“But it’s outrageous. Your boobs are perfectly fine, Leah. You do not need breast-reduction surgery. And I cannot believe your dad is really letting you do this.” Okay, that’s not totally true. I can sort of believe it. I just don’t get it. Why would he allow this?
“Well, if it makes you feel better, Dad’s not real thrilled. But Aunt Cassie understands. And she helped get him on board. She’s so great.”
“And then what’s next?” I say, feeling sarcastic. “Maybe get a nose job, get your cheekbones — ”
“What’s wrong with my nose and cheekbones?” Leah rushes over to my mirror to peer at her reflection.
“Nothing.” I roll my eyes. “That’s just the point. Like how far do you plan on taking this stuff? I mean, I saw this woman on a TV show. She was in her thirties and she’d had about fifty different kinds of plastic surgery. And do you know what she looked like?”
Leah, still studying her face from various angles, shakes her head.
“She looked like a Barbie doll!”
“Yeah, right.”
“She did, Leah. Even her daughter thought she did. And that was her goal. She wanted to look like Barbie.”
Leah laughs and turns around. “So was she pretty?”
“No. She was freaky. Seriously, if I saw her on the street, I’d be scared. She looked like an alien. And her face looked like it was made of plastic. Really weird.” I use my fingers to hold up the corners of my eyes then pooch my lips out to look puffy. “Kind of like this.”
“Hey, maybe you should get your lips injected with collagen, Emily. You might look good in bigger lips.”
“Puh-leez.” I flop back down onto my bed and pick up the July issue of In Style magazine that Leah brought, along with several other fashion rags that she’s addicted to. Her goal, of course, was to show me photos of thin models with tiny boobs in order to convince me that she really needs the reduction surgery. However, I’m not convinced. Because for every flat-chested model she’s shown me, I found one who was stacked. “Probably implants,” she noted. “It’s really unusual for skinny girls to have big boobs.”
“Then you’re just really unusual,” I told her. But to no avail.
“This surgery is important to me,” she says as she studies a glossy ad in Vogue. “I really hoped that you’d be supportive, Emily. Recovery is going to take some time, and it’d be nice to have a good friend to hang with, you know, to come over and comfort me.” She holds up the magazine. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
I shrug. “You know that model probably doesn’t even look like that in person. You know how they touch up the photos and airbrush everything. She’s probably dog ugly in real life.”
“She is not,” insists Leah. “I read an article in People about this girl, and she even let them use an untouched photo just to show what she actually looks like. And she was still really pretty.”
“No zits or bags under her eyes or anything?”
“Not that I saw.”
Now I go over to the mirror to study my own face. I even pooch my lips out again, still thinking about Leah’s suggestion that I get my lips injected. And to my surprise, I think she might be right. I might look good in bigger lips.
“Do you think it hurts very much to get your lips done?”
“I don’t think so. Becca had it done. You could ask her.”
“No, I’m not really serious.”
“Why not?” She looks closely at me now. “I actually think it would look great on you.”
“Well, for one thing, it’s probably really expensive.”
“I thought you were getting rich working at the bookstore.”
“Yeah, right. Like I want to blow my hard-earned summer money on lip injections. How stupid would that be?”
“You might be able to work out payments. That’s what I’m doing for my procedure. Of course, I had to put half of it down. But Aunt Cassie covered it for me. She said it’s an investment in my future. But lips would be cheaper. You could maybe work something out to like fifty bucks a month.”
“Thanks but no thanks. Buying big lips on the installment plan . . . can you imagine how my parents would react if I did something like that? They would totally freak. And they’d never agree to sign for me in the first place.”
“Well, you can do it when you’re eighteen if you want.”
“I think I’ll pass. Besides, the injections would involve needles, right?”
“Yeah, but they probably use anesthesia so it doesn’t hurt.”
“Just the same, I still think I’ll pass. The freaked-out-parent factor is enough to make me want to just say no to plastic surgery. Seriously, they’d probably refuse to pay for my college or something. They’re just not into stuff like that. In fact, I’m sure they’re going to think you’re crazy for having your — ”
“Please, don’t tell them, Emily.” She tosses the magazine aside and gives me this pleading look. “I really do want to keep this top secret. I’m telling everyone that I’m getting my tonsils out next week.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. I don’t want people to make fun of me.”
“Don’t you think people will notice the, uh, difference?”
“Not really. I mean, I wear a bra that pretty much holds them in anyway. I swear if my bra strap ever broke it could probably put an eye out.”
“What about Tanner? You don’t think he’ll notice?”
“No, I don’t.” Leah glares at me. “And it’s not like I’ve let him touch them, Emily. For your information, he’s not even like that. And neither am I. Thanks for asking though.”
“I wasn’t saying that.” I get defensive now. “I just meant he might’ve noticed how they look. I mean, even nice guys have eyes in their head. And you wore a swimsuit at camp. And it didn’t exactly hold you in, if you know what I mean.” I don’t remind her that lots of the guys, including the middle-school boys, were ogling her figure.
“Well, I’ll just deal with that later,” she says. “My plan is to pretend that my tonsillectomy has some complications, like maybe I have an infection or something, and consequently my recovery takes longer.”
“And it doesn’t bother you to lie about this?” Now I’m surprised that I’m saying this, considering that I’ve been a little dishonest about some things myself, including my less-than-traditional weight-loss technique. I even lied to Leah when she started questioning me about it. I don’t know why she was getting suspicious. But I know she’d be upset if she knew the truth.
“Yeah, it does bother me a little. But I think God will forgive me.”
I don’t respond to that, but I’m thinking, Okay, so we go ahead and intentionally sin, knowing that God is loving and kind and that he’ll forgive us anyway. What’s wrong with this picture?
“Okay, enough about me, Em. One of the reasons I brought these magazines over is so we can continue working on our swan project.”
“But I haven’t reached my weight goal yet,” I remind her. “I thought we were waiting for that.”
“You’re so close, Em.” She studies me now. “It’s amazing really. I can’t believe how well you’ve done, and how quickly. But are you really doing it the way I told you to? Are you eating lots of fruits and vegetables and whole grains? Because, I don’t want to offend you, but your skin tone isn’t exactly glowing, you know?”
“Huh?” I go back to the mirror and examine my face again. “What’s wrong with my skin tone?”
“You seem kind of pale to me. Maybe you just need a really good facial,” she suggests. “That’d be a fun thing for us to do while I’m recovering from surgery. That is, if I can talk you into coming to visit me. Will you still be my friend after I get my breast reduction?”
I laugh. “Yeah, Leah. It’s not like I love you for your boobs. Sheesh.”
“Okay, back to you now. We need to work on your image. And you’ve been so busy with work that the swan project got pushed aside. So far, all you’ve done is change your hair and lo
se weight—and believe me that’s fantastic—but we need to work on the whole picture.” She gives a tug to the baggy T-shirt I’m wearing. “Starting with your clothes.”
“I thought I wasn’t going to get any new clothes until I reached my goal.”
“But you look awful going around in stuff that’s either too big or out of style. You’ve dropped, like what, about three sizes?”
“I don’t really know for sure.” I get up and go stand in front of my full-length mirror. “But at least I can wear my Gap shorts now.”
“Yeah, and they look pretty good. The thing is, you wear them all the time. Honestly, the last few times I’ve seen you, you have them on. I’ll bet they’ll be falling apart before long.”
I check out the rear to make sure they’re not too threadbare. “So what’s the plan?”
“We need to go shopping—soon.”
“When?” I look at the alarm clock by my bed. “You’ve got a date with Tanner in a couple hours. And I work all day tomorrow. And then your surgery is on Monday.”
“I guess we’ll have to wait until I recover. But that’s something to look forward to. In the meantime, we can figure out what kind of stuff we should look for. Because we have to get clothes that look really great on you. You have to look totally hot by the time school starts.”
I check out my thighs and frown. Sure, they’ve slimmed down some, but they’re nowhere near as slender as Leah’s. “How many pounds do you think I have to lose to get rid of these thunder thighs?”
She laughs. “Those aren’t thunder thighs, Em. You just have a different shape, that’s all. And different people carry weight differently. Really, I think you’re looking great. Are you still exercising daily?”
“Of course.” I don’t admit that I exercise more than once daily, or that I walk to work or during my lunch break (instead of eating). In fact, I’ve come up with a new rule: Whenever I’m hungry, it’s time to exercise and drink water. Oh, I do eat a few things now and then, but only things with very few calories. And I never binge and purge anymore. I decided that’s too messy and too risky. And going more than two weeks without it convinced me I just didn’t need the hassle.
“Then there might be some things about your body that you’ll just have to accept, Em.”
I turn and look at Miss Perfect. “You mean like the way you’re accepting your bra size right now?”
“Hey, that’s different. I want to be a professional model. This is career related. It could be the difference between really making it or not having a chance. Even Aunt Cassie agrees.”
I wonder what Aunt Cassie would recommend for me. But I don’t think I’ll ever ask. It would probably involve about a million dollars’ worth of surgery. And I’d probably end up looking like that Barbie-doll woman on TV. Eeeuw. Still, I wouldn’t mind getting my lips done—if it wasn’t so expensive and if my parents didn’t know and if it didn’t involve needles.
“Is there any other way to make my lips look bigger?” I ask. “Like something I could do with makeup?”
“Of course, there are lots of tricks. And that’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. We seriously need to work on your makeup. This, uh, natural look you got going isn’t really working for you, Em.”
“Well, I don’t want to look all made-up either.”
She stands next to me in front of the mirror. “Okay, look at me, Em. Do I look all made-up to you?”
“No, you look good—and natural.”
“Well, we can make you look good and natural too. You just have to be willing to learn the tricks, and then you have to take a little time to do them. We need to get you into some routine beyond just lip gloss, mascara, and blush. I mean, don’t get me wrong, that was a great start and a big improvement for you. But there’s a whole world of cosmetics out there.”
“Hey, I thought I was doing pretty good just to get that down.”
“Yes. But you can do better.”
I think about Brett now, and I think about my plan to totally wow him when school starts in September, which is barely more than a month away now. “Yeah, “I tell her.” You’re right. Maybe we can work on that during your recovery too.”
“This is going to be fun, Em. And it’ll help me to pass the time.”
“How long does it take to recover anyway?”
“The doctor said to expect a week of downtime, and then the stitches come out.”
“Stitches?” I make a face.
“Duh. They have to make incisions if they’re going to remove — ”
“Stop, stop!” I hold up my hands. “Too much information.”
“Yeah, yeah. I almost forget what a wimp you are when it comes to medical stuff. Really, it’s no big deal. I plan to be back to normal by the second week.”
“Good.” I want to ask her if there’s any danger, any side effects. But the whole idea of someone slicing into your breasts makes me feel kind of sick right now, and I’m thinking maybe I don’t really want all the gory details. I just hope that I can keep it together enough to visit her during her recovery time.
thirteen
ON MONDAY, I STOP BY LEAH’S HOUSE ON MY WAY HOME FROM WORK. IT takes about an hour to walk there, but I figure that’ll help work off the whole milk that Frieda “accidentally” put in my sugar-free iced mocha during my afternoon break today. I usually have skim, which she is well aware of.
“Uh-oh,” she told me after I’d already consumed most of my drink. “Looks like I blew it on your mocha, Emily.” Frieda works at the coffee bar that’s in the back of the bookstore. And sometimes I think she has it out for me.
“Blew it?” I closed the magazine I’d been perusing and looked up from where I was sitting at the counter minding my own business.
“I used whole milk.” Then she gave me this cheesy smirk.
I frowned at her, wondering if this was really an accident or just plain sabotage.
“Hey, it’s not like it’s going to hurt you, little Miss Skinny Mini.”
Okay, this made me laugh. But I know the only reason Frieda called me by that ridiculous name is simply because she is very obese herself. I’m guessing she weighs like 250 pounds, maybe even more.
“I don’t know why you’re always getting sugar-free mocha anyway. You don’t need to lose weight, Emily.”
“So does that give you the right to sneak extra fat into my mocha? And for all I know, you haven’t been using the sugar-free syrup either.”
“It was just the milk. And, really, it was an accident. I’m sorry.”
I could tell by her expression that she really did feel bad. “It’s okay,” I told her. “No big deal.”
“But, really, Emily. I don’t think you should worry about your weight so much. It’s not healthy.”
“I don’t worry about my weight,” I lied. “I’m just on a diet. I’ve lost almost forty pounds already. And I only started in May.”
“What diet are you on?” She leaned forward, studying me with real interest. “South Beach, Atkins, low-carb, low-fat, what? I mean, I’ve tried most of them. And, well, you can see they didn’t exactly work.”
“It’s not any of those.” I stall, trying to think of an answer.
“What is it then? What’s it called? Do we carry the book for it?”
“No, it’s not that kind of diet. There isn’t a book. I just try to eat less and exercise more, you know. And I try to avoid things that have fat or sugar.”
“Doesn’t that include just about everything edible? Like what do you live on anyway? Lettuce and broccoli and diet pop?”
I didn’t admit that she was just about right. Instead, I lied again. “No, you can eat lots of things on this diet. Things like fresh fruits and vegetables and whole grains. And fish and chicken are okay and stuff like skim milk and low-fat cheese and yogurt. It’s not really that complicated.” As I said this, I told myself that I would start eating just like that—as soon as I reached my goal.
She nodded. “That sounds doable.
”
“Yeah,” I told her. “You really should try it.”
“Maybe I will. Especially since it’s obviously working for you. I’d give anything to look as good as you do.”
It was kind of shocking to hear someone say that about me. I mean, I am usually the one who wants to look like someone else—like Leah or Becca or Lindsay Lohan (even before she lost the weight). Like the tabloids, I used to wonder if Lindsay was anorexic, but I’ve heard that she claims it was a big fat lie. And who am I to not believe her? Anyway, I thanked Frieda and wished her good luck with dieting.
“Maybe we can do it together,” she said suddenly. “I mean, like eat lunch together and encourage each other.”
“Oh, I don’t know . . .”
“I noticed how you always leave for lunch. Is there a place you go to eat that serves the kinds of foods you’re talking about?”
“Actually, I just grab a quick bite that I eat on the run, then spend the rest of my lunch hour walking.”
“You walk for an hour?”
“Yeah. It’s great exercise.”
“But it’s been so hot out. I think it’s supposed to be in the nineties today. Did you walk during lunch today?”
“Yeah.”
“And you didn’t get baked?”
“Maybe a little. But I make sure to drink lots of water. That’s really important to losing weight too.”
“I hate drinking water.”
“Oh.”
“Maybe your diet won’t work for me.”
“Well, maybe there’s one that will, Frieda. Everyone is different, you know.”
A customer was waiting now. “Yeah,” she said in a discouragedsounding voice as she went to take his order. “You got that right.”
As it turns out, Frieda got the temperature right too. I think it really is in the nineties as I walk over to Leah’s house. The pavement is so hot that I can feel it through the soles of my shoes.
“You look hot,” Leah tells me when I join her in their family room. It looks like she’s been camping in here, lots of pillows and magazines and rice cakes and remotes and stuff.
“You mean like hot good? Or hot like I’m sweating like a pig?”
Faded Denim: Color Me Trapped Page 10