8. Emmy
I can’t be late for the bus.
Other girls can be late. Madison can saunter down the hill whenever the hell she wants and the bus driver will just say, “I’m supposed to leave at seven fifteen, you know.”
That’s why I’m running right now. Because when you’re heavy, the whole world believes you need to be taught a lesson. They call you greedy and lazy no matter what you’ve done. They claim you don’t care enough about yourself and are also deeply selfish at the same time. They’re all dying to slam a door in your face to show you how much they despise you for it.
My thighs chafe and my waistband digs hard into my skin, but any indignity is better than having to face my mother, having to wake her up and tell her I need a ride.
I can see my classmates laughing. It’s easy enough to imagine what they’re saying since I’ve heard them say some version of it before:
Look at how her stomach jiggles.
She’s about to bust out of those jeans.
Make her run all the way to school, Mr. Holladay.
The doors close and the bus drives away—even though I’m running, even though Mr. Holladay looked straight at me. I’m not even surprised. I’ve become used to the way the whole world seems to hate me.
And now I’ve got to go home to the person who hates me most.
I wake. My heart is still beating hard. It’s a memory I’d entirely forgotten, but here it is, lodged in my chest, sharp as a new knife.
And there are far sharper knives waiting than the one that’s there now.
* * *
It’sone of those cold summer mornings we get sometimes. Beneath my bare feet, the floor is icy. I pull on a sweatshirt and go downstairs to find Snowflake outside, whining, with her face pressed to the door. My mother’s already up, already irritated. “Let her in,” she says.
When I open the door, she bounds inside, rushing frantically from me to her bowl and back to me. “Okay, okay,” I soothe, running my hand through her fur, which is colder than usual. “How long did you leave her out there?” I demand.
“Not long enough,” my mother replies. “She’s getting up too early and it’s your fault. You need to stop feeding her before nine.”
I ignore this, crossing the kitchen to fill Snowflake’s bowl. She eats as if she’s ravenous, sending food flying in her haste. I don’t know much about animals, but I wonder if this is normal. Was Snowflake always a messy eater, or has the experience of hunger made her frantic? If it’s the latter, I know the feeling.
My mother watches from the corner of her eye as I make coffee. She watches as I go to the refrigerator for cream and reach for a banana.
“That’s pure sugar, you know,” she says with a small, smug smile as I start to unpeel it. “You’ll be big as a house by the time you leave if you keep that up.”
“Thanks for the expert nutritional advice, Mom,” I reply, rolling my eyes, but inside, that age-old anxiety begins to spin. She’s fucking insane, and I know this, yet some childish part of me actually worries, as if she might still know something I don’t. And if I don’t get out of this house right the fuck now, I’m going to be back where I started. I’m going to be binge eating just to silence her voice in my head.
I slam the coffee and the banana in defiance and go online. There’s a tiny yoga studio on Main Street with semi-private classes, which means extra attention from the instructor—something I definitely don’t want—but at least I won’t run into anyone I knew in school.
I make it just in time for the eight AM class. The cute blonde instructor smiles at me from the front of the room, but I don’t trust people who smile at strangers so I merely nod and set up my mat at the very back.
“I’m Chloe,” she says. “Why don’t you move your mat up here? No one comes at this time of day.”
I’d ignore her, but then there’d be this weird tension for the next hour.
“What are you hoping to get out of this class?” she asks as I move forward.
“Just a good workout,” I retort. “None of that finding-my-inner-child stuff.”
She laughs. “I guess that means no releasing chakras either then?”
I offer her a reluctant smile. “No. I hate that crap. I’m only here to stay thin. And to keep from killing my mom.”
“Fair enough,” she replies, standing. “Let’s keep Mom alive another day. Get your ass off that mat and get to work.”
She leads me through a soul-crushing cycle of downward dogs and warrior poses and not nearly as many easy stretches as my studio in NYC.
My arms are shaking during the downward dog at the end. “Oh my god,” I groan. “I’m dying.”
“I can talk about chakras,” she offers.
I laugh as I roll up my mat. “I’m not that tired.”
“Come back the next time you’re feeling homicidal.”
I give her an unwilling smile, “In that case, I’ll be back in an hour.”
* * *
When I returnto the house, Snowflake greets me at the door. It’s strange, having anyone—animal or human—excited to see me when I walk in. I wrap my arms around her briefly before I walk to the back to let her out.
“My God,” my mother says, looking at my crop top, “I hope you aren’t dressing like that for work. It’s so unprofessional.”
Jesus. I love getting second-guessed by a woman who has never held a job.
My eyes roll. “Of course not. I went to yoga.”
“You can’t out-exercise a bad diet.”
“Exercise is good for a lot of things other than weight,” I reply. “And how would you know whether or not it’s enough? I’ve never seen you exercise once.”
“That’s because I don’t have to.”
Is it wrong to hope your mother gets osteoporosis simply to win an argument? Probably.
Liam is in the backyard with some other guy, sinking posts into cement. His T-shirt clings in all the right places. He has my favorite type of body—the kind that comes from actual work and not hours spent flexing in front of a large mirror at the gym. He steps away from the post, rubbing the back of his neck, looking troubled. When he’s not talking to me, he actually seems like a reasonable person.
I walk onto the deck. I picture him pulling off that tool belt he’s wearing as he prowls toward me. I picture those jeans falling to mid-thigh as I reach into his boxers.
His loss.
He runs a thumb over his full lower lip.
Definitely his loss.
Even in my head, though, this does not sound convincing.
His gaze catches on me—on the crop top, the bare midriff. There’s a flare of something in his eyes, something feral and delicious, before he no doubt remembers what he’s looking at and turns back to his work.
“When will my ceiling be done?” I demand.
“I ordered the tiles,” he says without looking up. “Store’s telling me next week.”
I want more. I want him to talk, even if it’s simply to lash out. “You know, we already started advertising the Bond movie series beginning in July. You’ve really put us behind.”
“I haven’t put you behind,” he growls, turning in my direction. “You, like your mother, changed the plan. Not the only similarity, obviously. You might be hot, but it’s pretty clear that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree in terms of your attitude.”
I can think of a thousand ugly things I could say to him in response, but my throat is oddly tight. I know I’m like my mother. A lot of people would say I’m worse. But whatever I’ve become, it’s because of people like him—people who want me to stumble and fall for their own amusement. This was the only outcome. A necessary outcome.
I guess being back home simply reminds me what a terrible outcome it was.
“The only thing I just heard,” I reply, turning to walk inside, pushing sweaty hair out of my face, “is that you think I’m hot.”