100 Days

100 Days by Nicole McInnes

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Authors: Nicole McInnes
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to her.”
    She doesn’t have a comeback for that, either. We stand there for a while, until it’s time for me to leave. Surprisingly, the silence between us isn’t as uncomfortable as I would have expected.

 
    25
    MOIRA
    DAY 76: APRIL 10
    I stand in front of the mirror in my bathroom and pull my shirt tight around my waist and hips, squinting my eyes to try to see what Boone was talking about. “Real women,” he said.
    I’d have a nice waist if it wasn’t for an extra roll or two, but my hips are enormous. Sometimes I wear loose shirts to conceal the matching humongosity of my boobs, but those shirts hang straight down in front, hiding my waist.
    Sighing, I let my arms drop back to my sides and turn away from the mirror. No matter what I do, I’m always going to end up looking like the Michelin Man.

 
    26
    AGNES
    DAY 75: APRIL 11
    I hold up a big pair of wool trousers. They’re men’s pants, but rose colored. I can’t imagine who would have worn them. Still, the fabric is so nice. It seems like nobody uses this kind of fine gabardine anymore. “I’m thinking of trying to incorporate these into my dress,” I say. “For the trim, maybe?”
    â€œI wouldn’t,” Moira says, biting off the end of a thread. “It’s a cool idea. But it’ll shrink in the wash like a son of a … gun and throw the whole outfit out of whack.”
    â€œYeah, you’re probably right. I could boil it first, though.”
    â€œI guess. But is it really worth your time?”
    I don’t have an answer for this. How am I supposed to know what is and isn’t worth my time? “Ooh, look!” I say.
    â€œWhat?”
    I pull a scarf from the pile of clothes Mrs. Deene dumped on the table at the start of lunch. (“Old stuff from my closet,” she told us. “Do with it whatever you want.”) It’s a pale, bluish gray chiffon wisp of a thing, hardly more substantial than air.
    â€œHey, I like that,” Moira says, reaching out her hand.
    I jerk the scarf away and waggle a finger at her. “Ah, ah, ah. Finders keepers.”
    â€œOkay, just let me check out the rolled edges, then.”
    I hand it over.
    â€œHa!” Moira cackles. “It’s mine now. Bwahahahahahaha!”
    â€œTraitor!”
    â€œYes, but I’m a traitor with a pretty new scarf.” Moira wraps it around her neck. It’s not very long, so it really only wraps once. It’s so soft, though. Softer than the kinds of things she normally wears.
    â€œWow,” I tell her. “That looks really pretty on you.”
    Moira unwinds it and frowns. “Not my color.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about? It’s perfect. Sets off your eyes.”
    â€œNah.” She hands it back.
    â€œMine!” I cry, victorious. “I used reverse psychology on you, and it worked!”
    â€œScoundrel,” Moira says.
    â€œIndeed.”
    â€œThis isn’t over, you know.”
    I make a show of snuggling the scarf close to my heart, and Moira growls. Then she smiles to let me know she’s not serious. She gets up, collects our lunch trash, and walks over to the waste basket on her way toward the door. “I’ll be right back,” she says. “I have to pee.” She draws out the word pee in a singsongy falsetto voice to let me know it’s an emergency. Her head is turned to the side when she says it, and she almost walks right smack into Boone, who’s standing in the doorway of the home ec room with his hands in his pockets.
    â€œHey,” Moira says. Her neck turns pink. We all know Boone heard her, but his face doesn’t give anything away.
    â€œSo, my truck’s broke down,” he tells us.
    â€œBummer.”
    â€œYeah. The real bummer is that I need to finish serving my yard work sentence today.” He looks at me when he says it. “Weaver’s going to fry my ass if I

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