All I could think was, how in this world could anyone allow themselves to look like that? Then I felt awful at having such an ugly thought.
I smiled at Patty. “I don’t even think it’s going to leave a spot at all.”
“Uh-huh,” she agreed.
“Good thing they have that dryer in here, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.”
I decided to try being extra nice to her. After all, it must be so horrible to be the butt of everyone’s jokes. Butt jokes. I was making jokes about her in my own mind in spite of myself!
“So, are you having fun?” I asked her brightly, clicking and unclicking the clasp on my little satin purse. I really wanted to go, but it seemed too rude to leave her in there alone.
“It’s okay.”
Patty’s eyes slid toward the mirror and landed on the lipsticked graffiti: BLAKE POOLE WANTS FATTY PATTY BAD!
How terrible. How humiliating. My heart went out to her. I took her Kleenex and leaned over to wipe the letters away, but all I did was smear the lipstick around. At least you couldn’t read it anymore.
“I’m really sorry,” I said, throwing the tissue into the overflowing trash bin.
“Why, did you do it?”
“No! God, no!” I exclaimed, horrified.
“Then why are you apologizing?”
I couldn’t think of a good answer. And I really wanted to go find Jett, but I just stood there. As if I knew Patty. As if we were friends.
We weren’t, of course. But she had played a character role in Bye Bye Birdie—Albert’s fat, smothering mother—and I had actually spoken to her a few times. It wasn’t like we didn’t know each other.
“So, I’m kind of nervous,” I confided, still clicking and unclicking the clasp on my purse. “About homecoming queen. Not that I expect to win or anything …”
“You’ll win,” she said.
“You really think so?” I asked eagerly.
“No, I’ll win,” she said sarcastically.
I tried to smile. It must be so awful being her.
“Well, I think I’m dry,” Patty said, moving away from the dryer. “Have fun.” She started for the door.
Suddenly an idea occurred to me. A really good idea.
“Patty, wait a sec,” I called to her.
She turned around.
I took a deep breath. “Look, I know that the things people say to you … well, I know it must really hurt your feelings.”
She just stared at me.
“I mean, I know we aren’t really friends,” I rushed on. “But … but we could be. You know Molly Sheridan? We’ve been best friends forever. Well, she kind of has a weight problem, too. So, we’re planning on exercising together. You know, on a regular basis? We have this home gym? And I was thinking that the three of us could work out together! You know. At my house. You have such a pretty face.”
A muscle jumped in Patty’s fat cheek. “So, you’re going to save me, is that it?”
“Well, no, I just meant—”
Her face flushed with anger. “Where do you get off talking to me about personal things? You’ve never said more than two sentences to me before.”
My cheeks burned with embarrassment. “We worked on the play,” I said defensively. “We talked.”
“Right. Once you told me it was amazing that I could play an old lady so convincingly without using makeup.”
“I meant that as a compliment, that you’re so talented—”
“I’m fat, not stupid,” Patty spat at me.
“Look, I didn’t mean to insult you—”
“No? So what did you mean to do?”
“I just want to help you—”
“What in the world makes you think I want help from you?” she asked me.
“Look, I know you’re just reacting this way because you’re embarrassed—”
“God, you’re amazing!” Patty exclaimed. “Do you think I don’t know that you and your little band of oh-so-cool friends think I’m this fat, pathetic loser? Well, guess what, Lara Ardeche? I think you’re pathetic! If you get crowned queen, it’ll be the highlight of your pathetic little life!” She turned and stormed out of the bathroom.
I just stood there, my mouth open, my hands shaking. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. There I was, being nice, trying to help her, and she acted like I had done something terrible!
“Lara, what are you doing in here?” Amber demanded, running into the bathroom. “All the alums just came in and your parents are looking for you. They’re about to announce the court. Are you sick or something?”
“No, I’m fine,” I told her as the two of us hurried down the hall toward the gym. “Do I look okay?”
“Perfect,” she assured me.
I saw my parents standing near the buffet table, waving to me. I waved back and started to make way over to them. About two hundred adults had been at the alumni party, and now the gym was so crowded it was hard to move.
“Hey, Lara! Wow, you look great!”
It was Sarah Lodge, a really nice, smart girl who sat next to me in precalculus. She wasn’t in the cool crowd, but I liked her a lot.
“So do you,” I said as someone bumped into me from behind. “It’s a zoo in here!”
“Primates in formal wear,” she said, laughing and moving off with her date. “I hope you win queen!”
“Lara, honey, bless your heart, don’t you look lovely!” a friend of my parents’ said, kissing me as I went by. “We’re pulling for you, honey.”
Chris Zeeman waved to me. “I hope you win,” he mouthed shyly.
“Thanks,” I mouthed back.
“It’s so crowded,” I said when I finally reached my parents. They looked perfect in their formal wear.
“This is it, princess,” my father said, putting his arm around my shoulders.
“Please, Daddy, I’m not going to win. I’m just a junior, and—”
“Oh, there’s Danny!” my mom exclaimed as her eyes lit on him in the crowd. She waved. “He looks so handsome.”
At that moment, to my horror, I started to feel that itchy feeling on my arms, just like when I had gotten the hives at the Miss Teen Pride of the South pageant.
Please. I couldn’t get hives now. I just couldn’t.
“Have you seen Jett?” I asked, looking around in vain, trying to ignore my itchy arms. The Sex Puppets started a new song, very loud. I really, really wanted to find Jett. I would be okay, if only—
And then, there he was. He wrapped his long arms around me.
Suddenly I had this urge to run away with Jett, somewhere where no one knew either one of us.
“Hope you get it, Lara!” a guy from my French class called.
I smiled and mouthed, “Thanks,” again. I shifted myself into pageant autopilot. I had to keep smiling, especially if they called Amy Caprice’s name instead of mine. No matter how I felt. No matter what.
I gently scratched my arms.
The Sex Puppets scowled to the end of their song, and Mrs. Conway, our principal, made her way to the microphone. The Sex Puppets stepped back. My father stood on one side of me, holding tightly to my right hand. Jett had one hand on the small of my back.
“I feel a little sick,” I whispered to Jett.
He leaned over and kissed my cheek.
From across the room Molly caught my eye. She made a praying gesture with her hands.
Oh, God.
“Students of Forest Hills High, parents and guests, honored alumni,” Mrs. Conway said into the microphone. “It’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for, time to announce this year’s homecoming court.”
I could feel people’s eyes on me. My arms itched like crazy. My stomach felt as if it had dropped to my knees. I smiled even harder.
“As you all know, there will be three princesses and their queen, all of whom will be accompanied up to the stage by their escorts, and will then be presented at halftime during the game tomorrow.”
My father smile
d at me and squeezed my hand even more tightly. Traditionally, each girl on the court was accompanied to the stage by her father.
“As I call each girl’s name, please come forward, along with your escort, to the stage. And please, let’s all hold our applause until the entire court is announced.”
I could feel sweat trickling down my spine. I smiled so hard my jaws ached.
Please, God, please, God, I prayed. Please, just let me have this one thing.
“Our princesses are … Carrie Anne Macey, Lisa James, and Whitney Summers,” Mrs. Conway said into the microphone.
My parents looked at each other, slack-jawed with shock. Amy Caprice’s name hadn’t been called, and neither had mine. One of us had won, and one of us wasn’t even on the court.
Oh, God.
“Lara, it has to be Lara,” my mother breathed. Her eyes were shut tight, the fingers on both hands crossed.
My father squeezed my fingers more tightly still. Sweat beaded up on his forehead.
The smile was still plastered on my face.
But inside, now, I wanted to cry. It was one thing not to be queen, but I hadn’t even made it onto the court.
“And our homecoming queen is …”
Time stood still. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t—
“Lara Ardeche!” Mrs. Conway called triumphantly.
My mother screamed, my friends screamed, and my father whooped the loudest of all, pumping his fist into the air. I jumped into Jett’s arms, and for the briefest moment, he held me. Everyone was applauding, yelling, whistling.
“May I?” my father asked me gallantly, holding out his elbow, so proud.
I took it, and then, like in some wonderful movie, bodies parted, and my father and I walked up on the stage, where last year’s homecoming queen put the crown on my head. Someone else handed me a dozen long-stemmed red roses.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Forest Hills High School homecoming court!” Mrs. Conway exclaimed.
Everyone cheered again, cameras flashed, and I could see my mom videotaping everything. Tears welled up in my eyes, and my father tenderly wiped them away with his handkerchief. I mouthed, “Thank you,” at everyone and let the tears come again. Pageants teach you that it’s okay to be swept away by big emotions, as long as you’re the winner or busy congratulating the winner.
So few moments in life live up to your fantasies of how they’ll be. But that moment, when I was crowned homecoming queen and my parents were so proud of me and Jett loved me, lived up to every fantasy I had ever had. I looked out at that sea of happy faces—even Danny was smiling up at me—and I thought how I had known most of them forever, and now they had picked me to be their queen. I felt surrounded by so much love, just waves of it coming up to me on that stage. I was a part of all of them, they were a part of me.
And then, out of the corner of my eye. I saw Patty Asher coming in the gym door. She stared up at me. She wasn’t smiling.
If you get crowned queen, it’ll be the highlight of your pathetic little life!
Poor Patty. She must be so miserable.
I sent up a little prayer of thanks. That I had won. That I had Jett.
That I wasn’t anything like poor Patty Asher.
“Honey, are you gaining weight?” my mother asked as she slid a blueberry pancake from the skillet onto my plate.
It was a month later, the Sunday morning before Halloween, and we were having our usual Sunday morning breakfast of blueberry pancakes and turkey bacon.
Not that Mom ate any kind of bacon at all. Ever. Every morning she had the same thing: one half of a whole-wheat English muffin with one teaspoon of all-fruit jam. Half a grapefruit. Two cups of coffee, black.
“She’s a warthog,” Scott said, reaching for the butter.
“That’s enough from you,” Mom told him. She sat down and cut into her grapefruit.
“Do I look fat?” I asked anxiously.
“Of course not,” Mom said, spooning up some grapefruit. “But your jeans look a little tight, sweetie.”
She was right. They were a little tight. A lot tight.
Right after homecoming I had started getting hives almost every day. Sometimes my lips and my eyelids swelled. My parents took me right to the doctor. Stress, he said. But I didn’t feel stressed. I felt fantastic. It didn’t make any sense.
When my hives wouldn’t go away, my mom took me to an allergist, who put me on a drug called prednisone, which seemed to work. But the prednisone made me retain water. So I’d stop taking the prednisone, and get the hives back, and then I’d go back on the prednisone.
According to my scale, I had gained ten pounds. Ten pounds! In a month! I now weighed 128. It was more than I had ever weighed in my life.
I could hardly zip up my jeans. My stomach pressed against the zipper. The tiniest roll of skin poufed above the waistband. I looked over at my mother. She had on white leggings and a cropped white T-shirt. Perfectly slim and perfectly aerobicized.
“That’s it, I’m on a diet,” I said, pushing my plate away. Scott grabbed it and dumped the pancake on top of his own plate, then drenched it with maple syrup.
Mom frowned at him. “You don’t need all that sugar.”
“Oh yeah, I do,” he said, his mouth full.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and resisted the urge to add cream and sugar. I took a sip. It was so bitter. I eyed the package of English muffins and decided to toast the other half of my mom’s.
“Your very first diet,” Mom said, sipping her coffee. “Now this is something we can definitely bond over.”
“All it takes is willpower,” I said coolly. “I’ll up my workouts. It’s not a big deal.”
“Try skateboarding,” Scott suggested, his mouth full of pancake. “It’ll take the lard off you real fast.”
“Your sister doesn’t have any lard, it’s from the prednisone,” Mom told him. She lit a cigarette.
“It was a joke,” Scott explained. “You know. Humor?”
“Well, it wasn’t funny,” Mom said. “Gaining weight is no joke.” She turned to me. “I can write out a great diet for you, if you want.”
“Mom, I know how to diet.”
“I just meant that you never had to do it before, and I could help you,” she explained. “Believe me, I know every trick in the book.”
“Yeah, like cancer sticks,” Scott said, taking another bite of pancake. “Better thin and dead than fat and kickin’, right, Mom?”
“Very funny. I’m going to quit,” Mom added, taking a deep drag on her cigarette.
“Sure,” Scott said sarcastically.
I could hear my dad coming down the stairs. Mom quickly put out her cigarette and waved at the air.
“Oh yeah, like that’s gonna fool him,” Scott said with disgust.
Dad came into the kitchen, his hair still wet from the shower. He looked as fit as my mom. I felt like a blimp. I decided to skip the muffin and just go with black coffee.
“Morning, all,” Dad said. He sat down and poured himself some coffee. “It smells like smoke in here, Carol.”
“Mmmm, you smell good,” my mom said, hugging him from behind. “Want pancakes? Turkey bacon?”
“One pancake, no bacon,” Dad said, patting his stomach. He took a sip of orange juice. “So, what’s up with you today, princess?”
“I have to practice piano for two hours, for my recital,” I said. “Then I’m working out with Molly, and after that Jett’s coming over to help me with precalculus.”
“Good girl,” Dad approved. Precalculus was the only class where I didn’t have an A average. He looked at Scott, taking in his baggy shorts and even baggier T-shirt. “Son?”
Scott just shoveled more pancake into his mouth.
“Would actual words be too much to hope for?” Dad asked him.
“You know, whatever,” Scott mumbled. “Hanging.”
“Hanging?”
“With my friends. You know.”
Dad sighed. “What about homework?”
Scott shrugged again.
“A shrug is not an answer!” Dad exploded. “If I ask you a question, I expect an answer!”
“Yes, sir!” Scott replied, saluting as if he were in the military. “Whatever you say, sir!”
Dad pushed his chair back. “I give up. I really give up.”
“Come on, guys,” Mom pleaded, “let’s have a nice Sunday—”
“Well, tell him to get off my back, then,” Scott suggested icily.
“Scott, all Dad did was ask what you were doing today,” Mom pointed out.
“And I told him. But what I said wasn’t good enough!” Scott got up and stormed out of the room.
Dad turned to Mom. “Are you sure he’s really our kid?”
“It’s a phase, honey,” Mom soothed. Her fingers, with no cigarette to hold, drummed nervously on the table.
Dad scowled into his coffee.
Mom began to knead his shoulders. “Come on, Jimbo,” she coaxed, “don’t get all tense over Scott.”
Dad shook her off. “I don’t need a backrub, I need to get through to my kid. He acts like he hates me.”
“I love you, Daddy,” I told him.
He grinned at me and cut into his pancake. “Yeah, I know you do, princess. Thank God for you, that’s all I have to say.” He looked at the empty place in front of me. “Aren’t you eating?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Lara’s been putting on a little weight,” Mom explained.
“Mom!” I exclaimed. “It’s because of the prednisone.”
Dad frowned. “How much?”
“Just a little,” I said nervously, sipping my coffee.
“You have to nip these things in the bud, princess,” he said sternly. “Otherwise, forget it. One day you’re perfect, and the next day you wake up looking like Molly.”
“It’s just water retention from the allergy medicine. I only gained four pounds, and I’m going to lose it.”
“It looks like more than four,” Mom said.
“Well, it isn’t,” I lied.
“Okay,” Dad said. “Let’s drop this subject. I know my princess, and she accomplishes anything she sets her mind to, right?”
“Right,” I said firmly.
“That’s my girl.”
Life in the Fat Lane Page 4
