Faded Denim: Color Me Trapped (4 page)

“That’s right.” She nods firmly. “And just think how that made me feel. You never had to do anything and you always looked great.”

“Great?” I give her my best skeptical expression as I study both of us in the huge mirrors. Talk about your opposites!

“I thought you looked great, Em.”

“Well, that was then,” I say, trying not to choke up again, “and this”—I hold up my hands hopelessly— “is now.”

“So, you agree?”

“To a makeover?”

“You could be my swan project.”

I cock a finger at her. “No surgery.”

She laughs. “Deal.”

I shrug. “Why not. What could it hurt?”

“Not a thing.”

“Bring it on.”

“T
HESE THINGS TAKE TIME
,” L
EAH ASSURES ME AFTER
I
CALL HER UP TO WHINE
and complain on Wednesday evening. It’s week one in my “swan project” (or is this more like my swan song?), and so far it is not going well.

“I hate jogging,” I tell her as I flop back onto my bed in a big, sweaty heap of suffering. “It gives me a headache and makes my knees hurt. And so far I haven’t lost a single pound.”

“You probably won’t lose any weight for a while,” she says in a matter-of-fact voice.

“Why not?” I practically scream into the phone. “I’ve been starving myself and jogging for four days straight now. Shouldn’t that make a difference?” Okay, the truth is, I haven’t actually been starving myself. In fact, I’ve been cheating on my diet, more than I care to admit even to myself.

“Because first of all, you need to build muscle,” she explains, “and muscle weighs more than fat. So, even though you haven’t lost any weight, you might have lost inches. Are you measuring yourself like I told you?”

“Yeah, right.” I roll my eyes and groan as I push the damp hair away from my forehead. “So instead of being a fat chick, I get to be a muscle chick? Why don’t I just shoot myself now?”

“Come on, Em, you gotta be patient if you want things to change. And you gotta have self-discipline. Are you drinking your water?”

I glance at my ever-present water bottle, still full, sitting on my dresser. “Yeah, but I still don’t like the taste of it.”

“Have you tried putting lemons in it like I told you?”

“No . . .”

“Come on, Em, work with me here, will ya?”

“I don’t like lemons. They make my teeth itchy.”

“Teeth don’t itch.” She lets out a long sigh, and I can tell that I’m pushing her patience right now. “And lemons are good for cleansing impurities from your system.”

“Okay.” I give in. “I’ll try to get used to lemons.”

“Good. Now for my big news.”

I brace myself. I mean, she’s already got a prom date with Brett, and she’s also debuting in her big fashion show this Saturday. What next? Has someone asked her to star in a music video? Or maybe she’s signed some multimillion dollar modeling contract. “What news?” I ask meekly.

“Aunt Cassie wants to pay for modeling school for me.”

“I thought you already did that.”

“No, that was just a weekend deal at LaMar’s, Emily. It was a good start, but pretty beginner stuff, small potatoes, you know. This is with the American Fashion Institute, one of the best schools in the country. And they have a special two-week class for teens. It’s in Chicago and starts the week after school is out.”

“What about camp?”

“No problem. I’ll be back the weekend before camp. This is such a great opportunity for me, Em. I’m totally jazzed.”

“Sounds cool,” I tell her, although I really don’t see why she wants to do this, plus I know that I’m going to miss having her to
hang with during the first two weeks of summer break.

“It’s going to be awesome!”

“So does this mean I get a vacation from the swan project while you’re gone?”

“No way! You have to stick with this, Em. The goal is to have you looking great before our senior year starts. And it’s going to take all summer and a lot of hard work to achieve that.”

“I thought the goal was to get me in shape before camp,” I say halfheartedly.

She laughs. “That would take a miracle, Em.”

“Well, maybe I’ll pray for a miracle then.”

“Pray that God will give you more self-discipline,” she says.

After I hang up I pray that God will keep me from having a heart attack. Seriously, it’s like I can’t stop panting and sweating. I must be in worse shape than I realized. I finally decide to take a shower and end up staying in there for about an hour. Then, when I get out, I decide to check for any improvements in my physique. But all I see is flab, flab, flab . . . and these blotchy red spots don’t make it look any better. No way am I going for a measuring tape. This is totally hopeless. I distract myself from my failure to transform by playing the guitar. I play until my fingers start to seriously ache. And then I take a nap.

I skip the jogging routine for the next few days. Of course, I don’t admit this to Leah. But on Friday I do tell her that I don’t think jogging really works for me.

“I think it’s hard on my joints,” I say, which may actually be true. All that weight pounding the pavement could do serious harm to my knees and ankles.

She considers this. “Maybe you should try yoga. I have an old video that I used to use. I pretty much do the whole thing from memory now.”

“Isn’t that like some kind of religion?”

“Maybe for some people. But I just try to pray and think about God when I do it.”

“I’m not so sure . . .”

“Maybe you should join a fitness club.”

“Isn’t that expensive?”

“You’re sure full of excuses, Em. Maybe you don’t really want to do this.”

“No,” I say quickly. “I do. I guess the truth is, I’m just lazy.”

“Well, being lazy will not get rid of fat. Only hard work and careful eating will do it.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.”

“Are you coming to the Mother’s Day fashion show tomorrow?”

“Sure. And my mom wants to come too. Do you think I can buy an extra ticket at the door?”

“I have an extra one. I considered giving it to Kellie but, well, you know how that is. I’d much rather give it to your mom. Next to Aunt Cassie, who naturally can’t come, she’s been more like a mother to me than anyone else.”

“Well, she’d love it.”

“Cool. I’ll put your name on it and leave it in front.”

The next day, I try to dress nicely to go to the fashion show. I’m fully aware that the clothes being shown are not only extremely expensive but supposedly very chic too. But as Mom and I walk into the fancy restaurant that’s situated in a very expensive hotel downtown, it’s uncomfortably clear that we’re both way out of our league. Fortunately, Mom is oblivious to our lack of fashion sense. She is smiling and still commenting on the beautiful fountain in the lobby, and then she praises the flower arrangements, and she honestly seems totally happy to be here. I, on the other hand, wish
I could disappear—
poof
—good-bye.

My floral print skirt, which I used to think was kind of cute, now seems way too tight and rises too high when I sit down—exposing my pale thunder thighs, which are not the least bit attractive. And I’m sure the blouse I’m wearing looks like I got it at Kmart, although it was actually Target (or Tar-jay as Mom and I call it). But worse than this is my mom’s outfit. I thought it looked sort of okay when we were still at home. It’s a light-blue dress that she’s worn to church and weddings and stuff, and I used to think she looked pretty good in it, but now I can see that it’s too tight across the bust, making her look even heavier than she is, and the style is so dated that she looks more like my grandma than my mom. We look like a pair of fat frumps who accidentally stumbled into this high-fashion affair, and I am certain that everyone is staring at us, wondering if we somehow walked into the wrong luncheon. I just want to fade into the floral carpeting.

I feel the heat on my face as Mom and I are led to a table, which is, thankfully, way off to the side and not too far removed from the restroom.

“Isn’t this lovely?” Mom gushes as she sits down. “Such a treat.”

Of course, this only makes me feel guilty. I mean, seriously, why should I be ashamed of my own mother? Or myself for that matter? We are good and decent people. My mom, a devoted kindergarten teacher, is one of the most beloved teachers at her school. Everyone says so. And I have a few things going for myself as well. Okay, I can’t quite think of a single one at the moment. Right now, all I can think of is the fact that I would love to be anywhere but here.

Quit being so shallow and insecure
, I tell myself as I force a smile for Mom’s sake. “Leah says the fashion show is supposed to be really good.”

Mom actually claps her hands now. “Ooh, this is so fun, Emily. I can’t wait.”

Okay, I’m losing it. “I need to use the restroom,” I say.

“Oh, good idea.” She nods. “You go now so you won’t miss anything later.”

I quickly exit, hoping that I can gather the nerve to come back and sit down. It would be pretty pathetic to abandon my mom at a Mother’s Day luncheon. On my way to the restroom, I see some of the beautifully dressed models loitering in the hallway. I try not to look their way as I go into the restroom. I don’t need any more intimidation. Although I don’t need to use the john, I actually go into a stall and close the door. I hope this isn’t becoming a habit.

But, in the quiet privacy, I actually bow my head and pray. I ask God to give me strength. I ask him to help me to accept myself—and my mom—and not to be so freaked about being such misfits. After all, I remind myself, wasn’t Jesus a bit of a misfit when he came to live on earth? Then I take a deep breath and tell myself to just chill, and that I can get through this.

I’m just about to emerge when I hear someone go into the stall right next to me. The next thing I know she is barfing, and the sound of it makes me almost feel like I could hurl too. I flush the toilet, for effect, and then go out by the sinks where I wash my hands, listening to see if this woman is okay or perhaps needs help. But within seconds, Becca (Leah’s model friend) emerges and she looks perfectly fine, not to mention beautiful.

“Are you okay?” I ask, eyeing her with concern.

She smiles into the mirror as she washes her hands and blots a damp paper towel to her lips. “I am now.”

“Nerves?” I ask as I dry my hands.

“Something like that.” Then she winks at me and pushes open
the door, the sounds of her heels clicking on the tile floor as she exits.

Okay, it makes sense that a model would feel nervous before a fashion show. If it were me, I’d probably go to pieces and have to be scraped up off the floor—like I would ever be in a fashion show to start with. But another thought crosses my mind, and I begin to think that perhaps there is more to this story. Maybe Becca isn’t just “naturally thin.” Maybe she helps herself out with bulimia. I’ve heard of bulimics—girls who eat too much and then make themselves throw up—but I’ve never actually known anyone who did it. Or if I did know a bulimic, I wasn’t aware of it.

Of course, I tell myself with a slight sense of superiority, that’s probably the secret of all those stick-skinny models. They’re either anorexic or bulimic. How else could they keep the weight off?

Back in the restaurant, I wonder how many of these thin and chic-looking guests have the same problem. I almost say something to this effect to my mom but stop myself. It’s not exactly polite luncheon conversation.

“Are you okay?” she asks with concern.

“I am now,” I say a little smugly, sounding a bit too much like bulimic Becca.

“They already brought our lunch,” she says, nodding to the two plates on our table. “There wasn’t a choice, everyone is having the same thing.”

I look down at the salad on my plate and frown. “I hope there’s more than just this.”

“Shall we ask God to bless it?” she offers cheerfully. Then we bow our heads and Mom says a little prayer. I consider asking God to not only bless it but to multiply it, then decide against that idea.

As it turns out, the salad is the main part of the luncheon.
Fortunately, there is bread too. I boldly ask our waitress for a second helping, which my mom appreciates, but the waitress gives me a look to suggest that she does not. Or perhaps she is thinking that we two fat chicks do not need another portion of bread and butter. Well, tough.

Then the fashion show begins, and I try to pretend I’m someone else as I watch the models parading by, each one thinner and prettier than the previous. And, of course, Leah looks amazing. She has on a lime-green outfit that looks stunning with her golden tan and gleaming dark hair.

“Oh, my,” gushes Mom. “Leah has turned into such a beauty!”

I nod and force a smile.

Afterward, we are served petits fours and tea, which, if you ask me, is a pretty pathetic excuse for dessert. As we are leaving the hotel, I offer to get Mom something at Ben & Jerry’s across the street to make up for it.

She grins. “Oh, that would be a nice way to end this afternoon!” Then she turns and winks at me. “Well, as long as we don’t tell your dad.”

And so we pig out on hot-fudge waffle-cone sundaes. And I tell myself that there is no sin in being fat and happy. Except I don’t really feel happy. To be honest, as we’re driving home, I feel fat and hopeless. But I don’t let on to Mom about this. I don’t want to spoil this time for her.