Skinny(61)

“How do you even know what I look like?”

She is silent.

“Look at me!” I command her. “Tell me what you see.”

Slowly, she raises her head, and the monster steps out of the closet. Her eyes are opaque and milky white with no life behind them. I clap my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. Skinny is blind.

“You lie!” I choke on the words. The realization makes my head spin. Skinny bases every thing on appearance, all her horrible whispers, but the truth is, she can’t see anything at all.

“You lie,” she mimics back to me in a singsong voice, but she keeps crumbling away, breaking into pieces. I can see through her to the other side. She is nothing.

“Stop it. Stop. STOP! ” I yell at the disintegrating creature in front of me. “It’s your turn to listen to me. I’m done believing what you say. I’m so much more than what you’ve made me.”

“You made me,” she echoes. Her voice is shaky, confused, but for once I hear the truth. If I made her, then I can change her . . . me. There’s a crack there. I have to push harder. I’ve been the one feeding Skinny all along, but now it’s time for me to make the choice. Her or the rest of my life?

“I am a good person. I can sing beautifully,” I say carefully. “I am . . . pretty.”

“Well, you are thinner than you were.” Her voice sounds hesitant.

That’s right. I can change. What. She. Says.

“I am pretty. Say it.” I point at her with a shaking finger.

“You look okay in the dress.”

“No, I look pretty. Say it.”

But she can’t say anything because, just like that, the fading image in front of me flickers and vanishes. It’s time for the princess to say good-bye to her fairy godmother. Skinny isn’t standing on center stage, or sitting on my shoulder, or talking in my ear. Skinny only exists inside my own head. She is part me that is big and proud. And a singer part of me that people would love to hear. And a daughter part of me that misses her mother and loves her father. And maybe, there’s a friend part of me, too.

I need to talk to Briella.





Chapter Twenty-One


How was the dance?”

My dad is waiting up when I get home, sitting in a chair with his reading glasses on, but there’s no book in sight. “You’re home early.”

“The limo driver gave me a ride. Whitney’s dad paid him for the whole night, so he was just waiting around,” I say.

Dad’s eyebrows rise in question. I’m not ready to talk about it just yet, so I change the subject. “Any weird criminal news? I could use a smile right about now.”

“Walter Johnson crashed the La-Z-Boy chair he converted into a motorized vehicle — complete with stereo and cupholders — into a car outside Lurlene’s Lounge.”

“He really got it to move?”

“Oh, definitely,” Dad says. “It was powered by a lawn mower motor and had a steering wheel, headlights, and even an antenna.”

“Impressive.” I kick the high heels off and lean over to rub one aching bare foot.

Dad continues, “Walter’s not arguing the fact he was ‘extremely drunk,’ he just wants his La-Z-Boy back.”

“Well, he did go to a lot of trouble.” I finally smile.

“Ahhh. There it is. That looks better,” Dad says and pats the chair beside him. “Come sit down and tell me all about it.”

“The dance was okay,” I say.

“That doesn’t sound too wonderful. What happened, peanut?”

“Oh, Dad.” I squeeze into the big, overstuffed chair beside him, and he puts his arm around me. “Things just didn’t turn out the way I thought they would.”

He pulls me in a little tighter but doesn’t ask for any more explanation. After a few minutes he says, “When one door closes, another one opens.”

I laugh. “That’s what Mom used to always say.”

He smiles and pats my shoulder. “She’d be so proud of you. You know that, right?”

“I hope so.” We sit there, both remembering. “Sometimes I just wish I could see her, and I want her to look happy. Not like she looked the last time I saw her,” I say, before I have time to think. The sadness washes over his face, and I’m sorry the minute that long-unspoken wish comes out of my mouth.

“You always made us both so, so happy,” he says, blinking rapidly from behind his reading glasses. “And that’s always what we wanted for you . . . happiness.”

“I know, Dad,” I say, patting his leg. “Don’t worry. I’ll get there.”

I rest my head on his shoulder, and we sit like that for a while, not talking. His arm feels good.