurt and tofu, the unnatural and miserably uncomfortable yoga positions, the sweaty aerobics classes at the break of dawn, the agonies of withdrawal she would suffer going cold turkey off Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream.
    She glanced over to the door and saw Tammy standing there, gazing at her with doe eyes, begging, pleading.
    She sighed, shoulders slumped, a defeated woman. “All right, all right... where do I sign?”

    Dr. Freeman Ross was a quack. That was Savannah ’s assessment after he gave her the quickest physical examination *n ancient or modern history. Until he pronounced her perfectly healthy—excess fat ratio not withstanding—and then she decided maybe she had judged him too hastily.
    “You’re in great shape, Ms. Reid,” he told her as he lowered himself onto the tiny, rolling stool beside the examination table where she sat, shivering in a blue-and-white paperg own.
    “Thanks. I always thought so, too.”
    “So, why are you here?”
    Yes, she liked Dr. Ross, very much. If he kept this up, she might propose. He was kinda cute in a Clark Kent sort of way, somewhere in his mid-forties, with perfectly waved dark hair and round, tortoiseshell glasses. He wore jeans and sneakers along with his formal, white doctor’s smock. A nice look.
    And he hadn’t complained about her weight.
    “Why am I here?” she said. “That’s a good question. It’s just that... well, you know... I’ve been taking a lot of heat from friends about those extra pounds.”
    “And which pounds are those?”
    “The ones on every chart I read.” She sighed. “According to those, I’d be the perfect weight... if I were only six-foot-three.”
    He chuckled as he scribbled notes on her chart, which was