MALIK: Wow. Well, this party would be a whole lot better if you were here. That’s for sure.
MALIK: And I think you’re cute, too. And pretty and basically every synonym for pretty.
I gasp, and the rush of air actually hurts the wounds on my gums, but holy cannoli! Did Malik say that? And he wasn’t even doped up on painkillers. He was just regular Malik, sitting around at his birthday party full of people, telling me I’m pretty.
ME: well if that’s true you could’ve kissed my face after the dance and not just pretended like it never happened you weirdo
I pump my fist into the air. “You go, girl!” I say, my voice no louder than a stage whisper. It’s like I’m reading a really good book—the kind that makes you feel like you’ve swallowed fireflies—except this time I’m the main character of the book. I’m the love interest! I’m the girl who gets the guy! And girls like me? You don’t find us in fairy tales or on the covers of romance novels.
Slowly I can feel myself shaking away whatever bit of embarrassment and shame I’m still clinging to.
MALIK: Would you believe me if I said I was shy?
ME: would you believe me if I said I believe you but that it’s still a dumb reason
MALIK: I better get back to this party. I wish you were here. My sisters are driving me crazy and my mom keeps asking for you.
ME: well maybe if you get better about kissing my face, we can celebrate your birthday together next year
MALIK: I like that possibility.
ME: how many cotton balls can you fit in your mouth? However many it is I can beat you.
MALIK: Challenge accepted.
I hold my phone to my chest. My lungs are swelling and I’m scared they might just burst. In a small way, I feel like a fraud. An imposter. I’m not that girl. I can’t even find it in me to tell my mom about broadcast journalism camp. I’m not the kind of girl who would just message Malik and tell him to kiss me.
But I did that. I was that girl. For a short, drug-induced time, I was that brave girl I’ve wished to be for so long. And I’m embarrassed—a little horrified, even—but that girl knew what she wanted and she took it. I remember my talk with Callie yesterday afternoon. “Why should I have to sit around and wait for him to be brave enough?” I said that. Just yesterday.
So maybe that girl who sent all those text messages last night—good and bad—is me after all.
Without me to corral the troops on Saturday night, our slumber party at Ellen’s house was postponed until next weekend. Secretly, I was pleased, because fear of missing out is a real thing and I suffer from stage four.
On Monday morning, Uncle Vernon goes in early to open up the gym, so I can sleep in a little bit before going back to school. If this is the kind of special treatment that having wisdom teeth removed affords me, I’ll take it.
Even though I’ve already ruined my perfect attendance for the year, I pull myself out of bed. I’ve gone through my prescription of serious painkillers and am only on a regimen of Tylenol now, but Mom still insists on driving me to school.
When I inherited Mom’s minivan, she and Dad agreed it was time for her to get her dream car: a champagne-colored Volvo. They had to drive five and a half hours for the closest Volvo dealership, but between the safety ratings and the buttery-leather interior, I think it’s safe to say that my mom might leave all her worldly possessions to this car instead of me.
Mom is wearing one of her matching-set velour tracksuits with a pair of her Cloudwalker Deluxe tennis shoes, because after she drops me off, she will kick off her morning routine with a trip to Cinch It!—the women’s-only circuit gym located in the mall and wedged between the only two plus-size stores in Clover City. (Both of which should be called Old and So Old You Might as Well Be Dead. Thank goodness for online shopping.) And after her trip to the gym, Mom will power walk with her girlfriends to the food court, where they’ll each get their own personally formulated smoothie at Juice Monster, with the perfect cocktail of vitamin boosters, fiber, and protein powder.
We approach a school zone and the Volvo slows to a crawl. “Dr. Shepherd says the puffiness in your face should go down over the next few days.”
I laugh. “My face is eternally puffy.”
My mom doesn’t respond. “The girls at Cinch It! have been asking after you,” she finally says. “I told them all about your job at Uncle Vernon’s gym, and they all just think it’s so great that you’re taking the initiative to work at a gym.”
I look to her, but she keeps her eyes trained on the school zone ahead, and I’m actually thankful she can’t look at me when I say, “Mom, you know that’s not why I’m working at the gym, right?”
A small boy darts out across the crosswalk, and she slams on her brakes. “I swear! That crossing guard isn’t paying attention to a thing!”
“It’s really just to help out. Uncle Vernon and Inga need all the help they can get since the twins were born. And I like boxing okay,” I tell her. “It’s fun, ya know? Uncle Vernon gives me a few pointers every now and then. But I don’t do it to become some after-picture version of myself. I do it ’cause it makes me feel good. You know that, right?”
She smiles and accelerates as we leave the school zone.
And that’s it. I wish I could figure out a way to just say it in the most blatant terms: MOM, I DON’T WANT TO OBSESS ABOUT DIETING WITH YOU ANYMORE. But instead, I’ve just sort of slipped away from her and have begun avoiding all the things that once bonded us. Now, the void between us feels so wide that I often wonder if our bond only ran as deep as our obsession with bodies we’ll likely never have.
In front of the school, we share a hug and a kiss. “Oh, I printed off the application for this summer at Daisy Ranch,” she tells me. “I’ll just need you to fill it out so we can send in the deposit. I’ll leave it on your bed for you, okay? This is the year, baby. I can feel it.”
This is the moment when I should just rip off the dang Band-Aid. “I’m not going to weight-loss camp.” Seven words. That’s all it would take. But instead I nod and say, “Sounds good, Mom.”
A cloud of hurt and anger at no one but myself follows me through the carport and into the school. I’m so scared of bursting this unspoken bubble between my mom and me, when in reality, it would be the best thing for both of us. I’ve spent so much time wondering who my mom would be without all the fad diets and the calorie counting and the absurd workout plans. Honestly, I’ve wondered the same about myself. Some part of me is scared that she’s spent so long living this life that if she stripped it all away, there’d be nothing left, and surely in some deep recess of her brain, she fears that, too.
I head straight to the front office to do morning announcements, hoping to find that spring in my step but failing.
Between first and second periods, I find Amanda waiting at my locker, tugging the straps of her backpack and twisting her toe into the linoleum. A wave of embarrassment washes over me as I relive my wisdom-tooth text-message fiasco. I might’ve been drugged, but I made something that was very much about Amanda about me and my feelings. I should’ve reached out to her over the weekend, but I didn’t know where to start. I take a deep breath and tuck all thoughts of my mom and Daisy Ranch aside. Trying to fix more than one thing at a time usually means I can only give half a mind to a whole problem. So first: Amanda.
“Hey, are you okay?” she asks immediately.
I nod and touch my cheek. “A little sore. Mom said she can’t believe I had to get my wisdom teeth out. Her and Uncle Vernon never did.”
She nods, but there’s something about her that feels off.
“We should talk,” I offer.
She waves her hand and her whole body bounces back, like she’d just as soon tiptoe around the issue. “Psh! Nothing to talk about. Well, I mean, between us.” She leans down and whispers, “But oh my God! What did you send to Malik?”
I release a heavy breath, but I can’t hide my smile. “Well, I’ve got some damage control to do, but it shouldn’t be too bad.” I’ve backed out of one tough conversation already this morning; I won’t do it again. “You know those texts I sent you about my feelings?”