and then I realize that I am talking to myself, and that while designer clothes might be able to hide my butt, they probably won’t be able to hide that I am going nuts.
18
I SPEND THE REST of the day rushing around the apartment like a madwoman, confiscating things from Evie’s room, rifling through my mom’s makeup bag, and spontaneously breaking into jumping jack binges from the adrenaline. Every time my arms meet over my head, I grunt out, “What flavor are you?” like a drill sergeant. “I am too hot for Erica Dunleavy. Way too hot for Terra Goldbar. Rick Rothman has nothing on me!” I chant until I’m out of breath.
While I’m lying on the floor of the living area, recovering, Evie and my mom come in. My mom’s eyes widen. “Oh! Did you faint?”
“Um, no,” I say, struggling to sit up.
Evie says nothing until she spots a pile of her things on one of the chairs. “What are you doing with my stuff?” she demands.
“Just borrowing.”
“Oh, okay,” she says, shrugging. She drops her bag and inspects the pile. “You’re going to curl your hair? And wear eyeliner?”
I shrug.
“Aw, it’s for Wish, isn’t it? That’s cute,” she says, like I’m in preschool.
“No, it’s for a science experiment,” I mutter.
She nods, then scrunches her nose in confusion. I can tell she’s wondering why all they do in Intro to Physical Science is fire up Bunsen burners. When her eyes light up, I know she’s thinking about the possibility of getting an A in science junior year, for the first time ever, if makeovers are on the syllabus. “Do you want help?” she asks.
I’ve never used a curling iron before, and I’ll probably burn my forehead to a crisp, but I shake my head. I need to focus, and I doubt I’ll be able to with Evie popping her gum and, well, just existing.
First I start with a shower. I shave and loofah myself until my skin glows red. As I’m applying some of Evie’s self-tanner, my mother bangs on the bathroom door.
“Indecent!” I shout.
“Dinner!” she shouts back. I don’t smell anything like fish sticks, so it must be french-bread pizza night.
“Not hungry,” I answer. I’m too busy chanting my mantra to think about eating. You are strong. You are beautiful. Wish is lucky to have you.
When I’m done, I sit on the toilet lid, naked, waiting for my body to dry. I hope I’m not all streaky. While I wait, I read an article in one of Evie’s Seventeen magazines about how to tweeze eyebrows. It sounds painful and dangerous, but my chanting must be working, because I find the confidence to attempt it. I use an emery board to draw an imaginary line across my brow, just like the article instructs, which sounds kind of stupid, but it works. When I’m done, I stand back and look at myself. Wow. Estee Lauder would approve.
Next I do a manicure and a pedicure. The polish gets everywhere but on my nails at first, but eventually, with the help of cotton swabs and a gallon of remover, I do a passable job.
Soon Evie’s banging on the door. “I have to pee,” she grumbles. “Oh, and Wish is on the phone.”
With the swami towel insulating my ears, I didn’t hear the phone ring. I put on my robe and waddle into the kitchen as fast as my feet, with little toe separators intact, will carry me. “Hello?”
“Hey, you.”
Wish’s voice is soft, scrumptious. It makes me want to sputter, “I’m not worthy!” into the receiver, but I bite my tongue and think, What would be the fun and sexy thing to say? “Hi, baby,” escapes.
Oh, God. That does not sound like me. I don’t even sound PG-13 rated. I sound like Toots, the old fat stripper Christian’s mom played.
There’s a pause. “Have you been drinking?”
I suck in a breath. “No, why?” I can sound fun and sexy without sounding like a stripper. Happy medium. Like Erica Dunleavy. Channel Erica Dunleavy, Dough. You can do it. “Have you?”
I let out this giggle that sounds like I have been not only
18
I SPEND THE REST of the day rushing around the apartment like a madwoman, confiscating things from Evie’s room, rifling through my mom’s makeup bag, and spontaneously breaking into jumping jack binges from the adrenaline. Every time my arms meet over my head, I grunt out, “What flavor are you?” like a drill sergeant. “I am too hot for Erica Dunleavy. Way too hot for Terra Goldbar. Rick Rothman has nothing on me!” I chant until I’m out of breath.
While I’m lying on the floor of the living area, recovering, Evie and my mom come in. My mom’s eyes widen. “Oh! Did you faint?”
“Um, no,” I say, struggling to sit up.
Evie says nothing until she spots a pile of her things on one of the chairs. “What are you doing with my stuff?” she demands.
“Just borrowing.”
“Oh, okay,” she says, shrugging. She drops her bag and inspects the pile. “You’re going to curl your hair? And wear eyeliner?”
I shrug.
“Aw, it’s for Wish, isn’t it? That’s cute,” she says, like I’m in preschool.
“No, it’s for a science experiment,” I mutter.
She nods, then scrunches her nose in confusion. I can tell she’s wondering why all they do in Intro to Physical Science is fire up Bunsen burners. When her eyes light up, I know she’s thinking about the possibility of getting an A in science junior year, for the first time ever, if makeovers are on the syllabus. “Do you want help?” she asks.
I’ve never used a curling iron before, and I’ll probably burn my forehead to a crisp, but I shake my head. I need to focus, and I doubt I’ll be able to with Evie popping her gum and, well, just existing.
First I start with a shower. I shave and loofah myself until my skin glows red. As I’m applying some of Evie’s self-tanner, my mother bangs on the bathroom door.
“Indecent!” I shout.
“Dinner!” she shouts back. I don’t smell anything like fish sticks, so it must be french-bread pizza night.
“Not hungry,” I answer. I’m too busy chanting my mantra to think about eating. You are strong. You are beautiful. Wish is lucky to have you.
When I’m done, I sit on the toilet lid, naked, waiting for my body to dry. I hope I’m not all streaky. While I wait, I read an article in one of Evie’s Seventeen magazines about how to tweeze eyebrows. It sounds painful and dangerous, but my chanting must be working, because I find the confidence to attempt it. I use an emery board to draw an imaginary line across my brow, just like the article instructs, which sounds kind of stupid, but it works. When I’m done, I stand back and look at myself. Wow. Estee Lauder would approve.
Next I do a manicure and a pedicure. The polish gets everywhere but on my nails at first, but eventually, with the help of cotton swabs and a gallon of remover, I do a passable job.
Soon Evie’s banging on the door. “I have to pee,” she grumbles. “Oh, and Wish is on the phone.”
With the swami towel insulating my ears, I didn’t hear the phone ring. I put on my robe and waddle into the kitchen as fast as my feet, with little toe separators intact, will carry me. “Hello?”
“Hey, you.”
Wish’s voice is soft, scrumptious. It makes me want to sputter, “I’m not worthy!” into the receiver, but I bite my tongue and think, What would be the fun and sexy thing to say? “Hi, baby,” escapes.
Oh, God. That does not sound like me. I don’t even sound PG-13 rated. I sound like Toots, the old fat stripper Christian’s mom played.
There’s a pause. “Have you been drinking?”
I suck in a breath. “No, why?” I can sound fun and sexy without sounding like a stripper. Happy medium. Like Erica Dunleavy. Channel Erica Dunleavy, Dough. You can do it. “Have you?”
I let out this giggle that sounds like I have been not only
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