Faded Denim: Color Me Trapped (2 page)

Mostly I wish that I could blend in with the aluminum-looking wallpapered walls, which in reality must make me stand out even more in my “fat” jeans (okay, I was bloated today). I also have on this old hoody sweatshirt that is baggy enough to cover a multitude of sins, although I’m sure it simply makes me look like a cow. I try to shrink away from these two girls, seriously wishing I could just vanish.

“Is there, uh, a restroom around?” I ask meekly.

“Yeah,” Leah jerks her thumb to the left. “Down that hallway, on the right.”

And then I slink away, feeling dumpy and dowdy and just plain pathetic. I consider leaving this plastic place and going home, except that Leah is the one who drove us here and I can’t exactly steal her car, although I do know where her spare key is hidden in its little magnetic box under the right fender. But instead of committing grand larceny, I just go into the bathroom and spend enough time there to make someone think I have a serious bowel disorder. I sit in a stall and read a fashion magazine that someone left on the counter. Okay, call me a glutton for punishment.

When I finally glance at my watch, I see it’s nearly five o’clock.
I’m hopeful that this place may be closing soon so I can get out of this stupid bathroom and we can go home and I can forget about all this. I emerge from the john and take an inordinate amount of time washing my hands, the whole while staring at my pitifully disappointing reflection.

These are what I would call very unforgiving lights—a garishly bright strip right above the enormous mirror. I’m sure it’s been put there so that models can come in here and carefully examine themselves to detect every miniscule flaw (like they have any), and then I’m sure they do their best to address these minor blips before their next big photo shoot. But as I stand here gaping at my lackluster reflection, my dull brown hair (which needs washing), and my boring brown eyes, I suddenly notice a new zit about to erupt on my chin. I want to cry.

“God, why am I so ugly?” I actually mutter out loud, quickly glancing over my shoulder toward the three stalls to see if any feet (which would be shod in the coolest footwear, I’m certain) are present. Thank goodness there are not.

I silently continue my line of questioning. I really was addressing God, not taking his name in vain. I ask my maker what he could’ve been thinking when he made a loser like me.

Why do I look like this? Why is my nose too long? Why am I short and fat? Why is my hair plain and brown—maybe I should consider highlighting it like Leah suggested. Why am I so boring and blah and mousy looking? Why? Why? Why?

“Hey, Emily,” says Leah as she comes in with a big, black folder, which I assume is her portfolio. “I’ve been looking for you. Are you okay?”

I blink back what threaten to become real tears and force a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. What’s up?”

She looks more closely at me now. “Seriously, are you okay?”

I stand up straighter. “I’m fine.”

She nods but still looks concerned. “Becca helped me to pick out the photos, but you were in here so long that I got worried you might be sick or something — ”

“Like when you tried to poison me with your cabbage soup?” I try to sound light.

She frowns. “I told you I was sorry, Emily. I never meant for you to get sick. You’re the one who said you wanted to take off a few pounds. I think you look fine.”

Fine compared to what,
I wonder,
a water buffalo?
But instead of saying this, I point to her portfolio. “So, are they really great? Going to launch your big career in New York?”

She laughs. “Not quite. But it’s a start. LaMar says that he might have a job for me next weekend.” She kind of smirks. “Okay, it’s only a Mother’s Day fashion show, but hey, it’s better than nothing, right?”

I nod. “Yeah. That’s great, Leah. Congratulations!”

She drives me home, gushing about how cool the agency is, and then she changes gears and starts telling me about this new cream that Becca was just telling her about that’s supposed to make your thighs thinner.

“Hey, maybe you should try it!” she says, turning and looking at me as if I might be some kind of science experiment for her and her new model pals.

“Try what?” I say, pretending that I wasn’t really listening. I had been partially daydreaming—or maybe I just want to appear slightly brain dead when it comes to all her mind-numbing beauty talk.

“That thigh cream.” Then she goes on to tell me what it’s called and how you have to get it online and on and on and on.

I am so thankful when she gets to my house. “Thanks,” I tell her, wondering what exactly I’m thanking her for. The ride or the torture?

“Oh, wait,” she says suddenly. “I almost forgot to tell you something.” Now she has this mysterious expression on her face, like she’s got some big secret. Despite my wanting to escape her, I am pulled in.

“What?”

“In all the excitement of getting my photos this afternoon, I almost forgot to tell you about Brett McEwen.”

“What about Brett McEwen?”

“He asked me to prom!” She shrieks loudly enough that everyone in my neighborhood has probably heard her.

“No way!” The truth is, this really is shocking news. I mean, Brett McEwen is a pretty cool guy. And not only is he cool, he’s fairly nice too. But he’s never really given Leah (or me) a real second look before. Sure, he says hey to us and even chats with us now and then (which I assume he feels compelled to do since we all go to the same youth group), but asking Leah to prom? Well, this is mind-blowing.

She nods, grinning and exposing her perfectly straight teeth, which she got whitened right after the braces came off last fall. “Way!”

“Wow.” I just shake my head in amazement.

“I am so totally jazzed. I can hardly believe it!”

“Yeah, I can imagine.” And the sad thing is that I
can
imagine. I mean, I’ve imagined myself going out with Brett McEwen, not to prom, since that’s too much even for my imagination, but just someplace ordinary. He’s been my secret (like really, really secret—even-Leah-doesn’t-know-it secret) crush since freshman year. He leads
worship in our youth group and I’m sure, being totally honest here, he’s one of the reasons I keep going back. Maybe even one of the reasons that I got into playing guitar.

“At first I actually thought he was teasing me,” she’s telling me now. “I said, ‘Okay, Brett, don’t be stringing me along here. I know that you can’t be serious.’”

“But he was?”

“Yes! He said that he’d been thinking about asking me out for a few months now, but that he couldn’t get up the nerve.” She shrieks again. “
The nerve!
Can you believe that? Like he was intimidated by
me
?”

“Well, you are trying to become a supermodel, Leah. Maybe the word’s getting around that you’re hot.”

She laughs so loudly that her classic snort comes out. “Yeah, right. Last year’s nerd girl finally thinks she’s got it together.”

“You weren’t exactly last year’s nerd girl,” I protest.

“No, just brace-faced, kinky-haired, gangly, big-footed Leah Clark. Not exactly Jessica Simpson if you know what I mean.”

“Well, the ugly ducking has turned into a swan,” I say, trying to sound more positive than I feel.

Her smile grows even bigger. “Sometimes I can’t even believe it myself, Emily. It’s like I look in the mirror and I have to pinch myself.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Not that I’m perfect.” I lean half in and half out of her Honda, and my back is starting to ache from this frozen position. “I mean, especially after looking at some of those photos today.” She makes a face. “Some of them were really awful. But like Becca said, it’s a good way to see the things that need to be addressed.”

“Addressed?”

“Yeah.” She nods with enthusiasm. “You know, like with the right makeup or airbrushing and maybe even a little surgery, little nip and tuck, you know.”

“Like I’m sure, Leah. Why on earth would
you
ever consider surgery?”

“Hey, I’m thinking about it. But I have to talk to Aunt Cassie first.”

“What could you possibly need surgery for?” I ask.

“A breast reduction. Duh.”

I blink and then look at her chest. “But why?”

“Because they’re too big, silly.”

“They’re not
that
big, Leah. What are you? Like a B cup?”

She laughs. “I wish. No, I’m actually a C. Can you believe it? I mean like last year I could barely fill a double A. And it’s not like I’ve put on any weight either. In fact I weigh less now than I did as a sophomore. Grandma Morris says it’s genetics, from her side of the family. I guess my mom had a set of big girls too. Not that I can remember that . . .” Leah sighs.

Her mom died when she was six. I can barely remember her myself. But I can’t help but wonder what her mother would think of her daughter wanting to get breast-reduction surgery when she’s only seventeen. I know my mom would totally freak. But then she didn’t even want me to get my ears pierced. Fortunately, I talked her into it, but not until I turned sixteen. Talk about old-fashioned!

“Well, let me know what your aunt says,” I say, standing up now. “And if you want my opinion, I say don’t do it.”

She laughs. “Yeah, big surprise there, Em.”

“Seriously,” I tell her. “I’ve seen models who’ve gotten implants just so that they can be as big as you. Why would you want to go the other direction? I mean, you look great, Leah.” Then I laugh.
“If you don’t believe me, maybe you should ask Brett. I’m sure he’d have an opinion.”

Now she gets a serious look. “Do
not
tell anyone about this conversation,” she warns me. “Besides, if I do it, it won’t be until summer. And I don’t want anyone to know. Okay?”

I dramatically press a forefinger to my lips. “Mum’s the word.”

“Thanks.”

“But just for the record, Leah, I think your boobs are perfectly fine!” Then I slam the door and head up to my house.
Breast-reduction surgery!
Get real.

Okay, as I open the front door I am starting to feel angry. Really, really angry. I’m not sure whether I’m angry at Leah for being so skinny and gorgeous and having a prom date with Brett, or just angry at myself for not. Or maybe I’m angry at God for making me like this in the first place. But as I stomp up the stairs to my room I seriously feel like breaking something!

I
’
VE BEEN SAVED FOR ABOUT FIVE YEARS NOW, LONG ENOUGH TO HAVE LEARNED
a thing or two about being a Christian. For instance, I know that God cares more about the condition of my heart than the way I look on the outside. But I also know that I am
not
God. And I find it impossible to pretend that I don’t care about, or that I’m even okay with, my physical appearance. More than ever, I totally hate how I look.

“Focus on your strengths,” I just read in one of my mom’s oldlady magazines, “whether it’s your hair or legs or eye color or even your toenails. Discover where your beauty strengths lie and start there.” Yeah, right. The title of this ridiculous article was “Feeling Pretty Begins Inside,” and I couldn’t even force myself to read more than a couple paragraphs. After that, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror and started to take a serious inventory of my appearance. After standing there about an hour, I honestly could not find one single “beauty strength” to focus on. It’s like I rate a big fat zero.

But it gets worse. I think all this focus on looks is making me eat more than ever. It’s like food has suddenly become some kind of escape route for me. Comfort eating, I think they call it. And let me tell you, this porking out to feel better is getting pretty scary. Last night I consumed a whole bag of Doritos, about thirty-two ounces of Pepsi, and a half carton of Goo Goo Cluster ice cream—and that’s
just the food I actually remember shoving into my mouth. Who knows what might’ve slipped in unnoticed? But the truly frightening part is that I already weigh more than I’ve ever weighed in my entire life, and at this rate I’ll be bigger than a whale by summer vacation.

To top it off, I just remembered that Leah and I signed up to work as camp counselors at our church’s middle-school camp for two weeks in June, and we’ve been warned about how girls this age can be extremely brutal—on everyone. Now I’m imagining all those wicked preadolescent girls picking on me and making fun of me and totally humiliating me. Meanwhile, beautiful Leah will be considered the “cool” counselor, not to mention the one who all the other counselor guys will be flirting with, which was one of our original reasons for volunteering (to meet cool Christian guys). Why is life so unfair?

“What are you so glum about?” my mom asks me on Saturday morning as I sit glued to the boob tube, spacing out in front of
SpongeBob SquarePants
as I put away my second bowl of Froot Loops. It’s my little brother, Matt’s, favorite cereal, so he’ll probably be really mad when he discovers there are only a couple of spoonfuls left. But he’s at baseball practice right now so I won’t think about that.

Mom stands beside me now and actually places her hand on my forehead the way she used to when I was little. “Really, Emily, are you feeling okay? You don’t seem like yourself this morning.”