Skinny (10 page)

“That’s better.” She took deep breaths. “But not good enough.”

She wiped half the blue gel off her toothbrush before entering the shower. “Every little bit counts.”

Melissa got ready for school. Her hands shook as she brought sips of watered-down orange juice to her lips. Her feet didn’t seem to fit in her shoes. She couldn’t get her backpack zipper on track.

She hoped she could do this. She would see Beau in French class for the first time since the breakup. Even if she made it through an hour of Monsieur Renauld without a breakdown, she was going to have to go to Algebra and see Beau for another hour.

She wore waterproof mascara, in case of tears, and her favorite soft yellow sweater for security. She had studied hard for both classes. Her plan was to participate and show Beau how smart she was. She hoped that annunciating with an authentic accent and solving involved equations would distract her enough to get her through. She hoped.

“Want an escort to French?” Gracie appeared by Melissa’s locker as she was pulling
En Bonne Forme
from the top shelf.

Gracie joked and told stories as they walked through the crowded corridors. When they approached the doorway, Gracie reached out and squeezed Melissa’s hand.

“You’ll be fine, Yellow. You can do this. You are a beautiful, brilliant girl, not to mention my very best friend. Don’t let him mess with you.” Gracie’s tiny fingers released hers, leaving a warm impression on her cold palm.

Melissa marched to her chair. She wouldn’t look up or down or sideways, like a horse wearing blinders. She sat down, opened her notebook, moved her pen cap from the tip to the end, and immediately began writing her French vocabulary words for the week and their English counterparts in cursive.

Beau was there, of course, sitting directly in front of her. She could see the shape of his shoulders and head, but she would not look up. When Monsieur Renauld began class, she stopped writing and turned her eyes to the left of Beau’s head, gazing directly at her teacher.

She repeated French phrases, raised her hand, and answered several questions about the homework articles—all without looking at Beau. Melissa remained composed until she leaned forward to write the homework assignment in her notebook. With her head closer to Beau, she caught a whiff of that perfect Beau smell. He smelled fresh-scrubbed, like laundry hanging outside to dry. A smile crossed her face, then she sat abruptly back.

Soap, of all things, would not lure her in.

She wrote the rest of her assignment with her body upright and her head erect.

Brriinnng!

Melissa pulled her fingernails out of her teeth, slid her books off her desk, and darted to the door before Beau could turn around. She wanted to wait for Gracie but couldn’t risk facing Beau. She and Gracie could talk later.

She had done it. Her heart pounded under her sweater, and blood rushed so violently in her veins she actually felt her temples pulsing. She had gotten through an hour of being just inches away from Beau. So far, so good, but Melissa still had Algebra, and it was next. She didn’t want to get to class before him because then when he got there he might try to talk to her. No, she had to arrive seconds before the bell rang, just like she had done in French. She snuck into the girls’ bathroom to stall for time.

French had drained Melissa. She had forced her surroundings into a sort of haze, choosing only to hone in on her teacher and her notebook. It took a lot of effort to ignore someone’s existence. She splashed shivering cold water from the sink on her face to energize her. She shook her head and splashed more water on her face until her skin tingled. Colors and sounds emerged from her cloudy surroundings. She put on a fresh coat of lip gloss and headed to class. Being late wouldn’t be good either. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself or get in trouble.

She opened her Algebra notebook and found a big smiley face signed by Gracie. Melissa cracked a grin. She survived Algebra just like French.

At lunch she hugged Gracie tightly.

“Thank you,” she whispered as tears snuck into the corners of her eyes.

“For what?” Gracie smiled, hugging back. “I’m just your best friend and always will be.”

Melissa pulled back before the tears spilled down. “Put it this way, you made my day. . . .” She couldn’t speak for a second. “You made it okay, Gracie, really okay. And I really didn’t think it could be. Thanks for the smiley.”

Beau and his friends were coming. Melissa sensed his presence from behind. She plopped in a seat and ducked her head, rummaging through her purse. She avoided his eyes once again.

Melissa peeled her orange and deliberately pulled it into pieces section by section. She broke pretzel twists into bite-size pieces and slowly crunched them, washing them down with bottled water. She listened to Gracie and Raven discuss soccer strategies, Emma bemoan her little brother, and Lindsey rate at least ten people who walked by on their shoe selections. She allowed the cocoon of her friends’ laughter to surround her and protect her—at least for lunch.

Melissa managed the entire day of school without speaking to or having eye contact with Beau. At the end of seventh period, Melissa wanted to dash home and hide under her covers like a child in a thunderstorm, but she had dance practice.

The two hours whirled by with kicks and stomps and turns and splits. The music pulsed through Melissa’s veins. The smile she pasted on her face almost became real. She was on today. She would not let her mind drift to anything, fearing it would drift to Beau. She remained focused on the routine and Todd’s instructions. She pointed her toes and kept her fingers together. She snapped her head with precision and caught each beat perfectly.

/    /    /

T
he next few weeks were almost identical. Melissa put all of her attention into her classes and dance, not allowing herself time to think about Beau. Yes, he was there. A shadow. A ghost always looming around a corner or in the desk in front of her, but she avoided him. She gave him no chances to talk to her, and she certainly wasn’t going to speak to him. Her friends filled the gaps between classes. By the time Melissa got home from practice, she was so exhausted that all she could do was shower, nibble at dinner, do her homework, and collapse in bed.

O
n Thursday Melissa woke up, went to the bathroom, and stripped off her pajamas. She weighed in as she did each morning when she woke up and each evening before she went to bed. Her weight looked good today. She had lost the pounds she had planned to lose for the Sugar Plum Stomp, plus a couple more. She placed her hand on her belly and pinched a wad of skin.

“Not exactly tight,” she moaned.

Melissa turned sideways in the mirror to view her profile. Her belly appeared to bulge. How could she still have a tummy? She gnawed on what was left of her nails. She’d need to lose that before officer tryouts. She was on the right track, though. Eating less, pushing herself harder at practice—it was working.

She squirted her favorite smelling lotion, Peach Cobbler, from its light orange bottle and bent over to slather it on her skin. She inhaled the sweet, sticky fragrance and pulled back.

“Oh my gosh! What am I doing? This can’t be good for me! Anything called Peach Cobbler is bound to be bad, and here I am rubbing this creamy stuff directly on my skin.” She scrubbed her hands in the sink, removing all traces of the lotion. “And look, number one ingredient: cocoa butter! Like I need to be putting cocoa or butter on me!”

Melissa closed the bottle and shoved it in the back of her cabinet. She wanted to throw it away, but since she had paid for it with her allowance she couldn’t bear to pitch it. Her hands shook.

“Okay,” she told herself. “Okay, okay,” she repeated as she pulled on her clothes.

Melissa yanked three sections of hair, entwining one over another until a tight braid wove its way down her head. She grabbed her backpack and marched down the stairs.

She opened the fridge and pulled out the orange juice, pouring the usual half glass of water mixed with a half glass of juice. She opened the bread drawer and reached for the bagels. She didn’t see them. Her pulse quickened.

They must be here.

Melissa pulled every item out of the bread drawer and placed it methodically on the counter: wheat bread, saltines, English muffins. No bagels.

“We must have some bagels somewhere,” she said aloud.

She opened the fridge and the freezer. Blood rushed like a waterfall to her temples. Where were the bagels? She had to eat a bagel in the morning. It’s what she did.

She rooted through the pantry and spun around too fast when she couldn’t find what she was looking for. In haste, she knocked over her orange juice. The glass shattered on the tile floor. Splashes of pulp landed in patterns across the white surface.

“Mel, you okay?” Mom’s sleepy voice mumbled from upstairs.

“Uh-huh,” Melissa mumbled right before the sobs erupted. She sat on the floor next to her mess and shook.

Mom ran down the steps.

“Sweetie?” Mom looked at the floor and at Melissa. “Honey, it’s okay. It’s just a glass—an old one at that.” Mom had a way of doing several things at once. She scooped up Melissa’s fallen backpack, grabbed the rag hanging from the faucet, and began wiping up the spill. Next she gathered shards of jagged glass, stacking them neatly within the largest broken piece.

Melissa wanted to help but couldn’t move. She was frozen with the uncertainty of what to do next. She had a plan to get her through this day. That plan included eating breakfast. Her breakfast meant a bagel. There weren’t any bagels. What next? Should she eat something bad for her and feel guilty about the calories and fat? Should she skip breakfast and not have enough energy for practice? Could she even handle practice? Could she even handle seeing Beau again today?

Mom threw away the glittering fragments of green glass and wiped the remaining sticky spots on the floor. She sat down next to Melissa, who was no longer sobbing, just crying quietly.

“Mel, it’s not about the glass, is it?”

Melissa shook her head.

“That stupid Beau!” Mom said, hugging her from the side. “Boys can be so awful . . . or so wonderful . . . or sometimes both.”

Melissa nodded, still not composed enough to speak.

Mom handed her a Kleenex. “Let’s splash some cold water on that beautiful face. He doesn’t know what he’s missing. And he is missing.”

Mom scurried around the kitchen, pulled Melissa off the floor, and handed her a granola bar and an apple. “Take these. Tanner will be here any minute, and you’ll need to eat something before school.”

Melissa took the food and nodded.

She wanted to tell Mom it was more than Beau. It was Beau, for sure, but it was more. But she couldn’t form the words, and she didn’t want to cry again. She just stood there.

“You’ll be okay, sweetie. I promise. I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but you will get through this.” Mom squeezed her.

Beep! Beep!

Saved by the beep
, Melissa thought.

“Thanks, Mom,” she managed to say and even curled her lips in the tiniest smile. “I’ll see you after practice.”

“Hang in there, Mel.”

Melissa walked through the front door, thankful for the February wind whipping her face.

M
elissa had been timing her entrances into French and Algebra so that she slid into her desk at the very last second, allowing no time even to catch Beau’s eye. But today she arrived to Algebra early. She was still flustered by the bagel incident this morning, and her whole day seemed off because of it.

She sat in her desk and pulled out her notebook, deliberately going through her checklist for the day. She would not look up. She didn’t want to see Beau when he came in the door. She didn’t want to think about the shirt he was wearing or how fresh the scent of soap would be on his collar, but she couldn’t push those thoughts from her head. She could actually smell his soap.

“Melissa,” he whispered. Beau’s hand lay flat on top of her shoulder. She shut her eyes tightly, then opened them.

“What?” she answered as coldly as she could, all the while feeling the warmth spreading from his hand and oozing over her shoulder like syrup dripping over a stack of pancakes.

“I’ve been trying to find a chance to explain to you. I didn’t want to talk about this over the phone.” His dark eyes drilled through her. “But you keep avoiding me.”

“Am I?” she asked, shrugging innocently.

“You know you are. You slip into class at the last minute and leave almost before the bell rings. You haven’t even looked at me in two weeks.”

Brrriinng!

“Today, class, we’ll be working on tangents.” Mrs. Poppendeck’s voice sounded foreign and out of place to Melissa. “Mr. Pointreaux, take your seat.”

Melissa stared past Beau toward the teacher. Mrs. Poppendeck’s hair was in a too tight perm. Her hooked nose reminded Melissa of the beak on a bird she had seen at the zoo. Mrs. Poppendeck’s clothes looked like she had bought them fifteen years earlier, but she was thin—rail thin. Her shirts hung on her shoulder blades, and her ankles looked like cabinet knobs peeking out from under her longish polyester skirts. Melissa shook her head. How could her frumpy Algebra teacher be so thin? It wasn’t fair!

Beau took his seat, glancing back at Melissa. She felt his eyes on her, but she didn’t dare turn her gaze from Mrs. Poppendeck. She still heard his soft voice floating through her ears and still felt his fingers on her shoulder. Her stomach churned. Her neck burned. She worked on her middle nail, gnawing away the cuticle.

Algebra seemed to last four hours. Melissa never took her eyes from the chalkboard, yet she didn’t hear a word Mrs. Poppendeck said.

As welcome as the bell commencing class had been, the shrill bell signaling the end of class was five times as freeing. Melissa shot straight up and dashed toward the hallway. She gasped for air and bolted to Chemistry. She suffered through endless lectures in Chemistry and English. When English finally ended, Melissa ran without looking back to the girls’ room, where she promptly made herself throw up. The tension she’d bottled inside for three hours exploded like soda out of a shaken-up can.