Models Don't Eat Chocolate Cookies (9 page)

BOOK: Models Don't Eat Chocolate Cookies
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“Then I guess I got so excited that I forgot to bring my glove up to actually
catch
it,” he finished, staring at his plate as his cheeks turned pink.
“It’s okay,” Paul said, with a rough pat on Ben’s back. “Next time you won’t.”
Mom and Aunt Doreen cleared the dishes and brought out the butterscotch apple crumb cake, which had been warming in the oven during dinner. The sweet buttery smell filled the house. Dad placed a tub of vanilla ice cream on the corner of the table, and Mom sliced.
“Celeste should get the first piece,” Aunt Doreen chirped from across the table. “After all, she’s going to be fay-mous.” Everyone turned to me.
I was sure my face turned darker pink than Ben’s. “Ummm, thanks, Auntie. I don’t know about that, though. I’ll just have a little one,” I said, thinking of Red Bathing Suit Woman, Negative Twenty, and looking at my Living Barbie Cousins. “And”—I gulped—“no ice cream.” I rushed the words out before I could change my mind.
“Come on,” Uncle Chuck rumbled. “No ice cream?”
“Really?” Dad’s eyes were wide. He gestured with the scooper. “Are you sure?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Mom passed a cake-topped plate to my dad and kept slicing.
“Celeste,” Aunt Doreen cooed, leaning across the table like we were the only two in the room, “you don’t have to worry about the Challenge. The HuskyPeach wants you just the way you are.”
“Mom!” Kathleen said, shocked.
“I can’t believe you just said that,” said Kirsten. My ears were so hot, I was pretty sure they were on fire.
“Oh, honey, come on. Celeste is just nervous. You’ll do fine, sweetheart,” Aunt Doreen said, and patted my hand.
“You’ll do fine,” Uncle Chuck repeated. He dug into his brick-sized piece with a grin.
Falling into a hole in the floor would be
fine
right about now,
I thought.
“Just a small piece for me too,” Kirsten chimed in as Mom cut me a skimpy slice of cake and I tried to send a smile in Aunt Doreen’s direction.
“I’m sure Celeste is just full. She’ll have another slice later, right, honey? She always does. Sometimes more than one,” Mom soothed. I stared at my plate.
Like fattening a pig,
Red Bathing Suit Woman whispered in my head. Two weeks ago Aunt Doreen could barely look at me in the Monstrosity, and now she was concerned with increasing my cake consumption.
“There’s that one plus-sized model who’s pretty famous these days,” Paul jumped in. “I can’t remember her name . . . Daisy something? Rose someone? It’s a flower. Anyway, she’s big.”
And this was supposed to make me feel better?
“What are you saying
that
for?” Kathleen glared at him with a stare that would rival her mother’s.
“Huh?” Paul’s face was covered in confusion. Then something clicked. “Oh. I didn’t mean big like
big
. I meant big like . . . popular.” He shoveled a piece of cake into his mouth, probably so he wouldn’t say anything else to get him in trouble. The tips of his ears were pink.
Someone please give me my life back.
Bathing Suit Woman only chuckled.
After dessert, Kirsten, Kathleen, and I cleared the table while the moms looked at photos of bridesmaid bouquets for the wedding. Dad, Paul, and Uncle Chuck took Ben out to practice catching fly balls. When Ben ran upstairs to get his glove, he came back down with his football helmet too. “They’re making me,” he said with a shrug.
“Poor kid.” Kathleen shook her head as she stood at the sink, rinsing plates. Kristen wrapped the leftover cake. “Gotta give him credit for trying, though.”
I shuttled the plates to the dishwasher. “Uh-huh.”
“So, are you psyched for this modeling thing, or what?” she said, turning to me. “You’ve barely said anything about it.” She smiled.
At that second, with her perfect teeth and perfect hair and perfect skin and eyes focused on me, all that perfect helped me see how broken I was. I heard Lively’s jeers, felt the ache of Sandra’s continued rejections, and pictured the food log waiting for me upstairs while the Butterscotch Apple Crumb Cake of Temptation sat sentry on the kitchen counter. Negative Twenty never seemed so far away. Everything just rolled together and I couldn’t help it, I started to cry. Tears slid off my face and onto the dishes in my hands, mingling with the watery streaks of ice cream and crumb cake.
“I—I—know,” I blurted, unable to stop myself and mortified that I couldn’t. My shoulders hitched as I tried to breathe, but stay quiet enough so Mom wouldn’t hear. “I don’t want to.”
Kathleen stood frozen at the sink, like she’d stepped in dog poo and didn’t want to check the bottom of her shoe. The tap gushed. She blinked.
“Wow, Celeste. It’s okay.” She turned the water off and grabbed a towel, then hustled across the kitchen, Kirsten following.
I struggled to stop, but couldn’t. “I just—I just—” I scrunched my face in an effort to control myself.
How babyish is this?
I thought. Snot slid out of my nose, and I sniffed hard to suck it back in since I was still holding the plates and didn’t have a free hand to grab a tissue.
So gross! They’re my cousins and I’ll have to live with this for the rest of my life.
Kirsten tugged the dishes from my grasp and set them on the counter.
Kathleen snagged a napkin from the holder and I took it gratefully, blotting my eyes and wiping my faucet-nose. The tears slowed. She gave me a quick hug and stood back, hands on my arms, and looked down at me as I sniffled and hiccupped.
“You all right?” she asked, face serious.
I nodded.
“Really?”
“Think so,” I managed, and sniffed again.
“Whoa,” Kirsten said. She cleared a space on the counter and hoisted herself up. Kathleen leaned next to her. “What’s the deal?”
Embarrassed by my snotty crying fit, I hung my head and studied my shoes. “Not much to tell.”
“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s cool,” Kirsten said. She hopped off the counter and rinsed another plate. It was then that I realized I hadn’t talked to
anyone
about it. I didn’t have anyone to tell since Sandra was so busy with Lively. I stood there in stupid silence, listening to the water rush into the sink, pushing back the pain.
Kathleen loaded the dish into the dishwasher. She glanced in my direction.
“It’s dumb,” I tried. She nodded, encouraging me.
“It’s just,” I said again. “I don’t want to be a HuskyPeach.” The tears threatened to fall again, so I stopped.
She tucked her golden hair behind her ears. “Okay. So why are you doing it?”
My eyes returned to the floor, which I’d never studied so carefully. “Because my mom and dad and your mom are so excited about it. Because they think I can do it.”
“But you don’t?”
I shrugged. There were blue specks in the tile I never noticed. “I told Mom I’d do the first round, but now I don’t know. What if people find
out
?”
It was her turn to shrug. “So?”
I knew what she was getting at—the whole “they’re just jealous and that’s why they’ll make fun of it” theory—but that didn’t work in this case. I seriously doubted there would be a lot of people at AlHo wishing they were walking that catwalk. And with Lively Carson stealing my best friend, I’d have to make my way alone. To go through with Miss HuskyPeach, I needed an ally—my own lieutenant, like Ralph in
The Lord of the Flies. And right now, there are a serious lack of candidates for the job.
But I couldn’t say that either. So I gave her a half smile and tried to seem agreeable.
She saw right through it. “Look, I know. The whole thing stinks and people are mean. But if you do or don’t do stuff because of what other people think, you’ll end up wimpy, like a dishcloth.” She waved hers for emphasis. Kirsten smiled in agreement.
“I guess,” I said. Kathleen always did what she wanted and people listened to her. She probably never worried about being a Dishcloth Wimp.
“You’re doing it because your mom wants you to, but you might get teased, so you don’t want to. Figure out what
you
want and say the heck with them.” She tossed the cloth over her shoulder and turned back to the sink.
“Not like that’s easy either, but it’s the only way you’ll be happy. That’s how I decided I didn’t want to do pageants like Kathleen,” Kirsten added.
I nodded, bringing my gaze from the floor to her. This time my smile was more genuine, but my insides were still shaky.
“I’ll try,” I promised, and gathered the dirty plates off the counter.
I need to figure out what I want first, though,
I thought.
And then deal with Mom.
As if reading my mind, Mom stuck her head in the room as I was bent over the dishwasher.
“Girls, are you done yet? Aunt Doreen and I want you to look at these bouquets, Kathleen.”
“Be right there, Aunt Noelle,” she responded. When I heard Mom’s footsteps tapping in the direction of the family room, I straightened, relieved that she hadn’t seen my blotchy face. More questions and tears were not what I needed.
Kathleen folded the dishcloth over the edge of a cabinet door to dry. “I’ll see you out there,” she said, and left.
Kirsten shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Flowers. How boring can you get?” She crossed the room, twisting her hair into a knot as she went.
“Kirsten,” I said, my voice sounding weak to my own ears. She stopped, mid-knot, hands wrapped in loops of golden tresses, and turned in my direction with eyebrows raised.
“Thanks.” Even though their words hadn’t helped me that much, it was good to let it out—even if it
did
come out as a snot-filled mess.
She fiddled for a minute, and the knot sat snug on her head when she dropped her arms. “No problem.” She took a few steps in the direction of the family room, then paused. “By the way, what’s up with Sandra’s new friend?”
“Huh?” I said, unable to make the Conversational Gear Shift.
“Sandra’s friend. Geoff says she bugs him.”
Lively.
Guess I’m not the only one she bugs,
I thought. I shrugged instead of answering and she left.
After washing my face and wiping down the counter, I was ready to face the Bouquet Bonanza. Leaving the room, the kitchen clock caught my attention: 9:15.
Sandra hadn’t called.
Chapter 11
IN THE FOLLOWING days, Operation Skinny Celeste lumbered into motion. I avoided Twinkies, snacks, and chocolate cookies at all costs, but there were hidden minefields and snipers around every corner. First came the Butterscotch Apple Crumb Cake of Temptation, then there was the Brownie Pan Sneak Attack (Mom made them for Ben’s class field trip to the planetarium and left some for me and Dad). That night, I found myself standing at the kitchen counter, staring at the brownies, while Dad was out playing catch with Ben, and Mom was at her desk.
Just one won’t hurt,
I thought, reaching out to the smallest one on the plate. The size of my school ID, it beckoned me with chocolaty delight.
Negative Twenty,
hissed Red Bathing Suit Woman.
It’ll become Negative Thirty if you aren’t careful.
I scowled.
“Leave me alone,” I whispered, trying to get her smug voice out of my head.
“Did you say something, honey?” Mom called.
I snatched my hand from the plate and spun around, guilty. Red Bathing Suit Woman chuckled.
“No.”
Mom entered the kitchen, carrying a sheaf of papers for the trash. “I thought I heard you say something.” When I shook my head, she left. “By the way,” she called from her desk, “I mailed that card for you.”
I’d been staring at the brownies again, not paying attention.
It really isn’t a very big brownie,
I reasoned.
And it’s homemade. That has to be better than store-bought cookies, right?
“Card? What card?”
“For the Modeling Challenge,” came her casual response. “It was on your desk when I was putting laundry away. I saw that you’d left it out, so I sent it in. We’re all set for Saturday.”
The brownie didn’t look so appetizing after all. I was about to protest, tell Mom that she shouldn’t have mailed it, when I realized that it was my fault for agreeing to do round one in the first place. My motivation for Negative Twenty reached the point of no turning back. I was a chubby modeling contestant. I had no choice but to lose weight—and the Challenge.
 
At the end of the week my resolve was put to the test. Typically, AlHo’s cafeteria served up the usual hot lunch food: too-flat grilled cheese, suspicious pizza slices, and mystery meat tacos. But one Friday a term, the caf held barbecue day, or “BBQ day,” as it said on the whiteboard menu by the hot lunch line. Everyone bought on BBQ days. It was the one day I left my peanut butter and jelly home, choosing, instead, a hot dog and hamburger (because you can’t pick just one) and a mountain of crinkle-cut golden french fries, which I smothered in ketchup. Never mind that real summertime barbecues didn’t include fries as a side dish, at AlHo, BBQs always did. It was also the only day of the term that the caf served soda along with milk and juice.
But instead of soda, in front of me squatted a small carton of skim milk. In place of my burger or hot dog, a Tupperware container of spinach salad, with lemon juice for the dressing. And replacing french fries, for my dining pleasure, there was a small plastic bag of dry, white-tinged carrot sticks—no ridges, no crinkles, and no coating. I sighed. Seven days, and Operation Skinny Celeste was getting old. My pants didn’t feel any looser, and I was still avoiding the scale. However, the first part of the Modeling Challenge, the interview and photo shoot, were the next day, so there was no way I giving up my plan for a fake BBQ. Even if I did love it. And want it.
At least Millie’s getting a burger,
I thought.
Maybe she’ll share a fry or two.
I picked at my salad while I waited for her to come out of the line, trying not to stare at the passing lunch trays of BBQ goodness. I was also hoping this would be the day that Sandra sat with us for a full lunch period again. She’d taken to eating with Lively and coming over at the end to say hi. Each time, her visit sliced my heart like a paper cut. I didn’t want to think about that. For distraction, I forced my thoughts to the new song I heard Theo Christmas was working on. How would it sound? Would it be as good as “Dreaming Without You,” my current favorite?
BOOK: Models Don't Eat Chocolate Cookies
12.5Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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