by Donna Cooner
“I’ll be next door trying on these skinny jeans. But I want to see these on you. Come on, Briella.” I don’t hear my stepsister’s response.
I’m left staring at the stack of clothes on the chair. What do I do? I can’t go out wearing any of this stuff. It’s from the regular-size section. I can’t possibly fit into any of these clothes. I pick up the first shirt off the top of the pile. It’s a baby-doll style. Tiny pink flowers. XL. Not very fitted. Maybe I should just try it. I pull my old faded T-shirt off the top of my head and pull the top on. Surprisingly, it goes over my stomach and down my hips without stopping. I’ve been avoiding the mirror in the room. I always avoid the mirrors. But I’m going to have to look. Slowly, slowly, I turn and raise my eyes to the mirror. The girl staring back at me looks surprised. The shirt looks okay. Better than okay. It looks good. I jump up and down. The girl in the mirror jumps up and down. I put my two pinkie fingers in my mouth and pull my lips to the sides in a big crazy face. The girl in the mirror does the same. Oh my God. She’s me. The girl in the mirror gives me a weird look. Last May, she would have never been able to wear this shirt. But it’s almost August now and things have changed. She has . . . I have . . . changed. I hold my arms out and twirl around once, almost losing my balance when I hit the chair in the dressing room. The shirt floats around my body and lands in a smooth curtain of tiny flowers around my hips. The door pulls open without warning, and I jump. It’s Whitney.
“Let’s see.” She scrutinizes me for a second. “Yeah, that one’s okay. Try on the jeans with it. Might work. They’re sixteens, but they have some stretch in them. I think they’ll fit.”
She stands there like she’s going to watch me or something.
“Shut the door,” I say.
“Okay. But promise me you’ll come out when you put the jeans on.”
“If they fit.” How could they? I pull the jeans on. They are tight, but they zip. I can’t believe it. I’m wearing jeans. From the regular-size department.
“I’m a regular size,” I whisper. I can’t stop smiling and smiling and smiling at the me in the mirror.
“Are you coming out?”
I open the door and come out slowly.
“Wow,” Briella says, her mouth hanging open, her hands full of hangers and clothes.
“Now we can really tell how much weight you’ve lost,” says Whitney. “I told you they would fit. I’m good at this stuff.”
And surprisingly, she is. I try on several more tops, and they all fit. Then Whitney helps me pick which two are the best.
“This is only the beginning,” she assures me. “You don’t want to have every thing from one place.”
I’ve never had choices before. I buy the jeans, too, and they are all wrapped up and put into a bag with little string handles.
Whitney insists on accessorizing the outfits with earrings and a chunky necklace. A couple of bras, a pair of cute platform sandals, and three small packages later, I find myself sitting in a tall chair before the Stila makeup counter.
“What’s up, Whitney?” the girl with the heavy black eyeliner asks. “What are we doing with your friend here?”
Neither one of them asks me. I guess it’s pretty obvious I don’t know what I need.
“I’m thinking like a total makeover. Natural, but definitely needs the works.”
Whitney and the girl both stare at me.
“You’ve never worn makeup before?” the girl asks.
“Not really.” Most of my experience with makeup has involved Halloween, and I didn’t think the Stila girl would be impressed by my use of eyeliner for my Batgirl costume in the fifth grade.
“So we’ll start with the basics.” She talks to me and applies various creams, powders, and potions. I nod and try to remember it all. Briella and Whitney hover at first, but then wander off to other perfume and makeup counters, leaving me alone with Eyeliner Girl.
“You have great green eyes. Let’s try to really make them pop with this deep violet shadow.”
I nod like I know what she’s talking about, but then when she finally turns me toward the mirror, I see exactly what she means. My eyes look huge.
“Now just a little blush. You need one with rounded bristles like this.” She holds a fluffy brush up in front of my face and I nod. “Start at your forehead where the sun naturally grazes your face. Circle down around your temples and along your cheekbones. Blend into the apples of your cheeks. See?”
Who knew I had dimples when I smiled? And my face, with those newly defined cheekbones, looks . . . almost good. I blink and the eyes in the mirror blink back at me.
“She’ll take it all.” Whitney is back by my side and sharing the reflection in the mirror with me. “Give her the credit card,” she says to me.
Eyeliner Girl puts every thing into a bag for me. “You really look amazing,” she says. “If you have any questions, I’m here every Saturday.”
“Time for lunch,” Whitney announces, as we leave the makeup counter and head out into the mall. “I’m starved.”
We wait in line at California Pizza Kitchen with lots of tired-looking moms and screaming kids. My arms are full of bags from the shopping trip. Clothes, makeup, jewelry, and shoes. I’m afraid of what Dad will say when he sees his credit card statement. Whitney has very expensive tastes. I figure I’ll just remind him of the years and years of shopping I’ve saved him.
I glance up at the restaurant window. There are three girls reflected there. I recognize Whitney and Briella. But who is the third? She has her arms full of colorful sacks and bags — Nordstrom, H&M, Urban Outfitters, Gap. I know it’s me, but the girl in the reflection doesn’t look like me. I move the bags in my arms up and down. The reflection does the same. It is me. I know it in my head, but the reflection lies. It has to, because the girl in the window is not that fat. She’s not skinny, or anything like that, but she’s not terrible looking. She has a smile on her face and, if I saw her walking around the mall, I wouldn’t feel sorry for her.
“Wait. Look how much fatter you are than the two of them. You’re the charity case here, and don’t ever forget it.” Skinny is right. I look at the reflection closer. I am fatter than Briella and Whitney. Of course I am.
The hostess starts to seat us. I’m worried when she leads us toward the booths. I won’t fit. I can’t tell them that I need a table, not a booth. Briella slides in one side and Whitney follows, taking the menus and chatting the whole time. I can’t hear them. I’m focused on the space in between the table and the seat. It’s too small. I stand there awkwardly.
“Sit down, Ever,” Briella says impatiently. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say. I sit gingerly on the bench and push myself into my side of the booth, taking a deep breath. There is room to spare between me and the table. Just a small space left over, but it’s there. I fit. I can’t celebrate too much, though, because the waitress is here to hand me a menu, and I realize I have an even bigger problem in front of me. What can I eat?
Briella is texting. Whitney is talking. I stare at the menu. All these choices.
“Did you see that Marc Jacobs top? It would look amazing on me,” Whitney says.
“Wolfgang just texted me,” Briella squeals.
“What did he say?”
Briella hands over her phone, and Whitney reads.
“You don’t exist,” Skinny reminds me.
I have bigger problems at the moment. The waitress is back, and it’s time to order. Whitney and Briella decide to share a pizza, then it’s my turn. I order a chopped chicken salad. It seems like the best choice. The food comes. Briella and Whitney dive into the pizza. I take a tiny bite of lettuce and chew like crazy.
“Your eye shadow looks great.” Whitney focuses on me between bites. Briella texts Wolf back about meeting up with him later at the movies.
“Thanks,” I say. I take a bite of chicken, smiling. We could be friends.
“Don’t kid yourself, fatty.”
The chi
cken stops halfway down my throat. My chest aches with the pressure. I didn’t chew it long enough. It’s going to come back up.
“I’m thinking that bracelet from Forever 21 would be perfect with that top. What do you think?” I realize suddenly that Whitney’s talking to me, not Briella. She’s actually asking my opinion. I take a sip of water and nod. The bite of chicken doesn’t budge. It feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest. The pressure is painful. I’m afraid I’m going to spew it out across the table.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say. Whitney is still talking when I leave the table, but all I can think about is getting to the toilet before I hurl. I try not to run. A mom with a toddler is in front of the sink when I push open the door. Luckily, one of the stalls is empty. I barely shut the door before I’m coughing over the toilet. The piece of chicken comes up. Instantly, I feel better.
“Are you all right?” The woman at the sink looks concerned as I step out of the stall.
“I’m fine.” I rinse my mouth out at the sink. I don’t want to explain. She shakes her head and leaves.
Back at the table, I stare down at the chicken salad. It looks delicious, but I can’t have another bite. I know it won’t go down, and I don’t want to answer the questions I’ll get if I run back to the bathroom again.
The waitress returns, looking down at the barely touched salad with a frown. “Is something wrong with your lunch? You don’t like it?”
“It’s fine,” I say.
Briella takes the last bite of the deep-dish pizza and says, “She can’t eat that much.”
The waitress looks surprised.
“She’s shocked. Look at you. Nobody your size eats that little.”
“Do you want a box or something?”
I can’t eat it now or later. “No,” I say and watch sadly as she takes it away. I’m so hungry.
“So are we meeting Wolf later?” Whitney asks, and Briella nods excitedly. They talk about what they’re going to wear. Neither of them asks me to go with them, but I didn’t expect it. We split the bill. A waste of money. I scoop up all the bags and follow Whitney and Briella out of the restaurant, noticing the chewing, the smells, and the food every where I turn. I’m starving in plain sight, and no one has a clue except maybe the woman in the bathroom who thinks I have an eating disorder. I do. A surgically induced one.
“You’ll always be an outsider. Fat and hungry. How does that makeover feel now, stupid?”
On the way home I tune out the noise in the front seat, staring out the side window but not really seeing anything. I feel confused. The shopping felt good. Lunch was horrible. How can I balance the two? Everything revolves around food. Even shopping. I have to admit buying the clothes in the bags next to me gave me a satisfied feeling. It was almost as good as handfuls of M&M’s. Almost.
That night, I sit in the middle of the bed with all my new purchases spread out around me, surprised by the strange feelings of excitement at the thought of new starts and a new year.
For the first time, I really think about going back to school. I wonder if Gigi will have a new hair color and if Chance will notice my weight loss.
Scattered brushes, eye shadows, and liners have taken new spots on the top of my dresser. And in the midst of all this craziness sits something even more alien — even more intimidating — a long-fought enemy known to inspire dread and despair. A newly purchased handheld mirror.
I peek into it quickly, then stare at the blank line of my weight-loss chart for this week. It’s like a big blinking cursor on a computer screen — waiting, waiting, waiting — for me to fill it in. I finally slide off the bed and walk over to pick up a red marker off my desk. In the musical West Side Story, there’s a song that Maria, the main character, sings in front of the mirror before she goes to the big dance. I write the title of the song on the chart under the column for my playlist and immediately want to scratch it out again. I make myself step away from the chart, leaving the printed words behind.
Chapter Twelve
It’s the first day of school. When I enter first-period history, I only glance up long enough to get my bearings. That’s surprisingly difficult in this particular classroom. Mr. Landmann, my new history teacher, is also very active in the Huntsville Community Theater and is a requested favorite with students. He somehow combines his two passions, history and theater, in his classroom and it’s crammed full of every kind of historical theatrical prop imaginable. I push down the aisle between a gold spray-painted Henry VIII throne and a life-sized cutout of Magellan. I’m looking for a seat in the back as usual. Not trying to draw attention to myself. Some of the seats are already full. People are talking and chatting. New clothes. New haircuts. New hopes for new starts. One girl playfully shoves a boy. I dodge. I make it to an empty desk in the back corner. One wall behind me. One wall beside me. It feels comfortable. Protected.
The tension from a sleepless night full of first-day-back-at-school nightmares begins to ease up a bit. I pull the desktop up and snap it into place. There’s space between my stomach and the desk. I fit. Mr. Landmann is calling roll, and I almost miss my name. I fit.
“Here,” I say. I scoot around in the desk. There is room to move. To breathe. I stare at my bare forearms on the desk. It’s like someone put the wrong arms on my body. Overnight. They don’t look like me. Arms that don’t look huge and puffy. They just look like arms. Whose arms are these? My eyes fill with tears, and I feel really stupid for reacting like this. It’s just a desk. Everyone else can sit in the desks, too. Why not me?
The bell rings and Mr. Landmann begins lecturing on Tudor England, waving a large papier-mâché sword around wildly. It’s one way to keep teenagers’ attention first thing in the morning. He climbs on top of his desk, wielding the sword, and accidently knocks a stuffed owl off his bookshelf. The now flying owl wakes up the boys who are sitting in the replica of the Santa Maria when it bounces off the mast and lands in their laps. The lecture comes to an abrupt halt while Mr. Landmann recovers the owl, and I hear a voice beside me.
“Ever, right?” I look over at Wolfgang. He’s wearing a camouflage baseball hat that reads, Don’t Mess with Texas.
“Yes,” I say. I can’t remember him actually speaking to me before.
“You look different. Did you get your hair cut or something?”
Right. I got a seventy-two-pound haircut. “Or something,” I say.
“It’s not like you look all that different than before. People can’t even tell you lost weight.”
I spend most of history looking at my arms. I move them slightly back and forth on my desk and watch them respond to my thoughts. I flex my fingers. They really are my arms. I glance up at one point and see Jackson looking at me. I look back down, wait a few minutes, and then look back up again. I do this three more times. He’s always looking at me.
The first two times, he glances away quickly when I meet his eyes. But by the fourth time, he keeps looking at me. Maybe my hair is messed up or something, I think. I smooth the right side of my hair down and tuck it behind my ear. There. He still doesn’t look away. Instead, he smiles. I wonder if he means it for someone else, but there’s nothing behind me but a wall. I’m supposed to be invisible when I’m just sitting still like this, so what’s happening?
I smile back, feeling fizzy bubbles of excitement start to explode in my tiny new stomach. Sudden heat causes my face to flush. It’s working. Jackson’s looking at me. Noticing me.
First period is over. I collect my notebook and stuff it into my backpack while the front of the class hits the hallway. I’m in no hurry. My next class is just down the hall. English. I’m the last person out the door. The hall is crowded. I keep to one side, with my head down, glancing up only when I need to avoid a direct collision. A boy with a red baseball hat bumps into me.
“Sorry,” I say, even though it’s his fault.
“Hey, Ever.” I look up to find Whitney and Kristen standing in front of me. Whitney’s actually speaking t
o me. At school. “You look fantastic.”
I stand there silent and awkward. I’m not used to compliments.
“Or maybe I should say I made you look fantastic.” She punches Kristen on the shoulder, setting all her natural curls bobbing wildly, and says, “I told you. It’s my best work yet.”
“Ummm . . . thanks,” I say. “It’s definitely all about you, Whitney.”
Oblivious to sarcasm, she nods in enthusiastic agreement.
“I like the DKNY jacket with the jeans. Good touch,” Kristen says. They are talking about me as though I’m not here. “And the earrings elongate her face.”
“Urban Outfitters,” Whitney responds. “I thought they’d go well with that Michael Kors top.”
“You were so right.”
“I would have suggested boots with it. But her calves just aren’t quite ready yet.”
“Umm . . .” Kristen looks toward my feet and nods appreciatively. “No, she needs the long lines. Boot cut was a good choice, though.”
“I thought so.” Whitney leans forward to pick up a handful of my long dark hair. “I’m thinking this will be next. Maybe some bangs? Or layers.”
“Highlights at the very least.”
Briella walks up to catch the end of the conversation, but when she sees me, her smile freezes on her face.
“Are we going or not?” she asks her friends. “I don’t want to be late for history. Mr. Watson will make you pay the whole rest of the semester if you’re late.”
“In a minute.” Whitney waves her off. “I’m showing Kristen my fantastic work on your sister.”
“It’s pretty amazing,” says Kristen.
“Yeah. Fantastic,” Briella says. “Now can we go?”
“Excuse me?” Whitney stares at her like she’s lost her mind.
“Since when have you ever been eager to get to class?”
“I just saw Matt in first period. He said he and Wolf are going to Jilly’s after school today. We’re going to be there, right?” Briella asks.