Chapter Three
S tanding in her underwear, Stacey checked the number on the scale. Ten pounds heavier than she thought. And only three days before she was supposed to start at the pool. She kicked the scale back under her bed and stood in front of the mirror, pinching her belly fat and groaning at her thighs.
“I look like the Blind Melon Bee Girl,” Stacey whimpered.
Murphy raised one eyebrow, but didn’t lift her muzzle from her paws at the end of the bed.
At ten that night, done studying, Stacey started exercising frantically. She was determined to have an hourglass waist and supermodel thighs before morning. She rotated sit ups, leg lifts, and crunches, ignoring the acid lump her dinner formed in the back of her throat. Digging through the entryway coat closet, she pulled out her mother’s ThighMaster triumphantly.
With Nirvana Unplugged in the background and the soft glow from her lava lamp, Stacey laid on the carpet on her right side, Suzanne-Somers-style. She started squeezing the royal blue foam-wrapped bars between her knees. After twenty squeezes, her inner thighs started to burn. The ground was hard under her hip, so she switched to the left, getting winded around fifty reps, then flipped again. With both hips aching and beads of sweat on her forehead, Stacey grunted her way to eighty, then laid back to catch her breath.
Checking the clock on her nightstand, Stacey dropped her head in defeat; she’d only exercised for fifteen minutes. Accepting she wouldn’t be able to pull an all-nighter, she hoped she could at least manage two hundred reps. Stacey repositioned herself to sit on the edge of the bed, and turned the direction of the ThighMaster to face outward.
Her inner thighs were sweaty and sore. Her legs struggled to grip the ThighMaster in the new position. It slipped multiple times, and her knees quivered. Then, on squeeze one hundred and twenty-six, the boomerang-shaped torture device launched like a missile across the room, onto her desk. It flew straight into her lava lamp. The glass broke, along with the internal lightbulb. The room was instantly dark.
Murphy sat up on the bed and barked.
“What was that?” her mom yelled from her bedroom.
Stacey stood and pulled on the ceiling fan light to survey the damage. The mix of water, glass and pink goo dripped and pooled on the carpet.
Her mom threw open the door wearing a threadbare nightgown and waving a fireplace poker.
“It’s only me!” Stacey hovered over the mess, attempting to block her mother’s view of the hot pink stain forming.
Her mom hit the power button on the stereo, silencing “All Apologies.” “Why didn’t you answer me?”
“Get Murphy out. There’s broken glass!”
“What the hell happened?” Her mom tugged the dog by her collar into the hall, then closed the door.
“I need a towel or something.”
“What broke? It’s water, right?” She handed Stacey the towel that was draped over the corner of a drawer. “Is that the ThighMaster?”
“Yeah,” Stacey responded with a rude lilt. “So?”
“You know, young lady…,” her mother said curtly. She huffed air out her nose and shook her head. “Nevermind. I have an eight a.m. client. Clean it up on your own. I’m going back to bed.”
Stacey sat back on her haunches and waited for the sound of the door clicking closed. After scooping up as much of the goo and glass as possible, she threw the mess in the outside garbage can along with the towel. She pulled the desk over to hide the stain, and shoved the ThighMaster back in the coat closet.
She needed a new plan.
Her mom was always telling her that “grapefruit juice makes the fat melt off of you,” so Stacey figured she could consume nothing else for the next few days.
By the time the swimsuit arrived Friday night, Stacey had lost six pounds, and was feeling proud of herself. But when she tried the swimsuit on and looked in the mirror, any shred of confidence she had found was lost.
“No!” Stacey shrieked from down the hall. “Mom!” She threw open her mother’s bedroom door and ran to her, Stacey’s face drained of color.
“What’s wrong?” Stacey’s mom stood in front of her mirror applying make-up, but spun around quickly, mascara wand held high.
“I can’t wear this! It’s too tight, and looks like Cabbage Patch granny-panties.” Stacey faced the mirror, and tugged at the leg openings. “It cuts off the top of my legs like they’re giant sausages, and makes my butt and thighs look enormous!”
“THAT’S what you’re screaming about? You cannot be serious, Stacey.” Her mom turned back to her mirror and took a deep breath, then resumed applying her mascara. “You look fine. You spent 50 bucks on that suit; you’re wearing it!”
“YOU can’t be serious, Mom!” She stood behind her mother, pulling at the suit and scowling at her reflection.
“Tough luck. There’s no other option right now. And I have a date.” She blotted her lipstick on a tissue while side-eyeing her daughter.
With fists clenched, Stacey screamed in defeat, then slapped her thighs. She stormed out, slamming her mother’s bedroom door behind her, and then her own, before throwing herself face first onto her pillow. She screamed long and loud, her voice reverberating off the mattress springs.
After the front door closed, and Stacey heard her mother’s car back out of the driveway, she sat on her bed, holding her head.
It was the end of Stacey’s first official day of summer, and this was a bad sign. There were only fifteen hours before her orientation at the pool. She considered begging Gabe to go with her to search the sketchy mall for a solution, but its biggest department stores—Gottschalks and Mervyn’s—probably wouldn’t carry anything close to a lifeguard suit. She had no choice but to make this swimsuit work.
Stacey peeled it off, and–standing completely naked–stepped into the shoulder straps, pulling up on the suit’s crotch until she heard the elastic begin to snap. Next she put a foot in the crotch, and pulled each of the leg elastics as hard as she could.
“Don’t look at me like I’m crazy,” she said to Murphy as she tugged. The dog laid on the bed, her head hanging off the side, watching Stacey’s every move.
Finally, Stacey put her heels in the chest area, and pulled the rest of the suit around her feet, tugging for every millimeter of give possible.
Trying the suit on again, Stacey looked in the mirror, mumbling to herself. “Zero improvement. What kind of anorexic geriatrics wear Lands End suits, anyway?”
Fed up, Stacey peeled the offensive fabric from her body and threw it on the floor. She pulled on oversized boxers and a tank top, then flopped on her back on the comforter beside Murphy. “Maybe I don’t actually have to wear the suit to orientation. Better to postpone my public humiliation as long as possible, right?”
Murphy thumped her tail.
Stacey curled around her golden dog, rubbing Murphy’s white belly, desperate to ease the butterflies in her own stomach before morning.
“Please tell me this is actually going to be a good summer, Murph.”
The dog rolled onto her back and looked at Stacey upside down, her tongue lolling out of her mouth.
“Well, that’s reassuring.” Stacey snorted.