Exposed (15 page)

The Bear, dressed all in green today, has her clipboard out, along with her big red pen. Following Paul’s instructions and the Bear’s demands for
moderation
, I haven’t weighed in all week, so I have no idea what that pen might write about me when I step on the scale.

I’ve eaten the calorie total I was supposed to eat, plus or minus no more than fifty. I did the strength training and exercises Paul recommended—and Dad did some of them with me. Of course, when we went walking, I had to go up and back, up and back every time since he couldn’t keep up, but he did walk with me. Lauren went with us once, too, but she got irritated with Dad and called him slowpoke, so I didn’t let her go the next time.

Have I been hungry enough?

I shift from one foot to the other.

Have I been tired enough when I exercised?

Girl after girl gets on the scale, and I hear the Bear saying, “Good. Yes. Good.”

Ellis flounces by me after her turn, looking superior.

Wonder if she’s got herpes yet. Please, universe? Can there be a little justice?

As each girl finishes, they leave the locker room and head out to warm up for practice. No doubt they would have hung around to stare at me if the Bear allowed that. She hardly ever does, though.

“Good. Excellent.” The Bear smiles at Carny, who gives me a thumbs-up and a hopeful smile as she leaves.

Will I be good, too? Excellent’s too much to hope for. Good would be fine.

Please, God, let Paul’s plan work. Let me make weight.

Maybe I’ll die of freaking out before my turn on the scale and it won’t matter. If I don’t die, Devin will. She grips my hand tighter, and I decide I’ll lose all the weight I need to lose when my fingers fall off from lack of blood flow.

“You look like you’re smaller,” she whispers as she scrubs her free hand against her black practice leotard. “Your clothes fit looser, I think. They fit great before. It’s hard to say. This is excruciating.”

Because I can’t focus at all, I have to dig through my brain to remember the definition of excruciating, but I finally get there. “Yeah. Excruciating.”

Devin doesn’t ease up any until we get to the scale—when she shoves me forward and almost makes me trip over the platform.

I steady myself, whirl back toward Devin, and start to get behind her, but she shakes her head.

“You go, Chan.” She bites at one of her fingers. “I can’t stand the suspense.”

If the Bear weren’t standing right behind me, I’d say a few things. The Bear doesn’t tolerate swearing, though.
Svearing isn’t ladylike
.

When I turn to the scale, the Bear’s smiling at me.

My eyebrows shoot up. I’ve never seen her smile when I headed to the scale before. She usually looks angry or a little nervous, because I’m always
right
on the line. Today she looks positively cheerful.

I go from scared to terrified as she studies me with her magnified eyes, but I make myself step onto the metal platform.

My heart squeezes, then stops, squeezes, then stops as I swallow and try to move the weights with my shaking hands.

The balance line bounces between its metal stops, and finally quits moving.

At first, I can’t believe what I’m seeing. My eyes must be lying. Maybe I screwed something up, because that can’t be true.

No way.

Really fast, I get off the scale, get back on, and move the weights again.

Three pounds under.

I start to smile.

The Bear laughs out loud. Her pen squeaks against her clipboard as she says, “Excellent, Chan. I knew my faith vas not misplaced.”

Devin lurches forward, stares at the scale, then claps and squeals. “Three pounds
down
. Stuuuupendous!”

I jump off the scale, think about turning a cartwheel, imagine breaking both my arms, and don’t. Devin turns
one for me. Then she almost runs out of the locker room without doing her own weight check.

As usual, she has no trouble coming in under the bar for her height, but for once, I don’t feel jealous. I bounce out of weigh-in with her, singing and wanting to make faces at the witch-monster, who is so totally shocked by my happy mood.

Herpes soon. Justice will prevail
.

After that, practice flows. I mean, it
really
flows. The Bear makes us integrate new steps into our routine to get ready for competition. I keep my rhythm and don’t miss a single toss. My muscles don’t hurt as much as usual, either, thanks to some strengthening exercises Paul added when I explained about how tired dance practice usually makes me. My head feels light, and I can’t do enough, can’t get enough. Like flying fast and doing dives and rolls. Total zone. Total perfection.

I don’t even get flippy when Mom pops into the gym wearing a bright blue long-sleeve T-shirt that screams
Better DEAD than voting RED
, or when Lauren eats really ooey-gooey-wonderful-smelling chocolate chip cookies all the way home.

The minute we walk in the door, Mom gets absorbed with local campaign stuff, since the election’s less than a week away. Lauren heads off to a friend’s house, so I get to be alone awhile, and tell Paul the good news.

Perfect, and more perfect.

Dad comes home later, and he and I walk after dinner,

and he gets a kick out of me being goofy—and he doesn’t ask me any hard questions.

No hard questions is definitely a plus.

I think he’s walking a little faster, and he doesn’t seem to be breathing as hard. After we get home, he gives me a kiss before I go up to my room, and he says, “Tonight was fun, doodlebug. I like it when you’re happy.”

“Me, too.” I give him an extra kiss, because it’s true, and because I like being happy a lot.

I can’t wait to get to chat to tell Paul he’s a genius, and I made it.

I owe him big-time.

Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile the winds
To a heart in port,—
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.

Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!

Emily Dickinson

CONNECTION

Storms wake us in a moonless night.
We lie in silence,
Drowned by noise,
Lost in the screams of the wind.

Rain beats the windows
And we slide closer,
Staring at each other,
Breathing electric air.

I reach for you in the lightning,
You join me in the thunder,
And we rain and howl and crash,
We rumble and roll and roar.

Finally we cling to each other
And sleep in the dwindling mist,

No longer awake.

No longer threatened.

Released.

Chan Shealy

I think I’m ready.

I really do.

Everybody tells me good night and heads for bed. I linger downstairs, and I’m the last one to my room—and I pretty much run to my computer as soon as I’m sure Mom and Dad are settled.

I open the laptop right on my desk, after double-checking the door three times.

Five minutes late, but Paul’s in chat, waiting for me.

“Evening,” he says.

“You’re still a genius,” I write back, studying his shadowy outline. “I’m still so happy over weigh-in.”

My heart thumps and bumps and rocks. I keep standing beside my desk even though I’m typing. Too nervous to sit down.

“No big deal.” Paul’s letters flash at me, bright purple, double normal size, followed by five rolling smileys. “I knew you could do it.”

My fingers flex, but I can’t think of anything to type back. When I try to swallow, my throat feels too tight.

“I really like your outfit,” Paul says next.

Heat flows across my cheeks and moves down to my neck, sliding under the tight black tank top I’ve chosen for my little show tonight. I probably look like I’ve got third-degree burns. My black jeans feel too tight, but they hug in all the right places.

“You ready to pay up?” Paul types. This time he punctuates with a winking smiley and the one with its eyes bulging out.

No way I can answer him.

I just adjust the camera angle and walk to my weight bench, which I keep a little over an arm’s length away from my bed.

The house seems way too silent as I sit down next to the lamp I placed on the floor when I first came into the room. Blood thunders in my ears. If Mom walks by outside, she’ll be able to see the light under my door.

She’ll probably come in.

I can always say I’m trying to get in an extra workout. She might believe that.

My head swims. Chills rush up and down my arms.

If I squint, I can make out Paul’s outline in the little streaming window on the laptop on my desk. I can’t see his handsome face clearly, but I know he’s looking at me. I can feel his eyes burning across my face, my neck, the muscles in my arm as I pick up a small weight.

Just do a workout
, he told me last night.
Go through the paces like I’m not even there.

Right. Sure.

I feel like he’s standing right behind me, ready to put his hands on my shoulders. My belly keeps turning flips, and I can’t breathe right as I position myself to handle the weight.

Don’t be stupid. You’re not a virgin, for God’s sake.

But somehow this is scarier.

Strange and exciting, and it feels way dangerous, even though I have my clothes on.

Paul’s watching.

He’s an older guy—and he thinks I’m sexy.

He thinks me lifting this weight is sexy.

I grin.

Oh, wait.

Is grinning sexy?

I erase the grin, try to think about the ways hot women look at men in movies, and pull my face into some kind of serious hot-movie-woman expression. I hope.

Then I put my free hand on my knee, lean forward, and curl the five-pound orange weight up toward my chin.

One, two, three, four
… I curl hard and fast, like I’d do in a real workout, only if I were really working out, I’d let myself breathe better—and I’d definitely lose the tight pants.

But for now, I curl, and try not to gasp and sweat.

All the way to thirty. Other hand.
One, two, three, four
…

No noises in the hall.

I wonder if my heart can explode from just lifting weights.

The house is sooo quiet. The air seems still, a little cool, almost cold. I get more chills.

If Mom bursts in on me, she probably won’t buy the workout thing, but she might not notice the computer being in chat. And even if she notices that, she might not notice the camera set to stream. Mom doesn’t understand about how cameras work with the Internet, or she never would have let me get a laptop with a camera already in it.

I finish with the first set of lifts, pick up a second weight, lie back on the bench without looking at Paul, and push the weights up, up, up, like I’m pressing some serious iron.

What’s he seeing?

Me, on my back, lifting orange dumbbells.

Maybe I look like a dumbbell.

My breasts look like some of Dad’s pancakes inside the tank, but nothing’s showing on the sides at least. I bring the weights down too fast and almost smack myself in the head.

If Paul could transport into my room, he might touch me somehow. Rest his hand on my leg, or massage my bicep as I jab my arms upward.

I’d probably like it, him touching me.

Doing my best not to giggle or turn any redder, I sit up and go to the next set of reps, making sure to face Paul and the camera as I lower the weights behind my head.

Now my boobs look better. Way better. Almost like they belong on my chest.

Not a total dumbbell.

Maybe he knows he didn’t make a mistake, choosing me for his Red. I
do
have curves.

A few minutes later, I finish my show-workout, put down the weights, and have to grab a corner of my sheets to wipe the sweat off my forehead. Sweat isn’t sexy, in my opinion, at least not on a girl.

My heart’s still beating funny when I get back to Paul. He’s typed stuff while I was working with the weights. Mostly “Oh, my God,” in different sizes and colors, with lots of freaky multicolored smileys.

I laugh and pick up the computer. On the way to my closet, I shut off the lamp on the floor and put it back on my bedside table.

Did I look hot? I hope I looked hot.

Jeez, I need to breathe and settle down.

By the time I get comfortable in the closet and pull the door almost shut, Paul has typed, “You could make money doing that, Red. Amazing.”

Air snorts out my nose as I gulp down a loud laugh. “You’re nuts. You know that, right?”

“I’m totally not nuts!” Bright pink bouncing smiley. “Money. Lots of it. I swear.”

I roll my eyes and lean back against the closet wall. When I take a breath, the air smells like cedar and detergent, kind of soft and comforting, but I still feel charged up. “Who would pay money to see me lift orange dumbbells?”

“ME!” Paul types back right away, with no smileys at all.