Lauren and I met back in kindergarten. We sat next to each other in most of our classes, but by the end of the first week, the teachers had us separated for talking too much. We had bonded over our mutual dislike of public speaking. We’re both quiet and shy, sharing a love of reading and writing. When I first saw her, I knew we were going to be best friends. She had me at her pirate stickers collection. We’ve been attached at the hip ever since.
In sixth grade, I became convinced Lauren suffered from Asperger syndrome. She made me look it up, and to my disappointment, she only had two or three of the traits, and they weren’t severe enough to qualify. Not that I wanted there to be something wrong with her, but the girl is even more socially dysfunctional than I am. It’s weird, but that’s one of the things I like best about her. Lauren doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks of her, and she’ll usually just say whatever’s on her mind. Best of all, she never lies. Even when sometimes, you prefer she did.
I’ve tried to look at Lauren objectively, and I’ve decided that she’s more cute than pretty, with her tiny build, huge brown eyes, and wispy blonde hair. She kind of reminds me of a fuzzy little kitten, the runt of the litter. The one who always has its back turned on everyone, with its tail curled protectively around its body.
In retaliation, Lauren always tells me I look like every guy’s pornographic fantasy. Since I’ve heard some version of this from not a few people when I lost all the weight, it irritates the crap out of me.
I used to be fat. Really fat. I was an emotional eater. I mistook Twinkies for love. Common mistake. I blame it on my dad. When he left my mom for some woman he found on the internet, I stopped overeating. I’m not going to say that my overeating was entirely his fault. But it was.
My poor mom. She never really got over what that loser did to her (until now, that is). A few years after he left, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. What a horrible, horrible disease it is. It devastates the lives of the person who has it, as well as everyone who cares for her. My mom had to quit her job as a school counselor. She lost thirty pounds in two months, and when she started chemo, she lost most of her hair—including her eyelashes and eyebrows! She was so self-conscious about that, I remember. My pretty vivacious mother…she became this shrunken pain-filled shriveled thing I didn’t recognize. A shadow who lived on the couch for almost a year, and needed help with the most basic of tasks.
It sounds weird, but the scariest thing for me was that she wouldn’t tell me anything. She wouldn’t admit to being in pain, or tell me just how bad her prognosis was. Had the cancer spread? What did the doctors think of her chances? She wouldn’t say, insisting that she was fine and was feeling stronger—when clearly, she wasn’t. And I was too much of a coward to come out and ask her, “Are you going to die?” I wanted to believe her, I wanted to pretend with her, but every night I lost sleep to check on her, and make sure she was still breathing. My secret fear was that I would wake up one morning and touch her cold lifeless body. No warning, no goodbyes.
It’s hard to think about those days. I try to forget them, and it’s almost easy to when I look at my mother now. Cheerful and pretty, with a head full of pale blonde hair and a smile full of love and rainbows. I try not to remember how ravaged by the disease she was just a couple of years ago, and I try not to think about how it could come back again at any time.
Wow, I really don’t want to talk about that. She’s doing so much better now. Mom couldn’t return back to her job at the school, but she has a better set up now, maintaining her best friend Jane’s “Healing Lotions” website—which she can do from home. So, yes, my mom’s home all the time, and yes, I consider it a good thing.
So that’s why I don’t begrudge my mother finding herself a fiancée while I was away for the summer. Hell, I’m thrilled he’s apparently loaded. If anyone deserves to be lavished with expensive gifts, it’s Mom. I’ll even call him Daddy if he keeps her happy.
No, I won’t. That’s just weird.
Chapter 2
I have to meet Matt in less than an hour. What should I wear? Normally, I don’t put too much thought into my outfit, being a t-shirt and jeans kind of girl. But I haven’t seen my boyfriend in two months, so I should make some kind of effort, right? I bought a shirt in Hawaii, a hot pink tee with a giant glittery Hibiscus flower on it. I should have tried it on before I bought it because, damn, I did not realize it would make my boobs look so huge and…bouncy.
Oh, who cares. I never show them off, and today is a special occasion. But if I wear a nice top, does that mean I can wear my grungy black shorts with the elastic waistband? I’ve been told before that I should never wear them out of the house, and that was by my own mother. Maybe she’s right. I decide to go with my favorite pair of old jeans instead, and congratulate myself on the effort.