Faded Denim: Color Me Trapped (6 page)

She reaches up and touches my hair. “I wish your mom would let you do something with your hair, Em. I think it would look really great with highlights.”

I consider this. I mean, it’s like my parents are forcing me to go to modeling school to improve myself. Why wouldn’t they want me to improve my hair? And, in all fairness, I haven’t actually asked my mom about coloring my hair since last year. Anyway, I’m thinking that maybe it’s time to take some things into my own hands.

“Why not?” I say to Leah.

“Huh?” Her perfectly arched brows lift in surprise.

“You know, I think I’m old enough to decide how to wear my own hair.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

I shrug. “Where do we go?”

So Leah calls around until we find a place at the mall that can fit me in this afternoon. Fortunately, everyone at my house has gone to Matt’s baseball game, so all I do is leave a note.

But once we’re at the mall, and I’m going into the beauty salon, I get cold feet. I mean, I don’t even get my hair
cut
by professionals. For the past few years I’ve just worn it long, and my mom trims it occasionally. “I don’t know . . .” I whisper to Leah as we wait for my appointment.

“Don’t worry,” she assures me. “This won’t hurt a bit.”

“But what if it looks terrible?”

“It won’t, Emily. Don’t go there.”

So I try not to, as a woman named Lynette first trims then “weaves” my hair. I just pretend that this is no big deal, like I do stuff like this all the time. And I try to avoid looking in the mirror, since this just makes me feel like freaking, and I don’t want to jump out of this chair and make a run for it with Lynette only halfway finished.

Finally she’s done, and although I’m surprised when I look in the mirror—like, who is that blonde chick?—I am also pleased. I reach up and touch my hair, almost expecting it to feel dry or stiff. But it’s soft and natural. “Thanks,” I tell Lynette. “It looks awesome.”

“Oh, wow!” says Leah as I go to the front of the salon to pay the receptionist. “You look really great, Emily.”

After that, Leah talks me into going to Nordstrom’s makeup counter and trying some new things. “Aunt Cassie says they’ll teach us a lot about makeup at AFI, but maybe you should have a few things down, just so you don’t, you know, stick out or anything.”

I give Leah a sideways glance, wondering if she might be as worried as I am about my appearance. But I keep these thoughts to
myself as I surrender myself to Leah and the salesperson for cosmetic experimentation. By the time we leave the mall, I have spent a pretty big chunk of change on my hair and face, and I seriously doubt that it will be worth it.

The plan is for Leah to spend the night. She’s going to help me pack—to make sure that I don’t make any serious fashion blunders—but as she goes through my closet, I can see that my wardrobe is nothing but one great big mistake. The “discard” pile is growing rapidly. Meanwhile, she hasn’t found much to put in my suitcase. Finally, she throws up her hands in surrender.

“How can you stand this?” she demands.

I just shrug.

“I mean, your stuff is either too small, although that could change, or it’s out of style, or it looks like a bag lady, or is nearly worn out.”

“I guess I haven’t been that into clothes lately.”

“Duh.” She holds up a fairly respectable pair of jeans that I haven’t seen in a while. “Do these fit?”

“I don’t know.”

“Try them.”

So I tug them on and I can almost button them. “Close,” I say, feeling a tiny bit hopeful. “That’s better than the last time I tried.”

“Well, that’s something.” Just the same, she tosses them back into the closet. “Maybe by July. Clothes that are too tight just make you look fat.”

“Oh.”

It’s about midnight by the time she gives up. I gave up hours ago. But I’m surprised to find that she’s actually done a fairly good job of selecting clothes. Even if I will be traveling light.

“Thanks,” I tell her as I check out my hair in the mirror again.
“And thanks for helping me with my parents tonight.”

She laughs. “Hey, that was fun. I’ve never seen your dad at such a loss for words.”

“Yeah, at first I thought he was really going to freak.”

“I think he actually liked it, after he got used to it.”

“Yeah. Even my mom seemed pretty much okay. Well, other than the fact that I did it behind their backs.”

“But at least you apologized to them.”

I consider this as we’re going to sleep. (Leah insists that we get our “beauty sleep.”) It’s not that I want to rebel against my parents exactly, and I know the Bible says to obey your parents, but I guess I feel I need to take some control of my own life too. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize how much I let my parents control me. My dad makes me feel lousy about my weight gain, and my mom consoles me with food. And I have a strong suspicion that’s not a good combination.

But as I ruminate over these things (and now I can hear Leah’s even breathing, which tells me she’s already fallen asleep) I begin to feel ravenously hungry. And then I feel like I’m going to die if I don’t eat something sweet. And it occurs to me how I’ll be at AFI on Monday and that I probably won’t have the freedom to eat what I like, when I like.

Then I remind myself how good I’ve been doing by not snacking. I can’t believe how many fruits and vegetables I’ve eaten these past few weeks. And I’ve exercised, sometimes twice a day. And what has that gotten me? All that work and discipline and I’ve lost a mere three pounds. At this rate, it’ll take me a year to reach my goal. If I don’t give up. I’m afraid I’ll give up.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I quietly get up, sneak out into the hallway, make sure that the house is silent, and then slip down the
stairs. I go directly to the kitchen, and that’s when I totally pig out.

I go for Mom’s secret stash, hidden in a basket that’s stored in the bottom shelf of the pantry. It’s the only “safe” junk food because my mom will never mention that it’s missing, and consequently my dad will never find out. I quickly put away most of a box of Mystic Mint cookies, washing them down with two glasses of milk (and not the skim milk that Leah told me to start drinking). Then I’m craving salt, so I go for chips. I polish off a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, along with a lot of Pepsi. And then I’m about to go for a king-sized Snickers bar, thinking I’m still hungry, but then I realize that my stomach is actually aching. It’s like I haven’t eaten this much crud in weeks, and it’s making me feel sick.

Suddenly I feel worried. What if eating like this after you’ve been dieting is dangerous? I imagine my stomach, stretched beyond capacity, exploding, or maybe I’ll have a heart attack. Now I’m getting seriously scared. I even consider waking up my mom. But then my dad would find out, and probably even Leah. And I just don’t think I can take that kind of humiliation. On the other hand, I don’t want them to find me dead in the kitchen— “she died from eating junk food” listed as cause of death. I am desperate.

I go to the downstairs bathroom and stare into the toilet, wishing I could barf it all up. The weird thing is, I hate throwing up. I hate the feeling of nausea. And yet here I stand wishing for it. And as I stand here, I hate that I’ve given into eating all that junk. What was I thinking? I mean, maybe losing three pounds doesn’t sound like much, but it was a start, wasn’t it? And then I go and eat enough food to put on three pounds. What is wrong with me?

And that’s when I do it. I shove my finger in my mouth and actually gag myself. I’m amazed at how easy it is, how quickly it’s over with, and how much better I feel for doing it. And then I remember
Becca, that day before the fashion show, how she probably did this same thing, and how I judged her for it. As I wash my face with cold water then look at my image in the mirror, I remember how superior I felt to her that day, how certain I could never become like her.

But then I’m not like her,
I tell myself as I turn off the light and tiptoe back upstairs. This was a one-time thing. An emergency effort, really. I mean, I could’ve actually hurt myself with that stupid eating binge tonight.

When I get back into bed, this unexplainable sense of victory ripples through me—like maybe I just missed a bullet. And that’s when I remember this old saying my grandma used to like. She’d give it to me when I was being impatient about something or wanted to do two things at once, sort of have it both ways.

“You can’t have your cake and eat it too,” she used to say. I didn’t really get it then, but I think I do now. And I think maybe she was wrong.

I
’
M FEELING REALLY GOOD ON
M
ONDAY MORNING
. T
OTALLY JAZZED
. A
ND
when I look at my reflection in the mirror, I think I look way better than I did a month ago. First of all, there’s my hair, which I think looks fantastic. And I’ve got this little bit of a tan going on. And I’m thinking Leah is right. I have lost inches, because I do look thinner than before. Even my dad noticed. Well, sort of.

“I think you’re losing some of that baby fat, Emily,” he told me after church yesterday.

Okay, I would’ve appreciated a different sort of compliment. I mean, like one that actually felt complimentary. But, hey, it’s my dad. I take what I can get, right?

“I have an idea,” my mom said then, perhaps as a buffer to my dad’s less-than-sensitive comment. “Why don’t you and I go shopping this afternoon, Emily? We’ll get you something special to wear to Chicago.”

So it is that I’m wearing a completely new outfit—some very cool capri pants and a T-shirt that I’ve topped with this little denim jacket. Okay, the jacket’s not exactly “little,” but it’s cute. And, okay, it’s probably not anything as cool as what Leah will be wearing today, but it’s definitely an upgrade for me. And I think I look pretty good. And I think I’m ready for AFI. I just hope they’re ready for me.

My mom drives us to the airport. Leah suggests that she just drop us at the entrance, since Leah has flown a lot, both with her dad and on her own. She goes to see her aunt at least once a year. But my mom insists on parking and going through check-in with us, and then, even after I assure her that we’ll be perfectly fine, she wants to walk us to the security gate.

“Do you girls need something to snack on during the flight?” she asks as she points to a McDonald’s. “I’ve heard that flights don’t serve much food anymore.”

“It’s only a two-hour flight,” Leah reminds her.

“But you never know,” my mom persists. “You could be delayed.”

“We’ll be okay,” I tell mom.

“And we’ll pick up some bottles of water,” says Leah. “As soon as we get through security.”

Mom frowns. “That’s all you want? Just a bottle of water?”

“We’ll be fine, Mom,” I say to her, pausing to set down my bag and give her a quick hug. “Really. Don’t worry. We won’t starve before we get to Chicago.”

She smiles. “No, no, of course you won’t.” Then she hugs Leah too. “You girls look so grown up today. It’s hard to believe that — ” And then she actually begins to cry.

“Oh, Mom!” I say, giving her another hug, a bigger one this time. “Don’t worry about us. Really, we’ll be fine.”

She nods as she wipes her nose with a tissue. “Yes, I know you will.”

“Take care, Mrs. Foster,” says Leah cheerfully. “And thanks again for letting Emily come.”

Mom nods again, then steps back, waving as we hand our boarding passes and IDs to the woman at the gate. “Have fun!” she calls out.

And it turns out that we do have fun. First of all, we put on our sunglasses as we wait at our gate for our flight, pretending that we’re famous models—like we don’t want anyone to recognize us. Of course, this is ruined when we don’t get to sit in first class.

“Someday, I’ll be sitting there,” Leah whispers as we move through the section. I notice that she moves more quickly, more gracefully, while I sort of struggle not to bash people with my bulging carry-on bag, not to mention my hips.

We finally get our stuff stowed in the overheads and get settled into our seats. Of course, I can’t help but notice how Leah must tighten her seatbelt to make it fit her narrow hips. I, on the other hand, have to loosen mine. I also notice that I completely fill the seat. I can’t imagine how people who are heavier than me would manage to fit into these tiny seats.

That’s when I see a very obese woman slowly moving our way. I notice how other people are watching her, looking at her with a variety of expressions, everything from disgust to fear (like they’re worried she’s going to sit next to them), and even pity. The woman eventually sits down across the aisle from us, but she has to push up the armrest and then fills up two seats. The flight attendant, who looks irritated, hands her a seatbelt extension. I glance away, embarrassed for this poor woman. But at the same time I’m thinking that could be me someday—if I don’t watch out. Then, as I compare myself to her, I start thinking that I look pretty good. I lean back into my seat and smile to myself. Yeah, life could be worse. A whole lot worse.

And after we get to Chicago and check into the huge hotel where the two-week modeling school will take place, life does get worse. Infinitely worse.