by Katie Cross
“Megan?” Bitsy asked. “How was your week?”
Bitsy and Mira perched on the couch behind me, while I sat on the floor with my back propped up against the couch’s arm. The heavy boot still kept my right foot prisoner. It was itchy in the summer heat, but I didn’t hate it as much as I used to.
Or perhaps I’d just forgotten to hate it.
In the background, Bitsy’s two daughters giggled from somewhere outside. The smell of freshly mown grass drifted in from the open back door.
“… then the stupid little twelve-year-old thought it would be funny to throw a rock at the moose. It charged.” Megan sighed, blowing hair out of her face. “Luckily the idiot had enough sense to run into the lake and swim as fast as he could. Moose didn’t get him, but it was close. Anyway, that was my week at work. In between cooking meals and taking care of first-aid problems, I managed to get in three lifts and four trail runs.”
Lexie’s eyes widened. “Whoa. Back up. The kid was almost killed by a moose?”
Megan waved it off. “He’s fine. The moose was probably just bluffing. Now my brother has to make a protocol for moose attacks, though. He’s not too happy about it.”
I snorted to hide a giggle, but Megan was smiling, so I didn’t feel too bad. Bitsy, who was holding onto a water bottle, turned to Mira.
“And how was Chicago, Mira? We haven’t met since you’ve been back.”
Mira used a hand to push her curling bangs off her sweaty forehead. Bitsy’s window air conditioner worked hard in the background, chugging out tepid air that didn’t really cool things down.
“Hot,” Mira said. “And busy. I did more cleaning than a woman should have to do. Don’t know how you run a cleaning business these days, Bitsy. I was proud of myself, however, to abstain from all the plain Pepsi in the fridge!” A mild cheer went up from all of us. “Yes, I drank diet. Sorry, Bits. But I figured not spiking my blood sugar was better than throwing myself into diabetes.”
Bitsy managed a smile, even though I could see a flicker of something in her eyes. No doubt she wanted to give Mira a lecture on the horrors of artificial sweeteners—and probably thought that plain sugar would be better—but she abstained.
“Do you feel good about it? Because that’s the most important thing,” Bitsy said, somehow with full sincerity.
“I do!”
“Then good! That’s what’s really important.”
Lexie cheered. Megan applauded. I whistled, then shifted back off my sit bones just as Bitsy prodded me in the spine. Even knowing this conversation was coming didn’t prepare me for it.”
“How about you, Rachelle?” she asked. “How did the week go?”
“Can you go next?”
“We’ll get to me later. You girls always come first.”
I opened my mouth in rebuttal, but decided against it. Last week, we’d glossed over Bitsy, who surely noticed but hadn’t said anything. Come to think of it, Bitsy often avoided recounting her week.
Megan leaned closer to the camera, her chin propped on her palm, distracting me from my train of thought. “Yeah,” she said. “I’ve been looking forward to hearing about how things are going with your therapist. What therapy can you give the group tonight?”
A thousand replies flooded my mouth. It’s insane. It doesn’t make any sense. I’m not sure I’m making progress.
Instead, I said, “Well, this week I’m having a hard time liking myself.”
Through the computer screen, I could see Bitsy’s eyebrows rise. “What is it you don’t like?”
The question—though so simple—gave me pause. At first, I’d just assumed everything about my body, but careful thought throughout the week made me realize it was more than just my body. People had always underestimated me because I was overweight. They made assumptions the moment they met me: I wasn’t smart. I wasn’t athletic. I wasn’t able to do things that skinny girls could do. I hated that I let myself act stupid, flamboyant, and bitter. Or maybe I still was that. I couldn’t tell anymore.
“My body, for one,” I said, opting for the safest, most true answer. “I’m still having a hard time loving myself. But I also don’t like that I acted stupid and didn’t care about anything but boys. Anyway, Janine is trying to help me conquer my self-loathing.” The words came out heavy and filled my throat like custard. “Obviously, I struggle with it. I just … I guess it’s stronger than I expected, and it’s been harder to get over than I thought. I can’t even do the homework.”
Mira’s lips turned down a little. Despite our morning car rides, I hadn’t confessed this to her yet.
“What is your homework this week?” she asked.
“I’m supposed to say nice things to myself every day and write a letter to myself as if I’m already the person I want to be.”
“That sounds awesome,” Megan said, eyes tapered. “I should do that.”
“Scared?” Bitsy asked me with a nudge in my ribs.
I hesitated. “Yeah, actually. I kind of am.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know!” I cried. “I just feel like I’m lying. I’m not that girl yet, so why would I pretend to be?”
Megan straightened up. “I can appreciate that on some level. I don’t hate my body, but I hate that people judge me in my career field.”
“What?” Lexie asked. “Why? You’re so clearly awesome.”
Megan shrugged. “I haven’t gone to grad school or done advanced education. Some people think I gave up career progression because I left the ICU and didn’t become a flight nurse. It’s just weird.”
Lexie raised a hand. “I don’t hate my body, but I hate worrying about what Bradley thinks of it all the time. He so clearly thinks I’m the hottest thing since man discovered fire, but it doesn’t stop me from worrying. In fact, everything I used to struggle with I still do.” She scowled. “That really kind of sucks.”
“I’ve stressed over my body in the past,” Mira said. “But I always hated that people found me airheaded or annoying. When I was growing up, I always hated my personality.”
“What?” I shrieked. “Mira, that’s insane. You’re the best person I’ve ever met. Who thinks you’re annoying?”
“I know.” She spread her hands. “I don’t get it, either. I’ve come to terms with it in the past couple of years, though.”
“I hate that I only liked myself if a man liked me,” Bitsy said, her lips pushed to one side of her face. “I had to deal with a lot of self-loathing if I didn’t have a boyfriend or someone who wanted to be with me.”
“Wow.” Lexie reared back. “I didn’t know that, Bitsy.”
Bitsy waved it off but didn’t quite meet anyone’s eyes.
“I would never think that about any of you,” I said, running a hand over my face. “Megan, I never once thought of you only in terms of your career. And Mira, I never thought you annoying or airheaded.”
“Same,” Megan said. “Especially with you, Rachelle. Not once, even before you lost the weight, did I feel like your body had anything to do with you. You were strong and determined and knew who you were. I don’t think that’s actually changed all that much—even if it doesn’t seem like it right now.”
“Same here,” Bitsy and Lexie said at the same time, then laughed.
Mira put her hands on her thighs. “Then why do we think this about ourselves?” she asked through a laugh. “It’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.”
There was a question I hadn’t stopped asking myself since I started working with Janine.
For a moment, everyone else giggled at the absurdity. I adored these women. The idea that they didn’t see themselves as clearly as I saw them was … disconcerting, to say the least. Maybe a little freeing. It gave me a push of courage I didn’t know I needed until right then. I didn’t feel so alone.
“Well,” I said with a sharp intake of air. “I guess we all have some work to do.”
“Letters to write!” Lexie cried.
“Amen,” Mir
a said.
“I’ll second that.” Megan cracked her knuckles.
Bitsy rapped on the table. “Third. That’s the challenge this week, ladies. Write a letter to yourself as if you’re already the person you want to be. Can you do it?”
“Got it,” Megan said with a thumbs-up.
“On it,” Lexie said.
Mira matched Megan’s thumbs-up.
All of them turned to me at the same time, and I nodded once. “All right. I’ll do it.”
While Lexie and Megan fell into a discussion of what they’d say, I rubbed my lips together, lost in thought. Clearly, whatever I saw in myself wasn’t what others saw in me. Even if I was confused and lost and uncertain about myself, so were women I admired with every fat cell in my being. Perhaps there was something universal in seeking validation.
“I found a new lettuce-wrap recipe that all of you need to try out,” Bitsy said, grabbing a magazine off the coffee table. “Instead of soy sauce, I’ve been using coconut aminos. Love them. Plus, it gets a little more soy out of your life. We could all use that. I bought small bottles and am shipping them to you girls, Megan and Lexie, to try out. Should arrive within the next two days. The recipe is copied in there, too. All right, we’ve already set our challenge for next week. Megan, what’s your goal?”
The next time I stared into the mirror, I met my own gaze.
Thoughts about my eyes ran through my mind. My body. My strong legs. But, I rolled them away, peeling back to the one thing I really wanted to say.
“I am smart.”
The three words fell like bombs in the stillness of the bathroom, punctuated by the drone of the television in the background. With a deep breath, I said it again.
“I am smart.”
Several seconds of silence passed. I sat in it for a moment, then said, “I am not just a drunk college student that doesn’t care. I have passion and courage.”
That felt good.
Not overwhelming, not life-changing, not encompassing. Just good. Finally, with a last push of courage, I said, “I’m more than my roles made me out to be.”
I am … something.
Satisfied, I nodded once, flicked the light off, and shut the bathroom door behind me, as if I could trap old ghosts back there, too. Maybe Janine was right.
Maybe there was power in new ways of thinking.
Chapter 10
Wicked Smart
The longer I stared at the glass display case in the Frosting Cottage, the more convinced I became that the bakery had no hope.
“Sophia?”
Her name echoed through the gleaming prep room. The expansiveness of the bakery was what I loved most about it. The front of the store had a wide view of the prep room in the back, which made everything feel open. The ceiling spanned two floors—what used to be a flat had been torn down to open up the space. Today, sun streamed in through the windows in long, glimmering banners that illuminated dust motes floating in the air. The smell of Windex lingered amid the dry grit of flour—a comforting smell I’d started to get used to.
Sophia sidestepped out of her office, a pair of black glasses perched on the end of her nose. “Yes?” A handful of receipts filled both hands. I’d just closed the shop door and flipped the sign. Mira would arrive any minute now to pick me up in the back alley.
“You’re too … normal,” I said.
The papers rustled as she put her hands on her hips. “I’ve been accused of many things in my life, but that isn’t one of them.”
“The offerings.” I spread my hands. Scrumptious desserts filled the display—cookies, cinnamon rolls thick with frosting, and slices of pillowy tiramisu. Desserts that hadn’t sold in days. Nothing that Mom couldn’t buy at every other bakery. “They’re … normal.”
She pulled her glasses off. “What do you mean?”
“Have you heard of Marco’s Bakery?”
“No.”
“It’s like five miles away from here. He sells every one of these things, and he’s been here twenty years. Kind of a community figure now. Might run for mayor. Anyway, if you want to analyze an ideal client, you’ll need to meet my mom. She orders from him once a week because he delivers.”
Her forehead furrowed into deep lines. “So? This is a bakery. Bakeries sell baked goods.”
“Yeah … but no.”
“You want me to start delivering?”
I shrugged. “It’s an idea.”
“What do you suggest?”
“That we spice it up a bit. If my mom can order all this from Marco’s, she will. She’s loyal, like a lot of people in this city. So maybe we need to think outside the box.”
“How would you spice the offerings up?”
I blinked. “Well, I hadn’t really thought that far. I’m just thinking out loud here. I mean, the food is all delicious, I’m sure.”
“Have you tried some?”
Heat bloomed in my cheeks. “Oh, no. I-I haven’t. Yet.” I hastily continued before the awkward silence engulfed us. “It’s just what everyone says. William talked about your fruit tarts for twenty minutes last time he stopped by. But none of what we offer really stands out. The cupcakes are pretty normal, right? Strawberry. Vanilla bean. Double chocolate.”
She stepped closer to the display case. “The cinnamon rolls are our biggest sellers.”
“We had to offer them at a discount two days ago because they were starting to get stale.”
She frowned.
“The eclairs?”
“I’ve sold three in the last week.”
“What about the macarons?”
“I’ve only sold five of the batch I made four days ago, and that was to the same customer. Your bank account can’t be as happy about all this as the homeless shelter is. I sent William there with a huge box of food three days ago. Which maybe isn’t the worst thing, but…”
Her frown deepened. “I suppose I could take a look at what’s selling best in division, apart from bulk sales.” She bit her bottom lip and followed my gaze. “I’ve just been looking at numbers overall recently because I didn’t have time once Kate left.”
“I’m willing to bet none of these pay themselves back,” I said with a wave at the case. She stared at me uneasily, so I continued. “We need to start bringing people in because we have what no one else has.”
Finally, after a long stretch of silence, she pointed one of the arms of her glasses at me.
“I agree. Great idea, Rachelle.”
“Thanks.”
“You have three days.”
“What?”
“Come up with at least ten different ideas—and recipes so we can start right in on it—and we’ll talk again. Maybe we can throw a special party or something.”
“Wait.”
“Outside the box,” she murmured, tapping her chin. “I like this. It feels right.”
“Oh, no. I didn’t—”
“Three days.” She poked me in the shoulder. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”
“That’s a little too much faith in me.”
She laughed. “Nonsense. You’ve long since proven that you have an eye for color and decoration. If anyone can do this, Rachelle…”
“But I’m not really sure how to do it. Just that we need to. I mean—”
“You can.”
“But—”
She tilted her head to the side. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course!”
“Then maybe you don’t see it yet, Rachelle, but you’ve got a steel core in that mind. You’re wicked smart. If anyone can do this, it’s you. Now, get to work and sprinkle some magic around here. We need it.”
I opened my mouth to reply but shut it again. Steel core. Wicked smart. She backed up two steps and held up three fingers.
“Three days.”
She disappeared back into her office. A gaping hole seemed to have opened in my chest.
You’re wicked smart.
No one had ever said that to
me. No one had ever said it when I was overweight, and no one had said it since I’d lost all the weight. It wasn’t something that came up—that I knew ever mattered.
Until now.
A whisper moved through me. One I’d never heard before.
What if she’s right? What if Janine is right, too? What if all your friends are right about you and you are the one who is wrong?
A cold waterfall trickled down my spine. Sophia was right about my eye for visual decoration. I could feel it in my bones. In the way my toes curled. The way my heart pounded just thinking of it. My suggestions were spot-on. They were instinct—I’d started talking before I’d fully thought them out—but they were right.
They were damn right.
That meant something inside of me had value to give to the world. That I could draw conclusions to improve the way things were. I wasn’t stupid, or subpar, or weak, or a vapid, oversexed, drunk girl.
Sophia was right.
I was wicked smart. I did have a steel core. I’d never considered it before, but that didn’t make it any less true now. All of those things belonged to me. They were me, part of me, like breath, and lust, and life.
My breath caught just as Mira honked from the alley out back. I grabbed my house keys and wallet, shouted a goodbye, and hobbled out the back door as fast as my crutches would carry me.
I had to find Janine.
Now.
When I burst into Janine’s office a few minutes later, Margery stared at me with wide eyes from where she stood bent over at the fountain, as if to turn it off. The overhead lights were off, and the water began to still. No music played overhead. One of the blinds was drawn.
“Oh,” she stammered, hands poised halfway above the fountain. “H-hello, Rachelle. I don’t believe you have a—”
“Where’s Janine?”
Sweat trickled down my back, dripping down the ridges of my spine. Outside, the sweltering heat had kicked up a notch, welcoming in the intense humidity of the evening. My foot sweated in the boot. Every now and then, it twinged with pain. Mira stepped into the office behind me, still appearing ruffled. No doubt from my demands to get to Janine’s as fast as you possibly can.