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Authors: Suzanne Supplee

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My heart stopped midbeat. I froze. My tongue stalled out, and I couldn’t think of one single smart-ass thing to say. Kyle was giving me that look again, the one that said he already knew my answer, the one that told me he wasn’t the slightest bit afraid of the topic—
if
I wanted to discuss it. I inhaled his inviting smell of Dentyne breath and spicy grocery-store-brand shampoo (much too harsh for his thick shiny curls, in my opinion). Without warning, I leaned in close and kissed him. It was part Enormous Strapping Jock Boy attraction; it was also part thank you.
chapter twenty-three
A Giant Leap
I have the worst gas ever—a known Pounds-Away side effect. There should be a warning on the label: May cause uncontrollable flatulence. At least I can jog on my treadmill and fart my brains out—there’s no one around to hear. I can’t very well have an active social life with chronic gas and painful bloating, which is why I’ve given serious thought to going off Pounds-Away completely and for good, but I’m just too scared.
First of all, I can’t trust myself with round-the-clock, real food just yet, not when I’m making such progress. And, second, I
so
don’t want to be fat this summer. What if Kyle is still asking me out then—in the season of shorts and
bathing suits
? No, I can’t go off Pounds-Away, not now.
Ever since my date with Kyle, I’ve been acting like one of those starry-eyed teenagers you see in the movies. I sing to myself for no reason. I actually cleaned up my room without Mother nagging me. I was nice to Aunt Mary when she called.
And
I have a giant test in Mr. Sparks’s history class tomorrow that I haven’t bothered to study for (okay, so all the Kyle side effects aren’t positive) , but it’s difficult to study for history when you’re busy trying to make it: FAT GIRL LANDS JOCK BOY—ONE SMALL STEP FOR WOMAN, ONE GIANT LEAP FOR WOMANKIND!
I know myself, though. In the end, I’ll stay up till all hours studying because there is no way I’ll give Fat-Person Hater, Mr. Sparks, the satisfaction of seeing me get anything less than an A. Mrs. Wallace seems to think one of the reasons I’m obsessed with getting good grades is to defy the fat-girl stereotype—society’s false perception that we’re all lazy or sloppy or stupid.
In spite of my recent good mood, everything hasn’t been completely rosy since Saturday night. I had lunch with Kay-Kay today—lunch for me included bottled water and sugarless gum (I’d already consumed my Pounds-Away earlier that morning,
in a restroom stall
). I so wanted to tell her about kissing Kyle. I so wanted to tell anybody who would listen to me for five seconds, but Kay-Kay was way too depressed about her own love life for me to launch into the details of my romantic triumph.
“Logan broke up with me yesterday,
officially
,” Kay-Kay announced the minute we sat down. Her blue eyes filled with tears, and one spilled down her nose and plopped into her salad.
“What happened?” I asked, handing her an unused napkin.
“He agreed to give me one more chance, but then yesterday”—Kay -Kay wiped her eyes again—“yesterday, I went to his mother’s for Sunday brunch. I was so hungover I could barely eat anything, but then I had some grits. Next thing I knew I was barfing in Mrs. Clark’s powder room.”
“And Logan broke up with you?” I asked. Kay-Kay nodded and fanned away more tears. As if on cue, Misty and Tara swooped right over.
“We thought you might need this,” said Tara, shoving a pamphlet on teen alcoholism into Kay-Kay’s hand.
“And we have big news,” said Misty. “Logan already has a date with”—she paused for effect—“Marta Pitts.” Kay-Kay’s mouth fell open, and she stared at them. Marta Pitts, a.k.a. Marta Tits. The girl has the most sought-after breasts at Spring Hill High School. Just when I thought Tara and Misty had finished their torture, they turned to me. Misty narrowed her eyes. “Everyone knows you’re just Kyle Cox’s fat screw. Boys like him
never
date girls like you,” she said, her upper lip curling slightly to express her utter disgust of me.
Before I could think of some equally awful thing to say back, the bell sounded, and Misty and Tara slithered off like a pair of eels. I dumped the multiple gum wrappers off my tray, forced a smile at the cafeteria lady, and followed Kay-Kay out of the lunch-room. “See you later, Kay-Kay,” I said, trying to act like none of it was any big deal.
“Yeah. Okay,” she replied, and drifted off toward her class like a zombie.
I pushed through the study hall door, and Kyle and I instantly locked eyes. My stomach rolled (from nerves, not gas), and I smiled at him and waved. He seemed genuinely glad to see me, but I couldn’t let go of Misty’s words. I thought back to our Saturday night kiss and wondered if the Bluebirds knew something I didn’t.
I opened my notebook, but I couldn’t bring myself to work on anything. A bird was squawking in my head.
Fat screw! Fat screw!
it cawed. I glanced up at Ronnie Derryberry, and for once he wasn’t asleep. In fact, he was looking straight at me. Quickly, he scribbled something on a scrap of paper and passed me the note.
You lost weight
, it read. I smiled at him, and he smiled back, then he plopped his head on his books and went to sleep like always.
chapter twenty-four
Fat Birthday
Rosie, I can’t take this another second!” Kay-Kay announced at lunch. “I have
got
to start exercising in the morning.” She glanced at my tray. “And you’ve got to start eating better. What’s with the gum and water for lunch?” she asked.
“Oh, I had something healthy earlier,” I lied. “I’m just not much of a lunch person. So what were you saying about the mornings? ” I asked, trying to get her back on safer subjects.
“Well, I was thinking that if I’m gonna have to look at Logan and Marta every day, I might as well have some endorphins running through my system to ease the pain a little. A morning workout might be just the thing.”
“But I thought you needed to ‘decompress’ (Kay-Kay’s word, not mine) after school?”
“Oh, I can always go to Harvey’s Gym in the afternoons—
if
I don’t have cheerleading, that is. I’d love for you to run with me, Rosie.” Kay-Kay and I had discussed this earlier in the week, but I insisted it wasn’t a good idea. Reason one (which I told Kay-Kay): I can’t run three miles (Kay-Kay says anything under three miles isn’t worth the effort). Reason two (which I did
not
tell Kay-Kay): Sometimes, I fart when I run.
“It’s not like we’d have to stay stuck together like conjoined twins or something. If you need to slow down, you can. Come on, Rosie, it’s only three miles. It’ll be fun,” she pleaded.
“Fun?”
“Look, I’m gonna be waiting for you at Riverside Elementary tomorrow morning at quarter of six. If you come, great. If not, I reckon I’ll go all by myself.” Kay-Kay snapped a raw carrot in half with her perfect white teeth and smiled. We both knew she had me, since there was no way I’d stand her up.
At five-thirty my alarm went off. Even Mother wasn’t up yet. “Oh, God.” I groaned and stuffed my head under a pillow. There wasn’t much choice, so I dragged myself out of bed, brushed my teeth, pulled my hair back in a ponytail, threw on sweats (I wasn’t about to run in black shorts and a tube top), and headed toward my old elementary school. Kay-Kay was already there, of course. Sweat poured down the sides of her face and glistened on her small chest.
“You came!” she cheered, holding up her hand to slap me a high-five.
I tried to force a smile. “I sure did,” I replied. I was dying to say something negative and sarcastic, but Kay-Kay was so earnest in her enthusiasm, I held back. “Did you already run or something? ” I asked.
“Yeah, just a couple of miles,” Kay-Kay confessed.
“So we only have to run one?”
“In your dreams! I’m just good and warmed up now! Come on, let’s go!”
Thanks to my recent treadmill workouts, I managed to keep up with her that first mile or so (I also managed not to fart), but as we climbed the steep hill toward the center of town, I knew I had to slow down—or die. “I’ve got to stop,” I managed to gasp.
“Don’t
stop
,” Kay-Kay warned. “You’ll trash your heart rate. You at least have to keep walking.” I nodded. “I’ll meet you at the courthouse,” said Kay-Kay. I watched as she tripled her speed and tackled the hill like a runaway gazelle. Her pace and grace were stunning. In regular school clothes, Kay-Kay just looks skinny and cute and harmless, but in her running shorts, she’s all kick-ass, competitive jock girl.
In one way, I think Kay-Kay’s good health habits (other than puking up wine coolers at the Sundown) might rub off on me. In another, I think trying to keep up with her might send me crashing through the glass of a snack machine.
Prying myself out of bed the second morning was even harder. For one thing, my legs felt like cinder blocks. Besides that, it was raining—one of those light, peaceful spring rains that makes you want to snuggle under the covers and drift off to sleep again. My window was cracked open just a little, and the drops sounded like a lullaby. It was also my birthday, which, appropriately enough, happens to fall on April Fools’ Day. It was the birthday part that actually got me moving, though. I wanted to start the day feeling good about myself, and even though I’m miserable
while running
, I feel positively great about myself when it’s over.
On the Spring Hill High School Morning News Feed—which is actually just a gimmicky way of making the morning announcements sound even remotely interesting—the senior class vice president reads a list of birthdays. Usually I think this is annoying, but not today, as my name was the only one on the list.
When I came out of homeroom, Kyle was waiting for me. “Hey,” he said. “Happy birthday.”
“Hey!” I replied. My voice came out too high-pitched, but Kyle didn’t seem to notice. He handed me a piece of notebook paper folded to resemble a card.
“I doubt Hallmark’ll be calling me with a job offer anytime soon, but it was the best I could do on such short notice.” On the front he’d drawn a big smiley face. Inside, he’d chicken-scratched
Happy Birthday, Rosie.
“It’s the thought that counts. Thank you.” I grinned up at him. His brown eyes were shining. His smile was aimed in my direction. I could smell his spicy, cheap shampoo, which I decided I’d have to start using myself just to keep his scent with me always. Suddenly, I felt the overwhelming need to pinch myself
. Was this really happening? Was I standing in the hallway on my sixteenth birthday talking to Enormous Strapping Jock Boy on the very same day I’d gone running with the beautiful, somewhat famous (at least in Spring Hill, Tennessee) Kay-Kay Reese?
At lunch, Kay-Kay unwrapped a protein bar and stuck a candle in it. Since open flames result in automatic suspension, I blew out a pretend candle but made a real wish:
Please let my sixteenth birthday be my last fat birthday.
I took a bite of the gooey, tasteless protein stick and remembered the deliciously sinful cakes Mrs. McCutchin used to make for me every year. I tossed in two more wishes—one for Mother and the other for Mrs. McCutchin. I felt a little guilty I hadn’t thought of them first.
I was all set to go into the shop, but Mother insisted I take the afternoon off, and said she’d pay me for my hours anyway as a little birthday bonus. The old Rosemary would’ve been delighted at her generous offer. I would’ve come home for a double feature:
Dr. Phil
and an entire can of Pringles;
Oprah
and a bag of peanut butter cups. The new Rosemary was different, or was at least trying to be.
To keep myself occupied and away from victuals, I climbed on the treadmill and blasted Sheryl Crow. Before I knew it, I’d worked out twice in one day—first with Kay-Kay at five forty-five, and once by myself. I peeled off my sweaty clothes and stepped on the scale—169 pounds—that’s twenty-one pounds
gone
(thirty-four, if I count that brief but oh-so-frightening 203 hippo weight around Christmas). Looking backward felt incredible. I tried not to think about forward. I knew in no time I could be right back where I’d started if I wasn’t careful.
Just as I was about to step in the shower, the doorbell rang. I threw on my bathrobe and tiptoed downstairs. Through the front window, I saw Kyle’s Suburban. “Oh, my God!” I tore through the house and raced up the stairs. Frantically, I flung off my bathrobe. I started to put on my slimy workout clothes again. Ick. I threw open the closet door. Nothing but black. I glanced at my face in the mirror. Sweaty. Flushed. I sniffed my pits. Not bad, although a bit on the stubbly side. The doorbell rang a second and third time. I grabbed my bathrobe again and flew down the stairs. Just to be safe, I dashed into Mother’s bathroom and spritzed some perfume. I took a deep breath, forced a smile, and opened the front door. No Kyle. No Suburban by the curb either, just a bouquet of pale pink lilacs and a note:
Happy 16th birthday!
Love,
Kyle
I sat on the cool porch step and sniffed the pale pink flowers. “Thank you,” I whispered to the sky, inhaling their sweet smell. “Thank you,” I said again, analyzing Kyle’s use of the word
love
. Did he mean
love
, as in
I love you, Rosie
? Or, did he mean
love
, as in that’s just what you write at the end of a birthday note?
I gave Kyle time to get home, then I dialed his number. “Thanks for the flowers,” I said the minute he answered. I tried to keep my voice steady and calm. I didn’t want to reveal the giddy, silly girl I had recently become. Truthfully, I was practically high on the whole Kyle Cox experience.
“Hey, Rosie,” said Kyle. “Were the flowers okay? I was afraid they’d wilt before you got home,” he said.
“Actually, I
was
home. I was in the shower,” I replied. This was only a slight fabrication, as I wasn’t about to tell Kyle I was running around the house naked when he rang the doorbell. “The flowers are perfect. My entire bedroom smells like spring,” I went on.
“Good,” said Kyle. “Would you like to do something tonight? I know . . . um . . . I should’ve asked you earlier. It’s just with baseball and everything . . .”
“I’d love to,” I said, completely ignoring the fact that Mother was taking me to the Lamplighter Inn for dinner.
“It’s a school night,” said Kyle. “I’ll have to be home by ten.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I have to be home by ten on school nights, too,” I lied (as if I ever actually go anywhere on a school night). The second I hung up, guilt overwhelmed me.
What was I thinking, telling Kyle I could go out with him?
“Which do you want first?” asked Mother, stifling a cough. She was standing at the top of my bedroom stairs, home from work an hour early. In one hand, she had a small velvet box. In the other, she held a brochure on safe teen drivers.
“The box,” I replied. Mother watched and smiled while I untied the curly pink ribbons and pried open the lid. “Oh, my God!” I gasped. “They’re beautiful. Thank you! Oh, thank you!” I hugged Mother tightly. Too tightly, apparently. Her small, bony shoulders made a kind of crunching sound, and she wriggled out of my embrace. “Did I hurt you?” I asked.
“No,” said Mother. “My allergies are just acting up.”
“Allergies?” I asked.
“My lungs are a little tight today. Now put your earrings on. I want to see what they look like,” she insisted. Obediently, I took out my silver hoops and inserted the small diamond studs. “Perfect, ” said Mother, standing back to admire them. “They look so pretty against your gorgeous dark hair.” Mother tugged her cap down over her ears. “I’m proud of you,” she said suddenly. “I know you’re trying hard, Rosie. It’s working, too.”
I was just about to say thank you and nudge Mother out of my bedroom (so I could call Kyle to cancel our date) when Mother had a coughing fit. A
real
fit. The kind that goes on and on and on. By the time it was over, she could barely talk. I ran to the bathroom to get her a glass of water and watched while she sipped it slowly.
“Mother, that’s not allergies,” I said. “Something’s wrong. Have you called your doctor?”
“Oh, Rosie. I just don’t think I can go out tonight,” said Mother when she was finally able to speak again. “I’m so sorry to do this, especially on your birthday.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Really. Actually, I . . . well, Kyle was hoping maybe I could go out with him tonight.”
“But what about your Aunt Mary?”
“Aunt Mary?”
“She was supposed to come with us tonight. You can’t cancel on her. She was looking forward to it.”
“It’s
my
birthday, not Aunt Mary’s,” I pointed out. “And I want to go with Kyle. You didn’t say anything about Aunt Mary coming with us anyway. Why does she always have to come?”
“Because she’s the only family we’ve got!” Mother snapped. Mother gave me her you’re-the-world’s-most-disappointing-ungrateful -daughter look and headed back downstairs. I felt guilty, but not guilty enough to spend my sixteenth birthday with my nosy, meddlesome, know-it-all aunt.
chapter twenty-five
The Story of My Life
You look great,” Kyle said, smiling, when I climbed into his car. I was wearing a new black sweater and charcoal gray skirt sent all the way from Florida (courtesy of Grandma Georgia). The outfit was very flattering with my black boots. I had my new diamond studs in, too. “Is a burger okay with you?” asked Kyle.
“Sure,” I lied. I’d had so little real food lately that the thought of a greasy hamburger made my already nervous insides churn. Kyle pushed in a Rolling Stones CD, and I tried to relax in the seat beside him. I didn’t feel much like talking. The music was too loud, and I couldn’t get Mother off my mind. I kept picturing her pale face, hearing her alarming cough.
“Are you all right?” Kyle asked. Already he was pulling into Frankie’s Carhop, a retro drive-in restaurant that’d just opened downtown. The parking lot was packed.
“Oh, I’m fine,” I lied again.
“It’s crowded tonight,” said Kyle. He pulled into a tight space and lowered the volume. Waitresses in colorful 1950s outfits zipped around on Rollerblades carrying trays overloaded with food and drink.
“This is Tina,” the box just outside the car window squawked. “What’ll it be?” Kyle hadn’t even switched off the ignition yet.
“Do you know what you want?” he whispered. I shook my head and nudged him to order first. “I’ll have a bacon-chili cheese-burger, extra-large fries, and a banana cream shake and a Coke,” Kyle shouted toward the tiny microphone.
“Pepsi is all we got,” Tina grumbled, "and you don’t have to yell so loud. I ain’t deaf.”
“Pepsi’s fine,” said Kyle. “Sorry about the yelling.”
I leaned across Kyle. “I’ll have a salad with low-cal Italian dressing and a
Diet
Pepsi,” I said.
“We ain’t got nothing green tonight!” Tina snapped. “The truck didn’t come,” she added.
“Fine. I’ll take a plain,
brown
hamburger,” I shouted, “and a
brown
Diet Pepsi.”
Kyle rolled up the window and burst out laughing. “Tina’s gonna spit in your food for sure now,” he teased.
“And I’ll wring her neck like a Sunday chicken!” I snapped, sounding like Grandma Georgia. Kyle’s eyes grew wide. “Sorry, I just hate poor service. There’s no excuse for talking to us that way. If this were my business, I’d fire her on the spot!”
“Spoken like the Donald himself,” Kyle grinned. I punched him lightly on the arm. “So did you have a good birthday?” he asked.
“My mother gave me these,” I said, pulling my hair back to show off my new earrings.
“Nice,” said Kyle. “How is your mother anyway?” His cheerful face clouded somewhat.
Fine
was on the tip of my tongue, but I resisted. “I was supposed to go to dinner with her tonight, but she wasn’t feeling well. She has this terrible cough. She had it when she first got sick, but then it went away for a while. Now it’s back again. I’m not sure what it means. Could just be a cold. Chemo and cancer really lower a person’s immune system.”
We were silent for a while. Finally, Kyle said, “I’ve never been through anything like that. I bet it’s tough.” He placed his hand over my own. I nodded and stared at my lap. It
was
tough. And
scary
. And
very
lonely. And it was definitely anything,
anything,
but fine.
The food came, and the hamburger was a mixture of grease and gristle. With each bite, my stomach twisted into a tighter knot. Morbid thoughts tumbled through my head like gymnasts.
What if this wasn’t my last fat birthday? What if it turned out to be my last birthday with Mother?
“I have to go to the girls’ room,” I announced suddenly, feeling as if I’d been struck with amoebic dysentery. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Okay.” Kyle nodded and slurped his banana cream shake.
Quickly, I crossed the parking lot and tried not to look like someone from a you-never-know-where-you’ll-be-when-diarrhea -strikes commercial. I banged into the foul-smelling restroom (clearly
I
wasn’t the only one with intestinal issues) and let nature do its thing. Someone with chipped pink toenail polish and ragged Birkenstocks occupied the stall next to mine. I finished before Birkenstocks and hurried out to the sink to avoid embarrassing public-restroom eye contact.
But before I could escape, Birkenstocks was right beside me. “Don’t I know you?” the woman asked suddenly. “Heavenly Hair,” she said. “That’s where I’ve seen you. Oh, these burgers just tear my stomach up. Spastic colon,” she confessed. To my horror, I recognized her, too. Kyle Cox’s mother! “Don’t you dare tell Rose Warren you saw me,” she went on. “I promised I’d get back for regular touch-ups and a trim. Another New Year’s resolution down the toilet,” said Mrs. Cox, laughing at her pun.
Her khaki trousers were baggy, and the white oxford button-down she wore looked like something she’d swiped from her husband’s closet (or perhaps her large son’s). She wasn’t bad-looking. In spite of her wide, rumpled appearance, she was pleasantly efficient and sturdy in an earthy sort of way. “How is Rose Warren doing?” asked Mrs. Cox.
“She’s doing well,” I lied. Mrs. Cox had no idea I was Rose Warren’s daughter (that day at the salon I’d avoided introductions) . Obviously, she didn’t realize I was her son’s date either. I tossed a paper towel into the trash and inched toward the door. “Well, it was nice seeing you again,” I said politely and bolted. We could meet each other officially another day, preferably when we hadn’t just pooped side by side!
Just as I rounded the corner, I saw a thin, weathered-looking man leaning on the squawk box next to Kyle’s Suburban. Mr. Cox, I guessed. “My mom and dad are here,” said Kyle as I climbed back into the front seat. “Isn’t that funny?” I could tell by the way he said it he did
not
think it was funny. “They didn’t follow us here or anything weird like that. It’s just a coincidence.”
“I’m Fred Cox,” said Mr. Cox. “Oh, here comes the wife now.” Mr. Cox was rather small for a man, not at all the way I’d pictured, but he was handsome: dark eyes, strong smile. His hair was just like Kyle’s, thick curls, except steely gray in color instead of brown. Kyle had obviously inherited his mother’s bulky size.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, reaching over Kyle to shake Mr. Cox’s outstretched hand. “I’m Rosemary.”
“Well, of all things!” Mrs. Cox laughed when she saw me in the front seat beside her son. “
You’re
Rosemary?” I nodded. “You’re Rose Warren’s daughter?” I nodded again. “Well, I had no idea! We just met in the potty,” Mrs. Cox explained. I searched the woman’s face for a my-son-could-certainly-do-better-than-you look, but it never came. In fact, when Kyle wasn’t watching, Mrs. Cox winked and thrust two Pepto-Bismol tablets into my hand.
“Your mom’s nice,” I said when they’d gone.
“I’m lucky,” said Kyle. “I actually like my parents. Mama’s pretty strict at times, but she’s a great cook, so that makes up for it.” He looked at me and grinned. “Are you and your mom close?” he asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” I said. The words came out of my mouth before I considered how weird they sounded. “We fight sometimes, mostly about my aunt.”
“Why would you fight about your aunt?”
“I don’t know that either,” I said, and laughed. “Guess that’s why I’m in therapy. You know, to figure it all out.”
Why not tell Kyle about my flatulence troubles, too! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!
“You seem like the last girl who’d need therapy,” said Kyle.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I mean you’re a perfect student. You’re nice. You’re pretty. You’re
not
a Bluebird. You seem totally normal to me.”
“I do?”
Kyle nodded, and I could tell by the open expression on his face that he was interested in my story. Instinctively, I knew a person should seem as perfect as she possibly could be on a date. Otherwise, why go to all the trouble of looking your best if you’re just going to ruin it by announcing your personality flaws? Somehow that thought hadn’t worked its way down to my tongue yet, though.
“You’ve probably noticed I have . . . um . . . weight issues,” I went on. “I mean, well . . . of course you’ve noticed.” I laughed, but it wasn’t funny. Heat crept into my face, and I felt strange, all of a sudden, as if I might burst into tears or have to run to the bathroom again. I swallowed hard and rolled down the window. I was sweating now, too.
Lovely,
I thought.
A fat, emotional girl with diarrhea and personal problems who also sweats profusely.
“Anyway, that’s why I go.”
“I guess we all have something to deal with.” Kyle shrugged.
I figured Kyle would take me home right away, drive up to my house, and toss me onto the curb like a Sunday paper. Instead, he headed toward the park. The night was warm, too warm for boots and tights and skirts and sweaters (just when I had a cute outfit I could actually fit into for winter, it was already spring— the story of my life). Kyle switched off the engine but left the radio on and spread a ratty-looking blanket across the grass. We sat with our backs against a tree and listened to the Temptations turned down low.
I felt an overwhelming urge to ask Kyle what he
really
thought about my fatness, to pluck opinions out of his head like feathers, but instead I let it go and enjoyed the pleasure of his warm lips on mine.
Mother was asleep, of course, when I got home. There was a present on my bed, which I didn’t bother opening. I knew it was from Aunt Mary. I thought back to Kyle’s question earlier in the night: “Why would you fight about your aunt?”
The room felt cramped and hot. I pulled off my boots and tights, flung my skirt and sweater over the treadmill, and raised the window. A breeze ruffled the curtains and eased its way into my tight little room. I switched off all the lights except for the one on my bedside table and lay on top of the covers. I got up again and retrieved Mother’s box of mementos. Closely, I examined the old prom picture—Mother’s dazed expression, her pearls, Aunt Mary’s pink dress and the way she leaned into Mother and squeezed her arm. The neighbor’s porch light clicked on and cast a shadow across my wall. Her dog barked, and somehow the interruption provided clarity.
It was Mother and Aunt Mary’s impenetrable closeness I so resented. The ever-present feeling of being on the outside looking in.
chapter twenty-six
Real Friends
All through study hall Kyle kept looking at me. I’d be working on something, feel his eyes on me, glance up, and he’d smile. This happened
four
times. I wish I could just enjoy his attention and not question it so much. He’s brought me flowers, taken me out. He calls me, and considering his sports schedule, that’s saying a lot. He even tells me I look pretty,
and
he laughs at my sarcasm. Most people don’t even
get
my sarcasm (except for Richard, of course).
Mrs. Wallace said this would happen. She said, “You can change the exterior in a fairly short period of time, but the heart takes a whole lot longer.” Still, I think if I could reach my goal weight of 120 pounds, I’d feel much better about our chances. At least then if some really cute, skinny girl decided to go after him, I’d have a fighting chance. I said this very thing to Kay-Kay during our run this morning, and she stopped right in her tracks—she didn’t seem to care that she was trashing her heart rate.
“Rosemary!” she scolded. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. You can’t lose weight for somebody else. You have to lose it for you! It sounds cliché and all, but it’s true.”
“I know,” I said.
“Personally, I think you’ve been chewing way too much gum and not eating enough real food. I swear, it’s affecting your brain. Kyle Cox is the least shallow person I’ve ever known, and he thinks you’re perfect. I can promise you that whether you lose ten pounds or gain ten, he’s not gonna care one bit! You’re pretty, Rosie.”
I rolled my eyes. “You are!” she insisted.
“Our heart rates are going down,” I reminded her. Suddenly, I was sorry I’d brought it up.
“Do you know what Kyle said to me one day before he even
knew
you?” she went on. I shook my head. “Well, for starters his mama has always been all over him to get a social life. I kept trying to suggest different girls, but he said he had something specific in mind.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“He said he wanted a girl who didn’t think he was a weirdo because he liked to watch reruns of
Soul Train
and drive through the car wash, listening to oldies tunes. And he said his mama would kill him if she ever caught him at one of those keg parties out on Glen Mill Road, so she couldn’t be the hard-core party-girl type either. He said he needed someone real; otherwise, he’d just as soon spend Saturday nights eating his mama’s lasagna and homemade rolls.” For a second my mind fixated on the homemade rolls. Kay-Kay looked at me bug-eyed. “He likes you for you, dork!” she teased and flicked me on the head. Before I could flick her back, she took off running again.
After we’d finished our three-mile run and half-mile cool down, Kay-Kay and I climbed the few steps to the courthouse square and stretched our quads and hamstrings in the damp grass. It was a hazy morning, but you could tell by the color of the sky it was going to be a pretty day. We must’ve been quite a contrast—Kay-Kay, lithe and fit and flexible, and me, big and clunky and stiff. The Spring Hill town clock clanged noisily above our heads, and I waited for it to stop. “So how long have you been doing this?” I asked when it finally did.
Kay-Kay was flat on her back with both legs stretched backward over the top of her head. “This is called the plow,” she informed me. “You should try it. I’ve been running since I was eight.”
“I don’t think so,” I replied about the plow. “You’ve been running since you were
eight
?”
Kay-Kay flipped her legs back over again and sat up in the grass. “Some teacher said I had attention deficit disorder. They did all these evaluations and tests and stuff and decided I needed to be medicated.”
“I didn’t know you had ADD,” I said.
“Oh, I had ADD, all right,” said Kay-Kay. “I renamed ADD to mean Always Doing Drills. It was no shocker that I couldn’t pay attention. Mrs. Lunn was so damn boring. I swear, that’s all we did in her class the entire year—drills. No wonder I couldn’t sit still. Just to shut her up, Daddy promised to monitor my diet and increase my activity level. What that really meant was I had to give up Frosted Flakes, and he got me up at the crack of dawn to go running every morning before school.”
“Did it work?” I asked.
“Yeah. I was too tired to cause any more trouble. The good part was it made me love running. Exercise is my one true addiction.” Kay-Kay looked down at her neon pink nails self-consciously. A breeze rippled through the trees, and the leaves made a scratchy sound, like sandpaper. “I know you probably think I’m some lunatic after the Sundown episode. I never did apologize or thank you properly. I’ll always be grateful to you for that night, Rosie.”
“It’s okay,” I said.
“I was just having a bad time with all the Bluebird stuff.”
I shrugged. “Does your dad still run with you?” I asked, somewhat concerned that Kay-Kay’s father might just show up one morning.
“Naw. When Mama ran off with Sam Harris, that man who used to own the hardware store out on the Nashville Highway, Daddy quit running. He quit everything, really. Except his job; he’s a builder. And ESPN and the Weather Channel. He’d never quit watching ESPN and the Weather Channel.”
Since Kay-Kay hadn’t included herself in this list, I wondered if Mr. Reese had quit her, too, but there was no time to get into it just then. We both had to head home and get ready for school.
Kay-Kay and I went in opposite directions, but on this particular morning, I was actually glad to be alone. I had the time and the quiet to think. Back before Christmas, I’d have been in bed still, probably dreaming about Krispy Kremes. Now I was getting up at the crack of dawn and running with Kay-Kay Reese, sharing the most intimate details of her life (which wasn’t nearly as perfect as I’d envisioned). And we were becoming friends.
Real friends
.
At home, I peeled off my sweaty clothes and stood in front of the mirror. I was a
real
girl, all right—a little too real, in fact. Shiny stretch marks streaked my sides and hips and thighs, almost as if they’d been cut there with a sharp knife (instead of with a dinner fork). Everything about me was plus-sized, but definitely
less
plus-sized than before.
My face was sweat-stained and gritty from the morning’s run, but clear, not a pimple in sight. And my pores were exceptionally small, especially for a hormonal teenager. My eyes were shiny and wide with long lashes, even without mascara, and my teeth were naturally straight. I had never endured the medieval torture of braces or retainers. “You’re pretty,” I heard Kay-Kay say again. Kyle had said it, too, that night at Frankie’s Carhop. It hadn’t stood out so much since it was lumped in with
nice
,
not a Bluebird
,
smart
, and
normal
, but he had said it.
Standing there at the mirror, I could almost see what they were talking about. I could almost feel hope latching onto my heart and pulling it upward.
chapter twenty-seven
4 ROSIE
Mother was supposed to have her third chemo treatment this morning, but Dr. Nelson, her cancer doc, said her lungs were infected, which explains the most recent coughing fits. Dr. Nelson was about to put her in the hospital, but Mother talked him out of it. According to Aunt Mary, Mother told him she’s a single mom and has a child at home (I doubt she mentioned her
child
is sixteen). So Dr. Nelson gave her medicine and strict orders to slow down. Yeah, right. Mother’s going to slow down the day Misty Winters turns nice.
The worst part is that now Mother has to
wait
to get her next treatment, a thought that terrifies me. In my head, those Hodgkin’s cells look like tiny baseball players, and they have
H
’s sewn onto their caps. The Chemos have
C
’s. It’s the third inning and the Chemos are down by a few points.
Why did this have to happen? Why did my mother have to get cancer?
Even after her long day in Nashville with doctors and nurses and all kinds of tests, Mother insisted I keep my appointment with Mrs. Wallace. I didn’t bother protesting. Mrs. Wallace greeted us, then led me down the hallway. Between the waiting area and her office, there were a few hundred square feet and two doors. Still, we could hear Mother coughing.
“I really don’t think she should be sitting out there,” said Mrs. Wallace.
“Oh, she’s not contagious,” I said. Truthfully, I wasn’t so sure about this.
“It’s not
that
!” said Mrs. Wallace. “I just don’t think your mother should be sitting in a germy waiting room. She’s very susceptible to infection right now.”
Instead of keeping me the full half hour, Mrs. Wallace gave me my next homework assignment and sent me on my way. For next week, I’m to write a letter to Mother and tell her exactly how I feel about things. I don’t have to send the letter; I simply have to write it. For Mrs. Edinburgh, I just finished a ten-page critical case study on William Faulkner. For Mother, I can’t imagine writing even the most basic letter.
By the time we got home, Mother could barely drag herself inside. I tried not to panic. I tried not to let my mind wander to meds not working or cancer cells multiplying or the absence of chemo drugs. Instead, I made dinner for Mother. I opened a can of tomato soup, toasted a grilled cheese sandwich, and poured a glass of milk. It smelled delicious, but I had already sucked down my evening Pounds-Away.
Tray in hand, I stood in her doorway. The room was dark except for the glow of the television, and Mother wasn’t even watching it. Her back was toward the television, and she was buried beneath pillows and eiderdown. Quietly, I took the tray back to the kitchen, then slipped inside Mother’s room again and eased myself into the chair by the door. Keeping watch somehow, but for what I wasn’t sure.
The bedroom was filled with the scent of her—freshly laundered sheets, a hint of lavender from a bureau drawer left slightly ajar, a vase of just-past-their-prime roses, Chanel No. 5. It struck me then how all the little distinctive fragrances blended together to create Mother’s own signature perfume, a smell I’d always taken for granted. She wore it the way she wore her smooth skin or her eye color—it was simply a part of her. I breathed it in, savored it as if it were apple pie or the lilacs Kyle had brought.
Just as I was about to click off the television and head up to bed, Mother rolled over. “Come here,” she whispered, and patted the place beside her. Up close, in the glare of the television, I could see she’d been crying, but I knew better than to point it out. I shoved some pillows off the bed and sat down beside her, taking her small, cool hand into my own warm one. Before long, Mother was snoring softly. I struggled to keep my eyes open, and when I couldn’t any longer, I stretched out beside her. It wasn’t until sunlight filtered through the curtains that I woke up again.
By Wednesday, Mother insisted on going back to work. She was pale and weak, but her cough was better, and the fever was gone. No one said a word. We all knew Mother wouldn’t listen.
The rest of that week the Heavenly Hair climate felt odd. It’s always a crazy place to work, but this was not the usual Richard-nearly -swallowing-bobby-pins crazy or Mrs.-Brunson’s-hair-turning -green crazy or Mrs.-Tucker-ruining-her-color-by-adding-Tide -to-her-shampoo crazy. This kind of crazy was different—it was secretive, and it seemed directed toward me somehow.
Every time I hurried around a corner or banged through the front door or clomped up the basement steps, people stopped talking. Richard said it was my imagination. Miss Bertha claimed everyone was just admiring how good I looked. When I asked Drew, the new shampoo guy, about it, he said his spine was out of alignment and his ears had been ringing for days. With ringing ears, he couldn’t possibly know a thing.
On Friday morning just after my run, Mother came up the stairs. “I don’t know what you’ve got going on for the weekend, but don’t plan a thing for tonight,” she said. “And I’ll be picking you up after school, so don’t ride the bus.”
“Okay,” I said. Mother twisted her mouth sideways to keep from grinning and went back down to the kitchen again.
That afternoon, when the school day was finally over, I headed to the carpool line. Misty and Tara lurked by the flagpole, but for once they didn’t crack any fat jokes. Truthfully, I don’t think they saw me, since I normally ride the bus, and for once I wasn’t wearing black. I’d ordered a new outfit off the Internet—a floral-print skirt and a lacy white blouse with a camisole underneath.
The first thing I noticed were my sneakers. They were on the front seat of Mother’s car. “Why’d you bring those?” I asked.
Mother looked at me and smiled. “Because I nearly failed
my
driver’s test in a pair of high heels.”
“Are you serious?” I asked. “We’re going right now?” Mother nodded.
Just as Mother pulled into a parking space at the Motor Vehicle Administration, the heavens opened up and hard rain pelted the Honda’s hood like quarters. “Wanna run for it or wait a minute? ” Mother asked.
“Do you
feel
like running for it?” I asked.
Mother groaned and rolled her eyes. Before I knew it, she was halfway across the parking lot, and I was trailing along after her.
A middle-aged woman with a very bad dye job looked up from behind the front desk. “Hidy,” she said. “You here to get a license?” I nodded. “Well, we don’t do driving tests in a deluge.”
“I can’t take the test?” I asked, alarmed.
The woman raised the dusty venetian blinds and peered out the rain-spattered window. “Oh, don’t worry, this’ll blow over in no time. You got to take the eye exam and the written part first anyways.”
Mother grabbed a wad of stiff paper towels from the restroom, and we dried ourselves off while the woman arranged the testing station. Rain was still coming down in slanted gray sheets.
Please stop
.
Please, please, please stop,
I prayed.
I earned a perfect score on the written and vision tests. Even the bad-dye-job lady, whose name turned out to be Juanita, was impressed. “Hardly anybody’s got eyes as good as yours,” Juanita said. She grinned, fluffing up her already-too-pouffy hairdo. “You see like a frickin’ hawk or something.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
“I told ya it’d slack off,” she said, nodding toward the window. “I’ll go get Finola. She’s the one that does the drivin’ part.”
Wearing khaki shorts and black kneesocks, Finola strode out of the back room like a drill sergeant. “Rosemary
Goode
!” she snapped, examining her clipboard. There was no one else in the room (except for Mother and Juanita), but I raised my hand anyway. “So let me get this straight,” Finola all but growled. “
You
want a
license
to
drive
in the
state
of
Tennessee
?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, hesitating. “But . . . I’d also like to drive in other states, too. You know, for the future. I mean, I’m not planning on driving out-of-state today or anything.” Juanita nearly fell off her chair laughing.
“That’s the second one today, Finola!” Juanita cried. “You have
got
to rephrase that line! Sugar, this license is good most anyplace,” Juanita explained.
Finola ignored Juanita. “Miss Goode, have you ever driven in precipitous conditions?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, fairly certain
precipitous
was an adjective that described something steep instead of something wet. I didn’t dare correct Finola, though.
Finola checked her watch. “Our ETA is sixteen hundred hours. Don’t forget to clock it, Juanita. Move out, Miss Goode,” Finola ordered. Juanita giggled. Mother gave me a look as if I were about to go in for triple bypass.
“Good luck,” Mother mouthed.
“Thanks,” I mouthed back.
I slid into the driver’s seat of Mother’s Honda, fastened my seat belt, and glanced at Finola. In the daylight, I could see her chin was covered with curly hairs, the most unsightly nest I’d ever seen. Heavenly Hair could make a fortune off Motor Vehicle Administration employees, I decided.
“Put your eyes on the road and keep them there,” said Finola. I started the car, released the parking brake, and shifted the gear to
D
. “You’re gonna head down to the town square, make a loop, and come all the way back here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, easing the car forward.
“I didn’t say
go
!” Finola barked. I slammed on the brakes, and our heads jerked forward. Finola grimaced. “Are you trying to
kill me
?”
“No, ma’am!”
“Because if you’re gonna try to kill me, we’ll just go right back inside and send you to driver’s ed all over again.”
“But I really
am
a very good driver,” I protested. Between two summers of driver’s education and Miss Bertha’s private lessons on our trips to and from Heavenly Hair, I really was very,
very
good.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Finola snapped. “All right,
now
you can go,” she said, nodding toward the road.
The rest of the test went smoothly. I stopped on red, slowed and proceeded with caution on yellow, looked both ways,
then
accelerated on green. I used turn signals for lane changes and kept both hands on the wheel. Even when Finola asked me a question, I remembered not to take my eyes off the road (Mr. Wigglesworth had tried that sneaky trick many times in driver’s ed).
Finally, I pulled into the Motor Vehicle Administration parking lot again and gave my most exquisite parallel parking demonstration. The clouds had parted slightly, and sunshine slipped through them like light under a door. I switched off the ignition and waited while Finola made red marks on her clipboard. “Here,” she said finally, shoving a slip of paper toward me. “Take this inside to Juanita. She’ll take your picture and get your license.”
“Really?” I cried.
“You’re an excellent driver,” said Finola begrudgingly.
“Head to Bertha’s,” said Mother when we were on the road again—this time
I
was driving.
“Why’re we going to Miss Bertha’s?” I asked. Mother didn’t look like she felt good enough to go anywhere except home.
“You’ll see,” said Mother. “Just drive.”
Miss Bertha was in the yard righting tipped-over flowerpots when we arrived. “Whose car is that?” I asked. A red Volkswagen was parked by the toolshed.
“I don’t know,” said Mother.
“Did you pass?” Miss Bertha hollered across the yard. I held up my driver’s license and raced toward her. Miss Bertha hugged me tightly. “Let me see it,” she said. “Now that’s just not fair. My license picture looks like something from a police lineup. Yours looks like
Seventeen
magazine.”
“Yeah, right,” I said, although it
was
a good picture. Still, I would’ve preferred the weight section had said 120 instead of 165. “Whose car is that?” I asked, pointing toward the toolshed. At that precise moment, I glanced toward the porch. A woman I didn’t recognize came out the front door. She smiled and waved at me. “Oh, my . . . Oh. My.
God!
Grandma Georgia!” I tore across the muddy yard and nearly knocked her over with my hug. “When did you get here?
How
did you get here? When did you get
red
hair?”
Grandma Georgia threw her head back and laughed. “Well, let’s see—this morning—by plane—and two months ago. When did
you
get so skinny?” she asked. She held me at arm’s length and looked me up and down. Actually, she just looked up and up. Grandma Georgia’s barely five feet tall and claims she’s shrinking all the time. “Oh, Rose Garden, you’re beautiful! So beautiful!” she said.
“Hi, Mama,” said Mother. “I like your hair.”
“Oh, Rose Warren. It’s so good to see you.” Grandma Georgia gave Mother a hug and stepped back to look at her just the way she’d looked at me. Mother was wearing her pink hat today, a slim-fitting pair of jeans, and a loose cotton blouse. “You look tired,” said Grandma Georgia finally. Her expression had changed from jovial to worried.
“Thanks a
lot
!” I knew Mother was trying to make a joke, but she came off stiff and defensive.

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