happen every day because Dad’s a doctor and Mom spends her days making the inside of peoples’ homes look as beautiful as she wishes I was, but when time
permits, it’s our “family time.”
If you can call it that. It’s always a mix of emotions for me which triggers my need for chocolate. Nothing cures nerves like chocolate. Or ice cream.
I pull out the chair to our oversized dining room table and sit down. Like the rest of the house, Mom decorated the room. It’s got a royal feel to it, done in deep reds and golds, even though we’re nothing of the sort. I’m pretty sure she’d like to think she is, though. The carpet’s red. It’s not as bad as it sounds. I actually like the shade she picked for the floors. It’s when you add in the gold crown molding, the red and gold diamonds painted on one “accent wall,” and the gaudy chandelier she loses me.
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, Pumpkin.” 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 pumpkin 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.