Puddin'

by Julie Murphy

  I gasp. “Oh my gosh, like, dead bodies?”

  She laughs. “No. More like turds.”

  “Ewww,” I say. “Oh man, that’s so gross.” But it’s still sort of interesting to hear about summer in Clover City. I’m usually only here long enough to go swimming with Amanda a few times before I’m off to Daisy Ranch.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever actually gone to the community pool,” I say. Despite my appearance in the Miss Teen Blue Bonnet Pageant might suggest, I’m still coming to terms with wearing swimsuits in front of people. Besides, I think I was too high on adrenaline that day to process much of anything, let alone embarrassment.

  “Well, it leaves quite a bit to be desired.” She kicks her feet a little, letting the water splash up above her knees.

  “Well, I don’t think I would let it stop me from going, but I do know that the thought of wearing my swimsuit at the public pool in front of everyone from school gives me a little bit of anxiety.” I sigh. “Which is silly, because it’s not like I’m not used to standing out.”

  “I hear that.”

  I laugh. “Well, you stand out for things that people think are strengths. You’re thin. Pretty. Smart.”

  “Mexican,” she says.

  “Well, yeah,” I say, a little taken aback. “But that’s not a bad thing to stand out for.”

  She sighs. “I know. I just . . . I know it’s probably different, but I know what it’s like to stand out, too. I’ve got my dad and my abuela and my older sister, Claudia. And there are tons of other Latinx kids at school, but at home with my mom, Keith, and Kyla . . . well, they’re all super white, and I am super not. Especially with Claudia out of the house. Sometimes people think I’m not even related to them. Then when people do find out I’m Mexican, they assume my mom is a cleaning lady or that I’m here illegally. Or that I have a fiery temper or that I’m a . . .” She holds her fingers in air quotes. “‘Sexy señorita.’”

  “Wow. That’s really crummy.” In my head, Callie has had such a perfect life up until recently. Dreamboat boyfriend. Traditionally pretty. One of the most talented athletes at school. I may be fat, but no one ever questions whether or not I fit in with my family. Being white, that’s not something I’ve ever had to deal with. “I’m sorry, Callie. I get what it means for people to make decisions about the kind of person you are based on how you look, but I’m still sorry.”

  Her lips spread into a faint smile. “Thanks. And hey, I guess if my BFF had this gem in her backyard, I’d keep my distance, too.”

  “It’s not just that,” I explain. “I spend most of my summer at camp.”

  “Oh.”

  “Fat camp.”

  I can feel her body tense up a little bit beside me.

  “Eight summers,” I say. “Sixteen months, if you add it all up. I even had a camp nickname.”

  “A camp nickname?” she asks.

  “Yeah. Everyone at camp sort of chooses a nickname for themselves. Or sometimes the nickname chooses you. It kind of helps to separate everyday you from summer-camp you.”

  She smiles. “That actually makes sense. So what was your nickname?”

  “Don’t laugh,” I tell her.

  She nods solemnly.

  “Puddin’.”

  “Oh my God!” she says. “Are you serious? I can’t believe it!”

  “You said you wouldn’t laugh.” I can’t help feeling a little hurt.

  “Oh no! It’s because my grandma on my mom’s side used to call me Puddin’. She moved to Arizona, but she still writes it in my birthday cards every once in a while.”

  I bubble with laughter. “No way!”

  She shakes her head. “For real.”

  It’s sort of wonderful that for all the differences between us, we share this one small thing.

  “So, Puddin’?” she asks. “How’d you come up with that one?”

  “I got caught sneaking in one of those prepackaged cups of pudding my very first year,” I tell her. “The worst part is it was fat-free! It wasn’t even real junk food.”

  She laughs then. “You really are good. Like, right down to the bone.”

  I nod. “Breaking the rules always requires great effort on my part. But no more fat-camp rules for me. I’m done with that place.”

  She’s silent for a moment. “So you’ve, like, tried to lose weight?” Her voice is tentative.

  I laugh. I can’t help it. “Have I tried to lose weight? Up until last fall, my life was dedicated to it.”

  “Wow.”

  “What’d you think, I just went home at night and stuffed my face with marshmallows and chips?”

  She pauses and shrinks back a bit. “I don’t think that now, but I definitely did before.”

  “Before when?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Before these last few weeks? I guess?”

  This shouldn’t surprise me, and really, it doesn’t. But it does suck. It really sucks, and I don’t use that word lightly. “I probably know way more about calorie counting and how to maximize workouts and the latest fad cleanses than any other person you’ve ever met.”

  “I never thought about it that way.” She shakes her head. “All that work and no results.”

  I let out a little snort laugh. “You know, me and my mom used to go to these ladies’ aerobic classes at church on Thursday nights, and they’d choreograph the whole thing to Christian music. They’d say how our bodies were the Lord’s temple, so we should maintain the temple and stay as slim and trim as possible.”

  “That’s . . . that’s kind of fucked up,” says Callie.

  “Well, I don’t know if I’d use that exact word, but yeah. Yeah, it really was. Because not only had the world already done a perfectly good job of making me feel like I’d failed at being a human being, but then I was a bad Christian, too.”

  “Do you still go to church?” asks Callie. “We’ve never been a very churchy family.”

  “I sort of stopped when I started working at the gym. I needed more time for homework, but honestly, the people at my church said lots of things I couldn’t live with. Like, the way they talk about gay people and loving the sinner but not the sin. I mean, if you can’t love the whole of a person, do you really love them at all? So maybe I’ll go back to a different church after high school once I’ve moved, but I don’t need a church to be a Christian. And I don’t have to be thin to be a good person. Or a pretty person.”

  “Nope. You really don’t.”

  “I have to ask you something,” I blurt. It’s something that’s been weighing on me all week.

  “Shoot,” she says.

  “Those green flyers with all those secrets. Was that you?”

  She looks at me for a long moment and then nods. “I’m sorry for asking you to drive me there.”

  I start to shake my head.

  “No, no,” she tells me. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into that without clueing you in first.” She touches my thigh. “But no one’s getting into any trouble for that. Trust me.”

  I gulp and nod. Guilt settles in the pit of my stomach as I’m reminded that I haven’t been honest. I’m such a coward. “Okay.”

  “I’m serious. And if anyone does, you know I can take the fall,” she adds sarcastically. “Plus those girls got exactly what they deserved.”

  Instead of opening my gosh-dang mouth and telling her I’m the one who spotted her on the surveillance tape, I change the subject. “So what’s the deal with Mitch? You don’t strike me as the type of person who needs time to emotionally recover from a breakup.”

  She turns to me with her arms crossed in mock insult, but I’ve got her pegged. “I told you. He’s not my type.”

  I lean back with my arms spread out behind me, propping myself up. “What does that even mean? Y’all seem to really make each other laugh, and isn’t that a good place to start?”

  “Well, things with Bryce started in a coat closet at a party, so that was also a good place to start.”

  “You�
��re avoiding the question,” I tell her.

  “He’s just . . .”

  “Fat,” I say.

  She grimaces. “He is a bigger guy. And I do like his personality a lot, and he is kind of cute. Okay, maybe really cute.”

  “You can use the word fat, by the way. It doesn’t bother me.”

  “It seems rude.”

  I smile. “Because you’ve only ever used it in a rude way.”

  She looks skeptical.

  “Just use it,” I say. I grip my stomach and then I pinch the slightest bit of flab on her arm. “Fat. We both have it. I just have enough of it for it to be the first thing you notice about me.”

  She cringes, but then her face relaxes. “Fat.”

  “Actually use it,” I say. “Like in a sentence.”

  Her eyes scan the sky for a moment. “I feel fat?” She says it like a question.

  “Well—”

  “You can’t feel fat,” calls Willowdean from the other side of the gate. “You either are or you aren’t.”

  Willowdean and Ellen giggle as they fiddle with the gate before spilling into the backyard.

  I turn to Callie, and in a quiet voice I say, “That’s actually true. Fat is definitely not a feeling.”

  Callie nods. “Noted.”

  Willowdean and Ellen whisper back and forth, their laughter growing as they shuffle through the backyard gate.

  “Shhhh!” Callie and I both reprimand them in unison.

  “We had a beer,” says Ellen.

  Willowdean holds one finger in the air. “Singular!”

  “Let’s get them inside,” Callie whispers.

  I nod and the two of us guide Willowdean and Ellen back inside and up to Amanda’s room.

  “Does it make me a huge nerd that I’m impressed you have keys to the school?” I ask Malik.

  When I asked Malik if he was sure we’d be able to get into the school building on a Sunday afternoon, he assured me that he had it all taken care of, and he did not disappoint.

  “Only if it makes me a huge nerd to have keys to the school,” he tells me as he opens the door to what was once the school newsroom.

  Mr. Garvy, Malik’s journalism teacher, has tried reviving the program more than once, but the district can’t be convinced. Which means this room just sits here empty with an unused news desk while my announcements are the closest the student body gets to actual news, because the school paper is a joke that publishes sports schedules and quizzes ripped from the pages of magazines.

  I lay my dress bag on the counter and look over my script. I sorted through old school announcements and combined some of them to make for some good news stories. “I should get changed,” I say.

  “There’s a bathroom in the hallway,” says Malik. “It shouldn’t take long to get this stuff set up.”

  “I’ll be back!” I say, and skip across the hall with my makeup and suit. The suit I’ve decided to wear is much more serious than anything else I own. I found it online and bought it with birthday money. Inga helped me tailor it while she was still pregnant.

  The actual suit is a deep royal blue with three-quarter-length sleeves and cream trim. Thanks to Inga, the skirt hits my knees in the perfect spot and the jacket nips in at all the right places. Zipping up the skirt and buttoning the button on the jacket are as satisfying as a cherry on a sundae.

  I slip into my red kitten heels, even though no one will see my feet under the desk, and I apply a coat of mascara and red lipstick, the same lipstick recommended to me by Callie’s mom.

  I have worn clothes that have made me feel plenty of things. Like at the pageant, when I wore my gingham swimsuit and matching accessories. I felt unstoppable, and for the first time, everyone was looking at me—and in a good way.

  I’ve never worn anything that’s made me feel quite like this suit does. Sometimes being fat and finding clothing is like trying to ice-skate in the desert. A lot of people might think that’s silly. It’s just clothing, after all. But clothes are the perfect way to communicate with the world around you without having to say a word. And so much of the clothing available to fat girls assumes that we all want the same thing: floral, flowy, and possibly ready to go on a cruise at any given moment. And that’s okay, if it’s your style. I know there are more options now than when my mom was my age, but I still wonder what it might be like to go into a mall and shop in any store I want, instead of just the ones who want me.

  This suit, though. I put it on, and I feel like no matter where I am or who else is in the room, I’m in charge. It’s the kind of outfit that makes people feel like they can trust you. It’s no coincidence that a simple outfit can be the first step in creating the life you want.

  After fussing with my hair a bit, I head back into the news classroom, where Malik is waiting.

  “Wow,” he says, his voice breathy.

  Anxiety spikes in my chest, and I have to remind myself to breathe. “Good wow or bad wow?”

  He nods feverishly. “Good wow. Super-good wow. Like, super-foxy-good wow, but also I-feel-like-I-should-be-asking-you-to-hire-me-for-an-important-job wow.”

  My cheeks ache with heat, and I can’t even blame it on the warm lights yet.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  I nod. “I’ve never actually sat down behind a news desk,” I admit. “What if I’m horrible at this?” Because the truth is, outside of what little experience I’ve picked up from doing morning announcements, my career as a TV reporter has only ever existed in my head.

  “Then I’ll burn the evidence,” he promises. “But I doubt there’s anything you’re horrible at.”

  “Just you wait and see.” I take a seat behind the desk. “You didn’t witness the woodcarving disaster of 2014.”

  He laughs. “I’m sure it was awful. I tried messing with the lights, but they’re super old. Let me know if they’re too bright, though, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  I nod. My throat is dry and I feel my whole body freezing up, one joint at a time. I can’t believe I thought this was a good idea. I should’ve figured out some way to do this on my own, without any outside help. But this is the only way I could make it look professional. Still, I can barely stand the idea of Malik watching me as I announce sort of fabricated news for a school that doesn’t even have a news channel.

  “I’ll add in the graphics later,” he tells me. “Like the little box above your shoulder. I’ll start rolling now, and you can go whenever you want. I can edit out any major mess-ups, but it’ll look cleanest if you can make it through without any hiccups.”

  I nod and clear my throat. I take a swig from the bottle of water I left under the desk. “Okay.” I close my eyes and count to ten as I let out a long, deep breath. I can do this. I can totally do this.

  I open my eyes. “Good morning, Clover City High. This is Millie Michalchuk, reporting from the Lucky Seven News—sorry,” I say. “I had to come up with a name for the news channel. Is that dumb?” I ask.

  “Totally not dumb,” he says. “But maybe start over.”

  “Right,” I say. Every possible doubt is racing through my mind right now. I smile, but not too hard. Just a natural, welcoming smile. I hope. All I can hear is the sound of my heart thumping, my blood pumping. Everything else is a dull buzz. I close my eyes again and count to ten. Breathe. Just breathe. The pumping blood. My beating heart. It all fades, and for a moment I can hear it in my head. My intro music. A cameraman doing a countdown until . . . three, two, one. I open my eyes. We’re live.

  “Good morning, Clover City High.” My voice sounds like butter. “This is Millie Michalchuk, reporting from the Lucky Seven News studio in the heart of Clover City High.” I can do this. I can really do this. “First up today, we have a follow-up report on the mystery-meat situation in the cafeteria. After various tests performed by both the biology and chemistry clubs, the president of the chemistry club, Jessica Banks, has confirmed that the sloppy joe meat, which also doubles as chili, among other things, is indeed g
round turkey and not beef. The nonmeat substance found in the mix appears to be bean filler to save on costs, Jessica ventured when asked. When speaking with Vice Principal Benavidez, I was told that the meat is safe for consumption by everyone except vegetarians. The construction on the new indoor training facility for the football team is nearly complete and it’s expected to be up and running just in time for summer training camp. Meanwhile, other teams on campus, including the incredibly successful Shamrocks, continue to fall victim to lack of sponsorship and district-wide budgetary cuts.”

  I continue on for another ten minutes with the boys’ soccer report, the casting choices for the spring play, and rumors of an Algebra One cheating ring among the freshman class.

  After I’m finished, we do it twice more, just in case, and we even do some outside footage of me reporting from the new granite reflection bench donated by the class of 1995. I can feel myself nailing it. It takes a whole lot of self-restraint not to squeal and pump my fist into the air at the end of the last take.

  When we finish, Malik slides his equipment back into his bag. “You were a pro, Millie!”

  “You think so?” I ask.

  “They’d be crazy not to take you this summer.”

  I hold up my hand for a high five, but instead he gives me a light peck on the lips.

  “I’ve been waiting to do that all day,” he says.

  Heat wells up in my chest. “Next time don’t bother waiting,” I say.

  He kisses me again, and this time his lips linger. “I won’t.”

  Callie

  Twenty-Four

  On Tuesday, there’s a mandatory pep rally for the Shamrocks as a big send-off before State. I almost skip, but decide not to at the last minute. My mom was kind enough to overlook the whole breaking-up-with-Bryce-in-a-very-publicly-disruptive-way thing, but she’s not yet forgiven me for the Shamrock Secret Shit List, so now isn’t a good time to push my luck, especially with my birthday coming up this weekend. There are days when I am so sure that blasting that list was totally deserved, and then, at times, guilt creeps into my thoughts like an impossible-to-reach itch.