IN MATH, I sat in the front row, which was the only place I could find without seeing Beckett and being reminded of all the ways I’d failed. I made it my mission to be the best student I could in each class until lunch, just to have a distraction, but I was drained. Living a shadow of the life you were meant to took more out of you more than living life on the edge, in fear of what people would say if you put your true self out there.
I walked through the lunch line, picking up one hEAlthy item after another. I hated the sight of carrot sticks and bland grilled chicken as much as I hated all the eyes I felt on me.
As I checked out, Tinsley bumped my shoulder. Hard.
“Oops,” she said loudly, then whispered. “Sorry, Cupcake.”
With tired tears in my eyes, I left my food at the register and went to the only safe place I could think of. The last place I’d been happy and felt like I belonged: the AV room.
Stepping into the space filled with VHS tapes and rolling television stands breathed life and pain into me. Like taking my uncomfortable, life- giving first breath as a newborn, I took in the dusty smell and ached with all the memories. Even Mr. Davis was there, coding away at his corner desk.
I sat at the table by myself, but the maroon chairs had a presence all their own. They were painfully empty, reminding me of the personalities that used to fill them.
Tears spilled over my lashes and landed on the laminate table. I’d lost more than Beckett. I’d abandoned the first true friends I’d ever had. They might have joined my cause, but I never gave them the chance to prove they were in it for me.
A hand landed on my shoulder, and I jerked away, scared.
“Sorry!” Mr. Davis stepped back, his hands raised in surrender. He used one hand to push thick glasses up his nose. “I thought it might help, you know, the hand on the shoulder but—” He mimicked my startled reaction.
Clearly the range of human emotions was not his forte. “It’s okay, Mr. Davis.” I tried to put on a smile, but I just didn’t have it in me. “I’m just having a hard time.”
I sat back down then, too exhausted to stand.
He was silent for a moment, and I heard the nervous scratch of his nails over his skin. “You know, they miss you too.”
I looked up at him suspiciously.
He broke out into a guilty smile. “The headphones aren’t completely
soundproof.”
Embarrassment lit my cheeks on fire. “So you heard about…”
“Everything?” he finished. “Yes. And I spoke with Headmaster Bradford about it. He didn’t want to give you OSS, but you know the Alexanders.”
“Unfortunately,” I muttered, looking down at the floor. I wasn’t sure what to feel now. Grateful? Embarrassed? Maybe a mixture of both.
“Well,” he said, “if there’s anything I can do to help you make things right, let me know.”
I eyed him. “Why would you want to help me?”
“I could tell you liked the girls and Beckett. I’d hate to see all that plotting go to waste.” He gave me half a smile. “And between you and me, Ginger’s been off her game ever since your group ‘broke up’. I need my star videographer back.”
I thought it over for a moment. I’d already lost Beckett and my dignity.
I couldn’t lose my friends too. “I think I might have an idea.”
 |
After I got home from school, I went to my studio and began painting. Usually, I never made something twice, but this time, I had four portraits to do. I worked for hours, my brush poised over the canvas to perfect each brush stroke. I had to make the paintings shine, show the love and happiness I’d felt in the original even though barely a spark of it remained.
When I finished, my hand cramped and my throat was dry. Getting into flow state did that to me—made me forget about the needs of my body and focus only on the needs of my art. I walked down the stairs around nine in search of a drink and a snack.
When I reached the bottom and saw the dining table, I noticed a bag from the pharmacy sitting there. Since I didn’t see Mom, I didn’t bother hiding my wince. Did she have more pills for me to try? Dr. Edmonson had mentioned metformin as a potential next step to help with the insulin resistance and weight loss, but I didn’t want to be given any more medications. I just wanted to be me.
Mom stepped into the dining area carrying a green bottle and a wine glass. She must have heard me because she shifted to looked at me.
“What’s that?” I asked her, nodding toward the bag.
“What?” She set the wine bottle and glass on the table. “Oh, that.” She picked up the bag, then dropped it with a rattle on the table. “Lipitor.”
I searched my memory for that medication, but I didn’t remember Dr.
Edmonson mentioning it. “Is it like a generic metformin?”
She chuckled softly. “No.” Then she turned toward the kitchen. “I’m getting you a glass.”
My eyebrows came together. Mom was acting weird. Sometimes she let us take a few sips of her or Dad’s wine at supper, but she never gave me my own glass. And she certainly didn’t laugh about medications.
She came back with another glass and poured it a quarter-full with pale amber liquid, then handed it to me.
I glanced down at the glass, stunned. She was really doing this. “Is everything okay?”
“Honestly?” She looked down at her hands. “No.” Her head turned toward the stool in the corner of the room. “Mind if we talk?”
“Go ahead,” I said, leery.
Her shoulders lifted with a deep breath, and then she looked at me, her expression nothing but vulnerable. “I owe you an apology.”
My head jerked back in surprise. “What?” Mom never apologized.
She let out a halfhearted laugh and glanced down before meeting my eyes again. “I know I don’t do that often—apologize—but I messed up, Rory. God, I’ve made so many mistakes with you.”
My tongue felt thick as I swallowed a small sip of wine. My instincts wanted to protect her and let her know she hadn’t hurt me, but she had.
Years of diet restrictions and weigh-ins left me feeling more like a barn animal than a girl who could be desired in any real way.
She picked up the bag and ripped it open, revealing an orange bottle with a white cap. She examined it and the pills inside for a moment. “Lipitor is to help with high cholesterol, to prevent heart disease and strokes.”
“But Dr. Edmonson said my cholesterol was great,” I argued. “I know,” she said lightly and downed her glass.
And then it clicked. “You have high cholesterol?”
A small sob escaped her chest, and she covered her mouth like she was ashamed of not being completely composed. Still, there were tears in her eyes as she nodded. “I’ve done all the right things. Three meals a day, two snacks, limited red meat, no fried eggs, omega-3 supplements…” She scoffed. “He said it could be genetic.”
The meaning behind her words hit me, but she wasn’t done talking. She laid her hands flat on the table and met my eyes, even though I could see it was hard for her. “I owe you an apology because you didn’t choose PCOS any more than I chose high cholesterol. I saw your panels, and they’re amazing, aside from your hormones.”
The apology was nice, but it didn’t make up for the constant pressure of her telling me I wasn’t good enough or the worry that another pregnancy test or diet surprise was just around the corner. “Mom, you really hurt me.”
Her eyes filled. “Baby, I’m so sorry.”
“I’ve gone the last four years—ever since I hit puberty—terrified of what you thought of me. I’ve been driving myself crazy thinking I’m not good enough for Beckett because of my weight, but he didn’t care about any of that. He liked me for my heart.”
She rose from the stool and came to me, put her hand on my cheek. “I can’t change the past, no matter how much I wish I could, but I’m here to change the future. I love you, Rory, and I’m done trying to do anything to fix you. You don’t need to be fixed. You need to shine.”
My eyes filled as well, and I hugged her. That was all I’d ever wanted to hear. That I was enough for the woman who created me. “I love you.”
“I love you, sweet girl,” she said, holding me tight. “And I know you’ll figure out what to do next. You always do.”
I smiled at her. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Anytime, sweetheart.” She shook her head, her eyes shining. “And I’m revoking my signature for the hEAlthy program. I think it’s great for the school, but it shouldn’t be my choice what you put in your body. It’s my job to give you the knowledge, but you’re going to be eighteen soon, going off to college. It’s your life to live.”
She left the room, and I found myself thinking about the spark she’d mentioned. About the things that made me unique and special and beautiful.
And I thought about my friends. What brought us together.
What if our flaws weren’t something to look down on at all, but a reflection of all the life we’d lived?
With those thoughts running through my mind, I went to my studio, got out my calligraphy pen and wrote at the bottom of each painting: The Curvy Girl Club.
