Running Lean (4 page)

Had she always been that insecure?

“Tell you what,” Tyler said, shrugging his shoulders. “Call her and invite her to hang out with us tonight. You, me, and Flannery. See what happens.”

Calvin swung away, paced in a circle, then came back. “It’s just, I mean, she doesn’t ride a bike, man. We ride and talk about bike stuff, and she feels left out. That’s gotta be it. And maybe she’s jealous of Flannery because Flan can do stuff she can’t. You know?”

“Ask her. I bet she won’t come. Even if all we’re doing is watching television.”

Calvin looked toward the house, avoiding a response. A light clicked on by the living room window. Dinner was over and Dad was probably settling in to watch his shows. Outside, the colors were fading, the golden light turning gray fast.

“I gotta go in,” Calvin said.

Tyler took an audible breath and pivoted toward the SUV. He lifted his helmet off the Kawasaki’s handlebars and fidgeted with the vent holes on top. “I hope I’m wrong. Maybe something at home’s got her messed up right now. I hope all this turns out to be no big deal. I’m going to pray for that.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Calvin mumbled, turning his gaze toward his boots. Tyler’s answer to everything: he’d pray about it. Maybe it wasn’t very Christian of him, but Calvin wanted answers, not more of Tyler’s prayers. Prayers hadn’t helped him feel better about Michael—

“I gotta get home,” Tyler said. “Thanks for your help. The bike’s running great.” He edged backward along the side of the SUV. “Really, I hope Stacey’s okay and that y’all can work this out. Call if you want to go do something tonight. I’ll pick you up.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Standing next to his busted motorcycle, Calvin watched Tyler drive off. When the SUV and its small trailer disappeared around a curve, Calvin sighed and turned to push the Yamaha up the driveway. He parked it next to Dad’s big tool chest in the workshop, set his helmet on the shelf, and closed the workshop door. Finally he slumped against the rough wood siding of the building.

His first real girlfriend. What did they have in common, really? They’d seen each other in the hallway by their morning science classes, chatted online, and he’d invited her to a youth event at his church. Her family didn’t go to church much, so Stacey started coming with him on some Sundays. She was funny and sweet, and so talented and pretty that at first Calvin felt she was out of his league. When he asked her to Homecoming and she said yes, he walked around grinning for a week. Then Michael got killed in Afghanistan. Stacey became like an appendage, always at his side, always willing to listen and cry with him. Flannery and Tyler tried, but most of the time they didn’t know what to say or do.

I’ll pray for you. I’ll pray for your family. May the peace that passes all understanding …

Stacey never promised anything. She was just there. Always. She loved him whether he was angry or moody or doing crazy stuff on his bike to run away from the pain.

But she didn’t rule him. No way. And this super strict dieting stuff was too weird. It was making her sick, and it had to stop.

Mom poked her head out the back door. “Where have you been? You were supposed to be right back. Is Tyler still here?”

“No, he had to go,” Calvin grumbled. He banged his fist against the siding then walked toward his house, ignoring the ache in his ankle so his mother wouldn’t notice.

Mom held the door as he went in. “Your supper is in the microwave. You’ll have to heat it up if you want it hot.”

“Fine. I’ll heat it up.”

“Calvin, what’s the matter with you?”

He plodded toward the microwave in the kitchen. “My bike’s busted, okay?”

She followed him, her hands on her hips. “You’ll keep a civil tongue in your mouth or you won’t have that bike at all.”

“Sorry. How long should I heat this for?”

“Two minutes should be plenty.”

He punched in the numbers. “I’m sorry I was late. We had to push the bikes back.”

Mom hummed. “Tell your father what happened. I’m sure he’ll help you fix it.”

Calvin nodded. He watched the digits on the microwave tick down. Sure, maybe Dad could help him rig up a throttle cable, if Flannery’s father at the bike shop couldn’t find one. Provided Calvin could get his father to focus on anything but work and the television for ten minutes. Maybe working on something mechanical would get his attention, but if Calvin tried to talk to him about Stacey,
Dad would probably grunt and move his lips like he was chewing something while his eyes glazed over. He’d been like that since the funeral.

Michael would’ve given up sleep to get the Yamaha running again. And Michael would have listened to anything Calvin needed to talk about.

Calvin squeezed his eyes shut. He had to focus on what was important now.

Tyler was probably right, that Stacey would make some excuse or come up with some reason she needed to spend time alone with him rather than hang out again with Calvin’s friends. And if he pressed her about passing out, not eating, losing weight, freaking out about Flannery, even changing her hair, they’d argue about all that too. But she didn’t rule him. No way was Tyler right about that.

The microwave dinged and Calvin pulled out his dinner. The plate burned his fingers. He hissed and practically threw it onto the dining room table. Mom shot a glare at him from the kitchen sink. Holding back a groan, Calvin plopped down in a chair and tugged at his hair while he stabbed at not-so-fluffy-anymore mashed potatoes.

He’d get to the bottom of this mess, even if it meant getting into an argument with Stacey. He had to have some answers. Tonight.

T
he smaller Stacey cut her food, the easier it was to spread the bits around and make it appear as if she were actually eating. Like a magician directing the audience’s eyes away from the trick, as long as Stacey moved her utensils and raised her fork to her mouth, no one noticed what was on her plate, pushed to the sides, or hidden under a slice of bread.

Sirloin steak, pan-fried—
seriously, Mom?
—with sautéed mushrooms and onions. Corn on the cob dripping with butter before it hit Stacey’s plate, and a salad with every kind of topping including bacon bits and egg crumbles. Daddy’s favorite meal. The steak, with the mushrooms and onions scraped off, would be around three hundred calories for three ounces. Mom had given her twice that. The corn, with the butter, she estimated to be around one hundred calories. Stacey carefully trimmed the fat off the meat and cut it into miniscule pieces, and did surgery on the corn to extract half the kernels. She nudged acceptable portions to the good side of her plate. One hundred fifty calories. She pushed a little bit more to the bad side.

If Daddy were paying attention, he’d analyze her plate like a crime scene. But her sister’s one-woman revolt conveniently distracted her father’s eye.

“What am I supposed to do, sit around here and stare at the stupid television every night?” Renee said. “Excuse me, but I’m not into numbing my brain.”

Still in his khaki-colored uniform, Daddy shoveled a huge chunk of steak into his mouth. “You were out last night. You’re staying home tonight.”

Renee slapped her hand on the table, rattling her multitude of bracelets. “It’s Friday! And Preston promised his best friend we would be there for his band’s debut.”

Preston Stiles, the current boyfriend. His pretentious name befitted his family’s old-money status. But money obviously didn’t lift the guy above loser status in Daddy’s opinion.

Stacey raised her empty fork to her mouth, tasted a bit of saltiness on the tines, and pretended to chew. She glanced at her mother, who dabbed at her mouth with her perfectly pressed cloth napkin. Mom’s eyes were downcast. She wasn’t crying yet in an attempt to quell her oldest daughter’s rebellion, but she soon might be. And it wouldn’t work. Renee had hardened to Mom’s manipulation.

“What band?” Daddy glared suspiciously as his jowls worked at the wad of steak.

“Invite Preston over here, sweetheart,” Mom said.

Renee’s eyes widened at Mom, like she’d rather die than subject her boyfriend to the family, then she turned to glare back at Daddy. “Arbitrary Crush. They’re playing a club in Raleigh.”

Daddy jerked forward as if he’d choked on his food. He swallowed audibly. “Forget it. You’re not going to any club two hours away from home. Or even ten minutes from home. I’m not having a repeat of last week when you came home drunk.”

Mom’s fork clattered on her plate. “Stan, please! Do we have to bring that up again?”

“I’m nineteen years old. I can do what I want.” Renee crossed her
arms over her chest, pushing cleavage up through the deep neckline of her top.

Daddy’s face turned redder than his rare steak. “As long as you’re living in this house—”

Renee popped out of her seat, arms and flat-ironed hair flying. “I never asked to live in this house.
You’re
the one who decided we should move to this disgusting place. I
hate
it here!”

“We are here for
your
benefit.” Daddy pointed at her with his steak knife.

Tears brimming, Mom reached up and tried to catch Renee’s hand. “Renee, dear, can’t we just have a nice meal together? I made strawberry pie …”

Pie? On top of all this? Strawberries had only forty-six calories a cup, but they’d be smothered in sugary gel, and the pie crust … She’d have to check her book to be sure, but it had to be at least two hundred for a single slice.

Time to escape, Renee. Me too
.

Stacey arranged her napkin neatly on the table. No sudden movements. Nothing to attract anyone’s attention.

“Sit down, Renee. You’re not going,” Daddy said. “I won’t have you out with that older guy—”

“He’s twenty-two.”

“That’s old enough to buy booze, and that means he’s too old for you.”

“I’m full.” Stacey rose and leaned toward her mother to kiss her flushed cheek. “Good dinner, Mom. The steak was really tender.”

Mom glanced up at her with liquid blue eyes. Her utensils rested neatly beside her plate and her half-eaten meal. Mom’s fingers worked, pushing against her cuticles, ruining her manicure. She wouldn’t eat if she was upset, but she’d “nibble” later, after she calmed down, and that pie would be half gone before bedtime. And
she’d repair the damage done to her fingernails while watching television. Mom couldn’t leave any kind of mess alone.

The argument continued while Stacey rinsed her plate at the kitchen sink then fitted it in the dishwasher. The remains of her meal churned in the garbage disposal while Stacey washed her hands. Deception complete, execution flawless. Now if she could find a way to avoid the pie …

Strawberries!
Her stomach grumbled in a pathetic protest. Weakness tugged at Stacey’s mind.
Be strong. Go upstairs and do something. Think about something else
.

The doorbell rang as Stacey crossed the living room.

“That’s Preston. I’m going,” Renee announced.

Her parents’ complaints blended together as Renee rushed to the door. Stacey glided to the stairway, up and out of the line of fire.

“Stacey! Zoe’s here!”

Oh no. Daddy’s volatile mood would ricochet onto Zoe in a heartbeat. She should know better than to come here. Stacey pirouetted at the top of the stairs and galloped back down. Renee stormed past her going the other direction.

Zoe stood in the foyer, her shoulders nearly touching her ears, gray tear stains on her cheeks. A purple duffle bag hung from her two clenched fists.

“What happened?” Stacey hugged her friend before she could answer.

“Big fight with Mom,” Zoe said against Stacey’s shoulder. “Okay if I spend the night?”

Stacey peeked toward the dining room. Her mother collected the dishes while her father pronounced his judgment of errant daughters and delinquent boyfriends as if Renee could still hear him.

“Not a good time to ask.” Stacey clasped Zoe’s hand. “Come to my room. If anyone says anything, we’re doing homework.”

She pulled Zoe upstairs. Behind her closed door, she handed the girl a wet wipe. “So, how did you get here?”

Zoe removed her tears with two aggressive swipes. “The sleazeball drove me. Can you believe it? It was either that or steal Mom’s van.”

“Oh no. Was he drunk?”

“Not yet.” Zoe tossed her head as if shaking off rainwater. “Never mind. I don’t want to talk about it.” She pitched her stained duffle bag onto the floral panels of Grandma Jenny’s handmade quilt.

Stacey gasped. She reached toward the bag, then jerked her hand back and clasped her arms instead. She edged closer to the bed while Zoe looked around the room.

“Girl, we
have
to do something about this room.”

“What’s wrong with it?” With her friend’s attention diverted, Stacey lifted the dirty bag off the bed and placed it on the floor.

She knew what was wrong with her room—at least what Zoe would say was wrong. Country craft with a touch of fantasy. Frilly and feminine, sweetness and light. The same style she’d had since third grade, which Mom had meticulously transferred to the new house when the family moved from Rocky Mount. A few pieces of Stacey’s artwork, professionally framed, were all Mom would allow. It wasn’t a bad room, overall. It just wasn’t … relevant.

“White furniture, pink roses, and
dolls
?” Zoe pointed an accusing finger at the collection of heirloom porcelain dolls that lived on lace-lined shelves in a white hutch. “If I wake up and see visions of kittens with wings, I will
not
be responsible for what happens.”

Stacey smiled. “Aw! You don’t like angel kitties?”

“Oh, I like ‘em just fine. Roasted on a stick.”

This brought a giggle. “You’re so nasty.”

“That’s why you love me.”

Probably true. Being with Zoe was like watching a circus act, delighting in the stunts while keeping one’s own feet safely on solid
ground. Zoe’s manic emotions swung like a trapeze artist. Stacey understood the reasons for the shift. Turn off the tears, don’t fixate on the pain, and don’t let people get close enough to see … Not that Stacey had performed the act so well herself the last few days.

She brushed germs off her quilt, at the same time brushing away the memories of her humiliating reactions to Calvin and Flannery. In her bedside table drawer she found a bottle of scented hand sanitizer.

“I brought you something.” Zoe unzipped her duffle and sorted through clothes and art supplies. Her rummaging stirred up the scent of cigarettes and mildew. She always doused that stench with perfume, but it was ripe in the things she’d brought from home.

Zoe pulled out something white. “This … is my mother’s latest peace offering. I don’t know where she got it. Probably some trashy online store. But she really doesn’t get me. I don’t do lace.”

Stacey huffed. “You think I’d wear something trashy?”

“I’m ex-
a
-ggerating!” Zoe held up a lace blouse with a choker collar, cap sleeves, and a heart-shaped cutout in the button-up front. Shabby-chic Victorian, kind of pretty.

Stacey ran the fabric through her hands, surprised by the silkiness of the lining. Not cheap. Pretending to check out the buttons, she eased the blouse close enough to her face that she could take a whiff. The cigarette stench hadn’t ruined it yet.

Zoe took the blouse back and held it over Stacey’s torso. “Should fit. Put it on.”

Would it be too tight? Too revealing? Should she even try?

Zoe stood there as if she intended to watch Stacey change right there. Nothing timid about that girl. Stacey hated taking her clothes off in front of anybody. Freshman PE class had made for the worst year of her life in so many ways.

Chubbikins, Chubbikins …

“I’ll be right back.” She hurried across the hall to the bathroom.

The tag on the blouse read
S
for small. It would probably fit like a corset, pushing stuff up and out. Holding the blouse against herself, she studied her reflection in the mirror. Pretty. Maybe it’d fit if the manufacturer had cut it large.

Stacey hung her sweater on a hanger on the back of the bathroom door. A dozen tiny buttons secured the lace top over her body. Although the front didn’t gape open anywhere, the material didn’t give and squeezed her torso when she took a deep breath. The sleeves cinched her arms. The collar cut into her throat, and the heart cutout showed some cleavage. And the bottom hem stopped short, leaving a line of bare flesh above her belted jeans. Bloated, pasty flesh. Stacey pinched it between her fingers.

Not done yet
.

Such a romantic top, though. Calvin would like it. He’d blink too fast and laugh, the way he did whenever he got “flustered.” Then he might stroke her face and say—

A tap sounded at the door. “What are you doing in there? Come on, let me see.”

Stacey blinked.
What am I thinking? I can’t wear this thing
. She flung the door open and faced Zoe. “I can’t wear it.”

Zoe gaped at her. “What are you talking about? It’s perfect. But those baggy jeans have got to go.” She grabbed Stacey’s arm, turned her around, and tugged at her waistband. “Look at all this bunchy fabric under your belt. How much weight have you lost?”

“Not enough.”

“How much?”

“I don’t want to say.”

“Why not?”

Stacey jerked her arm out of Zoe’s grip. “Because! Because … I don’t want you to know what a fat cow I was before. It’s embarrassing, okay?”

Zoe held her hands up defensively. “Okay, relax.”

Stacey threw her head back and groaned. “I’m sorry. I love the shirt. Maybe it’ll be okay when I’ve lost a few more pounds. Are you sure you want to give it up?”

“Yeah. It’s not my style, and it’s gorgeous on you. Know what? Let’s go shopping tomorrow and find something that goes with it.”

“I can’t. I already have plans to see Calvin.” Stacey nudged Zoe out of the bathroom before the girl could respond with something sarcastic. Safely alone, she changed back into her sweater then tucked the lace top into her laundry basket. It’d probably shrink when she washed it anyway.

Zoe’s heels thumped the side boards of the bed as she turned the pages of Stacey’s sketchbook. Stacey sat next to her. When was Zoe going to tell her what had happened at home? Probably more of the same: drunken rages and arguments over stuff that didn’t matter much or some snarky comment made at the wrong moment. It wouldn’t be long before Daddy and his fellow officers hauled somebody in handcuffs out of that rundown house. What would happen to Zoe and her little brother if both her mother and the sleazeball boyfriend were busted?

“You’re so talented, Stace,” Zoe said. “I wish I was this good.”

Stacey looked at the page and saw her drawing, a sleek heroine climbing a rocky stairway in a ruined landscape. Across each step, Stacey had inscribed lines of a poem, using her eraser rather than the lead.

Nightly Vision

Anxious Devotion

Hopeless Obsession

Desperate Mission

Art therapy. She’d done the drawing last September, when Calvin was just a face in the hallway of a new school. For the good-girl daughter of a cop, now living in the vast and strange countryside,
friendless and holed up in her bedroom with impossible dreams, love had seemed unattainable. Everyone knew everyone else in this place … except her. She was the interloper, the awkward city girl.

Calvin’s Facebook friend request had changed everything.

“You should make this,” Zoe said.

“Huh? Make what?”

“The outfit. It’s awesome.”

The willowy figure in the drawing was clothed in pure fantasy, flowing sleeves and a tight-laced bodice only an elf from Tolkien’s Rivendell could wear.

“In fact—” Zoe closed the sketchbook and hitched one knee onto the mattress so she faced Stacey. “We should do that. This summer. We’ll make our own clothes and no one—guaranteed, no one—will be wearing anything like our stuff next fall.”