Puddin'

by Julie Murphy

  “But I guess I could ask if he wants to sponsor another team,” says Bryce. He doesn’t sound confident, but I appreciate the effort.

  “Really?” I ask. “You would do that?” If anyone can afford it, it’s Mr. Dooley. Despite the handful of cars in his garage, he has a chauffeur drive him around from morning until night. When we were in elementary school, before his driver upgraded to a huge luxury SUV, Bryce’s dad would come through the pick-up/drop-off line in a limo.

  He shrugs. “I’ll just have to catch him at the right time. He’s been weird lately. Wants me to start spending more time at the dealerships, figuring out how things work. Hey,” says Bryce, cradling my chin in his hand. “I know what’ll make you feel better. Or at least distract you for a little while.”

  “Yeah?” The pit of my stomach hiccups as he spreads kisses along my jaw, both of us leaning back onto the floor. Instead of returning to my research, Bryce and I take advantage of my seldom-quiet house.

  After Bryce leaves, I fall asleep on the end of my bed with my American Lit reading assignment clutched to my chest. When I finally wake, I feel groggy and heavy. The sound of my sister shouting at Shipley, our pit mix, and the smell of my mother cooking dinner flood my senses.

  “Callie!” calls Kyla from the other side of the door. “Mama said you would help me with my reading homework!”

  “After dinner!” My door begins to inch open, and I throw a pillow at it. “After dinner!” I shout again.

  Kyla pushes the door open anyway and sticks her head in. Her long blond hair is split into two French braids. Over Christmas, she had a growth spurt, and even though she’s only eleven, she’s nearly taller than me. “Is that a hickey on your neck?”

  I throw my second and last pillow, but this time I hit her right in the face. “I’m telling Mama!” she growls before slamming my door shut.

  I groan and plop back down on my bed, letting my brain slowly come back to life as the sleepy fog evaporates. I reach for my phone and find an alert telling me I have eighty-seven missed text messages.

  HO-LY SHIT.

  I open my messages and find one long thread with at least half the dance team on it. As I skim through, I find that news of the sponsorship fiasco has spread to the rest of the team. Melissa. She probably spilled the beans.

  HAYLEY: We worked so hard for this. I haven’t eaten bread in three months.

  ADDISON: Why should we even bother practicing anymore?

  JILL: And what’s the point of even trying to compete at State if we can’t go to Nationals? GREG BROKE UP WITH ME BECAUSE HE FELT LIKE I WAS TOO BUSY WITH THE SHAMROCKS.

  GRETCHEN: Greg was a punk anyway, BUT THIS IS STILL BULLSHIT.

  WHITNEY: I missed my grammy’s funeral for Regionals!

  BETHANY: The football team gets a new training facility and we can’t even afford to compete?!

  ZARA: Does this mean I can eat carbs again?

  SAM: Zara, no one said you couldn’t eat carbs.

  Reading these messages is like watching the five stages of grief play out, and by the time I get to the end it’s obvious that the team has hit the anger stage and they’re out for blood.

  Sorry, I type, just got caught up on all these messages. Maybe we should all take a breather and reconvene in the morning.

  JILL: We don’t need a breather. We need revenge.

  My phone buzzes over and over again as my text is lost in a sea of new messages.

  ADDISON: We can’t let that trashy gym do this to us!

  BETHANY: We’ve worked our asses off. This is bullshit.

  LARA: I say we let them know exactly how we feel.

  MELISSA: Y’all, we gotta be strategic right now. Revenge isn’t getting us anywhere.

  I almost jump in to try to defuse the situation with her, but to be honest: I’m pissed as hell, too. And I can’t believe this grody-ass gym is the thing standing in the way between us and a shot at Nationals.

  I click the cursor in the message box.

  Y’all are right. This is bullshit.

  SAM: We’re trying to work on solutions. But this might be the end of the road this season, y’all.

  JILL: Tonight. Midnight. Wear all black. Meet in the alleyway behind the gym. Bring toilet paper and eggs. They don’t even have to be fresh.

  I start a new thread, and this one is just me, Sam, and Melissa.

  ME: Did y’all see Jill’s plan?

  MELISSA: This could end badly.

  SAM: Everyone’s pissed. I think a harmless prank will get it out of their system.

  ME: Should we go? Like, is it better or worse for the team leadership to be there?

  MELISSA: I think we should let them act on their own.

  ME: I don’t know. Will they feel like we’re abandoning them?

  SAM: Listen, y’all, it’s my senior year and this season is already going down in flames. I feel like we might as well make it memorable. But either all three of us go or none of us go. Y’all know where I stand.

  ME: I’m in.

  MELISSA: Guess I am, too. I don’t like this.

  Millie

  Five

  After I get home from closing up the gym, I hang my keys on the hook by the front door. My house smells like someone passed gas and low-fat cheese, which means my mom is probably cooking one of those dishes that she likes to call a sweet little compromise. This usually means zucchini alfredo or mashed potatoes made of cauliflower.

  “I’m home!” I call as I brush past the dining room, where Dad is setting the table.

  “What’s for dinner?” I whisper.

  Dad’s expression is full of dread as he shakes his head. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Eggplant parmesan with this dairy-free cheese I found in the refrigerated section of the vitamin store,” answers my mom over the sounds of the kitchen and the television.

  I swear that woman hears everything. It’s her superpower.

  Despite Dad’s disdain for Mom’s cooking, I’m lucky as all heck. My parents love each other.

  They met when my mom came back from Daisy Ranch the summer after her senior year. She only went for one year, but it was enough for her to drop forty-four pounds and shrink to a size ten—sometimes even an eight, depending on the cut and fabric. She wasn’t that fat to begin with, but the way she tells it, she was a whale. Literally hours after she returned home from camp, she met my dad in the parking lot of Harpy’s Burgers and Dogs on a Friday night. He was a few years older and had just graduated from the University of Texas at El Paso. He told her she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. Not only was my mother suddenly beautiful, but she was seen. Daisy Ranch, she swears, changed her life.

  The big deception between them is that my dad secretly hates my mom’s cooking. It’s pretty bad. Her cooking is a mash-up of all the casseroles and Americana dishes she grew up on as a kid, with all the good stuff substituted for things like zucchini or cauliflower. Some of it isn’t bad, but much of it is an abomination.

  I know a lot of people look at fat people like we’re gross slobs who are just constantly shoveling fatty foods in our mouths, but I could probably pass any written test for a dietitian or personal trainer. For so long I obsessively consumed any information I could get my hands on in the hopes that maybe one new little piece of knowledge would be the magical truth that changed everything.

  But that never happened, and I don’t think it ever will. My magic truth—the thing that has changed everything for me—is this: the body I have shouldn’t change how deserving I am of my dreams. I stopped obsessing over my body being too round or too wide or too lumpy. Because I’m not too much of anything. I’m just enough. Even when I don’t feel like I am.

  After dropping my backpack in my room, I head back to the kitchen to help my mom set up dinner. It still smells less than great, but I can appreciate how much effort she puts into every meal, even if my taste buds cannot.

  Maybe it’s corny that we have family dinners like this every night. Amanda s
ays that her house is a fend-for-yourself situation. I felt bad when I heard that and invited her over one night, but all it took was my mom’s zucchini-and-quinoa lasagna to show her that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.

  We all hold hands for a quick prayer. Tonight’s my dad’s turn, and he always makes a joke of it.

  “Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub. Yay, God!” he prays.

  My mom tsks in his general direction.

  He smiles. “The Lord has a sense of humor, Kathy.”

  “Is that what the doctor told your mother when you were born?” she asks.

  I laugh. “Nice one, Mom.”

  She winks at me.

  “How was your day, sweets?” Dad asks me as Mom serves each of us a piece of eggplant parmesan. “Working on any neat projects at school?”

  “It was good.” I clear my throat. Every time we sit down for dinner, I tell myself that this will be the night I tell my parents I’m not going back to Daisy Ranch and instead hope to go to journalism camp at UT.

  Mom won’t take it well. That I know for sure. Some mothers and daughters communicate via makeup and pedicures or shared hobbies like tennis or even horseback riding. My mother and I have crafting, romantic comedies, and above all else, diets. Diets are our love language. And it’s not been such a simple thing to shake. The truth is I’ve spent most of my life thinking of food in terms of point systems and calorie charts, and, for me, exercising only existed for the sake of becoming someone I’m not instead of taking care of who I am.

  I know I’m not changing my mind, but I still don’t know how to break the news. Instead, I go for a smaller request. “I was wondering if I could have friends over this Saturday? For like a sleepover?”

  “Of course!” my dad says prematurely.

  “Well,” my mom says, “who’d you have in mind? I think my brother and Inga were going to come over on Sunday afternoon with the babies. And Gran and Pop-Pop, too, probably.”

  “Oh, everyone would clear out before then. And we wouldn’t make a mess, I swear.” I take a bite of my dinner and swallow it down with a gulp of tea. “Well, Amanda, obviously. And that tall blond girl I met doing the pageant, Ellen. Also Hannah and Willowdean.”

  My mom twists her lips to the side. “You know Amanda is always welcome here. And that Ellen seems like a very sweet girl. Such a pretty thing. But I just wonder if Hannah and Willowdean aren’t the best influences?” She pauses for a minute. My mom does this thing where she tries to plant an idea in your head and make you think it’s your idea, except that the only person it works on is my dad. “Especially that Hannah. So much dark makeup. It’s not flattering. You know, a good friend would tell her so.”

  I put my fork down and count to ten. Lots of people would never guess this about me. But I have a temper. Well, I have a temper when dealing with my mom. “They’re my friends, Mom. And Hannah is awesome. No matter how she wears her makeup.”

  “I just want to see you surround yourself with positive people, baby.”

  My mom put the weight back on and then some after she had me, which was only a year and a half after she and my dad met. These days she’s closer to my size than her post–Daisy Ranch size ten. Ever since then, though, she’s been trying to become that girl again—“the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.”

  The irony is that she has always been that girl to my dad.

  Dad clears his throat and touches my knee under the table. “We trust your judgment, Millie,” he says, his eyes steady on my mom. “And we would be glad to host your friends.”

  My mom sighs into her dish. “I’ll pick up some extra snacks at the store on Friday.”

  I almost just nod and say thank you. I don’t want to push my luck. But I do anyway. “Maybe they could be like regular snacks and not just rice cakes and stuff.”

  Dad chuckles. “I think we can make that happen.”

  “Finish your dinner,” my mom tells me. “You probably have a lot of homework piled up.” After a moment, she adds, “I’ve got Runaway Bride on the DVR.”

  Later, in my room, while I’m putting the finishing touches on my trig homework, a chat message from Malik pops up in the bottom corner of my computer screen.

  Malik.P99: Have you looked at the psych essay questions yet? That last one feels like a trick question.

  aMillienBucks: Not yet! I’m saving that for the weekend. :D :D

  Maybe the second smiley face is overkill. Chill, Millie.

  Malik.P99: Speaking of this weekend . . .

  Malik.P99: Well, not this weekend. A weekend.

  Malik.P99: My birthday is coming up.

  aMillienBucks: Oh yeah! That’s right!

  Malik.P99: My mom is having this big birthday party and now she’s got a bunch of family coming into town and she wants me to invite friends.

  Malik.P99: She knows I don’t really have a lot of friends.

  aMillienBucks: I’m your friend! Amanda, too.

  Malik.P99: It’s not going to be fun. Not even a little bit.

  aMillienBucks: Not to brag or anything, but I’m sort of known for my morale-boosting skills.

  Malik.P99: Mils, really. It’s not going to be fun. There will be aunties everywhere all up in my business, so if you’re not up for an in-depth interview and a lie detector test, I get it.

  Mils. He only calls me Mils online when we’re chatting like this at night without anyone around. It feels so . . . familiar.

  aMillienBucks: Okay, well if this is you inviting me, then I would love to go to your birthday party and have no fun at all and meet all your aunties. I’ll even bring Amanda if you want.

  Malik.P99: Thank you so much. At least we can suffer together.

  A burst of fireworks go off in my chest. We chat like this almost every night, leaving our chat windows up from after dinner until one of us falls asleep. It’s almost like being in one of those relationships that’s all lived-in, where silence isn’t uncomfortable.

  But then the next day at school, reality always sinks in. I’m constantly left to wonder if the people we are online will ever materialize in real life.

  I’m extra rushed in the morning, trying to pull together some semblance of a breakfast while still remembering to turn on the coffeepot for my parents. I overslept and didn’t even have time to work on my personal statement for journalism camp.

  After I pull out of the driveway, I have to double back down the street because I forgot to close the garage door. It’s just one of those mornings. My hair is frizzier than normal. I feel ridiculous in my clothes—black leggings with white polka dots and an oversized red sweatshirt, like I’m channeling my homemade Minnie Mouse Halloween costume from fourth grade. Even though I wore this outfit three weeks ago and loved it! It’s like some days you just wake up and your body doesn’t seem to look right in any of your clothes.

  By the time I get to the gym, I’m on autopilot. I unlock the door and race over to the security keypad to shut off the alarm, not noticing the glass crunching beneath my feet or the fact that the alarm was never even beeping. Did I turn it on last night? Suddenly I have no memory of the little buttons lighting up for the last week—maybe even two!

  I turn around and look up. Oh my gosh. If I were a cussing person, now would be a good time for a whole slew of dirty words.

  The whole front of the gym is normally a tinted glass storefront, but this morning the entire panel of glass is missing.

  Well, it’s not missing. It’s all over the floor in pieces. Someone broke in, and as my eyes begin to wander, I see that not only did they break into the gym, they vandalized the equipment, mirrors, and walls. Spray paint, eggs, toilet paper, and shaving cream. Everywhere. And those eggs smell way worse than anything my mom’s ever cooked up.

  My heart is pounding. A cold sweat forms on my neck. I’m frozen. It’s one of those moments that begs for action, but I feel like everything is a nightmare and my limbs are suddenly weighed down with lead.

  I think so many things at
once. What if the intruder is still here? Why would someone do this? How are we going to clean all this up?

  The police. I need to call the police. I reach for my phone, and out of pure habit, I dial the numbers for my parents, Amanda, and Malik before forcing myself to concentrate.

  “Nine one one,” I say out loud to no one except myself—at least I hope so.

  After two rings, the operator answers. “Nine one one. What’s your emergency?”

  “My job—it was broken into.”

  “Ma’am, are you safe? Is the intruder still on the property?”

  “No. I don’t think so,” I sputter. “I mean, I don’t think they’re still here, but yes, I’m safe. I work at a gym. Down for the Count.”

  “Stay on the line. I’ll have a squad car there in less than ten minutes.”

  While I’m on the line with her, I send out texts to my parents, asking them to call Uncle Vernon and Aunt Inga. This will gut them.

  My dad beats the cops there, which means he must have sped, and if there’s anything my dad has respect for it’s Star Trek and speed limits. My dad doesn’t take the time to tiptoe around the glass. He comes straight toward me and squeezes me tight.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I nod, unable to come up with words.

  “Have you checked the office or the lockers?”

  But before I can answer, Officer Barnes, my elementary school’s former D.A.R.E. officer, walks through the gaping hole in the storefront. “Millie?”

  “Yes, sir. And this is my dad.”

  I confirm with the operator that the police have arrived and hang up.

  “You two stay here,” Officer Barnes says as he heads into the locker room with his gun in hand.

  Soon after he checks the whole building, there are a handful of police officers, including Sheriff Bell, but my family quickly outnumbers them. My mom’s in the janitorial closet, gathering cleanup supplies, while Pop-Pop and Gran follow Officer Barnes, double-checking all of his work. And poor Vernon is on the phone with the insurance company, with baby Nikolai strapped to his chest, while Inga circles around him with baby Luka on her hip as she shouts Russian cuss words directed at the adjuster on the phone.