by Julie Murphy
I roll over onto my side and pull the blankets over my head. With my face pressed deep into my pillow, I scream as loud as I can. The world is a cruel, cruel place. And what’s even worse is that those were only the first few in a very long series of messages. After a few more screams, I emerge from my blankets with my hair even more mussed than it was to begin with.
I inhale for two deep breaths, taking my time to exhale each time. My breath is truly unpleasant.
MALIK: Wow. Well, this party would be a whole lot better if you were here. That’s for sure.
MALIK: And I think you’re cute, too. And pretty and basically every synonym for pretty.
I gasp, and the rush of air actually hurts the wounds on my gums, but holy cannoli! Did Malik say that? And he wasn’t even doped up on painkillers. He was just regular Malik, sitting around at his birthday party full of people, telling me I’m pretty.
ME: well if that’s true you could’ve kissed my face after the dance and not just pretended like it never happened you weirdo
I pump my fist into the air. “You go, girl!” I say, my voice no louder than a stage whisper. It’s like I’m reading a really good book—the kind that makes you feel like you’ve swallowed fireflies—except this time I’m the main character of the book. I’m the love interest! I’m the girl who gets the guy! And girls like me? You don’t find us in fairy tales or on the covers of romance novels.
Slowly I can feel myself shaking away whatever bit of embarrassment and shame I’m still clinging to.
MALIK: Would you believe me if I said I was shy?
ME: would you believe me if I said I believe you but that it’s still a dumb reason
MALIK: I better get back to this party. I wish you were here. My sisters are driving me crazy and my mom keeps asking for you.
ME: well maybe if you get better about kissing my face, we can celebrate your birthday together next year
MALIK: I like that possibility.
ME: how many cotton balls can you fit in your mouth? However many it is I can beat you.
MALIK: Challenge accepted.
I hold my phone to my chest. My lungs are swelling and I’m scared they might just burst. In a small way, I feel like a fraud. An imposter. I’m not that girl. I can’t even find it in me to tell my mom about broadcast journalism camp. I’m not the kind of girl who would just message Malik and tell him to kiss me.
But I did that. I was that girl. For a short, drug-induced time, I was that brave girl I’ve wished to be for so long. And I’m embarrassed—a little horrified, even—but that girl knew what she wanted and she took it. I remember my talk with Callie yesterday afternoon. “Why should I have to sit around and wait for him to be brave enough?” I said that. Just yesterday.
So maybe that girl who sent all those text messages last night—good and bad—is me after all.
Without me to corral the troops on Saturday night, our slumber party at Ellen’s house was postponed until next weekend. Secretly, I was pleased, because fear of missing out is a real thing and I suffer from stage four.
On Monday morning, Uncle Vernon goes in early to open up the gym, so I can sleep in a little bit before going back to school. If this is the kind of special treatment that having wisdom teeth removed affords me, I’ll take it.
Even though I’ve already ruined my perfect attendance for the year, I pull myself out of bed. I’ve gone through my prescription of serious painkillers and am only on a regimen of Tylenol now, but Mom still insists on driving me to school.
When I inherited Mom’s minivan, she and Dad agreed it was time for her to get her dream car: a champagne-colored Volvo. They had to drive five and a half hours for the closest Volvo dealership, but between the safety ratings and the buttery-leather interior, I think it’s safe to say that my mom might leave all her worldly possessions to this car instead of me.
Mom is wearing one of her matching-set velour tracksuits with a pair of her Cloudwalker Deluxe tennis shoes, because after she drops me off, she will kick off her morning routine with a trip to Cinch It!—the women’s-only circuit gym located in the mall and wedged between the only two plus-size stores in Clover City. (Both of which should be called Old and So Old You Might as Well Be Dead. Thank goodness for online shopping.) And after her trip to the gym, Mom will power walk with her girlfriends to the food court, where they’ll each get their own personally formulated smoothie at Juice Monster, with the perfect cocktail of vitamin boosters, fiber, and protein powder.
We approach a school zone and the Volvo slows to a crawl. “Dr. Shepherd says the puffiness in your face should go down over the next few days.”
I laugh. “My face is eternally puffy.”
My mom doesn’t respond. “The girls at Cinch It! have been asking after you,” she finally says. “I told them all about your job at Uncle Vernon’s gym, and they all just think it’s so great that you’re taking the initiative to work at a gym.”
I look to her, but she keeps her eyes trained on the school zone ahead, and I’m actually thankful she can’t look at me when I say, “Mom, you know that’s not why I’m working at the gym, right?”
A small boy darts out across the crosswalk, and she slams on her brakes. “I swear! That crossing guard isn’t paying attention to a thing!”
“It’s really just to help out. Uncle Vernon and Inga need all the help they can get since the twins were born. And I like boxing okay,” I tell her. “It’s fun, ya know? Uncle Vernon gives me a few pointers every now and then. But I don’t do it to become some after-picture version of myself. I do it ’cause it makes me feel good. You know that, right?”
She smiles and accelerates as we leave the school zone.
And that’s it. I wish I could figure out a way to just say it in the most blatant terms: MOM, I DON’T WANT TO OBSESS ABOUT DIETING WITH YOU ANYMORE. But instead, I’ve just sort of slipped away from her and have begun avoiding all the things that once bonded us. Now, the void between us feels so wide that I often wonder if our bond only ran as deep as our obsession with bodies we’ll likely never have.
In front of the school, we share a hug and a kiss. “Oh, I printed off the application for this summer at Daisy Ranch,” she tells me. “I’ll just need you to fill it out so we can send in the deposit. I’ll leave it on your bed for you, okay? This is the year, baby. I can feel it.”
This is the moment when I should just rip off the dang Band-Aid. “I’m not going to weight-loss camp.” Seven words. That’s all it would take. But instead I nod and say, “Sounds good, Mom.”
A cloud of hurt and anger at no one but myself follows me through the carport and into the school. I’m so scared of bursting this unspoken bubble between my mom and me, when in reality, it would be the best thing for both of us. I’ve spent so much time wondering who my mom would be without all the fad diets and the calorie counting and the absurd workout plans. Honestly, I’ve wondered the same about myself. Some part of me is scared that she’s spent so long living this life that if she stripped it all away, there’d be nothing left, and surely in some deep recess of her brain, she fears that, too.
I head straight to the front office to do morning announcements, hoping to find that spring in my step but failing.
Between first and second periods, I find Amanda waiting at my locker, tugging the straps of her backpack and twisting her toe into the linoleum. A wave of embarrassment washes over me as I relive my wisdom-tooth text-message fiasco. I might’ve been drugged, but I made something that was very much about Amanda about me and my feelings. I should’ve reached out to her over the weekend, but I didn’t know where to start. I take a deep breath and tuck all thoughts of my mom and Daisy Ranch aside. Trying to fix more than one thing at a time usually means I can only give half a mind to a whole problem. So first: Amanda.
“Hey, are you okay?” she asks immediately.
I nod and touch my cheek. “A little sore. Mom said she can’t believe I had to get my wisdom teeth out. Her and Uncle Vernon never did.”
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She nods, but there’s something about her that feels off.
“We should talk,” I offer.
She waves her hand and her whole body bounces back, like she’d just as soon tiptoe around the issue. “Psh! Nothing to talk about. Well, I mean, between us.” She leans down and whispers, “But oh my God! What did you send to Malik?”
I release a heavy breath, but I can’t hide my smile. “Well, I’ve got some damage control to do, but it shouldn’t be too bad.” I’ve backed out of one tough conversation already this morning; I won’t do it again. “You know those texts I sent you about my feelings?”
She nods silently.
“That was just about me wanting you to always feel like I’m here for you and not about me thinking there’s anything wrong with you being . . . asexual.” I test out the word, wanting to be sure I’m using it in the right way. I take a step closer and cup her arm with my hand. “You’re my best friend. The only one who’s ever willing to go all in on my ridiculous plans and the only one whose faith in me is unwavering. I want you to be able to tell me everything. And if it’s something I don’t understand, I want to learn. And I know it’s not on you to teach me about it.”
Her lips split into a half smile. “It’s not that I didn’t want to tell you. I just didn’t know how. And . . .” She shakes her head. “When we were playing Two Truths and a Lie, it felt like a good time to just get it out there. Like, it wouldn’t be some big deal. It’s just my sexual orientation in the same way that you’re straight and Hannah’s a lesbian. I wanted to tell you, but I also know that you’re always looking for a solution. So I was scared you’d think this was something that needed fixing.”
“Oh, no. Not at all. I don’t think you’re broken,” I say. And I mean it. “I love you because you’re Amanda,” I tell her. “And that means loving all the little and big things that make you—you!”
Amanda throws her arms around me and squeezes relentlessly. We’ve never been the type to hug much. Not like Ellen and Willowdean. But in a way, I’m okay with that. Because this hug—this suffocatingly tight hug that Amanda has perfected from years of wrestling with her brothers—means so much more.
After lunch, I rush over to AP Psych in the hopes that I’ll catch Malik a little early and maybe we can talk. If I’m being honest, I have totally daydreamed about this moment. Us in Mr. Prater’s dark classroom with the twinkling lights. Except in my daydream, no one else is there. We would talk and talking would turn into kissing and kissing would turn into love and love would turn into forever.
I know, I know. But aren’t daydreams supposed to be embarrassing?
I settle into my seat and wait for Malik. Slowly students begin to trickle in, and my daydream begins to dissipate. The second-to-last bell rings, and Mr. Prater strolls in with a fresh mustard stain on his tie. He waits in the doorway for any stragglers, and just as the final bell rings, Malik squeezes in past him.
He plops down beside me and says, “Hey.”
“Hey,” I echo. Our eyes lock for one . . . two . . . three seconds before he looks away and we are right back where we started.
I turn away and reach into my bag for my textbook. I squeeze my eyes shut as hard as I can, because if I don’t, I might just cry.
When Mr. Prater isn’t looking, I shoot off a quick text to the one person I know has carried the weight of a truly painful crush.
ME: I’m having a CRUSH-911.
She responds almost immediately, which surprises me, even after all this time, because I’ve always felt like she’s way too cool for me.
WILLOWDEAN: Operator. What’s your emergency?
Callie
Fourteen
Life without a cell phone is a desert without water. It’s killing me.
I literally asked Kyla to play Scrabble with me the other night. (For the record, I won. Obviously.) The only lifeline I have to Bryce is school, and my mom’s been checking in on me in every single class. The woman is a hawk.
I stand behind the counter at the gym wiping down the same spot of glass over and over again to give the appearance that I am indeed very busy. Millie and her uncle are doing some routine maintenance on the weight equipment. Today, Tuesday, is her first day back since her emergency wisdom-teeth removal, and I nearly hugged the girl when I saw her.
While she was gone, I was left to finish my training with Inga. She tried to fire me four times, despite the fact that she’s not paying me, and even made me go stand outside in the giant muscle suit while I waved around a big NEW MEMBERSHIP SPECIALS sign. When I asked her why, she said I was breathing too loudly.
The bell above the door chimes and, shockingly, a customer walks in. I nearly jump off my stool and recite the greeting Inga drilled into me. “Hi, welcome to Down for the Count. Are you a member or a first-time guest?”
The guy—tall and broad and on the huskier side—clears his throat before responding. “Uh, yeah. I’m not a member.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Millie rush over to the desk beside me.
My brow wrinkles for a moment as I try to place his face. Rosy cheeks, soft blue eyes, and a few acne scars on his chin. His blond curls have a reddish undertone, and something about his face feels boyish. “You’re in my grade, aren’t you?”
“Mitch, right?” Millie pipes in. “I think you know my friend Willowdean.”
His already bright cheeks turn a deep shade of red. “Uh, yeah.”
Mitch, Mitch, Mitch, Mitch. I squint. There it is! “You’re on the football team! With my boyfriend! Bryce. I knew I recognized you.”
Mitch has always been that big dopey guy who tags around with Bryce, Patrick, and all the other guys from the team. I don’t really know him, but now, stuck in this gym and phoneless, I feel like freaking Ariel from The Little Mermaid. I nearly scream, “I want to be where the people are!” Like this big burly dude is some kind of lifeline to my previous life.
But instead I just bite my bottom lip while Millie gives him the lowdown on all of our membership packages.
I take his cash as he pays for the first three months of his membership.
He looks at the cash longingly as I deposit it into the register.
“We appreciate your business,” I say, “but the way you’re looking at this cash, I sort of feel like I’m forcing you to pay a parking ticket.”
“A birthday gift from my dad,” he explains. “So I can get in some extra training before next season when the weight room at school is closed.”
“Senior year,” I say. “Surely you’ve had some scouts interested.” Unlike Bryce.
He shrugs. “Yeah. Guess so.”
“Well,” says Millie, “we’ll laminate your card while you work out and hand it back over before you leave. Towels are in the locker room and on the wall by the punching bags. My uncle Vernon—Vernon, wave!”
Vernon offers a quick wave but doesn’t look up from his duties.
Millie smiles sheepishly. “He’s a certified trainer and offers one-on-one sessions as well. If you need help operating any of the machinery, just ask Vernon or me for assistance. Callie here is still a newbie.”
I chuckle. “You’re a pro on the workout machines?”
I expect Mitch to laugh, too, but his lips turn into a straight line.
The color drains from Millie’s face, but her voice is defiant when she says, “Yes, actually. I am.”
“Okay.” It was a joke. The girl can barely get through a sentence without giggling, but suddenly she’s taking herself seriously?
Mitch clears his throat again. “Well, I guess I better get my dad’s money’s worth.”
Without a word, Millie takes his card to the back office to be laminated as Mitch adjusts one of the leg machines.
I sit down on the stool, and something about my whole body feels heavy. It’s guilt. It settles into my stomach and turns to concrete. What I said to Millie was dumb, I know. But it was funny! I mean, any other guy in Mitch’s crowd would have totally laughed.
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I watch as Millie walks back up to the front desk.
I open my mouth to speak, but I don’t know what to say.
It doesn’t matter, though, because before I even have a chance to form a word, she slaps the card down on the counter and says, “Don’t forget to give him a welcome bag.”
“I won’t.” My voice squeaks.
I should’ve said I was sorry. I know that. But something inside me rears up, and I find myself somehow annoyed instead. It was just a dumb joke. And probably way more mild than what she’s used to hearing. She should just get used to it. The world is a tough place. Especially for people like her. She could at the very least get a sense of humor.
Everyone stands out in some way. It’s not like I don’t get upset every time some stranger thinks I’m not white enough or not Mexican enough or when someone thinks I’m Kyla’s babysitter and not her sister. Millie needs to toughen up, and I say that as someone who has had to do the same.
The next day at school, while I’m walking from English to World History, Bryce rushes up behind me and kisses my neck. I shriek from the shock and because I am super ticklish.
“Bryce!” I yank his arm and pull him up beside me. “What the hell are you doing? My mom has eyes in every crevice of this place.”
“I miss you.” He pouts.
“I miss you,” mimics his friend Patrick as he passes us in the hallway with Mitch close behind.
Bryce laughs and flips him the bird.
“Eat shit, Patrick!” I call.
Mitch offers a slight smile, and I nod my chin in his general direction. Yesterday I was thrilled to see him, but we’re not the kind of people who would actually acknowledge each other in public.
“You could come visit me at work,” I tell him.
“That place stinks,” he says. “And where would we have any privacy?”
“Well, maybe you could just power through the smell and maybe—just maybe!—we could hang out for a little while without you stuffing your hands up my shirt?”