Measuring Up (3 page)

But when people come over, they seem to like it so maybe it’s another one of my defects.

Mom comes into the room first, long, lean, and impeccably dressed, in a slim fitting business suit. I always expect the president or maybe the pope (if we were Catholic), to magically poof into the room during one of our meals. Then I could understand the extra few minutes she spends in front of the mirror just to eat some broccoli and chicken with Dad and me.

But who knows, I guess if I was as perfect as her, I would want to look the part 24/7 too.

As Dad comes into the room, wearing a pair of slacks and a t-shirt, she clicks off her cell phone. I love how Dad does that. He’s a mixture of Mom’s fashion and my relaxed look. He can handle the slacks, he always says, but the second he gets home from work, he replaces his shirt with the most comfy tee he can find.

“Hey, P
umpkin.” Dad leans forward and kisses the top of my head, ruffles my black bob (short hair makes your face look thinner, according to Mom), and sits down at the head of the table.

“Hey, Dad.” I smile at him and he gives me a kind one in return.

“I wish you wouldn’t call her that, Daniel. She’s too old. A young woman shouldn’t be a pumpkin,” Mom says.

I know most girls my age wouldn’t like being called pumpkin, but I love it. He’s called me that since I can remember. It’s something that’s ours and no one else’s.

I wonder if
no
young woman be a pumpki
n or just not the fat ones
. From what I hear, Mom’s parents weren’t the type to have a “pumpkin,” just like she isn’t. According to Dad, it’s why she is the way she is. Still, why does she have to take that away from me? Because now I’m not sure I want to be a pumpkin anymore. I hate her for that.

“She’ll always be my pumpkin, Paulette. No matter how old she is.” Dad pats my hand, giving me a smile because he thinks he made it better. I give him a squeeze so he can keep believing it.

“I understand.” Mom sits down. “She’s my little girl, too. I still think she’s too old to be a pumpkin.” She winks at me. Does she think she’s doing me a favor? That I don’t realize she probably thinks I’m a big, fat pumpkin every time he uses the name? That taking it away will make me more who she wishes I was?

I’m not even sure if I can be mad at her for that.

“How was your day, Mom?” While she rambles on about color patterns and the Marsh’s daughters’ new dresses for the Hillcrest Summer Pageant, I put a piece of grilled chicken on my plate then reach for a scoop of potatoes.

“It’s the most gorgeous shade of blue…Not so much, Annabel. It matches perfectly with Bridgette’s.”

I don’t even know how she does that.
I swear her blue eyes aren’
t even facing my direction, but somehow she thinks she knows exactly how many potatoes I’m scooping on my plate. And she just automatically throws that line in there between Elizabeth’s dress color and her mom’s.

“She has one small spoonful on her plate. Don’t micromanage what she eats,” Dad says. I probably only have half a portion. I don’t say that because I hate when they argue about me. They’re so different, but they work well together. Most of the time I’m the only part of them that doesn’t fit and I don’t like highlighting it.

Hence the reason I ask a question I don’t really care about. “What’s their talent this year? They sang last summer, right?”

“Oh! It’s a cheer!” Mom rambles on and on about Bridgette and Elizabeth’s cheer. What the heck is that? Who wants to see a forty-five year old woman rah-rahing, trying to reclaim her high school days? Bridgette is the queen of
Botox
and breast implants. Oh, and she’s Mom’s best friend since high school. Bridgette and Elizabeth do the pageant together every year since Elizabeth turned fourteen. Every year they’ve won. It’s the one time I’m glad Mom’s not happy with my body because the pageant thing is
so
not me. But so she doesn’t lose face, she likes to pretend she’d rather plan it than participate every year.

After eating half my chicken and half my potatoes, I push the rest around on my plate, pretending I’m interested. The conversation goes from the pageant to a new account Mom landed, how happy she is it’s summer time and then someone nudges my foot. “Huh?”

“Your plans for the summer? Are you and…?”

“Emily, Mom.” As if she doesn’t know my best friend’s name.

“I know.” She tries to laugh it off like it wasn’t an I-know-her-name-but-I-don’t-deem-her-worthy-enough-to-use-it thing. “Anyway, do you guys have big plans for the summer? It’s your last one before senior year.”

My tongue itches to tell her. To open my mouth and let her know my only plan for this summer is to lose weight. That I’m working with a trainer so she won’t tell me how many potatoes to eat or look at me like she’s sorry for me. Because that’s the hardest. Having parents pity you.

That I’m dealing with I’m-too-gorgeous, Tegan. The boy who’s probably pretending to care…or not care about my stupid weight when he probably pities me, too. And I hate to admit it, but so Billy Mason’s eyes will pop out of his head when he sees me next year and he’ll regret everything he’s ever said to me.

But I won’t. Dad will just tell me I’m fine the way I am, as long as I’m healthy and active. Mom will look at him like he needs to be committed, give me the “eye of skepticism,” and then
make
me
want to be committed when she bugs me about my progress (or lack thereof), on a daily basis.

“Not much,” I lie. “Just typical summer stuff, I guess. Em’s taking some summer courses at the college, so I’ll be on my own a lot.”

“Oh, maybe you can call Elizabeth—”

I’m not sure if it’s the look of horror on my face or if Dad knows spending time with Elizabeth would be torture, but he steps in. “Paulette. She’s a big girl. She can make her own friends. If she wants to call Lizzy, she will.”

I love my Dad for trying, but somehow his words just made it worse. We all know I’m a big girl. It’s not like any of us need the reminder.

Chapter Three

165.8 I CHECKED. TEGAN WAS WRONG
.

It only takes two tries to make it into Let’s Get Physical. I guess it helps that Tegan made our appointments for 8:00 AM. Who gets up that early during the summer? At least it’s early enough I can go home and take a nap before I meet up with Em today.

I hadn’t been lying when I told my parents she’s taking some college classes. She’s hoping to graduate a semester early, with me. The sooner we can get out of Hillcrest High, the better.

On my second trip to the glass doors leading to Hell, I see Tegan waiting there for me. His arms are crossed, making the sleeve of his t-shirt ride up, the lining of a tattoo peeking out from under it. He’s not as muscular as I thought yesterday. Definitely toned and firm, but not overbearing. He’s not like Billy and his goons. You know, those guys who lift so much they grunt and their faces turn red. The grunting does give them big muscles, but I’m not sure it’s
worth it. Looking at his physique
, I’m pretty sure Tegan isn’t a grunter.

Speaking of—w
hy the heck am I looking at his figure? My eyes snap up. Sure enough, he’s looking at me, cocky little grin in place like he’s God’s gift to the female eye and caught me praising the Lor
d. Before he can comment on it—
and I know he will because that’s such a good-looking gu
y thing to do—
I hold up my hand. “It’s early, I’m in sweat pants, heading into the lion’s den. Don’t start with me right now.” I stroll past him like I’m not really freaking out inside. I hear a small chuckle before he catches up with me.

“Lion’s den?”

Does he really have to ask? It’s pretty self-explanatory, if you ask me. “Yep.”

Tegan leads me through another set of glass doors and upstairs to a room filled with all the treadmills, ellipticals, exercise bikes, and all that.

“We’re going to start with Cardio.”

Oh, joy! Just what I want to hear. I love running in front of people.

“It’s not so bad. It’s actually my favorite part. Well, not doing it on a tread, but running, outside. There’s nothing like it.”

I’m still trying to figure out if I spoke out loud or if he saw the look of horror I’m probably wearing on my face. For the first time I wonder how all this is going to work, if he’s going to stand around and watch while I jog and everything jiggles.

“Do you like it? Jogging, I mean? I used to do Cross Country in high school.”

Cross country and weights. Holy fitness buff. Is there anything to this guy other than his workouts and apparent love of smoothies? And then I remember his brother and mom. The care he showed them and the way he looked at me when I tried to help. The tightness in his face when I asked about them. Just like the rest of us, Gym Boy has his secrets.

I shake my head, still nervous to get up there and run in front of him.

“What do you do? Anything you like?”

Is this how things usually go? I’m curious what this has to do with our workout plan. “Roller blade. I used to ride a lot. Not as much anymore.”

Tegan smiles like I let him in on some deep secret. “Cool. Never done it myself. Maybe I’ll have to try it sometime.” He pats the treadmill. “Climb up.”

Sucking in a deep breath, I climb on. This is what I’m here for. I need to get over it and do it.

“Okay, we’re going to start out slow today. I want to see what you can do. Twenty minutes. A couple of them walking to warm you up, then we’ll go into a jog. Deal?”

We’ll?
I nod my head. He pushes a few buttons on the treadmill. When the belt starts moving I do too. Tegan jumps on the one next to mine. Oh, nice. Is he trying to show me up or something? But to my surprise, he keeps it at a steady walk like I’m doing. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to know what he’s doing, that he probably fears if he doesn’t stay up here with me, I’ll bolt. There’s a part of me that wants to run because hello? This is embarrassing. On the other hand, I appreciate it because somehow, it helps not to do it alone.

Before he thinks I’m ogling him again, I face forward. We’re both quiet until Te
gan asks, “You ready to speed
up?”

“I’ve been counting down the steps!” I tease.

He ch
uckles. “You’re funny. Go
up to 3.8 and see how you handle that.” It’s not too bad, which is nice so I fall into a jog. Tegan’s right there with me, doing the same thing. The urge to talk to him bubbles up in my throat, but I don’t risk it for a couple reasons. The most important one being I’ve been at this for a few minutes now and I’m slightly out of breath. The last thing I want is to start gasping at the boy.

So, I keep my eyes on the timer instead. I guess like a watched pot never boils, a watched clock never ticks.

“Hey, Tegan. Why are you up here?” A pretty, long-legged brunette walks up next to his treadmill. Who does that? Just stands there talking to someone while they’re sweating and running? Okay, so Tegan isn’t sweating like I am, but still.

“Just working out with Annabel.”

Legs looks back and forth between Tegan and I, but I don’t pay her much attention for fear I’ll fall and eat treadmill if I do.

“Oh…so we’re still on for tomorrow, right?”

It would really be cool
if I had my iPod right now to help me block this out. I shouldn’t want to—I don’t know why I do—but I sort of want to hear what Tegan has planned with this girl. I’m imagining all kinds of sordid things when he says, “Yep. 9:30 AM, just like every Sunday.”

So she’s a client.

A 9:30 client.

Nice. He might go from me to her. Hopefully we don’t share any of the same days.

She flips her hair over her shoulder. “Looking forward to it. I was thinking…maybe after you get off we could, like hang out or something?”

Oh, God. I really don’t want to hear Tegan and Legs make plans to go out.

“Um, thanks, but I can’t. I have to take my bro—I have an appointment.”

“Oh.” She looks at the ground and I actually feel kind of bad for her, but it doesn’t last long. I’m thinking about Tegan, wondering why he changed what he was going to say.

“I’ll see you later.” Legs walks away.

There are times my mouth just goes and I’m unable to stop it. This is one of those times. “Pick up chicks here often?” Ugh. What is wrong with me? It’s not like I care.

The treadmill starts to slow, indicating our twenty minutes is up.

Tegan jumps off. “I’m pretty sure I just told her no.”

“How old is your brother? It’s him you’ll be with tomorrow, right?” Why won’t my mouth stop moving?

Tegan groans, mumbling something that sounds like, “I knew it.” Then to me, “We’re not here to talk about what I do or don’t do, or about my family. We’re here because you wanted to make a change. If this is really what you want, I want it for you, but you’re going to have to decide right now.”

Now I feel like a bitch again. I’m judging him. Again. How many times have people done that to me? Not only that, but I’m being pushy about his family. It’s not like I want people to ask me why my mom can hardly stand the sight of me, so I shouldn’t be getting into his business. I lean against the rail of the treadmill. “You’re right. I suck. I get nosey and throw huge walls of sarcasm up when I’m uncomfortable.” Suddenly, I’m beyond uncomfortable. My face flames.