Skinny (19 page)

After about a hundred shots, we finally shut the limo door and head to the dance. Jackson slides in next to me, puts his arm around my bare shoulders, and pulls me in closer.

“You don’t need to sit so far away,” he laughs.

It feels strange to be near someone, touching them, and not have them revolted by me. It’s even weirder that Skinny has been strangely quiet. She never would have missed such a perfect opportunity in the past, but lately there’s been missed moments where her voice is oddly absent. Maybe she’s leaving for good, but there’s still an uncomfortable beat of silence where her voice should be. The new-and-Whitney-improved me hopes even the nervous pause will go away with time.

Whitney is kissing Matt, her arms wrapped around his neck. She’s almost sitting in his lap. Awkward. I glance away, but I’m not sure where I’m supposed to look. Rat thinks Matt is a jerk because he cheated on his chemistry labs. Rat. Stop thinking about Rat. He hasn’t talked to me since we went to the community center, so it’s obvious he’s stopped thinking about me. I’ve seen him and he nods, but he just keeps going. I hear he’s working on the Science Olympiad competition. Very busy. Too busy, evidently, for me.

“Can you believe how great she looks?” Whitney says to Jackson and Matt, when she finally surfaces for air. Now the focus is all on me. “The dress is Ralph Lauren. I found it at Nordstrom. It had to be altered, of course, but I still think it looks fab on her.”

“Yeah, pretty unbelievable,” Matt says. He studies me like I’m some kind of alien. “I remember just last year you were in my math class, and you were
huge
.”

“Thanks, I think,” I say, and Jackson pats my leg like he totally understands.

The dance is at the school. They’ve tried to spice up the gym >with projections of fall leaves on the walls. The line out the door is long and full of unsteady girls on too-high heels and boys looking uncomfortably overdressed. We join the procession. I notice some of the people turning, whispering, and pointing. At me.

“I know,” says Whitney to one girl standing directly in front of us. “She looks totally different, doesn’t she?”

I endure the attention like some kind of doll on display.

“Wow, Whitney,” says the girl. “Who would have dreamed you could do that?”

“Hey, what about me?” I finally say. They both look at me like the doll shouldn’t speak.

Inside the double doors, the line snakes toward a leaf-covered arch and a waiting photographer. This is what’s causing the backup. Everyone is posing for a picture. I watch the flash of smiling faces and feel a familiar tension start to rise. Photographs are going to be impossible to avoid. I wait for her comment, but Skinny stays silent. It’s unsettling. My constant companion is gone. It’s different now. I’m different now. I have to keep reminding myself that until I believe it.

It’s our turn for the picture. Jackson and I step under the arch. He wraps an arm around my waist and draws me in.

“Tilt your head up a little bit. Don’t smile too big. Makes your cheeks look fat,” Whitney coaches from the sideline. “Yes, just like that.”

The camera flashes, and we’re done. The next couple steps up under the arch and Jackson and I move into the room. The room is decorated with orange and red leaves hung from >the ceiling and bunches of gold balloons tied on chairs. Large round tables with white sparkly tablecloths dot the area with only enough room for a dance floor. Squealing, excited girls teeter-totter across the room, wearing dresses that feature lots of sparkle and little else. Boys lean against walls, trying to look casual and cool. At the far end of the room is a stage with a drum set, piano, and guitars.

We push our way through the people, who are all talking and laughing together in dressed-up clumps. The clouds of perfume change scents as we pass each group of dressed-to-the- hilt girls, leaving me with a dull head ache. Whitney keeps pushing one finger into the small of my back to keep me moving forward. I see Mr. Blair, my math teacher, and Mr. Landmann, the history teacher, talking over by the food tables. It seems strange to see teachers in suits. We finally reach an open spot over by the wall and I take a deep breath.

“Hey, there’s Kristen!” Whitney squeals. She zigzags off through the crowd in her platform pumps to hug the curly-haired girl a couple of tables over.

“Want to sit down?” Jackson asks from behind me.

“Sure,” I say, thinking that sitting down will probably be a little less awkward.

He speaks to Wolfgang quickly as we wind around the crowded tables, but there is no sign of Briella. Where is she? I went straight to Whitney’s after school so I didn’t see her, but I thought she was coming to the dance with Wolf. We finally find a couple of empty chairs at a table shaded by a fake tree with orange and yellow tissue paper leaves. I immediately take the seat nearest the wall, feeling the comfort of the little cover the tree provides. But I’m hardly sitting down before Whitney is back, with Kristen trotting along behind her.

“Wow. Remember when she broke that chair onstage last year?” Kristen calls, as Whitney drags her back to my hiding place. I wince.

“Yeah, but just wait until you see her tonight.” Whitney glances over her shoulder. “She doesn’t look like that at all anymore.”

My hands flutter uselessly by my sides. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing. Now my head and my stomach ache.

“This is what I’m talking about,” Whitney announces to Kristen when they reach my side, throwing her hands wide with a flourish. “Stand up,” she says to me. I get up, relunctantly.

“Surprise,” I say, trying to sound funny but finding no smile to offer.

“Oh. My. God. She looks amazing.” Kristen’s staring at me but talking to Whitney. It’s like I can’t hear, and Whitney is supposed to be the translator.

“Well, she’s still got a ways to go, but it’s pretty dramatic,” says Whitney. “Best makeover ever.”

Kristen agrees enthusiastically. She smoothes her stray curls around her face and smiles encouragingly at me like I’m a dog waiting for a treat.

“You should take pictures and send them in to the Style Network or something.”

“Oh, good idea,” Whitney squeals. “We’ve already taken >tons of pictures tonight.”

“Look, it’s Briella.” Matt taps Whitney on the shoulder. We both turn and stare at the couple under the arch. “Who’s that she’s with?”

I look, then wish I hadn’t.

“It’s that guy with the weird nickname . . . Mouse?”

“Rat,” I say softly.

“What is she doing with him?” Jackson asks.

“I guess it’s the season for giving,” Matt says with a short laugh.

“Well, I think he’s cute in a geeky kind of way,” says Whitney.

Watching him as the camera flashes, I have to agree. He looks adorable. His glasses are gone, replaced with the contacts his mother always wants him to wear. When he flashes that smile at the camera, those two big dimples appear right at the ideal moment and his angular face is transformed into gorgeous.

Briella is the perfect companion. Her head comes just to his shoulder, and her pink strapless dress covers her curves like Saran Wrap. The camera flashes again, catching Briella looking up at Rat with a knowing smile.

I know exactly what she’s up to. It’s like she’s holding him hostage, with her friends as the ransom. If I give all of their attention back to her, I’ll get the Rat boy back. My cheeks burn with anger. Briella doesn’t really like Rat. Briella doesn’t talk about him. She doesn’t text him. She doesn’t call him. Or at least I don’t think she does.

How did Rat get from sitting at the popular table at lunch to dating Briella? Have I been so busy with Whitney that I didn’t notice what was happening between the two of them? No way.

“Want to dance?” Jackson asks me, but I shake my head.

“Not yet,” I say. Briella is laughing at something Rat said.

“Okay, then I’m going to go get some punch. Want me to bring you back some?”

I smile up at him and nod. I notice he didn’t offer me any food. I guess he doesn’t want to undo all of Whitney’s hard work. I wait for Skinny to comment, but she’s still oddly silent.

It should make me happy that the horrible hiss of her voice is gone, but it feels like there’s an empty space in my head where she used to be, like the bloody hole that remains after you pull a tooth. Something should fill it up. I stare down at the glittery tabletop in front of me.

“Evidently you can dress me up, but you can’t cover my scars,” I whisper softly to no one.

Someone takes the chair beside me, and I glance up. “You look beautiful,” Rat says.

“Thanks,” I say. Even without his glasses, his eyes are familiar. Comforting. Everything else fades away. Whitney, Briella, Skinny. Even Jackson. Just seeing Rat makes me feel more relaxed.

“You look pretty hot yourself,” I say, and he does. He pushes his bangs away from his eyes, making my stomach dip. I stare at him for a long time. Then I remember and glance around quickly.

“Where’s Briella?”

“She’s talking to Wolfgang,” he says.

Of course she is. I see her over by the food table, laughing up at Wolf, one hand on his big, square shoulder. I turn back to face Rat, but he is looking at me. Not at Briella.

“Do you want to dance?” he murmurs, so quietly I’m sure I’m the only one who hears it.

I nod at him, wide-eyed. “I guess so,” I say. My voice is nothing more than a whisper.

He stands and holds out his hand to me. I take it, and he leads me to the dance floor. When we reach the middle of the small dance space, he turns to face me very slowly until his eyes meet mine. The music is slow and familiar. “My Funny Valentine.” A strange song for a high-school dance.

“I think they’re playing our song,” Rat says.

“You requested this?” I am trying very hard to keep my voice level.

“You said it was the most romantic Broadway song ever written when we watched that show. . . .” His voice trails off as he tries to remember the name, snapping his fingers.

“
Babes in Arms
,” I say.

“That’s it,” he says.

He gives me a little bow and opens his arms wide, his grin full and dazzling. I don’t have to be an elephant or a swan. There is no pretending. That fourth wall that Ms. DeWise is always talking about finally slides up between me and the audi ence. It is only the two of us on this stage.

Stepping into his arms, I put my hands on his chest, but I’m not trying to push him away. I don’t have to. He already knows all the terrible secrets I’ve swallowed down for so long. He knows how much I weigh. It doesn’t matter. I spread my fingers wide to feel the muscles under his shirt and let my hands slide up around his neck, touching the curls at his collar.

I can’t resist. “
You make me smile with my heart
,” I sing softly, along with the song.

I don’t have to worry about his hands touching my waist or any other part of my body. It’s Rat. He knows me. The real me. And it doesn’t matter. I lay my head down on his shoulder in relief, and I don’t flinch as he wraps his arms around me. The music is slow and we sway back and forth in time.

“How did you learn to dance?” I ask.

“YouTube videos,” he says, and I laugh.

“You made it to the ball,” he says. “I predicted last summer you would.”

I lean back against his arms and look up. Our eyes lock. I know we’re both remembering. The hospital, the weigh-ins, the exercise. I’m surprised by the feelings pulsing through my body.

“That seems like a long time ago.” Ninety-nine pounds ago now and a body that has been rearranged inside to never be the same again. “I still have a long way to go,” I say.

“Yes, and an audition. That will be the final step of our master plan.” He fake laughs like a mad scientist. “You’re going to break an arm.”

My forehead crinkles in bewilderment. “You mean break a leg?”

“Whatever.”

I laugh, and rest my head on his shoulder again. It feels so good to be here. I don’t want it to stop. But it does.

“Can I cut in?” It’s Briella, standing there in all her pink Saran Wrap glory with a stunning smile on her face. “I think your date was looking for you,” she says to me. “You know . . . Jackson?”

Oh no. I forgot about Jackson, as Briella is obviously aware. She takes Rat’s arm and leans into his side. How could I have forgotten about Jackson? The Prince to my Cinderella. It was just that I felt comfortable with Rat. But the truth is it didn’t feel comfortable. It felt . . . amazing.

“I think he went that way.” Briella gestures vaguely toward the back wall.

“I better go,” I say to Rat. I can’t read his expression, but the smile has vanished. He stands, tall and silent, beside Briella. They make a lovely couple.

I turn and stumble off through the crowd to the sound of Briella’s laughter behind me. I’m going to kill her. Sometime tonight I’ll find her and I’ll confront her. She’s not going to break Rat’s heart just because she’s jealous of all the new attention I’m getting from her friends. I won’t let her. I grit my teeth and head back toward Whitney’s table, but there’s no sign of Jackson.

“I think I saw him a minute ago,” Whitney says, when I ask her. No one else seems to know where he went, either, so I sit down at the table to wait. I can’t blame Jackson for disappearing. After all, I was the one who left with Rat.

My eyes return to the dance floor and, even though I don’t want to, I can’t help but watch Rat and Briella dancing. It’s a fast dance, and they’re both laughing as they move to the music. They look like they’re having fun. I blink and glance away. Everything blurs. Music. Laughter. Talking. Cinderella is at the ball, but it isn’t exactly what I’d dreamed.

I listen for Skinny’s voice. Still nothing.

I glance around, looking for Jackson. Prince Charming is nowhere in sight. The music stops, and Briella leaves Rat to go off toward the bathroom. Now’s my chance. The music starts up again with a loud beat.

“Come on,” Whitney shouts across the table. “We’re all going to dance.”

I shake my head. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I yell over the music, and she nods. Grabbing Matt’s hand, Whitney pulls him toward the dance floor, leaving behind a trail of giggling wannabes to push through the crowd and follow.