Models Don't Eat Chocolate Cookies (8 page)

“Sure,” I said, swallowing hard against the stab in my heart. “Go ahead. We’ll talk later. I’ll eat with Millie.”

“I’ll call you tonight and give you all the details. Promise,” Sandra said, bounce back, and she was gone—along with my desire to tell her about my plans.

Later that afternoon, though, I’d regained my dieting enthusiasm. I barely even noticed when Lively knocked into me and mooed between math and science. I wanted to take out the nutrition information and read it, but I knew what would happen if I dared do it at school. So I waited. The rest of the day passed by as slowly as ketchup sliding from a full bottle.

When I finally got home, the house was empty. A note from Mom revealed that she’d taken Ben for his follow-up appointment for his concussion. Glad to have the quiet, I spread the nutrition information across the table. I read about calorie counts, sugar, fat, and protein, and examined the food log we were supposed to fill out. It was stuff I’d heard of before, of course—who hadn’t?—but I’d never wanted to pay attention to it. Until now.

There were even sample healthy menus on some handouts and a height and weight chart to help calculate BMI—a ratio that showed how overweight you were. After following the calculations, once again I found myself in the “needs improvement” category. According to the handout, I needed to lose about twenty pounds to not be in the “unhealthy” weight range.

Twenty pounds. The number reverberated through my head like a gigantic echo. I didn’t think I had to lose
that
much . . . but I wasn’t about to step on a scale and get hard evidence one way or another. There was no way I could lose twenty pounds in six weeks.
But if I lose
some
weight,
I thought,
I still might be too thin to win.

I flashed back to the Diet Drink of Horror. If only that had worked . . . but its rancid taste and belly-flipping effects left an impression that I wouldn’t forget.

I tried optimism.
This won’t be so bad.
Most of the stuff on the healthy food lists were things I liked—chicken, fruit, and vegetables. The key was eating smaller amounts of everything. And not eating cookies. That would be a little tougher, but it would just be for a couple of weeks, until I lost a few pounds. Starting right away would be best. Instead of my usual after-school snack of chocolate cookies and milk, I went to the fridge and pulled out an apple. And took one cookie out of the bag. Then I glanced at the apple in my other hand and put the cookie back. Sealed the bag. Reopened it and took two more.

This could be harder than I thought.

 

Mom and Ben came home with clearance for him to go back to baseball and a car full of groceries. Ben immediately ran upstairs to get his glove and banged out of the house to find someone to play catch with.

“Use your hands, not your head,” Mom called after him, unpacking the bags. She shook her head. “Hopefully we won’t have another incident for a couple of weeks. We need a break.” She caught herself as I started laughing. “Oh, no! You know what I mean.”

I began stacking canned goods in the pantry, still chuckling. “
Suuure.
You’ll probably wish you’d never said that.”

“You’re right. But he needs to stay healthy until we can get you through the Challenge. Can’t be trucking him around town to doctors when we have so much to do to get you ready too.” She smiled a wide smile in my direction. Her words rained ice water on my good mood. I ducked deeper into the cabinet.

“Have you sent that card in yet?”
Maybe I could end this whole thing now.

“Do you really think I should do this?” I said to the peas and corn.

“Do what?” Mom asked. “Honey, I can barely hear you. Come out of there.”

I pulled my head out of the cabinet and straightened, then grabbed several soup cans from the counter and dove back in.

“You know, the Challenge thing. I mean, I’m still not sure if it’s a good idea.” I arranged the cans so the labels lined up perfectly.
Please, please don’t make me do this. Don’t make me interview, or do the photo shoot, or walk the runway. Or,
studying the new bag of Oreos on the top shelf,
diet.
I poked my head out.

“Honey, this really is a wonderful opportunity for you. You could get money for college. You’ll learn so much. You could even get an agent and more modeling jobs. I wish you could see it from my perspective. You need to send in that form.” She paused, one hand in the brown paper bag, and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear with the other.

Easy for you to say,
I thought. With their “hummingbird metabolisms,” Mom and Aunt Doreen were petite and pretty. My metabolism moved about as fast as a hippo’s. So of course Mom’d be excited about a modeling opportunity. If I were a contestant in the SkinnyBanana Modeling Challenge, I’d be excited too.

“Your father and I want you to go through at least one session. Will you do that for us?” She turned to me.

“Just one?”

“It would mean so much and make us very, very proud.” Her face was hopeful.

There it was, my way out, but I was too chicken to take it. Once she brought out the P-word, I was done for. I sort of half smiled and shook my head.

“Guess I’m just nervous,” I mumbled. Giving the Oreos a wistful glance, I closed the pantry door. “Okay. One session.”

 

Upstairs, I popped in a Theo Christmas CD and spread the HuskyPeach response card and nutrition handouts across my desk.
Chubby model or thinner, average person?
I thought. I glanced from one to the other. There was no way I wanted to be Miss HuskyPeach.
Why had I agreed to do this?

While Theo sang, I opted to organize Operation Skinny Celeste. I would write down everything I ate over the next four weeks, sticking to the healthy food guides on the handouts. I dug out the food log, a brochure with a picture of a skinny cartoon girl holding an apple and a glass of milk on its cover, and studied the columns labeled
breakfast, lunch,
and
dinner
on the inside. There was a box at the bottom for snacks.
May as well start with today,
I thought, and listed what I’d eaten earlier as I sang along to “Dreaming Without You”: “Now my nerves are shot, I have nothing to say . . . I know I’ve never felt this way.”

Breakfast: bowl of cereal (Choco-Puffs), glass of orange juice. Lunch: 2 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, small bag of chips (BBQ), chocolate chip cookie.

I jotted “Twinkies” in the snack box. And added the apple and two cookies I’d eaten downstairs. Easy enough. I could do this, no problem. It didn’t even look like that much food, now that I’d written it down. No more HuskyPeach for me! The smile on my face was as bright as Theo’s spotlight. I stuck my tongue out at the response card.

What about the candy from Dr. Mastis’s desk?
whispered a voice in my head. It was Red Bathing Suit Woman.
Didn’t you take two pieces from his jar at the end of class?

Thanks for the reminder,
I replied, smile fading, and added them to my snacks list. That box looked pretty crowded.

And the soda you drank after lunch?
she prodded.
You forgot that too
.

Of course.
I listed it under the cookie. The smile dimmed even further.
Anything else?
I asked, annoyed with her smug tone. When she didn’t respond, I put the pen down.

Didn’t you get a granola bar from the vending machine before you left school?
she asked. I imagined her smirking.

Didn’t I squish you?
I thought in reply. I scribbled the last item in the snacks box. There were no more lines left.
This could be more complicated than I thought,
I realized, reviewing my list. Only a few of the items I’d eaten all day were “healthy choices,” according to the nutrition guide: the apple, the milk in the cereal, the sandwiches and the juice (which were kind of a stretch). Everything else was listed under “Food to Be Eaten in Moderation.”
We HuskyPeaches like to take bites out of life,
I thought. The response card mocked me.

“Celeste,” Mom called from downstairs. “Come set the table.”

Dinner.

Take smaller bites,
Red Bathing Suit Woman suggested.

“SINCE WHEN ARE you so interested in helping in the kitchen?” Mom asked as I helped her finish making the salad.

I shrugged, watching the water swirl down the drain as I rinsed the tomatoes. “Just thought it’d be nice,” I offered. Once finished with my nightly chore, I usually made a break for it until dinner was on the table. But if Operation Skinny Celeste was going to work, I needed to be in the kitchen to make “healthy choices,” according to my nutrition info. Especially when I packed my lunch. I blotted each tomato dry, then passed them to Mom for slicing and dicing. “What are we having, anyway?” I asked, enjoying a whiff of something yummy in the oven. It smelled familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

“Homemade mac and cheese,” Mom replied, scraping the tomatoes into the bowl of lettuce on the counter.

“Really?” My mouth watered. “What’s the occasion?” Mom only made mac and cheese for super-special dinners. The last time we had it was when Ben got the cast off his arm after breaking his wrist, and that was months ago.

“Oh, we have lots of things to celebrate these days,” she said, handing me a cucumber and the vegetable peeler. I held the cuke over the sink and slid the peeler against its deep green skin. It came off in sheets, showing the white pulp underneath.

“Like what?” I asked, suspicious.

“Well, Ben being better, for one,” she said. “And your exciting new opportunity. I even invited Aunt Doreen, Uncle Chuck, Kathleen, Paul, and Kirsten over to celebrate. You’ll need to set extra places for them.”

The last thing I wanted to do was celebrate my chubby model contestant-hood with anyone, let alone Aunt Doreen and company. Mom’s words startled me, and I scraped a knuckle instead of the vegetable. “Ow!” I said. The peeler clattered into the sink. Drops of blood darkened the pile of shaved cucumber skin.

“Careful,” Mom chided, turning the cold water on and holding my hand under the stream. “You are as dangerous to yourself in the kitchen as Ben is on the jungle gym.” She smiled and rummaged through the junk drawer for a Band-Aid.

“Why’d you have to invite them over?” I struggled to unwrap the bandage and get it around my own finger. Mom, tired of watching me wrangle, came to my rescue.

“I invited them because they’re family, and very excited for you,” she said, her eyes darkening and brows dropping into her Stern Look. “And because without your aunt Doreen, you wouldn’t have this opportunity.” She gave my bandaged hand a gentle squeeze for reinforcement.

Pretty much,
I agreed, but I didn’t say anything. When Mom’s back was turned, I slipped out of the kitchen. Plan or no plan, it was not the place for me.

 

When Aunt Doreen and Uncle Chuck got to our house, I was back in my bedroom, making an attempt at algebra homework. As a cruel reminder of the weight I needed to lose, every answer kept coming up as “negative twenty.” Mom called me to come and say hi. I dragged my feet the whole way down.

“There she is!” Aunt Doreen squealed. “It’s our little model!”

Little? Not quite. But I’m hoping to be too little to model,
I thought. I held still while she squeezed bony hugs and pecked kisses on me. Hummingbird is right.

“There she is,” Uncle Chuck boomed. He’s the tallest person I’ve ever met, with big hands and long legs that match his loud voice. You’d think he’d be scary, but he just walks around behind Aunt Doreen, repeating what she says. She talks so much he never gets that many words out. He stooped to pat my back. “Our—what is it, Doreen? Healthy grape?”

“Husky peach,” she murmured, studying me as though I had turned to gold.

“Our husky peach,” he said. “Isn’t that something? Where’s Wes?” he asked my mom.

Mom directed him to the family room. All the while, Aunt Doreen cooed and clucked at me like I would break into pieces if I sneezed.

“Where are Kirsten, Kathleen, and Paul?” Mom asked.

“Kirsten had afternoon swim practice,” Aunt Doreen replied, tearing her eyes away from me. “They’re picking her up when she’s done.”

“Aunt Doreen made you something special, Celeste,” Mom said. “You really didn’t have to,” she added, over my head.

“Oh?”
Please, please don’t let it be what I think it is,
I thought, remembering my food log. For all of Aunt Doreen’s messing in other people’s business and nervous chatter, she is a great cook. And she makes the best—

“Butterscotch apple crumb cake.”

“Great. Thank you, Auntie. It’s my favorite dessert.” Inside, I wilted. A warm slice of her crumb cake topped with creamy vanilla ice cream is like giving your belly a hug—it feels great and you want another one.

Operation Skinny Celeste encountered its first land mine. Negative Twenty was shaping up to be one rocky road.

 

Paul, Kathleen, and Kirsten arrived right before we ate. Kathleen is a taller, more beautiful version of Kirsten. They share the same long blond hair; however, Kathleen’s eyes are clear green and her build would make Barbie jealous. But she doesn’t make a big deal of it. She dresses in comfy clothes most of the time and never wears makeup. Paul, of course, is equally as good-looking—deep brown eyes, wavy hair, and a wide smile. Together, they resemble those plastic bride and grooms on top of wedding cakes.

“Hey, star,” Paul said, giving me a peck on the cheek. I blushed.

“Not quite,” I said.

“Well, I’m glad we booked you in our wedding party before you become a world-renowned model,” Kathleen joked. She hugged me. Mom called us to eat, saving my face from melting from the heat of further teasing.

We squeezed around the table and enjoyed Mom’s dinner. Thankfully, conversation focused on Ben’s concussion. He recounted seeing the fly ball come at him as fast as a comet and jumping for it.