Faded Denim: Color Me Trapped (3 page)

I look up at her and am about to complain about how fat I am when I realize that her weight problem is even worse than mine. Of course, she simply laughs about her bulging waistline. She says it’s “just middle-age spread,” which if you ask me sounds totally gross, but she seems to feel that being “pleasantly plump,” as my dad sometimes calls it, is no big deal. However, Dad doesn’t treat my weight gain quite so casually. “Putting on some weight, Emily?” he says to
me at least once a week. Or in a forced cheerful tone he’ll say, “Hey, Em, want to take a walk with me? We should get some exercise.” Yeah, right. Or my personal favorite, “You sure you really want to eat
that
?” And then, of course, there’s
the look
—the way his brow creases when he sees me eating something he considers “fattening,” or even if he catches me just sitting on the couch. It’s like he’s really obsessed with my weight lately. Like it’s becoming his own personal problem. And I’m thinking,
this is
my
body
—
get over it, Dad!
Of course, I don’t say that. I’d rather pretend that everything’s cool—that Dad and I are still good buddies and he likes me just the way I am.

“I’m fine,” I finally mutter to my hovering mom as I shovel the last soggy bite of sweet cereal in, realizing with some dismay that I still feel hungry. What
is
wrong with me?

“Can you pick Matt up at noon?” she asks as she heads for the kitchen. “I promised to meet Karen for lunch today.”

“What about Dad?” I protest as I follow her into the kitchen. “Why can’t he pick him up?”

“He’s golfing.”

I make another groan, for sympathy’s sake, and then agree.

“Thanks, sweetie.”

“Yeah,” I say in a flat voice as I rinse my bowl and put it in the dishwasher. “It’s not like I have a life anyway.”

“Oh, honey,” she says, her voice full of sympathy. “Of course you have a life. What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t know . . .”

Then she magically produces a box of Krispy Kremes that I didn’t even know were in the house. “Want one?”

“Where’d these come from?” I ask as I take one.

She grins with mischief as she pours some cream into her cup of coffee. “I hide them.”

I consider this as I take a bite, wondering who she hides them from. But maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe I don’t even care. The pastry tastes so sweet and rich right now . . . so comforting, distracting . . . that I’m thinking maybe it really doesn’t matter. I mean, who really cares how much I weigh or what I look like? It’s not like I’ll be going to prom or anything. This fact is driven home when, just as I swallow the last bite, Leah calls and begs me to go prom-dress shopping with her.

“I really
need
you,” she pleads after I make up an excuse to avoid what will surely be pure torture. “If you don’t come with me, Kellie will insist on coming, and you know that would be a fate worse than death. Pleeease, Emily, you have to do this for me.”

I consider the prospect of Leah’s dad’s girlfriend at the mall with Leah. Kellie is one of those women who’s in her forties but dresses like she’s still fifteen. Honestly, Leah and I are both certain that Kellie believes Britney Spears is still the hottest thing out there. For Leah’s dad’s sake, we try to humor this woman.

“Okay,” I finally say, “but I have to pick up Matt from practice first.”

“Why don’t I pick him up for you?” she offers. “It’s on my way to your house anyway. Then we can leave even sooner.”

I agree to this plan, realizing I better start getting ready for our shopping expedition now. I can be sure that Leah will look totally chic, but the mere idea of following Leah around as she tries on size 3 or smaller gowns is so disturbing that all I can do is sit on my bed and stare into space and think about food. Life gets no better when I discover I can’t even fasten the button on the waist of my biggest jeans—and they are a size 17, the largest size you can buy in the junior section. After that, it’s old-lady clothes that are buried in some “fat-girl” section in the back of the store. Probably right next
to sporting goods. I try on a couple other pairs of pants with even worse results, and I finally opt for good old stretchy sweats. Okay, they’re a little warm for May, but they’ll have to do. I tell myself that it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I wish I were someone else.

“Hey, you!” calls Leah from downstairs. “Ready to go, Emily?”

“Coming,” I call back with fake enthusiasm. When I see Leah, she looks very cool in this great little T-shirt that’s probably like a size 0, and a pair of low-rise cargo shorts that show off her thin bronzed midriff and skinny thighs. She’s been doing the tanning beds this spring, although I can’t believe her dad actually signed for her, but then she can pretty much wrap him around her little finger.

“Sweats?” she says, frowning up at me as I come thudding down the stairs like a baby elephant. “Won’t you be sweltering?”

“Nah,” I tell her, “I’m fine.”

“Fine and
fat
,” says Matt as he dashes past me up the stairs.

I take a swing at his backside but miss. “And
slow
too,” he shoots at me as he jumps to the landing and makes a face at me.

“And you’re a little brat,” I yell up at him. “And your feet stink!” I almost tell him that I ate all his Fruit Loops, but that would probably sound bad in front of Leah.

Leah just laughs. “Come on, Em. Don’t sink to his level.”

“Thirteen-year-old boys should be locked up until they’re old enough to vote or leave home,” I complain as we go out the door.

Leah chats happily as she drives us to the mall. I just sit there and listen, barely bothering to nod or say uh-huh when it’s socially appropriate.

“What’s wrong with you, Em?” she finally asks as she’s cruising the parking lot in search of a space.

I consider saying “nothing” but then remember that this is Leah,
my
best
friend. Okay, admittedly, she’s gotten a little shallow lately. And I know that’s just because of her amazing transformation. But she used to be really understanding and supportive. She used to be the one I could tell anything. And if I can’t tell Leah why I’m so bummed, then who else is there? Well, besides God, that is, and I’m not sure that’s such a great idea—criticizing my maker for doing such a lousy job on me. I really know better than to do that.

“Come on,” she urges. “Tell me what’s up, Em. Did I do something to offend you?”

“No.” I look away, pretending to be searching for a parking space.

“Are you still stewing over Matt’s infantile comments?”

I shake my head. “No, of course not! He’s just stupid.”

“Then what is it?” She waits for a car to pull out, then darts into the vacated space, turns off the engine, and looks at me. “Seriously, Em, why are you so gloomy?”

I turn and face her now, seeing once again how gorgeous she is, how together she looks—even her nails are perfect—and I suddenly feel hot tears burning behind my eyelids. “
I am fat!
” I explode.

Leah looks a little shocked, or maybe it’s just that she doesn’t know what to say or how to respond to my statement of obvious truth. But she just sits there looking at me as if seeing me for the first time, and this is not helping my problem—not one little bit.

“I—I can’t stand myself,” I blurt out. “I’m fat and ugly and pathetic and — ”

“No,
you’re not
!”

“I am!” I say, almost choking on my words, “I am a—a loser, a big fat hopeless pathetic fat-chick loser.” And then I lean over and begin to cry—really hard.

I feel Leah’s hand on my shoulder, gently patting me, and I hear
her saying things, quiet things, like that I’m not a loser, and that I’m really nice and how everyone really likes me and how I’m a good singer and that I play the guitar really well, and just a bunch of really sweet things like that. But that just makes me cry even harder.

“You’re the coolest person I know, Em,” she says gently. “I love you just the way you are. And you’re pretty too. You know that I’ve always thought that.”

I finally stop crying and just look at her. “
I am fat
, Leah.” I say it again, maybe just so that I can hear myself saying it. “And I’ve been eating like a pig, and at this rate I’m going to get fatter and fatter—and I’ll end up looking like . . .” I feel tears coming again.

“You’re being way too hard on yourself,” she says softly.

“No,” I shake my head. “I am just facing the truth. And, just like they say, the truth hurts.”

She takes in a deep breath and her face gets very serious. This is her I-am-thinking-very-hard expression. And then she quietly says, “If you’re really this bummed about your weight . . . then why don’t you do something about it, Em?”

I frown at her. “Like what?”

“Like take off some weight.”

I roll my eyes at her. “Easy for you to say.”

“Hey,” she uses a warning voice. “Don’t act like I don’t know how you feel. Who used to get called Two-Ton Tubby all the time?”

“I never called you that.”

“I know.” She smiles. “My point is that I do know what it feels like to be fat. And I work hard at keeping it off.”

“You really have to work at it?” Now for some reason this surprises me. I mean, I know Leah’s turned into a real health nut, but sometimes I think she just talks like that for my sake. “I thought it was just that you got taller.”

She laughs. “Yeah, right. Okay, maybe that helped. But you know I started dieting a year ago. And I exercise regularly too.”

“Regularly, like every day?” I ask with skepticism.

“Sometimes even more than that.”

“How come you didn’t include me in your little fitness plan?”

She laughs. “Hey, I’ve tried to get you to work out with me. But you usually blow me off. You know you do.”

“I
hate
exercising.”

“Yeah, and you never really needed to. I mean
you
never had to watch your weight . . . before.” She makes a funny face, like she wants to say something more but is controlling herself.

“So, you agree with me then? I
am
fat?”

“I agree that you’ve put on some weight.” She barely nods. “But you can take it off, Em. I’ve been hinting at this for months. You just need to change some bad habits.”

“Like eating?”

“Like eating
junk
food. Seriously, if I can do it, you can too.” And then she launches, once again, into all the things that I should and should not eat and how much I should exercise, and I don’t know whether to take notes or just run. But this time, for a change, I’m actually listening.

“It’s really not that difficult, once you establish good, healthy habits.”

“I just don’t think I really can,” I finally admit. I want to add
because I’m so lazy
but think better of it.

“Yes, you can!” she says with conviction. “I know you can, Emily. You’re a strong person, and I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

Right now the only kind of help I’d like is in locating a good cheeseburger, because I feel absolutely ravenous. Of course, I know better than to admit this, since I’m pretty sure that Leah will not
approve of a cheeseburger. Nor will she approve of pizza, which would be my second choice. Pasta maybe? Probably not.

As we walk around the mall, Leah continues to go on about diet and exercise—like she actually thinks this stuff is fun. And when she finally allows us to stop to get drinks, she won’t let me get anything other than a large bottle of water, which she actually expects me to consume.

“I don’t really like water,” I say.

“It’s good for you, Em. And it keeps you from feeling hungry too.” She guzzles hers as we head toward Nordstrom. “Not only that,” she adds between gulps, “it flushes out the impurities in your system, and it’s really good for your skin. Really, water is your new best friend.”

I’m sure the good-for-your-skin comment is directed to the remainder of the zit that’s still highly visible on my chin. Well, whatever. I do my best to chug down the tasteless water, wishing for an ice-cold Pepsi instead—even though she’s already informed me that soda is nothing but carbs. “Carbs are the enemy,” she says again and again.

“I didn’t know you were
this
into health,” I admit as we flip through the hangers on a formal-dress rack. “I mean, you’ve told me a few things, but it’s like you really have this fitness stuff down.”

“Well, I’ve done a lot of research. But I didn’t think I needed to cram it down your throat.” She holds up a gorgeous pastel-blue dress with beadwork. “What about this one?”

I sigh. “It’s beautiful.” It’s also tiny, I’m thinking. Like I seriously doubt that it would fit over just one of my thighs. “Is it even your size?”

She grins. “We’ll see.”

Before long she’s in front of the three-way mirror, twirling
around in the dress, and it’s plain to see that it fits. “It’s perfect,” I tell her.

She nods. “Yeah, I think you’re right. Can you believe how easy this was?”

“For you, maybe.” I stare at my best friend and try to remember how she used to look. It almost blows my mind.

“And it could be for you too, Em. If you take off some weight.” She frowns at me now. “And, well, maybe take better care of yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

Now her eyes light up and I can tell she’s getting an idea. “You know that show,
The Swan
?”

I let out a groan. She knows that I absolutely hate that show. Talk about superficiality.

“I know, I know, it’s really shallow—yada-yada blah-blah-blah—but what if we gave you a makeover kind of like that, Em? Wouldn’t it be fun?”

I consider this, wondering if it’s even possible. “Do you think it would work?”

“What do you think?” she says as she gives another spin. “It’s pretty much what I’ve been doing for myself.”

I frown now. “Yeah, it is kinda like you’ve been secretly transforming yourself, Leah, like some kind of stealth swan. And now you’ve left me in the dust, or maybe it’s the swamp, the place where the rest of the ugly ducklings hang out.”

She laughs. “Well, maybe you can understand how I’ve felt all these years.”

“But I never did anything to change my looks. It’s just the way I was.”