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I tilt my head to the side. “Well, what?”

“Well aren’t you going to yell at me? Make a face? Anything?”

I yank out my other earbud. “Cara, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” It is then that I hear the saxophone and register where I am. Cara has dragged me to the auditorium. More specifically, to the talent show tryouts.

“Why am I here, Cara?”

“You know.”

“I know nothing.”

“Well, I know that you have an amazing voice. Why are you acting so weird today? You’re like a zombie,” she says. “Is it because of what I said this morning? All I meant was that we have to be careful or, you know, we won’t get to go to anymore parties. I didn’t mean to yell at you or anything.”

I nod slowly. I think she just apologized to me, but I’m not sure. However, I
am
sure that I’m not getting onstage. “Cara, I am not, repeat not, trying out for the talent show. Period. End of story.”

“I already signed you up. You’re singing the Sarah McLachlan song about the angel. Get over it.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.” I am not in the mood to be around people, let alone in front of an audience. Not today.

“What? I shouldn’t look out for my best friend? Give you the chance to share your voice with the world? Oh, poor, poor Dell. My-life-sucks Dell. I’m-just-going-to-boo-hoo-through-the-rest-of-my-junior-year-feeling-sorry-for-myself Dell. Suck it up. Life blows sometimes. It happens to everyone. This will be good for you. You are going to try out, and you are going to make it. And you are going to amaze everyone with your talent.” Then she adds, in a full-on-imitation of me, “Period. End of story. Good night. The end.”

She called me her best friend. Those words twinkle like stars in the darkness.

I guess she told me.

I guess I’m trying out for the talent show.

I guess I have as good a shot as anyone else here.

I guess Cara has slightly redeemed herself as my best friend.

I guess I’m going to need something to wear if I make it.

Someone announces that it’s my turn to try out. I take a deep breath and make my way to the stage. I
guess
I’m doing this. I’m about to start singing a capella, when music comes from the speakers. Cara must’ve given them a karaoke version. I open and close my hands as I wait for my entry point. And I sing. I’m into the second verse when the strangest sensation starts in my fingers. It’s not bad, just weird, like tingling. It travels up my arms and settles in behind my face. Maybe the sensation is confidence, I don’t know. But I feel different.

I want to reach out and wrap my hands around the microphone, maybe even sway my hips to the music. I wish I could get into my performance—yank the microphone out of the stand, toss my hair around, fall to my knees. You know, like the divas do in their videos.

I don’t, though.

In the audience, Cara’s mouthing the words along with me, and after each line she gestures for me to smile. It’s weird, but I want to smile, so I do. It’s like the smile releases my
voice, because it goes louder and sounds even more powerful. I belt it out.

I come to the big finish and throw my head back, letting the last few words barrel out of me like a herd of elephants.

I beam. Cara’s clapping and jumping up and down. I forgive her for being bitchy this morning. Everyone else is cheering, and my smile widens so much it hurts. I can’t seem to think of any words to describe it.

Perfection, maybe.

I DO MY MATH HOMEWORK AT THE KITCHEN TABLE.
The apartment is silent except for the crunch of potato chips in my mouth. The only sound is my rhythmic chewing. I pick up the bag and read the nutrition information. “Twelve chips. Who eats twelve chips?” Whoever decides official serving sizes of food must have the appetite of a bird.

Brandon’s voice fills my head.
This never happened. Don’t tell anyone.
My leg bounces underneath the table. I think the part that hurts the most was how he laughed just before saying,
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
I swear I can still feel the warmth of his breath on my shoulder, like tattooed disgrace.

I’m finally crying. No, I’m dripping humiliation. I reach up and wipe my cheeks. What an asshole. I want to push Brandon down a flight of stairs and have him smash into pieces at the bottom. I want him so broken that he’s unrecognizable. Unable to hold any other girl down and tell her to “stay still.”

With a shaking hand, I reach into the bag of chips. Each handful fills my mouth with greasy, salty calm.

The bag is gone.

What else do I want? A sandwich, maybe? As I layer ham on cheese, I force myself to think of good things, like I’m pretty sure that I nailed my audition. Actually, I’m excited to see the talent show list tomorrow morning, which is funny, because if someone had told me yesterday that I would care about this list, I think I’d have laughed in their face. Maybe even added a knee slap.

But I want to make it.

I swallow my last bite of sandwich and allow the food to fill up every empty space. A deep sense of calm settles over me. I feel safe. And as I sit in my food-induced peace, it comes to me—I know why I care. When I was up onstage, I got lost in the moment. My voice filled the auditorium. No one mooed. No one made an inappropriate joke or sound of any kind. After I finished, everyone in the auditorium clapped and hooted.

Standing onstage, with people cheering for me, filled me with so much contentment, even more than any bag of chips or sandwich could. I overflowed like a pot of spaghetti, bubbling with intensity, boiling over the stage. That was me. An intense, boiling pot of spaghetti.

•  •  •

I literally run into Brandon as I’m rounding the corner on my way to lunch. As in, I knock him down and he lands flat on his ass. I burst into nervous laughter.

This pisses him off. “Dude! What’s your problem?” He pulls himself up and scowls, glancing around to see if anyone saw him crash into the Adele-wall. The hallway is almost empty because the bell already rang, which is why I was hurrying in the first place. I’m late. To lunch. My favorite period.

“I didn’t do it on purpose, Brandon.”

He takes off his baseball hat, runs his hands through his hair, and puts the hat back on. “I have a game today.”

I have no idea what that has to do with anything. “Huh?”

Looking through me, he says, “I have a game, and I don’t need any injuries effing it up. Scouts are coming today.”

“Oh.” I feel small right now. Like a flea on a rat. And the rat is Brandon Levitt.

He jogs down the hall, ending our first post-sex conversation. Clearly he wants to forget what he did. Clearly he has no
intention of apologizing. Clearly he wants nothing to do with me. Clearly he is a total dick.

This hollows me out again. Air and life have left my body. I’m empty. I don’t know how I’m standing. I should be a big pile of flesh—a misshapen mound of skin in everyone’s way—needing to be shoveled into a trash bag and thrown into the Dumpster behind the school. By two people.

I somehow make it to the cafeteria and Cara plops down next to me with her usual salad. “They haven’t posted the list yet. I just checked.”

I’m in midchew so I nod. I want to believe everything is back to normal between us. She’s definitely acting regular right now. But I wonder if Cara would still sit with me if Sydney or her friends were in this lunch period. I imagine me sitting alone with my tray while Cara sits with her skinny, gorgeous new friends.

My eye twitches in reaction to my vision-o-awful, and I cringe.

“Stop making faces, Dell. I know you made it. I don’t know about me. That freshman kid may have beaten me. Do you think they’d have two piano players?” She looks down at my tray. “What are you eating?”

“You were way better than him, Cara. And it’s called a salad.” If I make it into the talent show, I’ll need a cute dress,
so I decided to go on a diet. I should try and drop, oh, I don’t know, like, a hundred and fifty pounds so I look normal onstage.

“Salad? Since when do you eat salad?” She rolls her eyes. “Wait. Are you on a diet? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. You think you’re getting in, don’t you?” She takes a sip of her water bottle. “It’s a good idea, and even if I don’t get in, I want to go shopping with you, because you are so getting in.”

That was a one-sided conversation.
I do kind of think I’m getting in, but I still say, “You don’t know that.”

“Are we doing this again? This ‘what I know versus what you know’ shit? Because listen closely, Dell, you are in. I know it. You blew the roof off the auditorium. Your eyes sparkled like diamonds up there. You should’ve heard what kids were saying out in the audience. Melissa was freaking out.”

I felt it. I saw it. I still like to hear Cara say it. Somehow it makes it even more real. I shrug.

“Deny it all you want, people were going nuts, Dell. Melissa kept asking me if I knew you could sing like that. I swear I saw Mrs. Salvatore wipe away a tear. Don’t even act like you don’t know you made it. Puh-leeze.” She takes a bite of her salad. “You owe me.”

“Oh, okay. Right. So I owe you for sneaking behind my back and signing me up for something I didn’t want to do
in the first place?” I’m just messing with her. I’m glad Cara pushed me. I wouldn’t have auditioned unless she did what she did.

Cara grins and pelts my shoulder with a cherry tomato. “You bitch.”

I stick my tongue out at her and go back to eating. My eyes wander from my tray to Cara’s.
My
salad is covered with ranch. There’s no green showing at all. It’s all white. My lettuce is drowning in dressing, but it still has to be fewer calories and less fat than my typical double cheeseburger, large cheese fries, and large soda. Maybe I’ll just starve myself. I must have enough body fat to keep me alive for at least a year.

“When do you want to go shopping?” she asks. “Since you don’t have softball practice anymore, we could go right after school.”

Shopping is awful.

I haven’t shopped for clothes with Cara since I gained the last forty pounds. And the last time we did, it was a catastrophe. That was when I found out that the clothes in regular shops no longer fit me. The stores we usually went to only went up to size sixteen. I tried stuffing myself into size-sixteen jeans for at least five minutes. After I’d accidentally busted the zipper and was hiding the pants in the rack, Cara popped out of her dressing room, asking if her jeans (size six) made her butt look
big. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying.

I tasted blood for ten minutes straight.

I swallowed the bitter iron taste in my mouth and admitted that nothing fit me. Cara tried to help by suggesting we see if Large and Lovely had anything cute. Large and Lovely is the shop we
used
to walk by, giggle, and call the “Fat Lady Store.” I faked stomach cramps and went home. Now I avoid clothing stores whenever we hit the mall and put my full concentration on the food court.

“I don’t know. What would I do with Meggie?”

“Isn’t Meggie at day care?” Cara asks.

My stomach bottoms out. I can’t go dress shopping with her. I have to get out of this. “Yeah, but I can’t be late picking her up. We’d only have, like, twenty minutes to shop by the time we got to the mall. My mom gets charged two bucks for every minute I’m late. It’ll be a hassle.”

“Dell!” Cara hits the table with her closed fist. “This is important!”

“Relax.”

“You’re not going onstage in a T-shirt and jeans. Seriously,” she says.

“I know. God, you are a pain in my ass. I’ll figure it out.”

Figure what out?
the voice in my head antagonizes.
You’re not going shopping. You’re dropping out of the show. You have no
nice clothes that fit you. Your mother works two jobs and spends any leftover money on diapers and pills. Your father’s extra coin goes directly to the one and only Donna Dumbass. You have no money. You are enormous. But you’ll figure it out.

Right.

IF LUNCH IS MY FAVORITE SUBJECT, YOU’D FULLY
expect that phys ed would be the fat girl’s nemesis. It is, but it’s not because I’m unathletic (I could probably
out
-athletic 80 percent of the guys in my class); it’s the changing for gym and getting undressed part that makes me want to throw on an invisibility cloak. Taryn and Sydney are in my gym class, and so is my former teammate Amy. And having anyone—especially those three—see me without my clothes on isn’t going to happen.

I’ve developed a system for the days I have gym. I wear my gym shorts all day, then I dart to the locker room like a lunatic
so I can throw on my T-shirt before everyone else arrives, then wait on the bleachers for all of the slow/skinny people.

Darting anywhere is difficult, so I’m sitting and panting when Coach Lein walks into the gym with a bundle of rope over his shoulder. “A little help, Turner.”