Bitter Rose

by Melody Carlson

  I’ve also learned that relationships are really important—and fragile—and if I ever get married (I’m still not too sure I will), I want to be certain that I’m marrying a godly man, the man God wants me to marry. And then I want to do everything possible to respect my marriage and make sure that my marriage succeeds because I never, never want to go through what my parents have been through.

  Mostly, though, what I’ve learned through this whole divorce thing is that I have to take responsibility for myself. I have to look over my own spiritual health, my own emotional well-being. And I can’t blame my bad choices on other people’s mistakes. I have to stand on my own two feet because when I stand before God, he won’t be asking me whether my parents had a good marriage; he’ll be asking me about myself and whether I really believed in him, trusted in him, and lived my life for him. And that’s what I’m trying to do.

  reader’s guide

  1. Why do you think Maggie was so devastated by the news that her parents’ marriage was in trouble? How would you feel in similar circumstances?

  2. If you were Maggie’s friend, what would you have said to her in the early stages of her parents’ breakup to encourage her?

  3. In the beginning, Maggie’s concerns about her parents’ problems seemed self-centered (for example, feeling as though her parents were ruining her life). Why do you think she felt that way?

  4. Were you surprised to discover that Maggie’s dad was having an affair? Why or why not?

  5. When Maggie went to work for Tia Louisa, she became part of the restaurant family. Do you think this was good or bad? Why?

  6. Maggie often seemed caught in the middle of her parents’ battles. How would you handle something like that?

  7. Why do you think Maggie’s mother was so bitter over the breakup of her marriage? Do you think Rosa will ever forgive Roberto? Why or why not?

  8. What did you think of Tia Louisa’s influence on Maggie’s life? How did you feel when she died?

  9. What were some things that Maggie learned about life and relationships as she worked her way through her parents’ divorce?

  10. Where did Maggie find strength to get through the trying times of her family’s breakup? Where do you find your own strength for your own tough times?

  TrueColors Book 9:

  Faded Denim

  Coming in July 2006

  God, why am I so ugly? Why am I so boring and blah and mousy-looking? Why? Why? Why?

  One

  MY BEST FRIEND IS SO SKINNY. I HATE HER. NO, NOT REALLY. I LOVE HER. No, I hate her. The truth is, I think I hate myself. And I hate feeling like this, like I am fat and ugly and a total loser with a capital L. It makes me sick.

  But here’s what really makes me just scratch my head and go huh? When did all this happen? When did I fall asleep and get abducted by the body switchers who did some mean sci-fi number on me, transforming me into this … this repulsive blob girl? I mean, I didn’t used to be like this. Back in middle school, I was super thin. Okay, maybe I was just average thin, but my best friend, Leah, was, hmmm, shall we say, somewhat pudgy, slightly overweight, a bit obese, downright chubby?

  This is the deal: When I was about thirteen, I reached my present height, which is about five foot seven (that is, if I stand extremely straight and stretch my neck until I hear my spinal column popping). Meanwhile, my friend Leah was about four inches shorter than me, and she weighed about twenty pounds more than me. She was a regular little roly-poly back then, but in the past couple of years she got really tall, and now she’s like five foot ten or maybe more and skinny as a stick—so sickeningly skinny that clothes look absolutely fantastic on her. And it just makes me wanna pull my hair out and scream! Or just hide.

  Okay, to be fair (to me), I wouldn’t feel so miserable about all this if Leah weren’t so obsessed with weight and diet and exercise and health that it’s begun to feel like she’s constantly throwing the whole thing in my face. She says stuff like, “Emily, are you sure you want to eat that Snickers bar, since it has like five hundred calories that will probably end up right on your thighs?” And when she says things like that, it not only makes me want to pig out on the Snickers bar but go grab a giant bag of Cheetos as well. Like supersize me, please!

  But that’s not the only problem. I mean, since she got all tall and thin (and did I mention gorgeous?), she’s also gotten into fashion and beauty tricks and the latest, according to her, styles. She studies all the fashion rags, which, of course, feature these tall, bony, weird-looking models who really do look a bit like aliens, if you ask me—probably a product of the body switchers. Leah has recently decided she actually wants to become one of them. At first I thought she was kidding.

  “You seriously would want to put yourself in that position?” I asked her, incredulous. “I mean, you want perfect strangers gaping at your body while you strut around in some weird outfit, possibly with no underwear on?”

  “I think it’d be cool.” And the mind-boggling part is that she really believes she could make it as a fashion runway model. They, according to her, are the ones who make megabucks, although I’ve also heard that lots of them wind up strung out on drugs and are generally messed up by the time they’re twenty.

  “That doesn’t happen to everyone,” she told me after I mentioned my concerns. “Those are just the girls who make the news and the tabloids and then everyone assumes it’s the whole fashion industry that’s at fault. And that’s not fair.”

  Of course, it doesn’t help matters that her aunt is a well-established fashion photographer in New York City or that she actually thinks Leah may “have what it takes.” I’m sure that aunts are a lot like moms and most likely are easily duped into thinking their kids “have what it takes” to do just about anything. Yeah, right.

  “Okay, what does it take?” I asked Leah several weeks ago. (This was shortly after she convinced me to go on this stupid cabbage-soup diet that was guaranteed to take off a few pounds but in reality nearly killed me. I ended up in the john for like an entire afternoon. What a fun diet!)

  “What does it take to be a runway model?” She pressed her full lips together as she considered my question. “Well, it obviously takes some height, and you have to be pretty thin … and you need good bone structure, even features … and then, of course, you have to have that special something.”

  “Special something,” I said hopefully. Now, I may not look like a runway model, but I am good at making friends and making them laugh. Some people think that’s pretty special. Naturally, I don’t say this.

  “Yeah, kind of like personality, only more than that—it has to be something that cameras can catch, especially if you’re going the print route. Otherwise you need that something extra that shows from the runway—an attitude, you know. You gotta be able to strut your stuff and make people want what you have.”

  “Right.” I nodded as if I understood, but more and more it feels like Leah is speaking a foreign language and I am struggling just to keep up.

  “I get to see my portfolio shots on Friday afternoon,” she told me a few days ago. “Want to go with me to pick out the ones I’ll use?”

  “Sure,” I offered, having absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into.

  So here we are at this fancy-schmancy modeling agency, where all the girls are tall, thin, and fabulous, and I feel like a creature from another planet—the planet where the body switchers dwell. Uranus, perhaps.

  “Ooh,” gushes Becca (a Scandinavian-looking blonde). She seems to know Leah and has just joined us to look at the photos. “That’s totally scrumptious, Leah.” Becca is pointing a perfectly sculpted nail to a shot of Leah, which in my opinion is exposing way too much cleavage, but naturally I don’t mention this. I just stand there where these glossy photos are spread all over the counter and try to keep up.

  Mostly I wish I could blend in with the aluminum-looking wallpapered walls, which in reality must make me stand out even more in my “fat” jeans (okay, I was bloate
d today), and I also have on this old hoodie sweatshirt that is baggy enough to cover a multitude of sins, although I’m sure it simply makes me look like a cow. I try to shrink away from these two girls, seriously wishing I could just vanish.

  “Is there, uh, a restroom around?” I ask meekly.

  “Yeah,” Leah jerks her thumb to the left. “Down that hallway, on the right.”

  And then I slink away, feeling dumpy and dowdy and just plain pathetic. I consider leaving this plastic place and going home, except that Leah is the one who drove us here, and I can’t exactly steal her car, although I do know where her spare key is hidden in its little magnetic box under the right fender. But instead of committing grand larceny, I just go into the bathroom and spend enough time in the john to make someone think I have a serious bowel disorder. In reality, I sit and read a fashion magazine that someone left on the counter. Okay, call me a glutton for punishment.

  When I finally glance at my watch, I see it’s nearly five o’clock, and I’m hopeful that this place will be closing soon. Then I can walk out of the bathroom, we can go home, and I can forget all about this. I emerge from the john and take an inordinate amount of time washing my hands, the whole while staring at my pitifully disappointing reflection.

  This is what I would call very unforgiving light—a garishly bright strip right above the enormous mirror. I’m sure it’s there so that models can come in here and carefully examine themselves to detect if there are any possible flaws (like they have any), and then I’m sure they do their best to address these minor blips before their next big photo shoot. But as I stand here gaping at my lack-luster reflection, my dull brown hair (which needs washing), and my boring brown eyes, I suddenly notice that a new zit is about to erupt on my chin. I want to cry.

  “God, why am I so ugly?” I actually mutter out loud, quickly glancing over my shoulder toward the three stalls to see if any feet (which would be adorned in the coolest footwear, I’m certain) are present. Thank goodness there are not.

  Even so, I continue my line of questioning silently. (I really was addressing God, not just taking his name in vain.) I ask my Maker what he could’ve been thinking when he made a loser like me.

  Why do I look like this? Why is my nose so long? Why am I short and fat? Why is my hair plain and brown? Maybe I should consider highlighting it, as Leah has suggested. Why am I so boring and blah and mousy-looking? Why? Why? Why?

  “Hey, Emily,” says Leah as she comes in with a big black folder, which I assume is her portfolio. “I’ve been looking for you. Are you okay?”

  I blink back what threaten to become real tears and force a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. What’s up?”

  “Becca helped me to pick out the photos, but you were in here so long I was worried that you might be sick or something—like maybe you’ve been eating that cabbage soup again.” She chuckled. “Really, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I say again, knowing it’s a big fat lie. Then I point to her portfolio. “So are they really great? Going to launch your big career in New York?”

  She laughs. “Not quite, but it’s a start. LaMar says that he might have a job for me next weekend.” She smirks. “Okay, it’s only a Mother’s Day fashion show, but hey, it’s better than nothing, right?”

  I nod. “Right. That’s great, Leah. Congratulations!”

  And as she drives me home, she gushes about how cool the agency is, and then she changes gears and starts telling me about this new cream that Becca was just telling her about that’s supposed to make your thighs thinner.

  “Hey, maybe you should try it,” she says suddenly, turning and looking at me as if I should become some kind of science experiment for her and her new model pals.

  “Try what?” I say, pretending that I wasn’t really listening. I had been partially daydreaming anyway, or maybe I just want to appear slightly brain-dead when it comes to all her mind-numbing beauty talk.

  “That thigh cream.” She goes on to tell me what it’s called and how you have to get it online and on and on and on.

  I am so thankful when she gets to my house. “Thanks,” I tell her, wondering what exactly I’m thanking her for: the ride or the torture?

  “Oh, yeah,” she says suddenly, “I almost forgot to tell you something.” Now she has this mysterious expression on her face, like she’s got some big secret. Despite my wanting to escape her, I am pulled in.

  “What?”

  “In all the excitement of getting my photos, I almost forgot to tell you about Brett McEwen.”

  “What about Brett McEwen?”

  “He asked me to prom!” She shrieks loudly enough that everyone in my neighborhood can probably hear her.

  “No way!” The truth is, this really is shocking news. I mean, Brett McEwen is a pretty cool guy. And not only is he cool, he’s fairly nice too. But he’s never really given Leah (or me) a second look before. I mean, sure, he says hey to us and even chats with us now and then (which I assume he feels compelled to do, since we all go to the same youth group). But asking Leah to prom … well, this is mind-blowing.

  She nods, grinning and exposing her perfectly straight teeth, which she got whitened right after the braces came off last fall. “Way!”

  “Wow.” I just shake my head in amazement.

  “I am so totally jazzed. I can hardly believe it.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine.” And the sad thing is that I can imagine. I mean, I’ve imagined myself going out—not to prom but just someplace ordinary—with Brett McEwen. He’s been my secret (like really, really secret—even Leah doesn’t know) crush since freshman year.

  “At first I actually thought he was kidding me,” she’s telling me now. “I was like, ‘Okay, Brett, don’t be stringing me along here. I know that you can’t be serious.’”

  “But he was?”

  “Yes! He said that he’d been thinking about asking me out for a few months now but that he couldn’t get up the nerve.” She shrieks again. “The nerve! Can you believe that? Like he was intimidated by me?”

  “Well, you are trying to become a supermodel, Leah. Maybe the word’s getting around.”

  She laughs loudly. “Yeah, right. Last year’s nerd girl finally thinks she’s got it together.”

  “You weren’t exactly last year’s nerd girl,” I protest.

  “No, just brace-faced, kinky-haired, gangly, big-footed Leah Clark. Not exactly Jessica Simpson, if you know what I mean.”

  “Well, the ugly ducking has turned into a swan,” I say, trying to sound more positive than I feel.

  Her smile grows even bigger. “Sometimes I can’t even believe it myself, Emily. It’s like I look in the mirror and have to pinch myself.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Not that I’m perfect,” she continues as I lean half-in and half-out of her Honda. My back is starting to ache from this frozen position. “I mean, especially after looking at some of those photos today.” She makes a face. “Some of them were really awful, but like Becca said, it’s a good way to see the things that need to be addressed.”

  “Addressed?”

  “Yeah.” She nods with enthusiasm. “You know, like with the right makeup or airbrushing and maybe even a little surgery. A little nip and tuck.”

  “Like, I’m sure, Leah. Why on earth would you ever consider surgery?”

  “Hey, I’m thinking about it. But I have to talk to Aunt Cassie first.”

  “What could you possibly need surgery for?” I ask.

  “A breast reduction. Duh.”

  I blink and then look at her chest. “But why?”

  “Because they’re too big, silly.”

  “They’re not that big, Leah. What are you? Like a B cup?”

  She laughs. “I wish. No, I’m actually a C. Can you believe it? I mean, like just last year I could barely fit into a double A. And it’s not like I’ve put on any weight either. In fact, I weigh less now than I did as a sophomore. Grandma Morris says it’s genetics, from her side of the family
. I guess my mom had them too—not that I can remember.” Leah sighs.

  Her mom died when she was six. I can barely remember her myself, but I can’t help but wonder what her mother would think of the idea of her daughter wanting to get breast-reduction surgery when she’s only seventeen. I know my mom would totally freak, but then, she didn’t even want me to get my ears pierced. Fortunately, I talked her into it, but not until I turned sixteen. Talk about old-fashioned!

  “Well, tell me what your aunt says,” I say, standing up now. “And if you want my opinion, I say don’t do it.”

  She laughs. “Yeah, big surprise there, Em.”

  “Seriously,” I tell her. “I’ve seen models who’ve gotten implants just so that they can be as big as you. Why would you want to go the other direction? I mean, you look great, Leah.” Then I laugh. “If you don’t believe me, maybe you should ask Brett McEwen. I’m sure he’d have an opinion.”

  Now she gets a serious look. “Do not tell anyone about this conversation,” she warns me. “Besides, if I do it, it won’t be until summer, and I don’t want anyone to know, okay?”

  I dramatically press a forefinger to my lips. “Mum’s the word.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But, just for the record, Leah, I think your boobs are perfectly fine!” Then I slam the door and head up to my house. Breast-reduction surgery! Get real.

  And okay, as I open the front door, I am starting to feel angry—really, really angry. I’m not sure whether I’m angry at Leah for being so skinny and gorgeous and having a prom date with Brett, or just angry at myself for not. Or maybe I’m angry at God for making me like this in the first place. But as I stomp up the stairs to my room, I seriously feel like breaking something!

  about the author

  MELODY CARLSON has written dozens of books for all age groups, but she particularly enjoys writing for teens. Perhaps this is because her own teen years remain so vivid in her memory. After claiming to be an atheist at the ripe old age of twelve, she later surrendered her heart to Jesus and has been following him ever since. Her hope and prayer for all of her readers is that each one would be touched by God in a special way through her stories. For more information, please visit Melody’s website at www.melodycarlson.com.