Dark Blue: Color Me Lonely with Bonus Content (12 page)

“I eat when I’m sad,” says the heavy blonde with the pretty blue eyes. Her pale arms are so flabby that they look like they’re literally pouring out of her bright red tent dress.

“I eat when I’m lonely,” says another heavy woman. She has short, dark hair and her face is so fat that I can’t even make out her neck and chin. It’s just like one big heap of flesh emerging from the neck of her blouse. Of course, she has facial features, but even those look unreal, as if they’ve been painted on. It’s hard for me to imagine that there’s a real live person living inside that enormous bulk of body.

“Food is my friend,” she continues in a dead-serious voice. “It never lets me down. It never hurts or disappoints me.”

“But it does make you fat,” drawls Dr. Bill in that no-nonsense southern drawl that I’ve come to love.

“That’s true,” she says sadly.

“So, I gotta ask, how’s that working for you?” he says. I smile at this question. It’s a Dr. Bill favorite.

She shakes her head, causing the loose skin around her neck to jiggle like a warm bowl of tapioca pudding. “Not so well, I guess.”

“So tell me, when did you first start putting on the weight?” he asks both of the women, speaking more gently now, like he’s trying to ease the answer out of them. “I want you both to try to remember the specific time when food and weight first started becoming a real problem for you.”

“It was back when I was a teenager,” the blonde finally says. “I was really sad because my best friend had moved away, and I was so lonely that I just started to eat. I realize now that it was mostly sweets and carbohydrates. But it was so satisfying. Food just
seemed to make my troubles melt away. It always made me feel—”

But before that woman can finish another sentence, I grab up the remote and turn off the TV. For a long time I sit staring at the blank TV screen and then I look down at the empty carton of ice cream still sitting in my lap. I feel slightly stunned as I consider my binge. And suddenly I want to gag myself and simply throw up. But I know enough about bulimia to realize that’s not such a great idea either.
What is wrong with me?

Totally disgusted with myself, I get up and head for the kitchen thinking that I’m probably going to turn out just like those poor women on Dr. Bill’s show. Maybe I already have. I pause by the mirror near the front door, but I’m almost afraid to look. Finally I do, bracing myself.

But I look just the same as always. Same face, same hair, same hopeless expression.

“What in the world is wrong with you?” I demand as I stare at my pitiful image. I shake my finger in my face. “You better watch out, Kara!” But even as I’m looking I can imagine myself growing bigger and bigger. Just like that little girl who turns into a giant blueberry in
Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
I can see myself eating and eating until I look exactly like those ladies. And for the first time, I think I can really understand how things like that can actually happen to real people. And for the first time, I realize something like that could actually happen to me. It might already be happening! And the mere idea of it is chilling.

I throw away the empty ice-cream carton and go straight to my room. I quickly change into my sweats and running shoes, barely bothering to tie them properly. There’s no time to waste. Okay, I realize there’s nothing I can do about what I’ve already consumed, but at least I can try to work some of those calories off.

And yet I feel slow and sluggish and
fat
as I plod through town. I am jogging more than running now, and before long my bloated stomach begins to complain. I stop and simply walk for a while. Clutching my aching middle, I head for the park, seriously hoping that I’m not about to hurl. Not that I wouldn’t mind losing all the crud that I consumed earlier. But the park is fairly crowded just now. There are kids playing soccer and people walking dogs and moms with little kids, and for whatever reason I just don’t care to make a complete fool of myself today.

I go down to the duck pond and flop my out-of-shape self onto the cement bench. I try to breathe deeply, trying to calm my upset and overtaxed digestive system. I watch the ducks going in and out of the water. Some waddle over and peer curiously at me, hoping, I’m sure, that I might have some handouts for them. I feel ashamed to think of that bag of chips that I selfishly inhaled about an hour ago. I could’ve brought it down here to my little duck friends.

“Next time,” I promise them. “I’ll bring you something really good next time.” I watch the big mallard, who keeps looking at me from the corner of his eye, almost like he’s flirting with me. I think I’d like to give him a name. Maybe I’ll call him Henry. Perhaps I’ll name all of these ducks. I begin thinking of good names. I like the sound of Gladys and Orville and Gertrude for my fine feathered friends.

But then I realize that these ducks, like everyone else in the rest of the world, already have their own circle of friends. And, most likely, I wouldn’t be welcome in their crowd either. I bend over and put my head in my hands, the defeated posture of a social wreck, a true reject, a total
loser.

And I wonder if I will ever fit into life again.

I
T SEEMS LIKE EVERYONE AT SCHOOL IS OBSESSED WITH THE
H
ARVEST
Dance this year. It’s at the end of the week and posters are plastered everywhere. I’ve heard through the grapevine that Jordan is going with Caleb Andrews. Caleb’s a really good-looking junior who’s part jock and part academic. I’m sure that Jordan must be feeling pretty pleased with herself right now.

I actually made a couple more feeble attempts to get Jeremy Thatcher’s attention this week, but it’s utterly hopeless. Maybe I should’ve focused my efforts on someone less inhibited than poor Jeremy. Now I’m afraid it’s too late. Why I even want to go to this stupid dance is way beyond me. I think I must simply be a glutton for punishment. Or maybe it’s just that the feeling of being left out of absolutely everything is really bumming me out.

As it turns out, even Amy and her motley group of friends have decided to go to the dance together.

“We’re going to be crashers,” says Amy with a twinkle in her eye. “We’ll dress up really cool and come late and then just rock out until we’ve had enough. Then we’ll split. It’ll be cool.”

“You mean you’re not going to show up with your new college boyfriend?” teases Felicia at lunchtime on Thursday.

Amy narrows her eyes. “I told you, Leon doesn’t know that I’m
still
in
high school.” She says this in a fairly uptight voice, and Felicia looks taken aback.

“How about you, Kara?” asks Felicia.

“Huh?” I look up from my current project. It’s a watercolor painting that’s not working out as well as I’d hoped. It’s supposed to be a tree behind a pond, but it’s looking more like a bush growing out of a mud puddle.

“She’s asking if you’re going to the dance,” says Amy, as if she’s a translator. Then she licks the tip of her drawing pencil and eyes me carefully. “So, are you?”

I shake my head and say, “Nah,” then return my attention to rinsing out my paintbrush.

“Why not?” demands Amy.

I look up at her and vaguely wonder what the correct answer to her impertinent question is supposed to be. “I don’t know,” I shrug. “Probably because no one has asked me.”

“You can go with us,” Amy says quickly.

I try to imagine myself with Amy and her wild friends. I feel pretty sure they’ll be getting high before “crashing” the dance. “Thanks,” I tell her. “But that’s okay.”

“Too good for us?” she asks, lifting one eyebrow in that intimidating way of hers.

I shake my head. “That’s not it. We’re just different, you know. I’m sure you guys will have a really great time. But I just don’t want to—”

“Why don’t you go with me?” says Edgar. I think that’s the first thing he’s said today.

“Huh?” I look at him incredulously. Did he really just say what I think he said? Judging by his expression, he probably did. Still, I cannot for the life of me imagine going to a dance, or anywhere else
for that matter, with Edgar Peebles. It’s not that I’m a snob really. At least I hope not. But everyone has to draw their line somewhere.

“Why don’t we go to the dance together, Kara?” he tries again. “It doesn’t need to be like a real date. We could just go together. Sort of like Felicia and Aaron, you know?”

I stare at him and hope I don’t look too horrified. “Oh, I don’t know, Edgar. I don’t really think—”

“Why not?” demands Amy. “You guys should just go and have fun.”

“But I—”

“I know what you’re thinking, Kara,” says Amy as she suddenly stands up and goes over to where Edgar is sitting at the end of the table. “You’re thinking what we’re all thinking. You’re thinking that Edgar is a geek.” She pats him affectionately on the head. “Sorry, Edgar, but it’s the truth.”

He makes a funny face then just shrugs. “Yeah, I know.”

I feel horrible for Edgar now. So much so that I almost feel like saying I’ll go to the dance with him. But honestly, I can only push myself so far.

“All right,” continues Amy, “so, we’ve established that Edgar is a geek. But we also know that he’s a nice guy, right?”

“Right,” echoes Felicia and I nod mutely.

“Okay.” Amy is pacing now. She reminds me of a mad scientist. “The thing is, people, geekiness is only skin deep. It’s just an image problem. And images are easily changed.” She holds out her hands as if to make a point. “Look at me. Everyone used to think I was a pushover. I had mousy brown hair and no visible personality. And then one day I’d just had enough. I looked in the mirror and decided to reinvent myself.” She snaps her fingers dramatically. “And, presto, here I am. Do you think anyone thinks I’m a pushover now?”

I just shake my head. If anything I would describe Amy as a bulldozer.

She nods. “See what I’m saying?”

“Not exactly,” I say in a timid voice. All I can think is that I’d like to get out of here, but according to the clock we still have twenty minutes.

“Okay, what if I give Edgar here a makeover—”

“Wait a minute,” says Edgar. “Do I have a vote in this?”

Amy gives him a playful shove. “Just chill for a minute.”

“But you can’t just force someone to have a makeover, Amy,” says Felicia.

Amy frowns. “Why not?”

I laugh now. Leave it to Amy to believe she can get her way regardless of anything. “Amy,” I say. “Edgar would probably feel ridiculous if you made him look like you and your friends. No offense, I think it really works for you. But Edgar is different.”

“Well, I know
that,”
says Amy like she thinks I’m an idiot. “I wasn’t going to make Edgar over to look like me or my friends. I was just going to make him look like Edgar, only the cool version.”

“The cool version?” Now Edgar is looking interested.

“Yeah,” says Amy with enthusiasm. “We’ll cut your hair and get you some cool duds and you’ll be a whole new guy.”

Edgar seems to be considering this now and I’m feeling nervous. “But I don’t—”

“I’ll do it!” says Edgar with more enthusiasm than I’ve ever seen come from him. “I’ve been asking God to do something to change me,” he continues eagerly. “I’ve been praying to become the kind of guy that other people will listen to.”

“See!” Amy points her finger triumphantly at him. “God must work in mysterious ways!”

“I guess so,” says Edgar. “Do you really think you can do this?”

Amy nods then she turns to me. “So, Kara, are you in?”

“In?”

“Yeah, if I can make over Edgar so that he’s not a geek, will you go to the dance with him?”

I don’t know what to say. Either answer, yes or no, would be open for misinterpretation. “I don’t know . . . ”

“Come on, Kara, be a sport,” says Felicia. “If Edgar is willing to have a makeover, you should be willing to go to the dance with him.”

“Besides,” says Amy, “what do you have to lose? Your best friend dumped you for a bunch of shallow social climbers anyway. Do you want to be like her?”

“But it’s so—”

“Here’s the deal,” says Amy suddenly. “How about if I give Edgar the makeover and if you see him and are still worried about going to the dance, then you don’t have to. Okay?”

“Well . . . ”

“And I’ll do it tonight so that you can see him tomorrow,” she offers. “You don’t even have to decide until then. Okay?”

Now I’m thinking that’s probably a safe agreement. Chances are I won’t have to go out with Edgar at all. “Okay,” I say with some reservation.

“Really?” says Edgar with hopeful eyes.

I feel like I’m going to be sick. “Really,” I say in a flat voice. What am I getting myself into? Maybe I really will be sick tomorrow.

“If you don’t like how Edgar looks, you don’t have to go,” promises Amy. Then she grabs Edgar by both hands and makes him stand up. She looks at him then laughs. “This is gonna be fun!”

Poor Edgar!
I’m thinking as I finally leave the art room and head for my next class. What am I thinking?
Poor me!
And what on earth
have I gotten myself into? I can just imagine Jordan’s reaction when she sees me at the dance with Edgar Peebles.

But by the end of the day, I’m thinking maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing, really. I’m thinking that it might be worth going out with Edgar for no other reason than to put myself right in Jordan Ferguson’s snooty face. Suddenly I can imagine myself at the dance with Edgar, Class Geek. I can see us walking right up to Jordan and Caleb and I would say something like, “Hey, Jordan, I like your dress. Did Abbie help you pick it out? How’s your mom doing anyway? Did your dad ever finish restoring that Harley yet? Make sure you tell Leah hi for me. I saw her at the grocery store last week and I just love what she’s done with her hair.” Oh, I could go on and on, and Jordan would be stuck standing there with her
ex-
best friend and the geek. Or maybe we’d just be the geek couple. Oh, I’m thinking it might be absolutely divine. If only I could work up the nerve.

But by Friday morning I am feeling seriously worried. I don’t think there’s any way I can pull this off. I know it will hurt Edgar’s feelings to back out of this. But then he’s such a nice guy, and a Christian to boot. I’m sure he’ll forgive me in time.