Models Don't Eat Chocolate Cookies (3 page)

“Sure,” I muttered, not wanting a fight. Pushing the issue wouldn’t make anything better. As a distraction, I pried the top off an Oreo and licked at its sugary filling.

“Anyway, did you see Robbie Flan today?”

“Mm-hmm.” I wasn’t ready for words.
Why was Sandra so interested in my appearance all of a sudden? And why was she defending
Lively?

“He was wearing a baseball hat at lunch.” Sandra’s crush on Robbie started when they were paired to work on a social studies map project in the fall. Each night, we spent lots of phone time trying to figure out how she could get his attention. Unfortunately for her, our plan of sliding one-letter notes into his locker that spelled “I LIKE YOU” backfired when Sandra wouldn’t sign her name to the last one. Robbie thought Joanie Purcell was his admirer. I let her speculate about where Robbie got his hat and why he’d risk getting a dress code demerit for wearing it, while I sorted my emotional debris.

During the day, I stayed away from Robbie and his friends—from many of the boys at school, actually. They called me “Burrito Grande.” Theo Christmas, smiling down from his poster on my wall, never compared me to an oozy overstuffed food item. Or said anything about my “look.” I smiled at him, and he grinned back, all dark curls and smoky eyes.
Bet
he’d
like me no matter what I looked like. Or wore.
Then Sandra’s older brother, Geoff, yelled at her to get off the phone.

“He wants to talk to his
girl
friend,” Sandra said, stretching the word out like taffy. “Ow!” The scuffling sounds floated over the receiver. “I’m hanging
up
!” she shouted. Things settled down, and she resumed her Jolly Rancher clacking.

“Don’t forget about PE tomorrow,” she said. “It’s important.”

“Why?” The word came out sharper than I’d intended. Sandra felt it her duty to never let me forget my PE clothes. Tonight I didn’t appreciate the reminder.

Sandra didn’t seem to notice. “Part one of the physical fitness test.” Suck, smack, slurp.

I groaned. One more thing to wreck this week. We’d suffered through the Fitness Challenge twice a year, once in the fall, once in the spring, since fifth grade. The gym teachers at Albert J. Hancock Memorial Middle School—AlHo to its students—kept records on our year-to-year progress through sit-ups, push-ups, hanging on a bar, and, my least favorite, Running the Mile. Every time I hit the track, I fell into the “needs improvement/no progress made” category. Sandra always scored in the top ten percent.

“Can’t wait,” I said. Sandra squealed again, and our conversation was over.

After hanging up, I realized that I still hadn’t told her about the modeling flyer. I never could seem to get around to it. Better not to bring up Miss HuskyPeach tonight anyway, I decided, especially after her comments. Instead, cookie by cookie, I dismantled the rest of my tower and munched under Theo Christmas’s sympathetic eyes.

Want one?
I split a cookie and offered the top to my poster.

Have them all,
he replied with a smile.
Each and every one
.

 

An hour later, I was curled up on my bed with
The Lord of the Flies
(for Language Arts) and a bag of Butter Brothers Extra Butter microwave popcorn (because you need snacks if you’re stuck on a deserted island and your best friend is acting like a jerk) when I heard a giant
slam!
and the house shook.

“Noelle!” My dad’s voice boomed through the house like summer thunder. Not good. When Dad yells, something is very wrong. “Noelle! Let’s go!”

Scurrying footsteps came from my parents’ room.

“Wes?” For a moment, Mom sounded squeaky, like Aunt Doreen. I propped my book next to the popcorn and slid off my bed. A peek into the hall showed Mom bolting down the stairs wearing the green and pink striped bathrobe she changed into after dinner.

Dad lowered his voice and I couldn’t hear. Then, louder, “Celeste!”

I leaned over the banister. “Yeah?”

“Ben’s at Goodwin Memorial, sweetheart. Mom and I are going over there now.”

“What happened this time?”

Dad shook his head. Behind him, Mom traded her bathrobe for one of his fleece jackets from the front hall closet. She was still in her paisley pajamas and slippers. “I wish you’d remembered to bring your cell phone with you,” she muttered.

“Fly ball. Caught it with his noggin instead of his glove. He’s getting X-rays,” Dad said to me, jingling his keys. “Coach Anchor is with him.”

“That’s a first,” I said, as Mom disappeared from sight, then returned with her purse.

“That’s what I’m worried about,” she said, fishing through the bag. She held up her cell phone for me to see. “I’m ready.”

“We’ll be back in a couple of hours,” Dad said over his shoulder. From where I stood, his bald spot and protruding belly made him look like the number eight. “Don’t open the door to anyone, okay?”

I nodded, knowing he couldn’t see me. Not like this scene was anything unusual anyway.

Ben’s spent more time in casts, slings, braces, wraps, and Band-Aids than any kid I know. He’s broken his nose twice, and his wrist, one big toe, and a finger once each. The last time we added them up, he’d received 159 stitches. When we first moved, the school called social services on my parents, thinking they were abusive. Then they saw Ben on the playground.

“Make sure you pack your schoolbag for tomorrow,” Mom called. From above, with Mom’s thin frame and Dad’s round one, they made an eighteen. I nodded again, but the door had closed.

Back in my room, I plopped on my bed and propped the popcorn on my stomach. I tried to dredge up more than average concern for Ben.
What if this accident really rocked his brain? What if he goes blind or something?
Could
you go blind from being hit with a baseball?
I turned to Theo for an answer, but he just sat, arm slung around his guitar, contemplating the microphone.

You’re not helping me feel any better
.

I sighed. Even with all that could happen, when your parents spend more time in the ER with your brother than watching the show on TV, it’s hard to be dramatic.

I paged through
The Lord of the Flies,
but put it down when I felt like Piggy was getting what he deserved. Plus, I was out of popcorn and parched. A trip to the kitchen was in order.

Downstairs, a frosty mug of root beer in hand, I wandered around the family room trying not to be bored. On my second lap, I stopped in front of Mom’s desk. Its surface was covered by piles of paper and receipts; she spent about a half hour there every night after dinner, paying bills and sorting our lives. I poked at the stacks, idly glancing at a grocery receipt ($93.34) and the permission slip for Ben’s class field trip to the planetarium.

Bet he saw stars tonight,
I thought. Then I felt bad.

A glossy corner with a ragged edge stuck out from under the permission slip. I tugged and a page torn from a magazine slid from the pile. “Creative Cruciferous Creations: Snazzy Cauliflower, Broccoli, and Brussels Sprouts Recipes Your Family Will LOVE!” The photo showed a casserole dish of dark-green lumps lurking in a bubbling batter.

Oh, no. Mom
cannot
have this in the house,
I thought. For the past few weeks, she had been trying to liven up our vegetable intake and get us to eat healthier. Okay, get
me
to eat healthier. Dad and Ben never saw a food item they didn’t like—green, leafy, or otherwise. Rabbit food doesn’t do it for me. Why nibble broccoli when you can eat potatoes? They’re both vegetables. Salad is okay, and corn, but I can pretty much guarantee that a “Creative Cruciferous Creation” is going to taste as good as stew made from soggy weeds and dirt. Tossing the recipe would benefit the whole family. I stood over the garbage can and ceremoniously dropped it. The recipe fluttered from side to side as it fell and, true to my athletic powers, missed.

I bent and scooped it off the floor. As I was about to stuff it in the can, the headline “Be Model Thin in Four Weeks!” on the back of the recipe made me pause. The ad featured a woman whose waist looked as big around as my pinkie, and her red bathing suit was cut up high and down low. I didn’t need much imagination to see the wonders this diet worked on her.

It was simple: The ingredient list included prune juice, carrot juice, lemons, egg whites, and a few others. You mixed it together, drank it twice a day, and, according to the woman, “the weight just fell off.” I glanced down at my snug XL pajama bottoms, rolled so I wouldn’t trip over the long legs.
Really?
Still standing over the trash can, I told myself,
This is stupid. That stuff never works. It’ll taste awful
. But I didn’t move or throw the page away. I took a swig of root beer and closed my eyes as I swallowed.

As the sweet soda slid down my throat, I saw myself wearing the Monstrosity, reflected again and again in Angelique’s dressing room mirror, and heard Aunt Doreen’s “What size did you order?” followed by Sandra’s comment about my shape, and her not-so-helpful suggestion to change my look so “people” wouldn’t say stuff about me.

It’s not like dieting had never occurred to me, but it seemed as though I never
absolutely
needed to go on one. In elementary school, where everyone had a little baby fat, weight didn’t matter—someone always hung out with me on the playground. But instead of disappearing when I reached junior high, my “baby fat” grew with me and all of a sudden things were different: There weren’t as many people to sit with at lunch when Sandra wasn’t around. Lively Carson made me her favorite target. When I was a seventh grader, a group of boys yelled “Wide load approaching!” when I came down the hall. That did not help my social status. And after today’s Self-Esteem Explosion, a diet drink seemed like the perfect solution. When I opened my eyes, the woman in the red bathing suit was smiling at me.
You can do it,
her eyes urged.
Try it! Be like me!

I imagined being able to eat like Sandra and look like the bathing suit model instead of a beach ball, like Dad. Next, I imagined what it would be like to
like
my reflection in the triple mirror, or buy something other than track pants and not have to worry about my “look.” Instead of “Burrito Grande,” I’d be the Eensy Enchilada, the Teensy Tortilla. At the very least, people wouldn’t tease me.

Why not?
Depositing the ad on the counter, I scavenged the kitchen in search of the blender. Behind the pots and pans? Nope. In the cabinet with the old coffeemaker? Not there either. With the help of a chair from the kitchen table, I found it in the cabinet over the fridge. Then I dug out most of the ingredients, lining them up on the island.

After a couple of false starts getting the blender bucket to fit the base properly, I went to work mixing, measuring, and pureeing. We didn’t have everything the recipe listed, so I swapped limes for the lemons and fudged a few others: mayo for egg whites (close enough) and balsamic vinegar for apple cider vinegar. Besides, is there really a huge difference between tomato paste and tomato juice? Doubt it. My completed concoction was dark brown, gloppy, and appeared about as appetizing as the picture of the Brussels sprouts recipe. Actually, it looked a lot like root beer—if root beer was chunky instead of fizzy.

I needed a spoon to nudge the ploppy chunkiness from the pitcher into a glass. When I held it up to the light, I couldn’t see through it.
Definitely
not
root beer
.
They should show you a picture of what it’s supposed to look like when it’s done,
I thought, alarmed by its murky color. The ad woman smiled at me.
Go for it!
she encouraged.

I took a deep breath, held my nose, drank, and swallowed. And swallowed some more, trying to empty the glass. It tasted
nothing
like the sugary zing of root beer. I retched, bracing myself over the sink. My stomach rolled, then clenched tight, and for a minute I thought I was going to yurk. I counted backward from ten, taking slow, shallow breaths like Dad taught me when I had the flu, and gradually my stomach settled.

I guess the weight “just falls off” because it tastes so nasty you don’t ever want to eat or drink anything again
. I rinsed my mouth, but the aftertaste—spoiled coleslaw—coated the back of my throat. I’d need a toothbrush with a handle as long as a rake to get back there and scrub my tonsils if I ever wanted to enjoy dinner again.

“You suck,” I muttered at the red bathing suit model. Then I squished her and tossed her in the garbage can for good. It didn’t make the taste go away.

After cleaning up the experiment, I held my nose and poured what was left of the concoction into a travel mug. An odd-smelling garbage can might inspire questions I didn’t want to answer.

I’ll dump it out at school,
I thought. Once finished, I packed my backpack and got ready for bed.

Then the cramps started. They came in waves: three or four hot squeezes of pain, and then my belly would be fine again. Until the next round. I lay in bed, waiting for them to pass, listening for my parents to return with Ben, hating Skimpy Red Bathing Suit Woman and the Peach Monstrosity. Regardless of my look, or what was said about it, being a wide-load grande
anything
certainly
felt
a lot better than being a diet-drinking, tiny-bathing-suit-wearing almost-yurker.

Change was not worth this.

AT BREAKFAST THE next morning (which I barely ate—clearly, the Diet Drink of Horror was still doing its job), Mom told me that Ben had a mild concussion and would need to stay home from school.

“He’ll have an awful headache for a few days, but he’ll be fine,” she said, stirring a pan of scrambled eggs. “Want some?” she continued, tilting the pan in my direction.

Nauseated by the smell, I shook my head and hurried to get out the door.

“They’re gooood,” Ben taunted. His smile revealed egg in his teeth. Some slipped out and splattered his T-shirt.