“She’ll take it all.” Whitney is back by my side and sharing the reflection in the mirror with me. “Give her the credit card,” she says to me.
Eyeliner Girl puts every thing into a bag for me. “You really look amazing,” she says. “If you have any questions, I’m here every Saturday.”
“Time for lunch,” Whitney announces, as we leave the makeup counter and head out into the mall. “I’m starved.”
We wait in line at California Pizza Kitchen with lots of tired-looking moms and screaming kids. My arms are full of bags from the shopping trip. Clothes, makeup, jewelry, and shoes. I’m afraid of what Dad will say when he sees his credit card statement. Whitney has very expensive tastes. I figure I’ll just remind him of the years and years of shopping I’ve saved him.
I glance up at the restaurant window. There are three girls reflected there. I recognize Whitney and Briella. But who is the third? She has her arms full of colorful sacks and bags — Nordstrom, H&M, Urban Outfitters, Gap. I know it’s me, but the girl in the reflection doesn’t look like me. I move the bags in my arms up and down. The reflection does the same. It is me. I know it in my head, but the reflection lies. It has to, because the girl in the window is not that fat. She’s not skinny, or anything like that, but she’s not terrible looking. She has a smile on her face and, if I saw her walking around the mall, I wouldn’t feel sorry for her.
“Wait. Look how much fatter you are than the two of them. You’re the charity case here, and don’t ever forget it.” Skinny is right. I look at the reflection closer. I am fatter than Briella and Whitney. Of course I am.
The hostess starts to seat us. I’m worried when she leads us toward the booths. I won’t fit. I can’t tell them that I need a table, not a booth. Briella slides in one side and Whitney follows, taking the menus and chatting the whole time. I can’t hear them. I’m focused on the space in between the table and the seat. It’s too small. I stand there awkwardly.
“Sit down, Ever,” Briella says impatiently. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say. I sit gingerly on the bench and push myself into my side of the booth, taking a deep breath. There is room to spare between me and the table. Just a small space left over, but it’s there. I fit. I can’t celebrate too much, though, because the waitress is here to hand me a menu, and I realize I have an even bigger problem in front of me. What can I eat?
Briella is texting. Whitney is talking. I stare at the menu. All these choices.
“Did you see that Marc Jacobs top? It would look amazing on me,” Whitney says.
“Wolfgang just texted me,” Briella squeals.
“What did he say?”
Briella hands over her phone, and Whitney reads.
“You don’t exist,” Skinny reminds me.
I have bigger problems at the moment. The waitress is back, and it’s time to order. Whitney and Briella decide to share a pizza, then it’s my turn. I order a chopped chicken salad. It seems like the best choice. The food comes. Briella and Whitney dive into the pizza. I take a tiny bite of lettuce and chew like crazy.
“Your eye shadow looks great.” Whitney focuses on me between bites. Briella texts Wolf back about meeting up with him later at the movies.
“Thanks,” I say. I take a bite of chicken, smiling. We could be friends.
“Don’t kid yourself, fatty.”
The chicken stops halfway down my throat. My chest aches with the pressure. I didn’t chew it long enough. It’s going to come back up.
“I’m thinking that bracelet from Forever 21 would be perfect with that top. What do you think?” I realize suddenly that Whitney’s talking to me, not Briella. She’s actually asking my opinion. I take a sip of water and nod. The bite of chicken doesn’t budge. It feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest. The pressure is painful. I’m afraid I’m going to spew it out across the table.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say. Whitney is still talking when I leave the table, but all I can think about is getting to the toilet before I hurl. I try not to run. A mom with a toddler is in front of the sink when I push open the door. Luckily, one of the stalls is empty. I barely shut the door before I’m coughing over the toilet. The piece of chicken comes up. Instantly, I feel better.
“Are you all right?” The woman at the sink looks concerned as I step out of the stall.
“I’m fine.” I rinse my mouth out at the sink. I don’t want to explain. She shakes her head and leaves.
Back at the table, I stare down at the chicken salad. It looks delicious, but I can’t have another bite. I know it won’t go down, and I don’t want to answer the questions I’ll get if I run back to the bathroom again.