Faded Denim: Color Me Trapped (14 page)

“But I haven’t reached my weight goal yet,” I remind her. “I thought we were waiting for that.”

“You’re so close, Em.” She studies me now. “It’s amazing really. I can’t believe how well you’ve done, and how quickly. But are you really doing it the way I told you to? Are you eating lots of fruits and vegetables and whole grains? Because, I don’t want to offend you, but your skin tone isn’t exactly glowing, you know?”

“Huh?” I go back to the mirror and examine my face again. “What’s wrong with my skin tone?”

“You seem kind of pale to me. Maybe you just need a really good facial,” she suggests. “That’d be a fun thing for us to do while I’m
recovering from surgery. That is, if I can talk you into coming to visit me. Will you still be my friend after I get my breast reduction?”

I laugh. “Yeah, Leah. It’s not like I love you for your boobs. Sheesh.”

“Okay, back to you now. We need to work on your image. And you’ve been so busy with work that the swan project got pushed aside. So far, all you’ve done is change your hair and lose weight—and believe me that’s fantastic—but we need to work on the whole picture.” She gives a tug to the baggy T-shirt I’m wearing. “Starting with your clothes.”

“I thought I wasn’t going to get any new clothes until I reached my goal.”

“But you look awful going around in stuff that’s either too big or out of style. You’ve dropped, like what, about three sizes?”

“I don’t really know for sure.” I get up and go stand in front of my full-length mirror. “But at least I can wear my Gap shorts now.”

“Yeah, and they look pretty good. The thing is, you wear them all the time. Honestly, the last few times I’ve seen you, you have them on. I’ll bet they’ll be falling apart before long.”

I check out the rear to make sure they’re not too threadbare. “So what’s the plan?”

“We need to go shopping—soon.”

“When?” I look at the alarm clock by my bed. “You’ve got a date with Tanner in a couple hours. And I work all day tomorrow. And then your surgery is on Monday.”

“I guess we’ll have to wait until I recover. But that’s something to look forward to. In the meantime, we can figure out what kind of stuff we should look for. Because we have to get clothes that look really great on you. You have to look totally hot by the time school starts.”

I check out my thighs and frown. Sure, they’ve slimmed down some, but they’re nowhere near as slender as Leah’s. “How many pounds do you think I have to lose to get rid of these thunder thighs?”

She laughs. “Those aren’t thunder thighs, Em. You just have a different shape, that’s all. And different people carry weight differently. Really, I think you’re looking great. Are you still exercising daily?”

“Of course.” I don’t admit that I exercise more than once daily, or that I walk to work or during my lunch break (instead of eating). In fact, I’ve come up with a new rule: Whenever I’m hungry, it’s time to exercise and drink water. Oh, I do eat a few things now and then, but only things with very few calories. And I never binge and purge anymore. I decided that’s too messy and too risky. And going more than two weeks without it convinced me I just didn’t need the hassle.

“Then there might be some things about your body that you’ll just have to accept, Em.”

I turn and look at Miss Perfect. “You mean like the way you’re accepting your bra size right now?”

“Hey, that’s different. I want to be a professional model. This is career related. It could be the difference between really making it or not having a chance. Even Aunt Cassie agrees.”

I wonder what Aunt Cassie would recommend for me. But I don’t think I’ll ever ask. It would probably involve about a million dollars’ worth of surgery. And I’d probably end up looking like that Barbie-doll woman on TV.
Eeeuw.
Still, I wouldn’t mind getting my lips done—if it wasn’t so expensive and if my parents didn’t know and if it didn’t involve needles.

“Is there any other way to make my lips look bigger?” I ask.
“Like something I could do with makeup?”

“Of course, there are lots of tricks. And that’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. We seriously need to work on your makeup. This, uh, natural look you got going isn’t really working for you, Em.”

“Well, I don’t want to look all made-up either.”

She stands next to me in front of the mirror. “Okay, look at me, Em. Do I look all made-up to you?”

“No, you look good—and natural.”

“Well, we can make you look good and natural too. You just have to be willing to learn the tricks, and then you have to take a little time to do them. We need to get you into some routine beyond just lip gloss, mascara, and blush. I mean, don’t get me wrong, that was a great start and a big improvement for you. But there’s a whole world of cosmetics out there.”

“Hey, I thought I was doing pretty good just to get that down.”

“Yes. But you can do better.”

I think about Brett now, and I think about my plan to totally wow him when school starts in September, which is barely more than a month away now. “Yeah, “I tell her.” You’re right. Maybe we can work on that during your recovery too.”

“This is going to be fun, Em. And it’ll help me to pass the time.”

“How long does it take to recover anyway?”

“The doctor said to expect a week of downtime, and then the stitches come out.”

“Stitches?” I make a face.

“Duh. They have to make incisions if they’re going to remove — ”

“Stop, stop!” I hold up my hands. “Too much information.”

“Yeah, yeah. I almost forget what a wimp you are when it comes
to medical stuff. Really, it’s no big deal. I plan to be back to normal by the second week.”

“Good.” I want to ask her if there’s any danger, any side effects. But the whole idea of someone slicing into your breasts makes me feel kind of sick right now, and I’m thinking maybe I don’t really want all the gory details. I just hope that I can keep it together enough to visit her during her recovery time.

O
N
M
ONDAY
, I
STOP BY
L
EAH’S HOUSE ON MY WAY HOME FROM WORK
. I
T
takes about an hour to walk there, but I figure that’ll help work off the whole milk that Frieda “accidentally” put in my sugar-free iced mocha during my afternoon break today. I usually have skim, which she is well aware of.

“Uh-oh,” she told me after I’d already consumed most of my drink. “Looks like I blew it on your mocha, Emily.” Frieda works at the coffee bar that’s in the back of the bookstore. And sometimes I think she has it out for me.

“Blew it?” I closed the magazine I’d been perusing and looked up from where I was sitting at the counter minding my own business.

“I used whole milk.” Then she gave me this cheesy smirk.

I frowned at her, wondering if this was really an accident or just plain sabotage.

“Hey, it’s not like it’s going to hurt you, little Miss Skinny Mini.”

Okay, this made me laugh. But I know the only reason Frieda called me by that ridiculous name is simply because she is very obese herself. I’m guessing she weighs like 250 pounds, maybe even more.

“I don’t know why you’re always getting sugar-free mocha
anyway. You don’t need to lose weight, Emily.”

“So does that give you the right to sneak extra fat into my mocha? And for all I know, you haven’t been using the sugar-free syrup either.”

“It was just the milk. And, really, it was an accident. I’m sorry.”

I could tell by her expression that she really did feel bad. “It’s okay,” I told her. “No big deal.”

“But, really, Emily. I don’t think you should worry about your weight so much. It’s not healthy.”

“I don’t
worry
about my weight,” I lied. “I’m just on a diet. I’ve lost almost forty pounds already. And I only started in May.”

“What diet are you on?” She leaned forward, studying me with real interest. “South Beach, Atkins, low-carb, low-fat, what? I mean, I’ve tried most of them. And, well, you can see they didn’t exactly work.”

“It’s not any of those.” I stall, trying to think of an answer.

“What is it then? What’s it called? Do we carry the book for it?”

“No, it’s not that kind of diet. There isn’t a book. I just try to eat less and exercise more, you know. And I try to avoid things that have fat or sugar.”

“Doesn’t that include just about everything edible? Like what do you live on anyway? Lettuce and broccoli and diet pop?”

I didn’t admit that she was just about right. Instead, I lied again. “No, you can eat lots of things on this diet. Things like fresh fruits and vegetables and whole grains. And fish and chicken are okay and stuff like skim milk and low-fat cheese and yogurt. It’s not really that complicated.” As I said this, I told myself that I would start eating just like that—as soon as I reached my goal.

She nodded. “That sounds doable.”

“Yeah,” I told her. “You really should try it.”

“Maybe I will. Especially since it’s obviously working for you.
I’d give anything to look as good as you do.”

It was kind of shocking to hear someone say that about me. I mean, I am usually the one who wants to look like someone else—like Leah or Becca or Lindsay Lohan (even before she lost the weight). Like the tabloids, I used to wonder if Lindsay was anorexic, but I’ve heard that she claims it was a big fat lie. And who am I to not believe her? Anyway, I thanked Frieda and wished her good luck with dieting.

“Maybe we can do it together,” she said suddenly. “I mean, like eat lunch together and encourage each other.”

“Oh, I don’t know . . .”

“I noticed how you always leave for lunch. Is there a place you go to eat that serves the kinds of foods you’re talking about?”

“Actually, I just grab a quick bite that I eat on the run, then spend the rest of my lunch hour walking.”

“You walk for an hour?”

“Yeah. It’s great exercise.”

“But it’s been so hot out. I think it’s supposed to be in the nineties today. Did you walk during lunch today?”

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t get baked?”

“Maybe a little. But I make sure to drink lots of water. That’s really important to losing weight too.”

“I hate drinking water.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe your diet won’t work for me.”

“Well, maybe there’s one that will, Frieda. Everyone is different, you know.”

A customer was waiting now. “Yeah,” she said in a discouragedsounding voice as she went to take his order. “You got that right.”

As it turns out, Frieda got the temperature right too. I think it really is in the nineties as I walk over to Leah’s house. The pavement is so hot that I can feel it through the soles of my shoes.

“You look hot,” Leah tells me when I join her in their family room. It looks like she’s been camping in here, lots of pillows and magazines and rice cakes and remotes and stuff.

“You mean like hot
good
? Or hot like I’m sweating like a pig?”

“I mean like hot
fried
. Your face is all red like you’ve been running or working out or something. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I just decided to walk over here from work. And it’s pretty warm outside.”

“You walked all the way? Isn’t it like five miles to town?”

“Probably not.” I glance at my watch. “It took me about an hour.”

“Well, go get yourself something to drink. Kellie made some iced green tea that’s pretty good. Why don’t you bring me some too?”

“Sounds good.”

I pour us both tall glasses of iced tea then hurry back to join Leah. “How are you feeling?” I ask as I hand her a glass.

She takes a slow swig then lets out a little groan. “Awful.”

I frown. “Really?”

“Yeah.” She looks at the clock on the mantel. “It’s probably about time for another pain pill.”

“Want me to get it for you?”

“Sure. I think Kellie put them in the kitchen. She’s been playing nursemaid all day since my dad can barely stand to look at me right now. And even though I appreciate her help, I was so glad when she finally decided to go home. I assured her you’d be here soon and that I’d be fine.”

I set my tea on the coffee table. “I think I saw a prescription
bottle by the sink. I’ll go see if that’s it.”

I return with Leah’s pills and wait as she takes one. I don’t really want to look at her chest area, but I guess I’m a little curious. She has on a striped blouse, but it’s not buttoned and beneath it I can see that she’s wrapped in some kind of white gauze bandage that’s got some yellow stain on it. She’s also using an ice pack. But my general impression of her is
eeuw
. Of course, I don’t let on.

“Did everything go okay?” I ask as I sit back down and pick up my tea and try to focus on her face instead of her bandages.

“I guess.”

I take a sip of tea and then nearly spit it out. I didn’t think that it would be sweetened, since Leah usually just makes it straight. But this is really sweet and it tastes like
real
sugar, not the fake no-cal stuff that I’m used to using.

“Something wrong with your tea?”

“It’s sweetened with sugar.”