Life in the Fat Lane (2 page)

The only thing that could possibly be any better would be to win homecoming queen. I didn’t really believe I had a chance, but other people seemed to think I did. After all, I was only a junior, and there were at least two senior girls who I knew would get it before I would.

But that would be okay. I could win next year. This year I would just be named to the court and have fun with my boyfriend, Jett, and all my friends.

“You think Jett would like my hair up?” I asked Molly, holding my long, blond hair up off my neck. “Does this look sophisticated or stupid?”

“ ‘According to the National Institute of Compulsive Eating’—now
there’s
a depressing place to work—‘eighty percent of ten-year-old girls have worried about their weight enough to diet,’ ” Molly read, her head still buried in the newspaper. She reached for the chips. “It says here that there are, like, zillions of anorexics, or something.”

Molly gave me a wistful look. “Hey, maybe I could get a mild case of anorexia. You know, just until I lost
thirty pounds or something, and then I’d, like, snap out of it.”

I snatched the paper out of her hands. “Mol! Tonight is
homecoming
. Amber and Lisa are coming over any minute. We need to plan.” I pulled her to her feet.

“No,
you
need to plan,” Molly corrected me. “
You’re
the one who has an actual short at homecoming queen.
You’re
the one who bagged Jett Anston, world’s hottest guy, and—”

“Cut it out,” I interrupted, nudging her with my hip. We stared at our reflections. “I say we put your hair up, too. What do you think?”

“I hate standing next to you.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Molly repeated. “Look in the mirror!”

“I’m looking.” I peered more closely at my chin. “Am I getting a pimple?”

“Ignore your zit for a moment,” Molly urged me. “Just tell me what you see.”

“Me and you.”

“Want to know what I see? One perfect blond goddess and one short, fat girl with a Lifetime Bad Hair Day.”

“You’re not fat, Mol—”

“Ha. I slide ever so gracefully into a size twelve—”

“Don’t put yourself down like—”

“Okay, a tight size fourteen in jeans but if you tell anyone, I’ll personally make sure you meet an untimely—”

“Mol—”

“In short,” Molly concluded, “you are a future Miss America, the hopes and the dreams of—sob—an entire
generation, whereas I am a walking Chia Pet. And this pet has to pee.” She took off for the bathroom.

I had to laugh. Molly could always make me laugh.

We had met in third grade. I was very popular, and my mother had, as always, sent me to the first day of school looking like the little pageant winner I already was (Miss Tiny Tennessee, among others)—frilly dress, hair curled and held back with a perfect bow. When our teacher, Mrs. Pissitelli, called on me, I addressed her as “ma’am.”

Molly had sat next to me. She was the new girl, and she wore overalls and high-tops. She called Mrs. Pissitelli “The Pisser” behind her back and made fart noises when Mrs. Pissitelli bent over to get the chalk she had dropped. Molly leaned toward me and whispered that The Pisser probably had armpit hair so long she could braid it.

We had been best friends ever since that day. Most of my other friends didn’t like Molly. They called her “The Mouth.” But I thought she was funny, nervy, brave—all the things I wasn’t. And I loved her for it.

From the first day I met Molly, she was plump and I was slender. It was just the way we were, and it didn’t matter to us at all. Until, I remembered, gazing in the gym mirror, a certain day when we were both thirteen.

Molly had worn a babydoll dress to school, and Tommy Baigley had yelled out in the lunchroom in front of dozens of kids, “Hey, Sheridan, are you pregnant?”

“Yeah,” Molly had shot back, “with Michael Jackson’s love child.”

Everyone had laughed, and Tommy had used his spoon as a catapult to shoot his peas at Molly, which got him kicked out of the cafeteria. After that, Tonika Ramone got one of her nosebleeds, which grossed every
one out, and everyone forgot all about what Tommy had said to Molly.

Everyone except Molly, that is. That night she’d slept over at my house. And as she lay there on my other twin bed I heard her voice in the darkness.

“You know what’s really weird, Lar?” she’d asked me. “How you put on a certain outfit and you think it looks really good, so you go around feeling kind of cute. And then someone says something, like that you look pregnant, and you realize you don’t look good. You never looked good. You look like a big fat slob and you were the only one stupid enough to think you looked good—”

“You
did
look good, Mol—”

“I’m never wearing that stupid babydoll dress again.”

I had gotten up on one elbow and searched out her face in the moonlight that was streaming in through my window. “Listen, Molly, the dress is cute. Tommy is just an idiot—”

“He never would have said that to you,” Molly had said, her voice low. “No one ever says anything mean to you.”

“That’s not true,” I’d said, even as my mind scrambled for something. “In fifth grade Teresa Baker said I was stuck-up.”

That’s when I saw one tear curl down Molly’s cheek. It was the first time I had ever seen her cry. I was amazed.

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about,” she’d said, her voice flat. She fisted the tear off her cheek. “It must be so great to be you. And it sucks being me.”

I sighed at the thought. Molly was still chubby, still funny, and still brave. And she was still my best friend in the entire world. So what if my cool and popular friends
didn’t really appreciate her? So what if they only put up with her because of me? They just didn’t understand. Molly didn’t love me because I was popular or a pageant winner any more than I had stopped loving her because she wasn’t.

With Molly, I could be myself.

“You know that icky little inspirational plaque in the bathroom about positive thinking?” Molly asked, walking out of the bathroom and over to me. “I’ve decided to take it to heart. I
positively
want to be as thin as you are.”

“All you have to do is—” I began.

“God, can you imagine if I end up as fat as my
mother
?” Molly asked, making a face at her reflection in the mirror. “She’s so fat I don’t think my parents even
do
it anymore. My father has all these
Playboys
he hides in his bathroom.”

I held my hair up a different way, trying to decide if I liked it. “Yeah, you told me.”

“But here’s what I didn’t tell you,” Molly said. “This morning—you’re not even going to believe this—taped to our refrigerator was Miss September herself. Only Dad had drawn this little bikini on her with Magic Marker. And he stuck a Post-it note on it, for my mother: ‘Margie: This is to inspire you to lose weight. I love you, Alan.’ ”

I made a face at our reflections. “That’s so—”

“Lara, you are totally not gonna believe this!” Amber Bevin cried as she and Lisa James, both good friends of mine, ran into the gym, dropped their backpacks off their arms, and laid their plastic-covered homecoming dresses carefully over the handles of the StairMaster.

Amber is a petite brunette and Lisa is slender, with
gorgeous, straight red hair and a darling face. They’re both really popular.

“Guess who has chicken pox and can’t go to homecoming tonight?” Amber asked.

“Elvis?” Molly guessed.

“Denise Reiser!” Lisa squealed, ignoring Molly and grabbing my fingers between hers.

“Denise Reiser?” I echoed, my jaw hanging open.

“She called Angela Morgan and Angela called me,” Amber reported. “Denise is totally covered in ugly scabs—”

Lisa squeezed my fingers. “Denise was, like, a shoo-in—”

“—but no way they’re crowning a queen who isn’t there—” Amber continued.

“Not to mention a human scab,” Molly put in.

“—so half your comp is gone,” Lisa crowed.

“Wow,” I breathed, leaning against the mirror. “Are you … are you sure?”

“I’m totally sure,” Lisa said, checking out her reflection in the mirror. “God, my hair looks like dog meat. I called her and acted like I felt really terrible for her, just to make sure it wasn’t all a rumor. But it’s true.”

“Isn’t that fantastic?” Amber asked me.

“I just
love
to profit from others’ misfortune, don’t you?” Molly chirped sarcastically.

Lisa gave Molly a pointed look. “Are you sure you and Andy wouldn’t really rather go to homecoming alone? The limo’s going to be awfully crowded with four couples.”

“Oh no,” Molly said cheerfully. “But thanks for looking out for me. You’re a peach.”

Was it really possible? Did I really have a chance at being crowned queen? “There’s still Amy Caprice,” I pointed out. “She is so gorgeous—”

“Yeah, but she’s not that popular,” Lisa argued. “She wasn’t even at Forest Hills until last year and she’s dating some college guy no one even knows.”

“We have to go tell my mother,” I said.

The four of us ran downstairs to my mom’s office, where she was inputting something on her laptop.

My mother was incredibly gorgeous, young looking, and infinitely cooler than any of my friends’ mothers. At the moment she was wearing size-six faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and sneakers. Her straight blond hair was held off her beautiful face with a slender ribbon. She easily looked ten years younger than the forty I knew her to be.

“Denise Reiser has chicken pox,” I said momentously.

My mother knew exactly who Denise Reiser was and what her having chicken pox meant for me. She was very involved in my life as a pageant queen, just as her mother had been very involved in
her
life as a pageant queen.

“No,” my mother breathed.

“Yes!” Lisa insisted.

My mother jumped up and hugged me hard. “Oh, sweetie, that means now there’s just Amy Caprice.”

“But, Mom, Amy is a senior, and gorgeous—”

“But she’s not as popular as you are,” my mother pointed out. “And she’s never done pageants.”

“And she’s dating some guy no one knows,” Lisa added.

My mother frowned slightly. “It’s too bad you’re not still with Danny. Danny is so popular—”

“Mom, I’m in love with Jett,” I reminded her.

“I know that, honey, but—”

“Jett could hurt your chance of getting queen,” Amber said bluntly. “He’s just so … alternative.”

“Yeah,” Molly agreed, “an intelligent alternative to the brain-dead guys
you
date.”

“Would you kindly shut up?” Lisa asked Molly.

I shot Lisa a look.

“I was only kidding,” Lisa added hastily. She didn’t want me to be mad at her for ragging on Molly.

Something was nagging at me. “I ought to call her—”

“And make sure it’s true,” my mother said, nodding.

“No, to see if I can do anything for her. I’d feel terrible if it were me—”

“That is so sweet, Lara,” my mother said. “It’s important to be sweet. Amy Caprice would never call.”

I smiled at my mother. I knew everyone envied me for my perfect mom. Molly’s mom was the same age as my mom, but she bought her clothes at this fat ladies’ store, Lane Bryant, and she couldn’t even cross one leg over the other. It was hard for me to understand how she could let herself go like that. I mean, Molly’s mom was a
psychotherapist
! Amber’s mom had lines on her face and gray hair, and she wore Doc Martens on her feet, which were always dirty from all the gardening she did. Lisa’s mom, a high-powered lawyer with an ugly, short haircut, was never even home.

“So why aren’t y’all upstairs getting beautiful?” Mom asked as she reached for the pack of cigarettes next to her computer. She pulled one out, lit it, and inhaled deeply. “I spent all day getting ready the day I won queen.”

“Can I bum one?” Lisa asked.

“Oh, Lis, I thought you quit,” my mom said.

“I did, but I started again after I gained two pounds,” Lisa said, taking one out and lighting up.

“Not two pounds!” Molly shrieked in mock horror.

“I’ve got to quit, too,” my mom agreed. “Jimbo just hates it. But like I told him: ‘Honey, you’d hate it a whole lot more if I got fat.’ ” She took another drag and smiled at me. “We are just so proud of you, Lara. We’ll put the photo of you in your crown right up on the mantel, next to mine—”

“But, Mom, Amy Caprice is going to win,” I said, fear clutching my stomach.

She held me by my shoulders. “Honey, Amy Caprice is not Miss America material.”

I tried to smile. “I just don’t want to let you down.”

“That could never happen,” my mom assured me.

Amber tugged on the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “Come on, let’s go upstairs and get gorgeous.”

We ran up to my room, and I tried not to feel nervous. I had been so sure that Denise Reiser would get homecoming queen that there hadn’t been any pressure. But now … what if I really did have a chance?

In my room, we were greeted by the rows of beauty pageant trophies that lined my dresser. The last one was from Miss Teen Pride of the South, four weeks earlier. Right after I had been announced as a finalist I’d broken out in angry-looking hives. I had barely managed to come in third, and that was only because my mother had covered the hives with thick, goopy makeup base. My pageant coordinator, Mrs. Armstrong, who had been grooming me for years, had been very distressed. She was sure that this year I had a real chance to win Miss Teen
Tennessee, which could one day lead to the big one: Miss America.

Third place didn’t fit into the plan at all.

I checked my arms for hives. So far, so good.

“I’m going to jump in the shower,” Molly said, kicking off her gym shoes.

“Why didn’t you just shower at home?” Lisa asked her.

“Because I live to annoy you,” Molly replied as she padded into my bathroom and shut the door.

I heard the shower go on. “Honestly, Lara, I mean no offense or anything but I truly do not see why you hang out with The Mouth,” Amber said, flipping open a copy of
Glamour
that was on my nightstand.

“Molly’s great,” I said lightly. I’d had various versions of this conversation with my friends many times.