Skinny(35)

“I’ll be next door trying on these skinny jeans. But I want to see these on you. Come on, Briella.” I don’t hear my stepsister’s response.

I’m left staring at the stack of clothes on the chair. What do I do? I can’t go out wearing any of this stuff. It’s from the regular-size section. I can’t possibly fit into any of these clothes. I pick up the first shirt off the top of the pile. It’s a baby-doll style. Tiny pink flowers. XL. Not very fitted. Maybe I should just try it. I pull my old faded T-shirt off the top of my head and pull the top on. Surprisingly, it goes over my stomach and down my hips without stopping. I’ve been avoiding the mirror in the room. I always avoid the mirrors. But I’m going to have to look. Slowly, slowly, I turn and raise my eyes to the mirror. The girl staring back at me looks surprised. The shirt looks okay. Better than okay. It looks good. I jump up and down. The girl in the mirror jumps up and down. I put my two pinkie fingers in my mouth and pull my lips to the sides in a big crazy face. The girl in the mirror does the same. Oh my God. She’s me. The girl in the mirror gives me a weird look. Last May, she would have never been able to wear this shirt. But it’s almost August now and things have changed. She has . . . I have . . . changed. I hold my arms out and twirl around once, almost losing my balance when I hit the chair in the dressing room. The shirt floats around my body and lands in a smooth curtain of tiny flowers around my hips. The door pulls open without warning, and I jump. It’s Whitney.

“Let’s see.” She scrutinizes me for a second. “Yeah, that one’s okay. Try on the jeans with it. Might work. They’re sixteens, but they have some stretch in them. I think they’ll fit.”

She stands there like she’s going to watch me or something.

“Shut the door,” I say.

“Okay. But promise me you’ll come out when you put the jeans on.”

“If they fit.” How could they? I pull the jeans on. They are tight, but they zip. I can’t believe it. I’m wearing jeans. From the regular-size department.

“I’m a regular size,” I whisper. I can’t stop smiling and smiling and smiling at the me in the mirror.

“Are you coming out?”

I open the door and come out slowly.

“Wow,” Briella says, her mouth hanging open, her hands full of hangers and clothes.

“Now we can really tell how much weight you’ve lost,” says Whitney. “I told you they would fit. I’m good at this stuff.”

And surprisingly, she is. I try on several more tops, and they all fit. Then Whitney helps me pick which two are the best.

“This is only the beginning,” she assures me. “You don’t want to have every thing from one place.”

I’ve never had choices before. I buy the jeans, too, and they are all wrapped up and put into a bag with little string handles.

Whitney insists on accessorizing the outfits with earrings and a chunky necklace. A couple of bras, a pair of cute platform sandals, and three small packages later, I find myself sitting in a tall chair before the Stila makeup counter.

“What’s up, Whitney?” the girl with the heavy black eyeliner asks. “What are we doing with your friend here?”

Neither one of them asks me. I guess it’s pretty obvious I don’t know what I need.

“I’m thinking like a total makeover. Natural, but definitely needs the works.”

Whitney and the girl both stare at me.

“You’ve never worn makeup before?” the girl asks.

“Not really.” Most of my experience with makeup has involved Halloween, and I didn’t think the Stila girl would be impressed by my use of eyeliner for my Batgirl costume in the fifth grade.

“So we’ll start with the basics.” She talks to me and applies various creams, powders, and potions. I nod and try to remember it all. Briella and Whitney hover at first, but then wander off to other perfume and makeup counters, leaving me alone with Eyeliner Girl.

“You have great green eyes. Let’s try to really make them pop with this deep violet shadow.”

I nod like I know what she’s talking about, but then when she finally turns me toward the mirror, I see exactly what she means. My eyes look huge.

“Now just a little blush. You need one with rounded bristles like this.” She holds a fluffy brush up in front of my face and I nod. “Start at your forehead where the sun naturally grazes your face. Circle down around your temples and along your cheekbones. Blend into the apples of your cheeks. See?”

Who knew I had dimples when I smiled? And my face, with those newly defined cheekbones, looks . . . almost good. I blink and the eyes in the mirror blink back at me.