Diary of an Ugly Duckling (7 page)
moving through the pedestrian traffic on Sixth Av-
enue, pushing herself through the doors of Macy’s
and heading determinedly for the women’s section,
pushing aside her dread of the fitting room and
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Karyn Langhorne
wishing for the thousandth time she’d stuck to her
New Year’s Resolution diet.
Only there was nothing that said “fancy and hip”
in the way Audra defined them. Sure, there were
hip, casual clothes galore in the larger sizes (boot-
cut jeans and bohemian tops, big, fringed poncho
shawls, rhinestone-studded denim jackets) and a se-
lection of fancy ones (dresses as wide as muumuus,
mostly in dark colors, of a cut and style guaranteed
to make any woman look like the mother of the
bride) but nothing that spoke of youthful fanciness.
Nothing in the entire store . . . and Audra traipsed
across it repeatedly, searching rack after rack with
uncharacteristic diligence.
She abandoned Macy’s for Bloomingdale’s and
then Lord & Taylor, and then gave up the depart-
ment stores for the large-sized boutiques, meeting
with disappointment after disappointment. About
the only thing that came close was a partly sheer,
yellow chiffon shawl of a top that, with its fringe
and assymetrical cut, had a light, party feel . . . but it
showed a hefty chunk of chubby shoulder, too.
“Pork loin in a yellow blanket.” Audra grimaced
at herself, shrugging it off and vowing to search on.
As the sun sank into afternoon, Audra headed
across town to where the fancy boutiques were
clustered in row after row on Madison Avenue, still
hoping to find the outfit that would capture Art
Bradshaw’s imagination, the look that would kick
fat, black and ugly to the curb, if not forever, at least
for a night.
And sure enough, in the window of Marciella’s
Audra found it: the perfect top, draped over the
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51
shoulders of a mannequin. It was a sleeveless, sil-
very, glittering thing with a deep V-neckline that
scooped just enough to show a little cleavage, but
not enough to scare anybody. Like the yellow shawl,
it graced the mannequin’s hips in a diagonal line.
Audra imagined it thrown almost casually over a
nice pair of black pants and coupled with a pair of
strappy sandals.
“Hello, hip and trendy,” she murmured, her nose
nearly pressed against the window. Only . . .
Audra could tell just by looking at it that it was
expensive—probably as much as she made in a
month. She hesitated, intimidated by the top, the
store, and the idea of spending thousands of dol-
lars on a single garment—but then she thought of
the divas of old with their gorgeous costumes and
changed her mind. Hell, even fickle old Scarlett
O’Hara had known that sometimes a woman had to
have a new dress to send the right signal.
“Thank God for MasterCard,” she muttered, fold-
ing her lips determinedly and yanking the handle
on the boutique’s heavy glass door.
A series of chimes sounded as she stepped inside,
her feet landing soundlessly on a spotless white car-
pet. The air smelled of some gentle perfume, and
soft romantic music played at a volume just above
noticeable. And the place was completely empty.
“May I help you?”
A skinny white girl not much older than twenty
or twenty-one appeared at Audra’s side like a man-
nequin coming to life. She wore a tiny pair of black
pants and a little top with a pair of slim spaghetti
straps not quite appropriate for the cool of the
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Karyn Langhorne
March day, balancing herself atop a pair of ridicu-
lously high heels. She looked cool and chic and com-
pletely sophisticated.
A deep feeling of inadequacy and an awareness of
her own imperfection swept over Audra as she
stared at the girl. The sudden irrational urge to run
out the door seized her heart and she had to remind
herself that any woman tough enough to stare down
a bunch of convicts day after day could probably
handle buying a top from a high-end Manhattan
boutique.
Probably.
“May I help you?” the girl repeated, since Audra
hadn’t said a word yet, just stood there staring at her
with her mouth open like some oki hick come to the
Big City. “Do you need directions—”
“I’m looking for something for a party,” Audra
said, donning a crisp, arch, cosmopolitan voice that
sounded suspiciously like Bette Davis in her ears.
“And that top”—she jerked her head toward the
display behind them—“looks perfect. Very trendy.
Very hip.”
“Yes . . . yes it is . . .” the girl murmured, eyeing
Audra from head to toe. “Uh . . .” She licked her lips a
couple of times, then stuttered, “We—we might be
able to help you, b—but . . .” she looked around ner-
vously and lowered her voice, even though they were
the only two people in the store. “Well, if you don’t
mind my asking, what size are you?” Watching Au-
dra’s face change, she added quickly, “I ask because
we only carry up to size twelve. The designer is
launching a plus-size line in the fall, but right now—”
“Are you calling me fat?” Audra snapped at the
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53
girl, her good mood quickly slipping away. Audra
thought back: the woman on the subway hadn’t
been small . . . but now that she thought about it,
she’d been a heck of a lot smaller than Audra. A sud-
den embarrassment swept through Audra like a rag-
ing forest fire. Of course this was a smaller-size
store. What on earth had she been thinking—
But then again, the top in the window looked like
it might be cut a little on the roomy side . . .
“No ma’am,” the young woman was stammering
in front of her. “ It—it’s just . . .” she hesitated, and
then spoke quickly, as though the speed of her de-
livery would make the words somehow less upset-
ting. “I don’t mean to offend you . . . but I really
don’t think it’s going to fit and these are very expen-
sive garments. If you rip it—”
“It won’t rip. And if it does, I’ll buy it,” Audra
snapped at her with a force she hadn’t fully in-
tended. The girl’s eyes widened and she backed
away from Audra, putting her hands up to her chest
as though she were afraid she’d have to use them in
self-defense.
“I didn’t mean to offend you—”
“I know. I’m sorry,” Audra said, and meant it.
“It’s just . . . I’ve been dealing with a lot of negativity
lately about my size,” she admitted. “And there’s
this guy at work.” She sighed. “This really, really
good-looking guy. The strong, silent type who
knows old movies. He’s got these eyes . . .” She
sighed again. “And he asked me to a party. Okay, it’s
last minute, but still, he asked
me
, and I’ve got to be
hip and fancy and I’ve been looking all day . . .” She
blew out a heavy exhale. “I can’t help the fat and
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Karyn Langhorne
black parts, but . . . I just don’t want to look ugly,”
she said, more to herself than the salesgirl.
To her surprise, the girl touched her arm in conso-
lation. “I understand totally,” she said gently. “The
dressing room is behind the curtain . . . over there,”
she said, pointing to a dramatic black curtain near a
platform lined with mirrors. She hurried to a
counter and squatted. “Let me find the twelve . . .”
she murmured, and disappeared.
Audra heard the rattling of cardboard, then the
girl reappeared with a series of flat red boxes.
“Thank you,
darling
,” Audra drawled and swag-
gered toward the curtain as though she were really
Bette and this were really a movie scene.
Audra avoided the mirror as she stripped off her
sweatshirt, sick of the image of herself she knew
she’d find there. There was too much skin, too many
rolls.
I’m not eating until after the party is over
, she told
herself.
And Monday morning, I’m back on my diet
, she
vowed, imagining herself svelte and sexy on Art
Bradshaw’s arm by the end of the summer. In the
tiny fitting room, the image seemed possible, proba-
ble, attainable—but then, there weren’t any Oreos
lying around back here to tempt the resolution.
But Art won’t care, either way. He sees the real me . . .
my true beauty
, she added mentally and dismissed
the planned day-long fast almost as quickly as she’d
embraced it.
She lifted the frothy, silvery top out of the box
with a sigh of appreciation. It was so soft, so shim-
mering, so beautiful, so fine . . . and had no price
tag—no tags of any kind—except for a tiny label
stitched into the side seam with the designer’s
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55
name. Eager for the feel of the fabric on her skin,
Audra slipped it over her head.
She got one arm through, too, before she got
stuck, her other arm wedged trapped in the seam,
bound tight to a roll of flesh at her side. She strug-
gled with it, gently, but it didn’t give. She pulled
harder, unwilling to give up . . . and made it worse.
She was wedged into the fabric now, too in to get
out, too out to get in.
“Uh . . . help!” she called. “Help!”
The curtain parted. For an instant, the girl’s eyes
rolled upward in an expression Audra instantly in-
terpreted as “I told you so,” making the movie-star
attitude Audra had adopted now nothing more than
a useless ruse. But the girl said nothing. Instead, she
stepped toward Audra and began pulling gently on
the fabric, trying to ease Audra’s left arm through
the armhole.
“Just . . . a . . . little more . . .” Audra encouraged,
feeling her fingers stretching for light and air. “A lit-
tle more . . .”
“I don’t want . . . to rip it . . .” the salesgirl grunted,
still working the fabric. “Maybe if you suck in a
little . . .”
Audra complied. Her arm popped through the
sleeve . . . but as soon as she exhaled the fabric
stretched extremely tight over her breasts and stom-
ach, revealing every bump and roll of flesh. Audra
panted, afraid to breathe, lest the delicate side seams
pop. She stared into the mirror, seeing an effect far
different from the one on the mannequin. The woman
in the mirror looked like a plump sausage wrapped
in a casing, a silvery, gauzy wrapper.
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Karyn Langhorne
“Oh dear,” the sales clerk breathed, shocked.
“I . . . I don’t think it suits you . . .”
Audra wanted to agree, wanted to rip the thing
off and run as fast as her legs would take her from
Madison Avenue, fancy boutiques, and any hope of
glamour. But that was impossible now.
“I don’t think I can get it off,” she admitted, no
longer Bette Davis, but an embarrassed fat woman in
a shirt far too tight. Her eyes found the salesgirl’s,
seeking assistance. “Please help me out of this . . . If I
rip it”—she sighed, dropping the façade totally—“I
really can’t afford to pay for a top I can’t even wear.”
She left out that part of the story when her mother
came in from her day at the Goldilocks salon—along
with the details of her meeting with Woodburn—
concentrating instead on the magical moment when
Art Bradshaw had invited her to his daughter’s
sweet sixteen.
Edith stared at her for a long moment. “Sounds to
me like you got a date with the daughter,” she said
at last.
Audra rolled her eyes, her voice rising, ready to
re-enter the fray. “Didn’t you hear what I told you he
said? About wanting me to come? Needing me to
come—”
“Yeah, but I don’t know how you get a date out of
that—”
Audra opened her mouth to explain, but her
mother waved the opportunity away.
“It doesn’t matter, Queenie D.” She sighed. “I
been thinking about last night . . . and I’ve decided I
ain’t arguing with you no more. You want to run
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
57
headfirst into a brick wall, you go ahead. Just don’t
expect me to pick you up when you get your feelings
hurt.” She shook her head. “ ’Cause I’m tired. I’m
just too damn tired.”
“Me, too, Ma,” Audra told her, settling deeper
into the couch and returning to the mystical magic
of
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
currently playing on the Clas-
sic Movie Channel. “And the only thing that hurts
my feelings is that you don’t think anyone can love
me just the way I am.”
Her mother hesitated a moment, then murmured,
“I’ve never said that, Audra,” and then hurried to
her room and closed the door.
Saturday, March 31
Dear Petra,
Do you really think that I go out of my way to antago-