drinking, but sucking helium and popping Valium as well. Stop it, stop it, stop it! Get control. You can do this.
Wish ignores the question. “Evie told me you were sick. Are you feeling better?” he asks. That’s when I realize I should probably be acting like a recovering sick person, instead of a phone sex girl.
I muster a cough, which is just as silly as my sniff in front of Christian. Thanks to Evie’s vagueness, she probably didn’t tell him my bad Tater Tot excuse. “Much better,” I say, chanting, Confident, confident, confident! in my head. It works. I don’t sound squeaky at all. “How are you?”
“Good. I missed you.”
I’m about to say, “Why, do I owe you money?” But I stop myself. “Aw, you’re sweet.”
“So, you coming to school tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” I take a deep breath and say, “Can I ask you a favor? Would you mind driving me?”
Another pause. “Now, Gwen, you know I wouldn’t,” he says in his “silly you” tone. “I’ll be there at seven. Cool?”
“Fantastic!” I say with so much enthusiasm you’d think I just got a free trip to Disney. I am such a fraud. No, no, I am confident. I am beautiful.
“Great. See you then,” he says.
I hang up the phone, turn, and see my mother and Evie staring at me. They both have their forks suspended midway between their plates and their mouths. A big clump of mac and cheese falls off my mother’s, right into her lap. “Sugar!” she cries. Then she swabs her pants with a napkin and says, “Why are you all red?”
Evie points at my pedicure, my delicate pink toenails, all grinning up at me. “Pretty,” she says.
I can’t help smiling. I don’t think anything of mine, even my feet, has been called that in a very long time.
19
I SET MY ALARM CLOCK for three-thirty in the morning, which is ridiculously early for school, but no earlier than I’ve been waking up every day to help with the bakery. There’s still more to do, and I want to be prepared. The first thing I do is switch on the light and inspect my skin. No self-tanner streaks. Thank the fake-sun gods.
My mother’s heading out the door in her baker’s whites when I walk into the kitchen. “Are you feeling all right, hon?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’m—”
“Your stomach’s okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just going to work out a little,” I say, pointing to the television.
I read in a magazine once that exercise boosts confidence. It releases endorphins, which is the equivalent of three glasses of wine. Since I need all the help I can get, I spend an hour kicking and jabbing, until I’m drenched in sweat. An hour of Tae Bo, coupled with not eating dinner or snacks the night before, and the only thing that feels lighter is my head.
Still, I make it into the shower without passing out and then spend an hour trying to curl my hair into nice, loose, flowy curls that don’t particularly look like any geometric shape. Then I apply all the makeup I laid out last night: mascara, eyeliner, blush, lip gloss. Then I pull on a pair of black capris and a really cute black top covered with white, yellow, and blue daisies. I throw on my black flip-flops and tousle and spray my hair again, and two hours after I started, I’m done.
Evie’s just coming out of her room, tossing her hair into a clip, when she spots me. “Oh” is all she says at first.
“Is that oh, good, or oh, yuck?”
“No, it’s …” She sniffs, overcome with emotion. She bounds over to me and touches my shirt, maybe to make sure I’m real. “Wow. Where did you get this?”
“Melinda’s daughter. She left all these clothes—”
“The prostitute?”
I’m about to tell her that it’s a long story when a car horn blares. Evie turns and bounces toward the window. She opens the slats and peeks through. “It’s Wish,” she says.
“You need a ride?” I ask.
“Oh.” She thinks for a moment, then waves me off. “No, that’s okay. It would probably be too crowded with Becca and me.
Wish ignores the question. “Evie told me you were sick. Are you feeling better?” he asks. That’s when I realize I should probably be acting like a recovering sick person, instead of a phone sex girl.
I muster a cough, which is just as silly as my sniff in front of Christian. Thanks to Evie’s vagueness, she probably didn’t tell him my bad Tater Tot excuse. “Much better,” I say, chanting, Confident, confident, confident! in my head. It works. I don’t sound squeaky at all. “How are you?”
“Good. I missed you.”
I’m about to say, “Why, do I owe you money?” But I stop myself. “Aw, you’re sweet.”
“So, you coming to school tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” I take a deep breath and say, “Can I ask you a favor? Would you mind driving me?”
Another pause. “Now, Gwen, you know I wouldn’t,” he says in his “silly you” tone. “I’ll be there at seven. Cool?”
“Fantastic!” I say with so much enthusiasm you’d think I just got a free trip to Disney. I am such a fraud. No, no, I am confident. I am beautiful.
“Great. See you then,” he says.
I hang up the phone, turn, and see my mother and Evie staring at me. They both have their forks suspended midway between their plates and their mouths. A big clump of mac and cheese falls off my mother’s, right into her lap. “Sugar!” she cries. Then she swabs her pants with a napkin and says, “Why are you all red?”
Evie points at my pedicure, my delicate pink toenails, all grinning up at me. “Pretty,” she says.
I can’t help smiling. I don’t think anything of mine, even my feet, has been called that in a very long time.
19
I SET MY ALARM CLOCK for three-thirty in the morning, which is ridiculously early for school, but no earlier than I’ve been waking up every day to help with the bakery. There’s still more to do, and I want to be prepared. The first thing I do is switch on the light and inspect my skin. No self-tanner streaks. Thank the fake-sun gods.
My mother’s heading out the door in her baker’s whites when I walk into the kitchen. “Are you feeling all right, hon?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’m—”
“Your stomach’s okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just going to work out a little,” I say, pointing to the television.
I read in a magazine once that exercise boosts confidence. It releases endorphins, which is the equivalent of three glasses of wine. Since I need all the help I can get, I spend an hour kicking and jabbing, until I’m drenched in sweat. An hour of Tae Bo, coupled with not eating dinner or snacks the night before, and the only thing that feels lighter is my head.
Still, I make it into the shower without passing out and then spend an hour trying to curl my hair into nice, loose, flowy curls that don’t particularly look like any geometric shape. Then I apply all the makeup I laid out last night: mascara, eyeliner, blush, lip gloss. Then I pull on a pair of black capris and a really cute black top covered with white, yellow, and blue daisies. I throw on my black flip-flops and tousle and spray my hair again, and two hours after I started, I’m done.
Evie’s just coming out of her room, tossing her hair into a clip, when she spots me. “Oh” is all she says at first.
“Is that oh, good, or oh, yuck?”
“No, it’s …” She sniffs, overcome with emotion. She bounds over to me and touches my shirt, maybe to make sure I’m real. “Wow. Where did you get this?”
“Melinda’s daughter. She left all these clothes—”
“The prostitute?”
I’m about to tell her that it’s a long story when a car horn blares. Evie turns and bounces toward the window. She opens the slats and peeks through. “It’s Wish,” she says.
“You need a ride?” I ask.
“Oh.” She thinks for a moment, then waves me off. “No, that’s okay. It would probably be too crowded with Becca and me.
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