Skinny (14 page)

“Yes,” I say. “Of course I do.” I can barely get it out I’m so astonished he’s speaking to me. I’m even more amazed at what he’s saying.

“Your mom made up that big pallet of blankets and blow-up air mattresses on the grass.”

“She was always up for our adventures,” I say. “She went out and bought that outdoor fire pit from Walmart just so we could make s’mores that night while we were waiting for the meteor shower to start. It was a wonder we didn’t burn down the deck.”

Mom always thought a good time was only made better by food. There’s a moment of awkward silence and I realize he must have seen something unguarded in my expression.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “About your mom. She was always so funny and nice and all.”

“Thanks.” There’s another beat of quiet.

“Rat was the only one that saw any meteors that night. You and I both ended up sleeping on my couch in the den, remember?” I say into the sudden silence. I don’t want the good remembering to be swept away by unexpectedly summoned grief.

He laughs. “Yeah, Rat was always . . .” He searches for the word, tapping his forehead with his index finger.

“Special? Stubborn? Crazy?” I have a million words for Rat.

“I was going to say brilliant.”

“That, too.” I smile at him. And he smiles back, those blue-green eyes I know so well crinkling up at the corners, and every thing is great. Until Gigi Retodo walks by and he nods hello as she passes. His eyes follow her for a minute. I want to grab his shoulders and shake him back into focus. On me.

“Look how much prettier she is than you,”
Skinny whispers.

I feel my throat tighten and I must make a noise, some kind of sigh or a cough, to strangle the surge of jealousy. Then he does look back at me. For a moment.

“By the way, you look great,” Jackson says, and he runs a quick hand through his rumpled, tousled brown hair.

“Umm . . . thanks,” I stammer.

“I just wanted you to know.” He shifts from one foot to the other. I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t say anything. I just look at him. “Well, I guess that’s it. See you around?”

I nod, still not really knowing how to respond. Jackson is here. In front of me. Talking to me. Complimenting me. It’s like being on a tightrope stretched tautly between two skyscrapers — the past and the future. If I say the wrong thing now, it will be all over. I’ll fall and never see the rest of my life with Jackson.

“Of course, it wouldn’t be that hard to look better than you did before. You were huge.”

“Well, I better go.” He turns and walks away in the direction that Gigi went.

I stand there, still not saying a word, wobbling frantically on the tiny wire, afraid to take a step. I don’t come to life until he disappears out the double doors at the end of the hall. I pull open my locker door in frustration, and it clangs against the side of the wall over the water fountain. Why didn’t I say something?

“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

“You like him.” Whitney is suddenly standing beside my locker, her eyes narrowed in speculation.

I feel the heat rise up my neck and explode into my cheeks.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, pulling my English book out of the bottom of the stack and slamming the door shut.

“Jackson Barnett. You like him. Very interesting.”

“Very funny is what she means,”
Skinny breathes in my ear.

“He’s way out of your league. You know it and she knows it, too.”

“Whitney!” Briella yells from down the hall. I’m grateful for the interruption. “Are you coming or not?”

“Just wait a sec,” Whitney yells back. She shoves a blue scarf into my hands. “Wear this tomorrow with the flowered shirt. If you need help tying it, see me before school.”

Without another word she runs off down the hall to meet Briella. They link arms, giggling, and disappear out the door.

I yank open my locker again and throw the stupid scarf inside.

“Like that’s going to help. Now you’ll just be a huge blob of lard with a pretty blue scarf tied around it.”

I smash the locker door shut and lower my forehead down to the cool metal.

“Somebody’s not having such a good day.” Rat stands by the water fountain, watching my little temper tantrum. He wears a faded red T-shirt that says coca-cola on it and blue jeans. He looks solid and real. “The new look isn’t a success?”

“It’s going fine.”

“That’s a sarcastic response, right?”

“People say I look different.”

“You do look different.”

“But I don’t feel any different,” I say, wrapping my arms around my books and leaning back against the locker. “On the inside.”

“Here,” Rat says, with a flash of a brilliant Rat grin. He hands me a flyer on green paper. “This might help.”

I look down at the black-and-white drawing of a princess. Beneath the picture are the big, blocky typed words:

TRYOUTS FOR THE FALL MUSICAL: RODGERS AND HAMMERSTEIN’S
CINDERELLA
!

They’re going to put on
Cinderella
. I feel a flutter of excitement in my chest. It’s my dream role. I know every song, every line by heart. I can recite every bit of dialogue, and every part in the play, from memory. I could blow everyone away, even Jackson, by taking center stage and singing the role of Cinderella. One performance, one night, and no one would ever feel sorry for me again. But then Rat knows that. He’s been the only one listening.

It’s perfect. So why does that green piece of paper in his hand terrify me?

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I demand.

His smile falters for a moment, but then he continues, “This is what we’ve been working for, right?”

“I can’t. Are you crazy?”

“Why not?” he asks. “What’s stopping you? You have to sign up for drama class, but you still have time to change your schedule.”

“It’s impossible. Crazy. You won’t get it. Everyone knows that.”

She’s stopping me. Skinny. Because I’m wanting something. I’m hoping. I’ve learned the hard way, hoping is never a good thing. It’s all Rat’s fault. He caused this.

“Stop pushing me. You’re always trying to control everything.”

“I just thought you would like it.” He’s watching me, puzzled.

“That’s your problem, Rat. You think way too much about me.” I shove him out of the way and head down the hall toward my next class. I don’t look back. I don’t want to see the hurt on his face, but it doesn’t stop me from shouting one last thing back over my shoulder. “Why don’t you do a little make-over project on yourself for a change? You’d be the perfect experiment. But wait, they don’t have surgery to fix geeks, do they?” I ignore the openmouthed stares of the two freshmen standing outside the counselor’s office. Guilt sears instantly through my brain, but I don’t stop walking away. I don’t know what I like and don’t like anymore. I used to like M&M’s and eating. I used to like Jackson. I didn’t like Briella’s friends. Now everything feels topsy-turvy.

“You’re a freak.”

I catch my reflection in the glass doors as I walk past the library. I don’t recognize her.

“Good job, fatty. Now everyone hates you.”

If I could I would drown my guilt in a huge bag of M&M’s, but now I don’t know what to do with the bad. I can’t eat it away anymore.

I’ve always hated lunch in the school cafeteria. Not only is a fat girl eating a great opportunity for hilarious comments, but living through the hierarchy of where to sit every single day is just torture. It’s like walking a gauntlet that, in my case, usually leads to a table over by the trash cans with a bunch of science geeks and other misfits.

This morning, I was so busy trying to pick out the right outfit that I totally forgot my lunch. Now, I’m standing in the lunch line, too overwhelmed to really think about what I can and can’t eat. It’s too fast. I need more time. Can I eat chicken nuggets? Maybe. If I chew really well. Mashed potatoes. Yes. But I can’t fill up on them — no protein. I have to eat protein first. No gravy. Applesauce?

“Does the applesauce have sugar in it?” I ask Hairnet Lady.

“Huh?” She looks at me like I have two heads.

“Never mind,” I say. She plops a spoonful of rosy applesauce onto the tray.

When I come out the door into the crowded cafeteria, I search for Rat. If he’s here, he’ll probably be at the non-popular tables over by the wall. I want to say I’m sorry. The last two hours of class were endless. All I could think of was how horrible I was to him. He didn’t deserve it.

“Ever!”

I turn to see Whitney waving frantically from the popular tables by the windows. You’ve got to be kidding me. But there’s no mistaking it. She’s waving me over.

“Here. Sit with us.” She pushes a frowning Briella down the table and pats the now empty space on the tabletop.

I scoot into the bench, notice the space in between the tabletop and my stomach, and look across at Wolfgang, who is downing his second carton of milk. He nods. I glance back over my shoulder, looking for Rat, but he’s nowhere to be found. I guess I’m stuck here for the moment. I take a tiny bite of chicken nugget and chew like crazy.

“You won’t believe how little she eats now,” Whitney announces to the table. My face burns. I feel like an interesting animal at the zoo at feeding time. See how the elephant uses its trunk to pick up the hay off the ground. I glance around the table to see people watching me chew. Wolfgang is especially interested in what I’m not eating.

“So . . . you’re not going to eat all those potatoes, right?”

“No,” I say, watching the interest grow in his eyes. “Do you want them?”

“Sure, but next time order the gravy on the side.”

I nod. There’s evidently going to be a next time for me to sit at the popular table. If only to give Wolfgang my leftovers. I look down the table toward Briella. She’s talking to someone on the other side of her. She leans back, laughing and tossing her hair over her shoulder, and I see it’s Rat. What’s he doing at this table, too? His regular spot is over by the trash cans with the other science geeks. He’s never spent a day on this bench before, but he looks like he’s been here forever. My stomach feels funny at the way he’s smiling back at Briella. Or maybe it’s just the chicken nuggets. That’s probably what it is.

“Are you full yet?” Whitney watches me like a hawk. I chew my third bite of chicken nugget and finally take a bite of mashed potatoes.

“Almost,” I answer.

“Amazing,” Whitney says, then addresses the whole table in a loud I-know-all-about-it voice. “She only eats a few bites and feels like she just ate a Thanksgiving dinner. Right, Ever?”

I look around the table. Everyone seems fascinated. With me.

“Yeah,” I say.

Whitney looks down her too-big-for-her-face nose at me.

“So how much weight have you lost so far?”

“Seventy-two pounds,” I tell her. Whitney Stone is asking me a question in front of all her popular friends, and I’m answering her. That’s the amazing part.

“That’s like one of you,” Wolfgang says to Whitney.

“I wish.” She makes a fake frowny face and says, “I weigh way more than that, silly.”

She turns to Kristen, who always seems to be not too far away from Whitney’s left elbow. “You should look into that surgery.”

Kristen is maybe twenty pounds overweight. Maybe. Kristen looks down at the tabletop and bites her lip.

“Now, that really hurt. Comparing poor, average-sized Kristen to you.”

“You have to be more than a hundred pounds overweight to qualify for the surgery.” I can’t believe I’m trying to make Kristen Rogers feel better.

“So when will it stop?” Whitney asks.

“I don’t know for sure. Most people stop losing weight after about a year.”

“So you’re only halfway done? You could lose seventy-five more pounds?” Kristen asks incredulously.

“It slows down. I won’t lose as fast as I have been.”

“I saw this actress on TV that did that surgery. She lost a lot of weight,” Kristen says. “But she’s gained it all back.”

I don’t feel sorry for her anymore.

People start scooting together to make room. Jackson slides onto the bench beside Whitney and, more important, beside me. I freeze with a chicken nugget halfway to my mouth.

“Hey, Ever,” Jackson says like it’s not even unusual that I’m sitting here. I smile back at him and put the half-eaten nugget back down on my tray. I’m eating lunch with Jackson. I glance down the table, trying to take it all in, and catch Rat looking back. He’s not smiling anymore. He gives me a subtle thumbs-up sign. Just for me. I nod ever so slightly. It’s happening. I’m at the popular table. I’m sitting beside Jackson, not on top of a broken chair with everyone laughing at me. It’s all good. Right?

“You’re just a freak show,”
Skinny whispers.
“They’re just >grateful for a little entertainment, Frankenstein.”

I look down at my food, blinking a couple of times to clear my head. Jackson’s hand is there, lying on the table right beside my chicken nuggets. The same hand that touched my face. Stroked my hair. So very close. If I just moved my arm a little to the left I would touch him.

“You going to eat that?” Wolfgang asks, jolting me out of my daydream. I shake my head and he pulls my tray across the table to line it up beside his, scooping mashed potatoes up and over to his plate.

“This is going to work out great,” he says, between bites of my leftover chicken nuggets.

After school, I sit on my front steps, tying my shoelaces in advance of my run. Roxanne is sitting beside me with her leash >in her mouth, trying to wait patiently, but her whole backside is wiggling on the concrete. I look up to see Dad turn in the driveway in his sheriff’s car, and I give him a wave. He joins me and Roxanne on the steps. “How was school?”

It’s his go-to question.

“Good.” That is my go-to answer.

“Have any homework?” Question number two. Like clockwork.

“I already did it. Arrest any bad guys today?” My turn for the routine question. His answer to this question is never the same, which is always my favorite part of our first conversation of the evening.

“John David Kelly. Shot his son because he wouldn’t get off the phone and go feed the cows,” he says, pushing Roxanne’s enthusiastic welcome away from his face.