This novel was originally published as an e-book in 2011 under the titleKnockers.
If you like Sophie Kinsella, Meg Cabot, and Liza Palmer, you'll love Ellyn Oaksmith!
Molly Gallagher does not like to be the center of attention. As the mysterious Diner X, her pseudonym for a restaurant review column, she thrives on blending in. But before you can say "medical malpractice," she wakes up from a routine procedure to find that her chart got switched with someone else's, and now her A cup runneth over.
Suddenly, unassuming Molly is turning heads wherever she goes. The man she's been pining for since high school is sitting up and taking notice, a very handsome stranger has captured her attention, and her lifelong dream of publishing a cookbook is about to come true. But Molly feels like an imposter. Will some advice from avery strange place help her figure out how to navigate her new, full-figured world?
Molly realizes her revamped shape might change her life. She just doesn't anticipate quite how much . . .
Excerpt
“Here
we go,” says the anesthesiologist. Poking the needle into my arm,
he withdraws a tiny bit of blood into the clear drug he’s about to
shoot into my vein. Red blood blooms in the benzodiazepine. I squeeze
Angeli’s hand, grateful to have an ally in the room. She squeezes
back hard, too hard. From the bed where I rest, prone in my unisex
surgery gown, I can see that Angeli’s brown eyes are scary huge,
like melting chocolates. She stares at the needle, transfixed, her
lush coffee-colored skin
now ashy pale. She clasps my hand until my fingers tingle. I want to
say something about my hand being strangled, but the drug is taking
effect. My brain floats three feet above, watching Angeli wobble
unsteadily. Her skin fades further to a weird hue, lips purplish
white. I haven’t seen her this shade since high school, when we
drank all my dad’s Crown Royal and threw up on my mom’s prize
Tropicana rosebushes. She’s going to faint.
In the
back of my drug-addled
brain there is a tug of remembrance, a creeping sense of doom. Why
did Angeli quit medical school? Because she was tired of her doctor
parents pushing their profession, their immigrant drive, their Indian
lives down her thoroughly Americanized throat. That was it, right?
Then I remember: she quit because she fainted at the sight of blood.
“You’re
squeezing my hand too hard,” I squeal.
This
isn’t happening. I’m shot full of drugs, going down faster than
the Hindenburg, and my best friend, the person who is supposed to
drive me, tend me, and take the helm while I am out of commission, is
teetering like a drunk. My lips numb Lovely soft fuzz fills my brain.
I remember some comedian’s quip about why so many people become
drug addicts: because drugs are fun. I give Angeli a squishy smile,
trying to form a sentence in my soggy brain, something about how
she’d better not faint because I need her to look after me. Then
Angeli disappears from view. One minute she’s there, and the next,
nothing but wall space and a dull thud.
I turn
woozily to the anesthesiologist. He looks down at the floor, a deep
frown creasing his brow.
“Nola,
we got a fainter!” he yells.
Panicking,
I realize that this surgery, which is supposed to rid me of the scars
on my neck and chest, boost my confidence, expand my career, and
maybe even jump-start my
love life, isn’t going well. And I haven’t even left the pre-op
room. The last thing that goes through my head is this: I’ve picked
the wrong damn friend.
Medical
errors occur in 17 percent of all hospital procedures. Most of them
are caused by understaffing, fatigue, lack of communication, and
staff error. My best friend caused mine. When it came time to pick my
advocate during surgery, it came down to five people: my sisters,
Trina and Denise; my best friends, Martin and Angeli; and my dad.
Trina was out because I was using her plastic surgeon. She’d spend
all her time agonizing over whether or not to get a quick shot of
Botox instead of looking out for me. My younger sister Denise is too
busy chaining herself to whaling ships and picketing outside the
federal building. Besides, she’d view plastic surgery as
antifeminist, lecturing me on embracing my scars and wearing them
like a badge of courage. My dad, well, surgery would remind him of
the worst night of his life, the night I got the scars. Martin was
busy covering my job at the newspaper.
Angeli,
who never mentioned anything about queasiness at the sight of blood,
could easily get someone to cover for her at the Clinique counter at
Nordstrom. She seemed the obvious choice.
I
subscribe to the domino theory of life. One bad choice or event
triggers a chain of events that then lead to an explosion in one’s
life. In this case, Angeli was the first tilting tile. Nurse Nola,
who rushed to pick Angeli off the floor, was holding someone else’s
chart. In her haste, she dropped the chart on my bed. Three minutes
later I was wheeled into surgery with another patient’s chart. I
wake up in the recovery room three hours later feeling as if I’ve
fallen off a cliff. It’s not so bad, though, because I’ve landed
in a warm pile of drugs. A wan, tired Angeli is at my side, holding
my hand, smiling in her surprisingly empathetic way. In a chemical
haze, I tilt my head from side to side. The room swims pleasantly as
though I’m underwater. Dimly aware of a faint ache in my chest and
neck, I float above the pain, enjoying my little high. This isn’t
so bad. My surgeon, Dr. Hupta, told me I’d have lots more pain
after the drugs wear off. But then he’ll give me more to take home.
Easy peasy.
Across
from me is a teenage girl with bandages covering her cheeks and nose,
sipping from a green juice box. Her mother, in a pink velour jogging
suit, flips through a movie magazine. They watch me as I blink my
eyes woozily, struggling to sit up. Angeli jumps from her chair to
help me.
“Here,
here, I got it.” She presses a button, lifting the bed. As my head
becomes level with hers, she whispers in my ear, nodding at the
teenager. “One guess what she’s in here for.”
Before
I can answer, a nurse bustles in, her neon white smile fixed. “Well,
hello there. And how are we feeling after our big day in surgery?”
I try
to say, “Fine.” It comes out, “Fiiiiaaaay.”
The
nurse takes my pulse, listens to my heart rate, and hands me a juice
box. “We need to get your blood sugar up, or you’ll end up on the
ground like your friend here when you try to walk.”
Angeli
rolls her eyes behind the nurse’s back. As soon as she leaves,
Angeli whispers about my roommate. “Nose job. High school
graduation present. Can you imagine? Happy graduation; how’d you
like a new schnoz?”
Slowly
I drink my apple juice, my head clearing slightly. “I doubt it went
like that. Nice disappearing act back there.”
She
rolls her eyes and shrugs. “Now you know why I flunked premed.”
“You
said blood used to make you queasy, not parallel.” I wince as the
pain radiates into my neck and shoulders.
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