Skinny (12 page)

“Why did you do that?” I ask in amazement.

“Wow,” Rat says. He looks at her like she’s Princess Leia or something.

Briella laughs. “They were idiots.” She slowly jogs around us in a circle, her cheeks flushed bright pink. “Come on, Ever. One more block to go.”

I’m confused. Did she do this for me or for that superhero-worship look on Rat’s face? Either way, all this drama means I can at least stagger my way to the end of the block at my own pace.

“It doesn’t matter what you do. It will never stop,”
Skinny chuckles in my ear.

What are you and Whitney doing today?” Dad asks Briella.

Whitney Stone, Briella’s newest BFF, leans against the kitchen counter in an ultra-fitted floral tank dress, tapping her French-manicured fingernails impatiently on the marble top.

At first, I was convinced she was hanging around Briella to get closer to Lindsey and the cheerleading squad, but now I’m not so sure. Evidently they bonded over a shared love of all things not Shakespeare in their freshman English class. Lucky me.

Dad looks like he’s drinking a cup of coffee and reading the paper at the table. Really, he’s supervising me eating, or trying to eat, breakfast. I have a plate of scrambled eggs in front of me, and I’m taking tiny, careful bites. Chew. Chew. Chew. I don’t want it coming back up. Dad glances up every time I swallow, then quickly looks back at the paper to try and hide the fact that he’s watching.

“Going to the mall. I have some money for school clothes. You know, child support.” Briella grimaces. Her dad always gives her a lot of money right before school starts every fall.

Usually, he also makes a big date with her to take her out to lunch and give it to her in person. Then he cancels it and a big check arrives in the mail a couple of days later. I wouldn’t want to choose between my dad and a pair of colorful beaded sandals and a vintage studded bag, but it seems to work for Briella.

“We’ll definitely be gone all day,” says Whitney. I knew Whitney and Briella were friends, but having her in my kitchen on a Saturday morning is completely intimidating.

One of the popular crowd, she dates that cute, six-foot-tall basketball player, Matt Lucero. She’s never actually said more than a few sentences to me before, and then only when absolutely necessary. Mostly she just looks at me as though I’m one of those huge Texas tree roaches that scatter across the garage floor when you turn the lights on. So I just sit in silence, trying to fly under the popular-crowd radar, and concentrate on the dreaded food in front of me. Bite by bite by bite.

“You want some breakfast?” Dad asks Whitney.

I know what she’s going to say. Wait for it.

“No, thanks. I’m dieting.”

Bingo.

Whitney wears a size zero and I know because she tries to work it into every possible conversation. It’s the only time when being nothing is a really big deal.

“Hurry up. The mall is waiting.” Whitney rubs her hands together in anticipation and grins. “Thank God for guilty fathers. Briella is a very expensive child to support. It’s going to take at least a day to spend all that money.”

My dad clears his throat uncomfortably, but he doesn’t say anything. It must be hard being a stepfather sometimes.

“The eggs are good,” I say, smiling at him. Chew. Chew. Chew.

Whitney is the fashionista of Huntsville High School. She always wears the latest and best. Lucky for her, she not only wears it well, but she can afford it. Her mom’s a lawyer and her father is a big plastic surgeon in town. He caused quite a stir when we were in third grade at Shady Grove Elementary School and brought along saline breast implants as props for Career Day. Some kids thought they were water balloons until he did a demonstration on the Reading Center puppet. He was never asked back. Maybe that was his point.

Wannabes stalk Whitney through the high school halls. If she wears patterned purple hose with a plaid skirt one day, the next day there’s always at least three more purple-patterned, plaid-skirt-wearing freshmen at school. I swear she could wear a big chicken costume one day and the whole school would be clucking around behind her within a week.

“There’s the cutest pair of brown leather riding boots in the window of Charli’s. I want to be sure and try those on.” Briella shoves a last bit of toast into her mouth and pushes back from the table. “I need them.”

I’ve seen Briella’s closet. She doesn’t need any clothes . . . or shoes . . . or purses. Whatever.

Another tiny bite. Chew. Chew. Chew. Swallow. Wait and see if I throw up. Dad glances up from the paper.

“Why don’t you take Ever with you?” my dad asks. I look up, startled. How did I get pulled into this? “She really needs some new clothes. All of hers are too big.”

Briella’s mouth falls open, and I stop chewing mid-bite. We both look over at Whitney, waiting to see how she answers.

“How embarrassing would that be? She has to come up with an excuse,”
Skinny says.

“Good idea.” Briella and I both stare at Whitney. “It’ll be sort of like those makeover shows on TV.”

“Here’s my credit card,” Dad says, and pulls it from his wallet. “Have fun.”

I’m stuck. I can’t even think of a good excuse. Rat is working on some kind of computer system upgrade at the community center all day, so even he can’t save me now. The truth is I do need some clothes. School starts next week, and every thing in my closet is too big now. What used to be the waist of my jeans now slides down over my hips, and I end up waddling around with the crotch halfway down my thighs, feeling like a toddler wearing tights three sizes too small. I just never intended to have an audience present when I went looking for my new size. Especially not an audience that includes Whitney Stone. Still, there’s not much I can do now but take the credit card, pull up my baggy jeans for the tenth time today, and squeeze myself into the backseat of Whitney’s white Accord.

Briella and Whitney talk in the front seat as though I’m not there. That’s okay. I bite my lip, worrying about how I’m going to ditch the two of them when we get to the mall. It can’t be too hard. After all, Briella and Whitney have a huge mall, with a ton of stores full of clothes in their exact tiny sizes, to browse through. They just can’t discover that I have to do all my shopping in one tiny corner upstairs at Macy’s where all the clothes come in giant sizes and look like something your grandmother would wear.

“You think they don’t know that?”
Skinny asks.

When we park I jump out of the car.

“So where do you want to meet?” I ask, ready to put the plan into action.

“Oh, no you don’t. You’re not going anywhere. I’ve always wanted to do one of those makeovers, and you’re my perfect first client. You’re coming with us.” Whitney links her arm through mine, to both Briella’s and my shock. “Did I ever tell you I want to be a stylist?”

“No,” I say, anxiety making my hands sweat as Whitney drags me through the door of Macy’s and heads to the first section of clothes. Briella lags behind, but follows eventually.

“All the movie stars have stylists.” She starts flipping through racks of clothes in the first section right inside the door. She picks out two tops and then moves quickly to the next rack.

“Hummmm . . . this might work. And this . . . I don’t know about this one . . . but we’ll try it.”

Briella and I trail her in a daze.

“Here, take these.” Whitney hands me an armful of clothes. I don’t know how to tell her I need to go upstairs to the fat-people section.

“I don’t think they will fit,” I try to tell her, but she pushes me into the changing room and closes the door with a snap.

“I’ll be next door trying on these skinny jeans. But I want to see these on you. Come on, Briella.” I don’t hear my stepsister’s response.

I’m left staring at the stack of clothes on the chair. What do I do? I can’t go out wearing any of this stuff. It’s from the regular-size section. I can’t possibly fit into any of these clothes. I pick up the first shirt off the top of the pile. It’s a baby-doll style. Tiny pink flowers. XL. Not very fitted. Maybe I should just try it. I pull my old faded T-shirt off the top of my head and pull the top on. Surprisingly, it goes over my stomach and down my hips without stopping. I’ve been avoiding the mirror in the room. I always avoid the mirrors. But I’m going to have to look. Slowly, slowly, I turn and raise my eyes to the mirror. The girl staring back at me looks surprised. The shirt looks okay. Better than okay. It looks good. I jump up and down. The girl in the mirror jumps up and down. I put my two pinkie fingers in my mouth and pull my lips to the sides in a big crazy face. The girl in the mirror does the same. Oh my God. She’s me. The girl in the mirror gives me a weird look. Last May, she would have never been able to wear this shirt. But it’s almost August now and things have changed. She has . . . I have . . . changed. I hold my arms out and twirl around once, almost losing my balance when I hit the chair in the dressing room. The shirt floats around my body and lands in a smooth curtain of tiny flowers around my hips. The door pulls open without warning, and I jump. It’s Whitney.

“Let’s see.” She scrutinizes me for a second. “Yeah, that one’s okay. Try on the jeans with it. Might work. They’re sixteens, but they have some stretch in them. I think they’ll fit.”

She stands there like she’s going to watch me or something.

“Shut the door,” I say.

“Okay. But promise me you’ll come out when you put the jeans on.”

“If they fit.” How could they? I pull the jeans on. They are tight, but they zip. I can’t believe it. I’m wearing jeans. From the regular-size department.

“I’m a regular size,” I whisper. I can’t stop smiling and smiling and smiling at the me in the mirror.

“Are you coming out?”

I open the door and come out slowly.

“Wow,” Briella says, her mouth hanging open, her hands full of hangers and clothes.

“Now we can really tell how much weight you’ve lost,” says Whitney. “I told you they would fit. I’m good at this stuff.”

And surprisingly, she is. I try on several more tops, and they all fit. Then Whitney helps me pick which two are the best.

“This is only the beginning,” she assures me. “You don’t want to have every thing from one place.”

I’ve never had choices before. I buy the jeans, too, and they are all wrapped up and put into a bag with little string handles.

Whitney insists on accessorizing the outfits with earrings and a chunky necklace. A couple of bras, a pair of cute platform sandals, and three small packages later, I find myself sitting in a tall chair before the Stila makeup counter.

“What’s up, Whitney?” the girl with the heavy black eyeliner asks. “What are we doing with your friend here?”

Neither one of them asks me. I guess it’s pretty obvious I don’t know what I need.

“I’m thinking like a total makeover. Natural, but definitely needs the works.”

Whitney and the girl both stare at me.

“You’ve never worn makeup before?” the girl asks.

“Not really.” Most of my experience with makeup has involved Halloween, and I didn’t think the Stila girl would be impressed by my use of eyeliner for my Batgirl costume in the fifth grade.

“So we’ll start with the basics.” She talks to me and applies various creams, powders, and potions. I nod and try to remember it all. Briella and Whitney hover at first, but then wander off to other perfume and makeup counters, leaving me alone with Eyeliner Girl.

“You have great green eyes. Let’s try to really make them pop with this deep violet shadow.”

I nod like I know what she’s talking about, but then when she finally turns me toward the mirror, I see exactly what she means. My eyes look huge.

“Now just a little blush. You need one with rounded bristles like this.” She holds a fluffy brush up in front of my face and I nod. “Start at your forehead where the sun naturally grazes your face. Circle down around your temples and along your cheekbones. Blend into the apples of your cheeks. See?”

Who knew I had dimples when I smiled? And my face, with those newly defined cheekbones, looks . . . almost good. I blink and the eyes in the mirror blink back at me.

“She’ll take it all.” Whitney is back by my side and sharing the reflection in the mirror with me. “Give her the credit card,” she says to me.

Eyeliner Girl puts every thing into a bag for me. “You really look amazing,” she says. “If you have any questions, I’m here every Saturday.”

“Time for lunch,” Whitney announces, as we leave the makeup counter and head out into the mall. “I’m starved.”

We wait in line at California Pizza Kitchen with lots of tired-looking moms and screaming kids. My arms are full of bags from the shopping trip. Clothes, makeup, jewelry, and shoes. I’m afraid of what Dad will say when he sees his credit card statement. Whitney has very expensive tastes. I figure I’ll just remind him of the years and years of shopping I’ve saved him.

I glance up at the restaurant window. There are three girls reflected there. I recognize Whitney and Briella. But who is the third? She has her arms full of colorful sacks and bags — Nordstrom, H&M, Urban Outfitters, Gap. I know it’s me, but the girl in the reflection doesn’t look like me. I move the bags in my arms up and down. The reflection does the same. It is me. I know it in my head, but the reflection lies. It has to, because the girl in the window is not that fat. She’s not skinny, or anything like that, but she’s not terrible looking. She has a smile on her face and, if I saw her walking around the mall, I wouldn’t feel sorry for her.

“Wait. Look how much fatter you are than the two of them. You’re the charity case here, and don’t ever forget it.”
Skinny is right. I look at the reflection closer. I am fatter than Briella and Whitney. Of course I am.

The hostess starts to seat us. I’m worried when she leads us toward the booths. I won’t fit. I can’t tell them that I need a table, not a booth. Briella slides in one side and Whitney follows, taking the menus and chatting the whole time. I can’t hear them. I’m focused on the space in between the table and the seat. It’s too small. I stand there awkwardly.