by Nyrae Dawn
Copyright © 2012 by Nyrae Dawn.
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission of the author except where permitted by law.
Published by
Nyrae Dawn
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
MEASURING UP
BY
Nyrae Dawn
Dedication:
This book is dedicated to anyone who has ever felt like they don’t quite “measure up”. You do. To anyone who doesn’t feel beautiful. You are.
To the people out there, who like so many of us, struggle with our weight. It doesn’t define us.
We’re all beautiful in our own way. There is something—no a lot of things—about all of us, which makes us special. This includes you.
Chapter One
165.8
Let’s Get Physical?
I look up at the neon green sign in disgust. It sounded cute when I called, but now that I think about it, isn’t that an 80’s rap song? I’m not sure, but the name coupled with the sign seems more like a strip club or one of those bordellos disguised as a massage parlor than it does a gym. But then, it is on the seedier side of town so maybe it is a freakin’ strip club, or worse. “Oh my God.” I shake my head. I made an appointment with a trainer at a strip club! Boy, are they going to be disappointed when they get a glimpse of me.
I turn, walking back to my BMW, kicking a small rock in the cracked sidewalk. See? This is what happens when you try to lose weight on the sly. I can’t head to the gym on my side of town or I’ll run into Mom and her posse of gym rat friends who spend every afternoon running off the dry salads they picked at for lunch. I would end up listening to a string of little digs, and I’m so not in the mood for it right now. Not after what happened on the last day of school.
I fall into my car, letting myself sink into the brown, leather seats. What am I supposed to do now? Risk the Hillcrest Gym Rats, or my virtue in the strip club/possible gym in Ghettoville? My head falls forward against the steering wheel. Ugh, I hate it when I think stuff like that. What makes me any better than the people in Let’s Get Physical? Let’s face it. I know I’m not, which is why I’m sitting here pretending to be afraid of a fictional sex ring rather than getting my big butt out of this car and going inside to work out said butt.
Okay. Must get out of the car.
A car creeps by me on the left. The guy in the passenger seat smiles. It’s funny; guys seem to check me out when they can only see from the neck up. I turn away, fighting the urge to yell, “Keep going, buddy!” It’s what he’d do if he saw me standing up.
For the third time—yes, I said third—I get out of my car and head back to the building with the flashing neon green letters. They really need a new sign. It would help with the confusion on whether or not people are coming in to work on their bodies or dance on a pole.
I drop my head back to gaze at the sky. Stop getting sidetracked and get inside. I want to do this. Just think of the look on everyone’s face when there’s a new me. Oh, wow. That cloud kind of looks like a butterfly.
What is wrong with me? Why can’t I go inside? “Ergh!” I stomp my feet.
“You okay?”
I stand here with my hands over my face, afraid to see who spoke. It was definitely a guy, but why wouldn’t it be? That’s the way it goes with something like embarrassment, right? It’s either a hot guy or a gorgeous girl who reminds me of everything I’m not.
Before I seem like an even bigger nutcase, I slide my hands down to look at him. Standing in front of me is the embodiment of everything that has brought me to this place. Well, not the overweight part, but the gym part. And he’s not my mom either, but he’s everything else that brought me here.
My age, check.
Gorgeous, check. Sandy blond hair, a little on the longish side, kind of shaggy and in his eyes, dark, melted chocolate eyes. Mmm, chocolate. Stop!
Thin and muscular, with plumpish lips, check, check, and check.
His eyes hold mine and I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. What’s this girl doing at the gym? She definitely needs it. Think again, because it’s not going to work? I wonder how many times she’s been on a diet?
“I hear ya,” Mr. Gym Boy says, shifting a paper cup from one hand to another. “The gym seems to have that effect on people. You should go in, though. Who knows, you might enjoy it.”
It’s ridiculous when people say things like that. He hears me? Yeah, right. I have major doubts he knows what it’s like to be me. “No, I’m not going in. I forgot I have something to do.”
For the fourth time this morning I start back to my car. This was a stupid idea. What? Did I think I could come here, drop the weight I’ve fought all my life, and prove to the jerks at my school they’re wrong about me? That Mom will finally have something in common with me? Never going to happen.
“It’s okay to be nervous, ya know? I mean, if you’re scared, I get it. Tons of people are scared of stuff like this.”
My feet become too heavy to move. I will them to keep going, but they fight me. It’s one thing to be afraid. Because I am. I’m scared as hell of a lot of stuff, but it’s an entirely different thing for people to know I’m afraid. They already have enough ammo to use against me, so why give them more?
Slowly, I turn to face Gym Boy. “I’m not scared. In fact, I have an appointment with a trainer. Like I said, I forgot I had…another appointment.”
His body language screams that he doesn’t believe me. I think he’s fighting a smile. That just annoys me more.
“Okay, if you say so.”
What? What? Who does this guy think he is? My annoying feet march me right back over to him. Inside, I’m quaking, but I keep my face steady so he won’t know. “If I say so? What does that even mean? Why would I lie about an appointment?”
Gym Boy shrugs. It’s strange because even though you can tell he’s one of the pretty people, there’s something a little harder about him. Like he’s a bad boy in disguise. Actually, I’m leaning toward wannabe bad boy.
“I didn’t say you lied about the appointment. I’m talkin’ more about the not scared part.”
“You have some nerve. You don’t even know me. Jerk,” I mumble, but his eyes aren’t on me anymore. Gym Boy slips around me and heads to the curb. Yes, I know I should just walk in and forget him, but I can’t. He called me scared. Never mind that I am, but what kind of person calls you on it?
And weren’t we talking? Who just walks away like that? I turn and see Gym Boy standing at a large van. The side door is open and there’s a young boy sitting in front of him.
“The ramp isn’t fixed?” Gym Boy asks a woman, who gets out, a cast on her arm. They all kind of look alike. I can’t help but wonder if they’re family.
“No. Joe got him in. Maybe one of the guys can help you get the chair out.” The woman looks frazzled, in a hurry.
“Um, hello? I hate it when you guys talk about me like I’m not here.” The boy pouts.
“No,” Gym Boy snaps at the woman. “I can do it.”
“I’m crippled, not helpless,” the boy says at the same time.
“Let me help you get the chair. You can lift him and put him in.” The woman starts to walk toward the back of the van.
Gym Boy walks away from the kid. “I got it. Don’t want you to hurt your arm.”
My feet propel me forward. Yes, he was being a jerk a few minutes ago, but I can’t leave him to do
this by himself. “I can help.”
He takes me in, cocking his head a little like he’s confused or shocked by my offer. “Don’t worry about it. I got it.”
Oh, what a shock. A boy who doesn’t like to accept help. Color me surprised.
“Don’t be such a boy, Tegan.” The woman mirrors my thought.
I really want to say something sarcastic, but bite my tongue. Know-it-all or not, he needs help here and it would be wrong not to give it. Plus, the boy and lady shouldn’t have to suffer because he’s inconsiderate. “It’s okay.” I shrug. “You know, since I’m scared to go inside and all.”
His eyes study me again, like he’s trying to figure something out. Then he shakes his head, but I could swear I see the ends of his lips curl up slightly. I guess sarcasm scored me points.
The woman leads me to the back of the van. Tegan steps up beside me, still dissecting me. Not in the good way a guy can dissect a girl, but as though I’m a puzzle or experiment.
I’ve never seen eyes as dark as his, which is not what I should be noticing.
“It’s one of the motorized ones so he doesn’t have to wheel himself if he’s tired. It’s pretty heavy. When I say three we’ll lift and pull it out. Just set it right on the ground and I can take care of the rest.” Tegan is already leaning into the van to grab it.
I shake out of the little trance his eyes held me in and grab onto the wheelchair.
“One, two, three.”
I lift and holy crap was he right. This chair is heavy. I stumble a little and then we get it on the ground. Luckily there’s a ramp on the sidewalk that Tegan gets up easily before walking over to the boy.
“Do you need help with him, too?” I ask.
Tegan ruffles his hair. “Nah. This twerp is light.” When he turns to me, his voice isn’t playful like it was with “the twerp.” “Thanks, though.” A second later his back is to me. I’m obviously being dismissed.
“Wow, Teag. You really have a way with the ladies. I’m only thirteen and I’m better than you. When we get home, I’ll teach you, Flirting 101.” The boy laughs.
I almost choke on my tongue. Tegan flirting with me? Yeah right. Mom always tells me how beautiful I could be. Not am, of course, because being fat ruins everything. My bright blue eyes don’t matter, my smile, my long lashes that everyone always comments on. So no, I’m sure he’s blinded by my weight just like everyone else is.
I turn to walk inside. Not because he pretty much dismissed me, but because I want this.
The fact is, whoever said, “Size fourteen isn’t fat” has never been in high school. At least not my private, Hillcrest school that’s filled with fake boobs and laxatives. Where being perfect is a prerequisite unless you’re rich enough to get in on your own, even if you’re a little on the curvy side like me or have a big birthmark on your face like my best friend, Emily.
Will they believe their eyes when they see me again? Or maybe it won’t even be at school. Maybe Mom will show me off at some function I have no interest in going to except to see the looks on everyone’s faces. I like that thought, but only because it means I’ll finally be what she wants.
“Can I help you?” the supermodel behind the front desk asks. An old computer sits in front of her.
But that doesn’t matter. Behind her is the part that worries me.
The gym equipment.
All sorts of machines I don’t know the names of even though I’ve tried them all before. Don’t people realize these things are torture devises to make girls like me look bad? When I fumble to use it. When my stomach contracts on the abdominal machine. The mirrors on the freakin’ wall. Who thought of that? Do guys design every gym?
My eyes find supermodel’s again. She looks at me with a kind smile as I approach. Is it real or is she secretly laughing at me? I can’t tell. “Um, yeah. My name is Annabel Conway. I have an appointment with a trainer in”—I look at my watch. Great. “Five minutes ago.”
“Oh, cool.” She pulls out a file. “It’s awesome that we can get all the info over the phone now. Your mom was very nice when she called. I just need your signature on a few papers and a first and last month’s payment and we’re good to go.”
My mom. Yeah right. It wasn’t hard to pretend to be her.
It only takes me a couple minutes to finish everything. When I do, the supermodel says, “Okay, let me just get—oh, here he is. Tegan, you have a new client.”
Tegan? I didn’t even realize he came in. I twist around to see him approaching us. No. This won’t work. “Um, I specifically asked for a girl,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice low so he doesn’t hear me. It was a hard choice when I called because it’s not like I really want a girl to know my body fat percentage either. They’re even worse than guys, but I hoped there might be someone…a little like me?
“Sorry. No female trainers.” Hello bionic hearing. Gym Boy steps up beside me.
“Why didn’t they tell me on the phone?” I hope supermodel doesn’t think I’m checking her out because I’m not letting my gaze veer from her, hoping we can somehow cut Mr. I-like-to-call-clients-on their’s-fears out of this.
“Because we had one.”
I turn to face him since he’s obviously going to answer all my questions. “And you don’t now? It’s been less than twenty-four hours.”
“Only takes thirty seconds to quit.”
“Do you have an answer for everything?”
“Yep. It’s called the truth.”
This boy is going to drive me crazy! How am I supposed to go through with this if he’s my trainer? “I never lied.”
“Guilty conscious? I only said I told the truth, not that you didn’t.”
“Umm, Teag.” Crap. I almost forgot supermodel was there.
“Listen; is there anyone else I can have?”
“Well, there’s—”
“No,” Gym Boy interrupts. He nods toward some chairs and for some complete freak of a reason, I follow him. Maybe it’s because he’s not looking at me like Jerk McJerkerson right now. We sit down. This should be interesting. “I could have handled the chair, you know.”
“Umm, good for you? I’ll try and remember not to be a normal, polite human being next time I see you.”
At first my words seem to shock him, but then his smile threatens to appear again. “As long as we’re clear on that.” That quickly, his voice isn’t clipped the way it was when we first started talking.
“Okay, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find a trainer who doesn’t have split personalities…”
“Wait, I know we didn’t get off on the right foot, but like it or not, you need me, Annabel.”
“…or who isn’t a jerk.” I try to stand, but he touches my leg and I hurry to sit down, hoping he’ll move it before he realizes how jiggly it is. He’s shaking his head, but the way he looks, makes me think it’s not at me.
“Hear me out. Since I’m such a jerk with mental issues, it’s obvious you don’t like me. Working out can be kind of an embarrassing thing. Since you don’t like me, you won’t care what I think. It’ll be easier to focus on what you’re doing and it’ll help you reach your goals.” He settles into the seat, looking all smug like he just came up with some Ghandi-like quote.
“Yes, but aren’t you supposed to actually trust your trainer as well?” There. Take that.
“Hey!” He sits up straighter. “What did I do to make you feel like you can’t trust me? As I’ve showed you, I’ve got the honesty thing down pat.”
I roll my eyes and make sure he sees me. “Are you even old enough to be a trainer? How do I know you know what you’re doing?”
I can tell by the gleam in his chocolatey eyes that he knows he’s got me. But in a way, he does have a point. There are plenty of pretty boys at my school for me to worry about, why do I need to care what this one thinks of me?
“I’m eighteen. It’s June, my birthday is in August. Graduated this year, but took the course, and got certified last summer. Been do
ing it ever since. Though I’m really not sure why I’m trying to sell myself to you.”
“Ah, so this is an undercover massage parlor.” It takes a minute for me to realize I made a joke with him. “Get it? Sell yourself? Sorry. It’s the sign. I’m sure the answer to your question is the money, though.” Or he thinks it would be funny to see the fat girl fail. Ugh. Why do I always do that?
Tegan’s mouth tightens so slightly I can hardly tell. “I don’t need your money. You can find someone else if you want. I just need to know if we’re doing this or not. Do we have a deal?”
I think about Billy Mason. About all the looks I get in the school halls. About Mom and how I want to be a daughter she’s proud of. How I don’t fit into her perfect world. He’s kind of right about the fact that I don’t care what he thinks. Does it help? I think so. Then I think about my other option, which is driving into the city or the Hillcrest Gym Rats and the choice is made. “Ugh, I guess. But do we have to start today?”
Chapter Two
165.8 STILL. UGH.
Okay, so it’s only been about forty-five seconds since I agreed to this, but I’m already having second thoughts. “A scale? No one said anything about telling you what I weigh.”
Tegan stands beside the scale of death, looking at me like it’s no big deal. “Well, what did you expect? We have to know what you’re starting at so we can keep track of your progress.”
“We”—I signal back and forth between us—“don’t need to know. I need to know, which I do. I can keep track just fine.”
Tegan sighs. I can’t tell if it’s an annoyed sigh or not. “If you really want to do this, we have to do it right. I swear, I’m not going to judge you.”
“Pfft.” Oops, did I say that? Why yes, yes I did. “Please. People always judge me.” Is she lazy? Doesn’t she care about herself? I’ve heard them all.
“And what did you think of me when we first met? I’d love to know that one.”
How does he continually turn this around on me? The worst part is, he’s right. I hate it, too. I don’t want to be like the people who look down on me. Maybe I didn’t look down on him, but I decided who he was the very second I saw him. Though, I did also think he’s cute. I should get points for that.