Skinny(34)

My dad clears his throat uncomfortably, but he doesn’t say anything. It must be hard being a stepfather sometimes.

“The eggs are good,” I say, smiling at him. Chew. Chew. Chew.

Whitney is the fashionista of Huntsville High School. She always wears the latest and best. Lucky for her, she not only wears it well, but she can afford it. Her mom’s a lawyer and her father is a big plastic surgeon in town. He caused quite a stir when we were in third grade at Shady Grove Elementary School and brought along saline breast implants as props for Career Day. Some kids thought they were water balloons until he did a demonstration on the Reading Center puppet. He was never asked back. Maybe that was his point.

Wannabes stalk Whitney through the high school halls. If she wears patterned purple hose with a plaid skirt one day, the next day there’s always at least three more purple-patterned, plaid-skirt-wearing freshmen at school. I swear she could wear a big chicken costume one day and the whole school would be clucking around behind her within a week.

“There’s the cutest pair of brown leather riding boots in the window of Charli’s. I want to be sure and try those on.” Briella shoves a last bit of toast into her mouth and pushes back from the table. “I need them.”

I’ve seen Briella’s closet. She doesn’t need any clothes . . . or shoes . . . or purses. Whatever.

Another tiny bite. Chew. Chew. Chew. Swallow. Wait and see if I throw up. Dad glances up from the paper.

“Why don’t you take Ever with you?” my dad asks. I look up, startled. How did I get pulled into this? “She really needs some new clothes. All of hers are too big.”

Briella’s mouth falls open, and I stop chewing mid-bite. We both look over at Whitney, waiting to see how she answers.

“How embarrassing would that be? She has to come up with an excuse,” Skinny says.

“Good idea.” Briella and I both stare at Whitney. “It’ll be sort of like those makeover shows on TV.”

“Here’s my credit card,” Dad says, and pulls it from his wallet. “Have fun.”

I’m stuck. I can’t even think of a good excuse. Rat is working on some kind of computer system upgrade at the community center all day, so even he can’t save me now. The truth is I do need some clothes. School starts next week, and every thing in my closet is too big now. What used to be the waist of my jeans now slides down over my hips, and I end up waddling around with the crotch halfway down my thighs, feeling like a toddler wearing tights three sizes too small. I just never intended to have an audience present when I went looking for my new size. Especially not an audience that includes Whitney Stone. Still, there’s not much I can do now but take the credit card, pull up my baggy jeans for the tenth time today, and squeeze myself into the backseat of Whitney’s white Accord.

Briella and Whitney talk in the front seat as though I’m not there. That’s okay. I bite my lip, worrying about how I’m going to ditch the two of them when we get to the mall. It can’t be too hard. After all, Briella and Whitney have a huge mall, with a ton of stores full of clothes in their exact tiny sizes, to browse through. They just can’t discover that I have to do all my shopping in one tiny corner upstairs at Macy’s where all the clothes come in giant sizes and look like something your grandmother would wear.

“You think they don’t know that?” Skinny asks.

When we park I jump out of the car.

“So where do you want to meet?” I ask, ready to put the plan into action.

“Oh, no you don’t. You’re not going anywhere. I’ve always wanted to do one of those makeovers, and you’re my perfect first client. You’re coming with us.” Whitney links her arm through mine, to both Briella’s and my shock. “Did I ever tell you I want to be a stylist?”

“No,” I say, anxiety making my hands sweat as Whitney drags me through the door of Macy’s and heads to the first section of clothes. Briella lags behind, but follows eventually.

“All the movie stars have stylists.” She starts flipping through racks of clothes in the first section right inside the door. She picks out two tops and then moves quickly to the next rack.

“Hummmm . . . this might work. And this . . . I don’t know about this one . . . but we’ll try it.”

Briella and I trail her in a daze.

“Here, take these.” Whitney hands me an armful of clothes. I don’t know how to tell her I need to go upstairs to the fat-people section.

“I don’t think they will fit,” I try to tell her, but she pushes me into the changing room and closes the door with a snap.