Skinny (13 page)

“Sit down, Ever,” Briella says impatiently. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say. I sit gingerly on the bench and push myself into my side of the booth, taking a deep breath. There is room to spare between me and the table. Just a small space left over, but it’s there. I fit. I can’t celebrate too much, though, because the waitress is here to hand me a menu, and I realize I have an even bigger problem in front of me. What can I eat?

Briella is texting. Whitney is talking. I stare at the menu. All these choices.

“Did you see that Marc Jacobs top? It would look amazing on me,” Whitney says.

“Wolfgang just texted me,” Briella squeals.

“What did he say?”

Briella hands over her phone, and Whitney reads.

“You don’t exist,”
Skinny reminds me.

I have bigger problems at the moment. The waitress is back, and it’s time to order. Whitney and Briella decide to share a pizza, then it’s my turn. I order a chopped chicken salad. It seems like the best choice. The food comes. Briella and Whitney dive into the pizza. I take a tiny bite of lettuce and chew like crazy.

“Your eye shadow looks great.” Whitney focuses on me between bites. Briella texts Wolf back about meeting up with him later at the movies.

“Thanks,” I say. I take a bite of chicken, smiling. We could be friends.

“Don’t kid yourself, fatty.”

The chicken stops halfway down my throat. My chest aches with the pressure. I didn’t chew it long enough. It’s going to come back up.

“I’m thinking that bracelet from Forever 21 would be perfect with that top. What do you think?” I realize suddenly that Whitney’s talking to me, not Briella. She’s actually asking my opinion. I take a sip of water and nod. The bite of chicken doesn’t budge. It feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest. The pressure is painful. I’m afraid I’m going to spew it out across the table.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say. Whitney is still talking when I leave the table, but all I can think about is getting to the toilet before I hurl. I try not to run. A mom with a toddler is in front of the sink when I push open the door. Luckily, one of the stalls is empty. I barely shut the door before I’m coughing over the toilet. The piece of chicken comes up. Instantly, I feel better.

“Are you all right?” The woman at the sink looks concerned as I step out of the stall.

“I’m fine.” I rinse my mouth out at the sink. I don’t want to explain. She shakes her head and leaves.

Back at the table, I stare down at the chicken salad. It looks delicious, but I can’t have another bite. I know it won’t go down, and I don’t want to answer the questions I’ll get if I run back to the bathroom again.

The waitress returns, looking down at the barely touched salad with a frown. “Is something wrong with your lunch? You don’t like it?”

“It’s fine,” I say.

Briella takes the last bite of the deep-dish pizza and says, “She can’t eat that much.”

The waitress looks surprised.

“She’s shocked. Look at you. Nobody your size eats that little.”

“Do you want a box or something?”

I can’t eat it now or later. “No,” I say and watch sadly as she takes it away. I’m so hungry.

“So are we meeting Wolf later?” Whitney asks, and Briella nods excitedly. They talk about what they’re going to wear. Neither of them asks me to go with them, but I didn’t expect it. We split the bill. A waste of money. I scoop up all the bags and follow Whitney and Briella out of the restaurant, noticing the chewing, the smells, and the food every where I turn. I’m starving in plain sight, and no one has a clue except maybe the woman in the bathroom who thinks I have an eating disorder. I do. A surgically induced one.

“You’ll always be an outsider. Fat and hungry. How does that makeover feel now, stupid?”

On the way home I tune out the noise in the front seat, staring out the side window but not really seeing anything. I feel confused. The shopping felt good. Lunch was horrible. How can I balance the two? Everything revolves around food. Even shopping. I have to admit buying the clothes in the bags next to me gave me a satisfied feeling. It was almost as good as handfuls of M&M’s. Almost.

That night, I sit in the middle of the bed with all my new purchases spread out around me, surprised by the strange feelings of excitement at the thought of new starts and a new year.

For the first time, I really think about going back to school. I wonder if Gigi will have a new hair color and if Chance will notice my weight loss.

Scattered brushes, eye shadows, and liners have taken new spots on the top of my dresser. And in the midst of all this craziness sits something even more alien — even more intimidating — a long-fought enemy known to inspire dread and despair. A newly purchased handheld mirror.

I peek into it quickly, then stare at the blank line of my weight-loss chart for this week. It’s like a big blinking cursor on a computer screen — waiting, waiting, waiting — for me to fill it in. I finally slide off the bed and walk over to pick up a red marker off my desk. In the musical
West Side Story
, there’s a song that Maria, the main character, sings in front of the mirror before she goes to the big dance. I write the title of the song on the chart under the column for my playlist and immediately want to scratch it out again. I make myself step away from the chart, leaving the printed words behind.

It’s the first day of school. When I enter first-period history, I only glance up long enough to get my bearings. That’s surprisingly difficult in this particular classroom. Mr. Landmann, my new history teacher, is also very active in the Huntsville Community Theater and is a requested favorite with students. He somehow combines his two passions, history and theater, in his classroom and it’s crammed full of every kind of historical theatrical prop imaginable. I push down the aisle between a gold spray-painted Henry VIII throne and a life-sized cutout of Magellan. I’m looking for a seat in the back as usual. Not trying to draw attention to myself. Some of the seats are already full. People are talking and chatting. New clothes. New haircuts. New hopes for new starts. One girl playfully shoves a boy. I dodge. I make it to an empty desk in the back corner. One wall behind me. One wall beside me. It feels comfortable. Protected.

The tension from a sleepless night full of first-day-back-at-school nightmares begins to ease up a bit. I pull the desktop up and snap it into place. There’s space between my stomach and the desk. I fit. Mr. Landmann is calling roll, and I almost miss my name. I fit.

“Here,” I say. I scoot around in the desk. There is room to move. To breathe. I stare at my bare forearms on the desk. It’s like someone put the wrong arms on my body. Overnight. They don’t look like me. Arms that don’t look huge and puffy. They just look like arms. Whose arms are these? My eyes fill with tears, and I feel really stupid for reacting like this. It’s just a desk. Everyone else can sit in the desks, too. Why not me?

The bell rings and Mr. Landmann begins lecturing on Tudor England, waving a large papier-mâché sword around wildly. It’s one way to keep teenagers’ attention first thing in the morning. He climbs on top of his desk, wielding the sword, and accidently knocks a stuffed owl off his bookshelf. The now flying owl wakes up the boys who are sitting in the replica of the
Santa Maria
when it bounces off the mast and lands in their laps. The lecture comes to an abrupt halt while Mr. Landmann recovers the owl, and I hear a voice beside me.

“Ever, right?” I look over at Wolfgang. He’s wearing a camouflage baseball hat that reads, Don’t Mess with Texas.

“Yes,” I say. I can’t remember him actually speaking to me before.

“You look different. Did you get your hair cut or something?”

Right. I got a seventy-two-pound haircut. “Or something,” I say.

“It’s not like you look all that different than before. People can’t even tell you lost weight.”

I spend most of history looking at my arms. I move them slightly back and forth on my desk and watch them respond to my thoughts. I flex my fingers. They really are my arms. I glance up at one point and see Jackson looking at me. I look back down, wait a few minutes, and then look back up again. I do this three more times. He’s always looking at me.

The first two times, he glances away quickly when I meet his eyes. But by the fourth time, he keeps looking at me. Maybe my hair is messed up or something, I think. I smooth the right side of my hair down and tuck it behind my ear. There. He still doesn’t look away. Instead, he smiles. I wonder if he means it for someone else, but there’s nothing behind me but a wall. I’m supposed to be invisible when I’m just sitting still like this, so what’s happening?

I smile back, feeling fizzy bubbles of excitement start to explode in my tiny new stomach. Sudden heat causes my face to flush. It’s working. Jackson’s looking at me. Noticing me.

First period is over. I collect my notebook and stuff it into my backpack while the front of the class hits the hallway. I’m in no hurry. My next class is just down the hall. English. I’m the last person out the door. The hall is crowded. I keep to one side, with my head down, glancing up only when I need to avoid a direct collision. A boy with a red baseball hat bumps into me.

“Sorry,” I say, even though it’s his fault.

“Hey, Ever.” I look up to find Whitney and Kristen standing in front of me. Whitney’s actually speaking to me. At school. “You look fantastic.”

I stand there silent and awkward. I’m not used to compliments.

“Or maybe I should say I made you look fantastic.” She punches Kristen on the shoulder, setting all her natural curls bobbing wildly, and says, “I told you. It’s my best work yet.”

“Ummm . . . thanks,” I say. “It’s definitely all about you, Whitney.”

Oblivious to sarcasm, she nods in enthusiastic agreement.

“I like the DKNY jacket with the jeans. Good touch,” Kristen says. They are talking about me as though I’m not here. “And the earrings elongate her face.”

“Urban Outfitters,” Whitney responds. “I thought they’d go well with that Michael Kors top.”

“You were so right.”

“I would have suggested boots with it. But her calves just aren’t quite ready yet.”

“Umm . . .” Kristen looks toward my feet and nods appreciatively. “No, she needs the long lines. Boot cut was a good choice, though.”

“I thought so.” Whitney leans forward to pick up a handful of my long dark hair. “I’m thinking this will be next. Maybe some bangs? Or layers.”

“Highlights at the very least.”

Briella walks up to catch the end of the conversation, but when she sees me, her smile freezes on her face.

“Are we going or not?” she asks her friends. “I don’t want to be late for history. Mr. Watson will make you pay the whole rest of the semester if you’re late.”

“In a minute.” Whitney waves her off. “I’m showing Kristen my fantastic work on your sister.”

“It’s pretty amazing,” says Kristen.

“Yeah. Fantastic,” Briella says. “Now can we go?”

“Excuse me?” Whitney stares at her like she’s lost her mind.

“Since when have you ever been eager to get to class?”

“I just saw Matt in first period. He said he and Wolf are going to Jilly’s after school today. We’re going to be there, right?” Briella asks.

Jilly’s is a hangout for all the cool kids after school. I’ve never been, but I know the name.

“Why don’t we take . . . umm . . . what’s your name again?” Kristen asks me.

“Ever,” I mumble. She knows my name. Teachers have been calling it out on the roll of our shared classes for the last three years.

“Great idea. We’ll take Ever,” says Whitney, clapping her hands together like a five-year-old. “I can’t wait to show Maddie Gonzales those earrings I picked out. I just wish we’d taken some before pictures.”

I look at Briella’s face, and Skinny is quick to tell me her thoughts.

“You’re a freak. She doesn’t want you to go. You’re not good enough to hang out with her friends.”

“I can’t go,” I say. “I have an after-school project. Maybe some other time.”

Briella looks relieved. She hooks her arm in Whitney’s and pulls her away.

“Maybe some other time,” Briella calls out over her shoulder.

I stand there for a few minutes watching them leave, their laughter floating back to me. The hallway is emptying out around me, and I’m suddenly reminded the tardy bell is only minutes away. Books. I still need books for my next class. I step ver to my locker and spin the combination, still distracted by what just happened.

“Ever?”

I look up to see Jackson standing beside the lockers. His look is intense and I can see right through the blue in his eyes to the deep green centers. I feel gloriously, deliriously awash in his attention.

“How’s it going?” I try to sound natural.

“You sound like an idiot.”

“Good. How’s your first day?” he asks.

“Good.”

“Can’t you speak? No wonder he never talks to you anymore. Not worth the trouble.”

“So Ms. Lynham was talking in science today about asteroids and meteors and stuff like that.” He blurts it out quick and all in one breath. “And then I thought about that time Rat got that new telescope and we were going to stay up and watch the meteor shower from your backyard. Do you remember that?”