My stomach rumbled as I looked at everyone's food. I could have eaten all three of their lunches and still have been hungry, but the truth is I can't stand eating in the cafeteria with everyone watching me. If people are going to look at me, I'd rather eat too little than too much.
I took a bite of carrot stick and sprinkled salt on my hard-boiled eggs. I thought about everything I would eat later, when no one was around.
Georgie started talking about soap operas, as usual. She is borderline obsessed with soap operas. I mean, she will not miss two of them, which she secretly tapes during the day so she can watch them at night when her crazy mother is asleep. Nola and I are casual watchers, meaning we know all the characters, but we will not go into cardiac arrest if we miss an episode.
Paula wasn't even pretending to follow our conversation. Her eyes kept wandering over to the center table. Ashley's table. You could tell Paula wished she was sitting there more than anything.
Lotsa luck, toots. Basically if you're not on the field hockey team, and you don't have long shiny hair and a toothpaste smile and perfectly broken-in size zero jeans, you can forget it.
At the center table Ashley Barnum was busy smiling and tossing her hair while talking to Heather Jellerette. Eli Bronstein, the cutest guy in Our grade, came up behind her, pretending to dump ginger ale on her head. Ashley squealed so loud, everyone in the room turned around. "No, Eli! Don't!" Finally Eli picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder, sack o' potatoes style, while she whacked him on the butt with a lunch tray. Everyone at the table started clapping and cheering. Eli lowered Ashley into a chair. She sat up smiling, with pink cheeks and flyaway hair. "Eli!"
"God," said Paula. "Could they he any louder?" She was trying to act annoyed, but you could tell she was thinking, Okay, here's the plan: I'm going to grow' out my bangs and buy some cooler jeans, and then maybe .. .
Nola just smiled and took a sip of chocolate milk. "They are kinda loud. You'll get used to it though."
Nola doesn't care about things like who's sitting at which table. Neither does Georgie.
I guess that's the difference between us.
WHEN I GOT HOME FROM SCHOOL mymotherwas on the phone with my Aunt Wee:y. They're twins, but you wouldn't know it from looking at them. Sure, they have the same curly black hair and blue eyes, but Wee:y wears makeup and clothes from Ann Taylor. She goes to kickboxing and gets her nails done. My mother looks like she just rolled out of bed and put on the first thing she could find, usually sweatpants.
It didn't used to he that way. Mom used to dress Col, with nice black slacks and funky jewelry. Not any more though. These days she doesn't even care it she matches.
Right now, she is spread-eagle on the kitchen floor, a ratty old skirt hunched up around her waist, flashing her panties to the world. On the linoleum between her legs sits a saucepan of boiled potatoes ready to he mashed. She is holding one of the potatoes in the sane hand that is holding the phone and is actually nibbling at it while she chats. Some dignity, please!
Mom and Aunt Weezy talk at least twice it day. I call that ridiculous. Mom calls it a twin thing. Umbilical cord, phone cord. I'm glad Weezy lives an hour away from us, or she'd probably he over here twice a day too.
"How's Nini?" Mom was saying, scratching her thigh with the potato masher. She looked up and saw me in the doorway, waved.
I waved back.
"Really?" Mom said. "Awww.... How did you find out? ... Uh-huh.... She came to you first? ..."
My mother covered the receiver with one hand and whispered to me that Nini got her period! Yesterday!
Whoop-dee-doo. I've had my period since I was eleven. It's supposed to he this big deal, like you're all of a sudden a woman the minute it happens. And now, if you wanted to, you could get pregnant. Oooooo. Trust me, when you get it, it's not all that magical. lieu don't feel more grown-up or anything. Just crampy. And fat.
Anyway, I don't know why my mother xN ould get herself so worked up over Nini. I mean, who cares.'
My cousin Janine Barrett may be my age, but she is my polar opposite in every way. First of all, she is four-foot-sixpractically a dwarf. And she's a gymnast, which means she competes all over the country and weighs about seventy five pounds, leotard included. She thinks anything over eighty pounds is fat.
"Is Nini home yet!" my mother said. "I want to talk to her. I want to say congratulations."
I grabbed a few grapes from the hunch on the kitchen table and ran upstairs before my mother could make me get on the phone with Nini and congratulate her.
The last time I saw Nini, which was Thanksgiving, she made a comment I will never, ever forget. We were up in my room getting ready for bed, and we were standing in front of the mirror brushing our hair. I remember because it was the first time I'd ever seen Nini wearing a bra. She still didn't look like she needed one, but there it was. It had a little yellow butterfly in the center.
We were standing around in our underwear like we'd done a million times before, since we were two years old. No big deal. And then, she said it. "Wow, Isabelle. You're getting big."
"What?" I said. I wasn't sure I'd heard her right.
Nini kept right on brushing her hair. "What size are you now, anyway.'"
I crossed my arms over my chest. "I don't know. My moI11 buys my bras."
"Not your hooks, dummy. I mean, what size are you?"
I opened my mouth to say none of your business, but no words came out.
Nini put her brush down on the bureau and turned to face me. "What do you weigh now, Belly? Like one-ten.'"
I grabbed the closest thing to me, which was Nini's sleeping hag, and wrapped it around my body. I bit my lip hard, so I wouldn't cry.
True story. See why I'm not planning on talking to her anytime soon?
Upstairs, I lay down on Mom's bed and listened in on the phone conversation. This is not as hard as you would think. All you have to do is pick up the receiver really carefully and try not to make any sudden movements. Also, you should cover the mouthpiece with your hand in case you feel the urge to sneeze.
"You're not getting any younger, Beth," I could hear Aunt Weezy saying. "I hate to break it to you, but the big four-five is just around the corner."
My mother said, "For you too."
"True," Weezy said. "But, well ... have you thought about kicking up your heels a little? Getting your hair foiled, maybe? Something?"
My mother snorted.
"Well?" said Weezy.
My mother said, "No, I haven't thought about it." And then she turned things around. "Have you thought about getting your hair foiled?"
Aunt Weezy didn't answer.
"Well?"
"Honey," my aunt said quietly.
"What?" said my mom.
There was a pause.
"What, Louise? Just say it."
"Bethy," Weezy said, her voice soft. "Won't you even think about starting to date again?"
I could feel my stomach contract, squeezing in on itself.
"Beth?"
My mother wasn't saying a thing, but I wanted to scream into the phone NO!!! She won't think about starting to date again!
"I know this is hard for you to hear," Weezy continued. "I know it's painful. But, honey, there comes a time when you have to ... you know ... life does go on."
"Louise," Mom said. She took a breath. "I'm fine. We're all ... fine. Life is going on, in its way."
"Okay," said Weezy.
"Can you understand.'"
"Yes. But this conversation is always ... I mean, nothing is really ... well ... Bethy, it's been two years."
I wanted to scream into the phone, One year and eight months, you idiot!
When my mother spoke, her voice sounded like gravel. "What is it that you want me to do, exactly?"
"I don't know," said my aunt. "I don't know, honey. I'm sorry. I just ... I hate seeing you so ..."
"I'm fine. Really. We're all fine." In case you haven't noticed, fine is my mother's favorite word
. I'm fine, we're fine, everything's fine.
"I know," Weezy said. "I know that."
"Okay'"
My aunt sighed. "Okay," she said. But you could tell she didn't mean it. She just had enough sense not to keep going.
I waited awhile before going downstairs. When I got there Mom was still lying on the kitchen floor, eyes closed, skirt hunched up. She and the potatoes hadn't moved in an hour.
I stood in the doorway watching her. I tried to imagine my mother on a date, sitting in a dark movie theater somewhere, wearing one of Aunt Weezy's Ann Taylor outfits. A purple sweater set maybe, with pearls. Next to her, some older guy in a blazer, gray hair gelled back into a helmet, one arm circling her shoulders. Next to him, on the other side, was me. Punching him in the face.
I cleared my throat, loud. "What's for dinner?"
Mom opened her eyes, which were red. "Oh, honey. Hi. I didn't see you there." She got up to walk the potato pan over to the counter. Her skirt was tucked into her underwear, and it looked so ridiculous I wanted to scream.
"If you think I'm eating your crotch potatoes," I said, "you're crazy."
Mom turned around. "Excuse me?"
"If you're going to make mashed potatoes sitting on the kitchen floor with the pan between your legs, I'm not going to eat them. Crotch potatoes."
"Cute, Isabelle," my mother said. "Very cute. Anyway, I'm making us a healthy meal. There's baked chicken. Skinless. Salad. Corn on the cob."
"I can't have corn on the cob," I said.
"Why not?"
"Hello?" I pointed to my mouth. "Braces?" Sometimes I wonder if my mother knows anything about me.
"Right," she said. "Well, you can cut it off the cob if you want, with a knife. It's easy."
"Whatever."
"I also got fresh strawberries for dessert. Okay? Everything healthy."
"Whatever."
"Isabelle. Enough with the whateters, okay.'"
"Fine," I said, picking up a few more grapes and walking toward the stairs. "And anyway, all I want for dinner is a salad."
Even though I knew that later, after Mom was in bed pretending to he asleep, I would get up and sneak downstairs and open the refrigerator door. I would take out the howl of leftover mashed potatoes and eat every last hit of them with my hands. Standing up. Cold hard lumps of potato greasy with butter, washed down with half a quart of milk straight out of the carton.
And in the morning, no one would say a word about it.
THE NEXT DAY WAS GROUP. As soon as we sat down Trish handed out Pens, the really nice felt-tip kind, With our names taped on the side. Even Rachel couldn't complain.
Trish asked us to take out our blank books.
"Journaling is a great exercise," she said. "It's a way to release some of that emotion building up inside you. You know how if you fill a balloon up With too much air ..." Trish held both hands out in front of her and moved them farther and farther apart, making a whooshing sound out of the side of her mouth. Then, she clapped so loud we all jumped. Pot) !
"Well," Trish continued, "emotions work the same way. If you don't find a way to let those emotions out, whatever they are-anger, fear, sadness-you can start to feel like you're going to explode. Writing is a way to let some of the air out of your balloon, before you pop, so to speak."
If Mr. Minx were there, he would be nodding up and down like crazy at Trish and her feeling-balloon. A+ for use of figurative language.
I was sitting on the same couch as last time, Mathilde on my right. I was glad that Dawn sat on my left, instead of Lila. Ashley came in late. Her cheeks were pink, like she'd been running.
"Sorry," she said.
Trish smiled. "Good to see you, Ashley. We're talking about journaling." She handed Ashley a pen.
"Thank You," Ashley said. She sat in Dawn's old chair and bent over to unzip her backpack.
Turns out, Ashley's journal is just a plain black memo hook like mine. Funny, I expected something leather, with her initials engraved in gold or something.
Dawn's journal is covered in sunflowers. Mathilde's has a picture of a kitten on the front, dangling by its claws from a tree branch, with bright pink script saying Hang in there.
Our first journal assignment was to form two lists: on the left-hand page, the things we like about our bodies; on the right, the things we'd change if we could. We might be doubtful at first, 'Irish said, but once we gave journaling a chance, we would be amazed at what we could discover about ourselves.
"Um, Trish?" Lila raised her hand. "Does penmanship count?"
Phase.
Trish said no, and neither did spelling. Journaling is just for us. Unless we want to share, the contents of all journals will be kept confidential. Ten minutes of journaling, starting now. Hmmm.
If Trish thought I was going to share this list out loud, she was crazy. It's not like anyone needed me to announce how gross I am. They could tell just by looking.
When I was done writing I started doodling all over the front of my journal. I'm pretty good at drawing vines. Also, tiny footprints.
According to the clock on the wall there were still six minutes left. If I were Ashley Barnum, would six minutes be enough for me to finish writing down every single thing I love about myself?
Lila was writing furiously in a notebook the size of her hand. Microscopic mouse-print, invisible to the human eye.
Mathilde's cursive, large and loopy like a little kid's, was easy to read. There wasn't one thing she liked about herself.
"Time!" said Trish.
She told us to close our journals and our eyes. "Now, raise your hand if you wrote down more things you don't like about your body than you wrote things you do like."
Obviously, this was some kind of test. Trish was checking to see if we're normal or messed up, right? Fine.
I raised my hand.
Trish told us to open our eyes but keep our hands in the air. "Look around," she said. "Everyone in this room has her hand in the air. So, if you think you're alone in this, think again. We're all in it together."
Rachel snorted.
I didn't blame her. Trish was grating on my nerves too.
But then, she surprised us. She told us to trash what we'd written. "Rip those pages out. Tear them into tiny pieces and dump 'cm!"
Trish held the trash can up in the air, like it was a trophy.
"But, Trish," said Lila. She sounded like she was about to cry. "My pages aren't perforated."
"That's okay, Lila," said Trish. "Just do the best you can.
There was all sorts of ripping and tearing and crumpling of paper. We got to shoot baskets from wherever we were sitting.
Once all the paper was in the trash, Trish started telling us how the first battle we were going to have to learn to fight was our voice of negativity.
Huh?
Trish explained. "That little voice inside you that tells you you're too fat, or your thighs are too big, or you shouldn't eat this and you shouldn't eat that, otherwise you're a horrible person? That voice."
But what if you really are fat and you are gross and your thighs are too big?
"The trick," Trish said, "is to replace the voice of negativity with something that makes you feel good rather than had. Instead of heating yourself up all the time, you can build yourself up by changing the dialogue in your head."
Rachel snorted again. I got the feeling she was going to be doing a lot of snorting.
Trish ignored Rachel and asked us to partner up.
Flashback: fourth-grade gym, picking teams for dodgeball. I was horrible at dodgeball. I was always one of the last kids standing, staring at my feet, while the captains argued with each other. "You take her.... No, you take her."
Trish had to have noticed that we were all staring at our feet because she said, "Okay then! Partners are . . . Dawn and Mathilde ... Lila and Rachel ... Isabelle and Ashley."
Isabelle and Ashley.
"Don't move yet," Trish said. "Let me tell you what you're going to
do. You're going to face each other like you're looking into a mirror."
Great. Me, playing Ashley Barnum's reflection.
"And you're going to take turns. First, one of you will say out loud something that your voice of negativity often says to you, like `You look fat,' or `You shouldn't eat that.' Something along those lines. Then, the other one of you will replace that voice with something positive, something encouraging. After a minute or so, I'll let you know it's time to switch. Okay? ... Go to it!"
There was a whole lot of shuffling around and dragging of chairs. Ashley and I met in the corner by the window.
She had her hair in braids. There were skinny blue ribbons woven all the way through each one. You can tell Ashley's a real blonde because there are so many colors of blonde, from light brown underneath to almost white around her face. She has the prettiest hair you've ever seen in your life.
"Hey, Isabelle," she said.
"Hey," I said, scooting my chair in close and focusing on her knees, which were perfectly tan. Everything about Ashley is perfectly tan.
She said, "You want to be the negative one or the encouraging one first?"
"I don't care," I said. "Whichever."
"Sure?"
"Yeah."
"'Kay. I'll he negative to start."
"'Kay."
Trish told us not to hold back. "Be honest with yourselves," she said. "That's the way this exercise will work."
Somehow I knew Ashley Barnum was going to throw a zinger. She always follows directions.
"You look fat today," she said.
"Thanks a lot," I said. I knew she wasn't really talking to me, Isabelle. I was just the mirror. Still, when somebody like Ashley Barnum looks you straight in the eyes and tells you you're fat, you can't help but react.
Ashley's cheeks got all red. "Not you," she said. "Me. I'm talking to me. I look fat."
"Kidding," I said. "I'm just a mirror, remember' And no, you do not look fat. Urn, your eyes look good with that shirt. Matchy."
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