Skinny(48)

“Thanks,” I say. “You were good, too.”

“I never knew you had a drama streak. You’re usually so quiet and . . .”

“Fat?” Skinny asks.

“And?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” Gigi pauses, searching for the right word. She finally comes up with one. “Angry.”

It isn’t what I was expecting.

“Angry at who?”

“I’m not sure. School? Drama club?” Her voice gets smaller and more hesitant. Her brow wrinkles into deep lines. “Me?”

Gigi thought I was angry with her? Why? I don’t even know her. “Of course I’m not angry at you,” I say.

I don’t have time to talk to her anymore because Ms. DeWise calls out for quiet so the next group of actors can begin their scene. I watch it, but I keep thinking about what Gigi said.

“She’s never liked you. You know that,” Skinny hisses.

Do I know that? Thinking back, I can’t remember a time I’ve ever actually had a real conversation with Gigi. Was that my choice or hers?





THE BALL





Chapter Sixteen


On the first Saturday in October, Whitney pushes me out of the way and descends on the mahogany desk at the Headhunters Salon and Day Spa in the Galleria. I can’t believe I let her drive me all the way to Houston for a hair appointment, but I have to admit I’ve been pleasantly surprised by her previous makeover experiments on me. Briella is at her dad’s this weekend, but Whitney says we can’t wait for her to go with us. It’s too hard to get an appointment with Lawrence, her special stylist, and evidently Whitney had to pull a lot of strings for him to even consider taking on a new client.

“We would like to speak to Lawrence,” she says to the receptionist, with a determined glint in her eye.

“Do you have an appointment?” The woman at the desk is a gorgeous platinum blonde without a trace of a smile on her carefully painted bow lips. Her perfectly manicured fuchsia fingernail remains pointed at the appointment book to hold her place.

“He’s expecting us.” Whitney gives the receptionist a frosty response. “Just tell him Whitney is here.”

“I’ll see if he’s available.” The blonde sounds doubtful as she stands and glides off silently down a beige-carpeted hall.

“Come on.” Whitney walks over to the pink swivel chairs underneath a picture of purple irises. She settles in with two of the Godiva chocolates from the etched-glass dish on the coffee table.

“Looks like Lawrence is doing all right.” Whitney glances around the elegant pink- and beige-drenched room. “This is a long way from the Glory to God Laundry Mat and Beauty Parlor.” Whitney reaches for another treat.

I wait for a further explanation, but Whitney nibbles quietly on a third piece of candy with only an occasional sigh of satisfaction. My eyebrows go up in surprise. I’ve never seen her eat more than one bite of anything, but now she’s downed three pieces of chocolate in five minutes.

“Chocolate,” she breathes. “It’s my one fatal flaw. I’d offer you one, but, you know . . .” She pauses for dramatic effect.

“Dumping syndrome.”

Since Whitney took me on as her project, she also felt the need to become an Internet expert on gastric bypass surgery.

“Dumping,” as she now knows, is when food passes too quickly into the small intestine. It typically happens when a gastric bypass patient eats a sugary food. I “dumped” once in July when I tried to eat ice cream. Once was enough. My heart beat rapidly and forcefully while my body tried to adjust. I broke into a cold sweat and had to lie down for about thirty minutes.

It was a scary feeling and it ought to make me want to stay far away from anything sweet, but I still jealously eye the chocolate in Whitney’s hand. Old habits are so hard to break even when they make you sick.

“Who do you want to ask you to the Fall Ball?” Whitney’s eyes narrow with the importance of the question, as she waves around the half-eaten piece of chocolate for emphasis.

“It’s a trick question. She knows no one is going to ask YOU to a dance,” Skinny whispers.

“I haven’t thought about it,” I say. Jackson, I think.

“Oh, I know you have,” Whitney says, with a sly smile. She pops the last bite of temptation into her mouth and then talks around the chewing. “I saw the way you looked at Jackson Barnett the other day.”

“He’s an old friend,” I say. I need to change the subject.

“What about you?”

“I’m thinking I’ll go with Matt Leland.” Matt is the tall, redheaded star basketball player who sends Whitney endless text messages.