Skinny (23 page)

I face the audience again. It’s so quiet behind the lights, I almost think there’s no one there. Then comes the sound of someone nervously clearing a throat. They’re all still out there, waiting for what I’m going to say next.

I lean in to speak directly into the microphone. “I’ve learned a few things about being a real-life Cinderella, though. Sometimes a prince isn’t that easy to recognize. And everyone has good parts and bad parts to them, no matter how good or bad they may seem on the outside. Cinderella isn’t all good, and the stepsister . . .” I wish I could see Briella in the audience.

“The stepsister isn’t all bad.”

The silence stretches out again, and I wait. I hear the slight rustle of restless movement beyond the footlights, and I think about who is listening to me and watching me from the rows of seats. Even though I can’t see them now, I know exactly where they are. On the left is the sophomore boy who made oinking sounds every time I walked down the hall; in the center is Tracey, the girl whose big speech I interrupted by breaking a chair with my huge body. At the back is my new “BFF,” Whitney, who believes I owe all my newfound popularity to her. Gigi is sitting with Jackson three rows in front of her, holding hands. Then, of course, there’s Briella and Rat.

Ms. DeWise finally speaks. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” I say, “I’m a really good singer.”

Finally, the choir teacher asks, “So what are you going to sing for us today?”

“ ‘Listen’ from
Dreamgirls
,” I say. I picked the song carefully.

I knew what I wanted to say. I knew exactly what would take away the jitters. I just had to sing it.

“Start whenever you’re ready.”

I take a second. Shut my eyes and focus. Then I nod for the pianist to the start the introduction. The piano begins to play, and I come in a little late, but I catch up quickly. The pianist is good, which helps. She slows to match my pace. I stand very still. No choreography. I let the music fill up my body and my mind. The lyrics are engrained in my brain. I don’t think about them. It’s time. I start to sing, and I feel the wave of audience response come over the stage toward me. It’s happening. I hit the first high note. Clear, pitch-perfect. It’s the only thing I do that’s effortless. Weightless. The music opens the door, and every thing in me that could be possible pours out. It is my anthem.

“I followed the voice you gave to me

But now I gotta find, my own . . .”

This is what the surgery was all about. Nobody is laughing at me or calling me names. Not even the voice deep inside.

I don’t sing for the three judges out front. I don’t even sing for the scattered students, my competition, in the audience.

I sing for Skinny.

The music swells. It feels like a plug is pushing into the socket, and I connect with everyone sitting in every chair. I will never be viewed the same again. Not by myself and not by anyone sitting in this room.

You were amazing!” Briella waits outside the auditorium doors with a huge grin on her face. She grabs my shoulders and pulls me in for an enthusiastic hug.

“Thanks.” I can hardly get that one word out. She’s squeezing me so tight and spinning me around and jumping up and down all at the same time. It feels like I’ve been dropped in a blender with the top off.

When the spinning, jumping, and hugging finally stop, I manage to ask, “So, you think it went okay?”

She bursts into laughter. “You dope, it was so much better than okay. And you know it.”

She is right. I do know it. I was terrific. My smile feels like it’s going to break open my face.

“Where’s Rat?” I ask Briella.

“He’s outside waiting for you.”

I mumble something under my breath.

“What?” Briella asks.

“I’m scared,” I say again, but this time it comes out much stronger.

“After what you just did,
this
is what scares you?” Briella asks, incredulously.

“I’ve got more to lose with this.”

“Just go talk to him. He’s outside.”

I push open the metal doors and walk out into the cool night air. Rat is sitting with his back to me over on the stone benches around the flagpole. When I walk up behind him, he doesn’t turn.

“Did you get the part?” Rat asks.

“I don’t know yet. I think it’ll be posted tomorrow down by the choir room.” I walk around in front of the bench to face him.

“You will,” Rat says, finally looking up at me. His face is still, but I can see a muscle in his cheek jumping. “All evidence points to that outcome.”

“So, you want to talk?” I ask hesitantly. I stand with my arms crossed across my chest, waiting for his response.

“Sure,” he says, and pats the empty spot beside him. I sit down on the cold bench and stare off across the parking lot. He sits quietly next to me. I can feel his eyes on my face. I pause, taking a deep breath.

Finally, I blurt, “I miss you and me.” I twist around on the bench to face him. “I know I’ve done some stupid things lately, and I’m really sorry, and you probably think I’m horrible.”

“I don’t think you’re horrible at all.” He turns, his knees touching mine. “I think you needed to figure out what you wanted. Who you wanted.”

“I’ve figured it out.” I reach out to touch his shoulder, my hand sliding down the side of his arm until it rests on the top of his hand. “I couldn’t have done any of it without you.”

“Yes, you could have.” He turns his hand over, cupping my hand in his, fingers sliding between mine. It feels like coming home.

“I need you.” It comes out weird and intense sounding.

He slowly leans across my body, his lips inches from mine.

“I need you, too, Ever.”

Then he kisses me, and it’s not a Cinderella and Prince Charming kiss. Nothing like that. It’s a Sleeping Beauty kiss. A kiss that jolts every nerve in my body that has been sleeping for hundreds of years. Everything comes screaming awake. All I can do is feel. Feel his lips and his tongue and his arms and his heart all together at once. I feel every touch, every taste, every every thing. I finally understand what it’s like to be truly awake, and I never ever want to go back to sleep again.

“You know, the odds are I probably won’t ever be skinny,” I say, when the kissing finally stops for a few moments.

“I loved you when you were three hundred and two pounds, and I love you now.” His gaze locks with mine.

He loves me. He
loves
me. He loves
me
. I want him to say it again and again and again.

“I love you, too,” I say. I know he already knows it. He’s probably known it for a long time. He’s smart like that.

“That’s good to hear,” Rat says.

“Do you love me
more
now?” I ask. Because I’m prettier and thinner and more popular and . . .

“Probably less,” he says, matter-of-factly. I lean away from him in mock surprise, but his arms keep me from going far.

“The percentage of affection in proportion to pounds weighed results in less of you to love.”

I sock him in the arm, pushing him away. “Seriously? You’re going to get all scientific on me now?”

“Ouch,” he says, holding on to his shoulder like I really hurt him. “My theory is I’m going to love you even if you’re skinny.”

“Why?” I slide my hand back into the warmth of his, leaning my head down until it rests on his shoulder. I want to hear his reasons. After all, he always has data to support his conclusions, right? I think he might say I’m smart and brave and talented. And I think I know now I’m all those things, but he says something else. Something that’s new for me to hear.

“Because you are, and have always been, beautiful.”

“You should see the crowd out there. I can’t see a single empty seat.” Kristen is panting with excitement.

“You looked?” I turn in my chair, pushing the full skirt of my costume to the side.

“How else would I know?”

“Huge taboo. Theater bad luck.” Chance says, then meets my eyes in the mirror and winks. He’s sitting beside me in a makeshift dressing room and has been torturing Kristen like this for weeks now. “Now you have to turn around three times, kiss your pinkie finger, and touch the stage floor to ward off the bad karma.”

“Is he kidding me?” Kristen turns to me for support.

“Don’t look at me. Evidently, he’s the expert,” I say.

“It’s a total theater thing,” he says.

Kristen nods so enthusiastically the mouse ears on her head almost fly off. She starts turning around slowly and counting out loud.

“You’ve got to stop this,” I say to Chance, while Kristen spins around behind me. “She’ll be exhausted before the first act.”

“She likes it,” he says. “Besides, it helps with the nerves.”

There’s a rustle and a lot of movement behind me, but I can’t turn around because Whitney, who shocked the popular crowd by enlisting as drama makeup tech, is putting the final puff of powder on my face. Volunteering to be in charge of hair and makeup for the production definitely put her evil genius to good use. She says it will all go into her stylist portfolio.

“Sit still,” she grumbles.

“Full house!” Briella’s smiling face pops into the mirror behind a scowling Whitney. She waves a big bouquet of daisies and roses into my line of sight. “We’re in the third row back on your right-hand side. The empty seat is for your dad. He’s on his way, so don’t panic.”

“Something wrong?” I ask.

“No big deal. Randy Marchet tried to rob the Huntsville National Bank. He disguised his face using permanent markers, so he was pretty easy to spot at the Sonic down the street.”

She leans over my shoulder, ignoring Whitney’s glare, and puts the bouquet of flowers on the tabletop in front of me. “These are from your dad.”

Whitney gives up fussing over me with a sigh. “That’s the best I can do for now. Don’t mess it up before curtain.”

“Can I have more eyeliner?” Chance begs.

“You already look like a pirate now,” Whitney says, but she moves over to his side. “Look up toward the ceiling,” she commands.

Briella moves around where I can see her better. “Are you ready?”

“I have to be, don’t I?”

“Nervous?”

“A little bit,” I answer. Maybe more than a little bit.

She leans forward to cup my face in her hands, looking intently into my eyes. “It will all go away once you step out on that stage.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I have something else for you.” She leans back to push her hand deep into her blue jean pocket. I look down in surprise at the gift in the palm of her hand. The tiny silver box is tied with an unusual color of blue ribbon. I remember the color from Rat’s stained fingertips — indigo.

“Take it. He wants you to open it now,” Briella says, holding out her hand.

Picking up the box carefully, I untie the ribbon and lift off the small, shiny lid. Inside is a necklace. I gently pull out the delicate silver chain and hold it up to get a better view. The tiny silver charm twisting there in the makeup lights makes my heart pound.

“What is it?” Chance asks.

“It’s an elephant.”

Several weeks ago, Rat and I had a conversation on the way to rehearsal. I’d told him about the drama exercise with the elephant.

“Watching the video of the elephant was when it all changed for me,” I’d explained.

“Was it male or female?” he’d asked.

“That’s not the important part,” I’d said. “It was how the elephant moved. How it used its size. That was the impressive part.”

“Because if it had a calf that can really make a difference,” he’d said.

“I don’t know if it had a calf. Again, not the point.”

We had pulled into the circle drive of the school and he’d put the car in park. I needed to go to rehearsal, but this was important.

“You don’t understand,” I’d said. “It’s not about the elephant. It’s about me.”

Rat had leaned over and brushed his lips with mine. Once. Then once again, much longer. My toes had curled up into my shoes, sending the tingle all the way up to the tips of my hair. Elephants, shmelephants. Everything in my brain was suddenly gobbledygook.

“I know it’s about you,” he’d said slowly, his eyes locked on mine. Suddenly the musical was the last thing on my mind.

“Okay.” I’d traced his lips with the tip of my index finger. “Just so you understand.”

“I do,” he’d said, and kissed me again. Finally, he’d pulled away. “You’re going to be late.”

I’d opened the car door, suddenly reluctant to leave.

“Was it an Asian elephant or an African elephant?” he’d asked.

“Oh, brother,” I’d said, getting out and slamming the door behind me.

I’d still heard him through the closed window, “Because their ears are totally different. The African elephant’s ears are much bigger and the tops turn backward.”

“Good to know,” I’d yelled back over my shoulder.

Now it’s opening night and in my hand is a tiny silver elephant charm. I pull the note out of the box. There is no signature. I don’t need one.

ELEPHANTS ARE ONE OF THE OLDEST SYMBOLS OF GOOD LUCK.

Rat’s careful all-caps print is instantly recognizable. I quickly slip it on and fasten it around my neck, sliding it down inside the scooped neckline of my white peasant top. I smooth the apron across the long brown skirt of my costume. The contrasting laced bodice fits snug to my body and makes my waist look almost small.