I sleep for days. I think. I have vague memories of my parents coming in and out of my room and cotton balls in my mouth and bloody drool. One recurring dream haunts me: an out-of-body experience where I watch myself writing my personal statement for journalism camp. Except every time I finish, the page is blank, like I’ve been writing with invisible ink. And then another where I’m doing my audition tape 100 percent naked.
When I do come out of it, I wake up in a panic. My bedroom is hot with afternoon sunlight. I reach for my phone on my nightstand, but it’s not in the pineapple-shaped charging cradle where I set it every night like clockwork. After taking a moment to rub my eyes and pry myself out of bed, I stumble out into the kitchen, where my mom is chopping celery and simmering chicken stock for chicken noodle soup.
I open my mouth to speak, but my jaw punishes me immediately with a shooting pain. Cradling my cheek, I groan.
My mom spins on her heels. “You’re up! Oh, sweet pea, I could’ve brought this to your room. Do you need something?”
I sit on the bar stool across the breakfast bar from her. “My mouth hurts.” My throat nearly cracks from dryness, and my tongue feels heavy and swollen in my mouth. “What time is it?”
My mom glances at the microwave. “Three thirty in the afternoon. You’ve been out since we got home from Dr. Shepherd’s last night.”
I nod. “Did he give me anything for the pain?”
“Awww, sweetie,” my mom coos. “Yes, he did. And you’re due for a dose in about thirty minutes.” She comes around the other side of the breakfast bar to smooth out my hair a little. “You slept good and hard.”
“I didn’t see my cell phone on my nightstand. Did I leave it at the gym or something? I could’ve sworn I brought it home.”
She reaches into the pocket of her apron. “Well, it was just the weirdest thing. Amanda called the house phone last night and said I oughta take your phone away from you. Immediately. She wouldn’t say why, except that your life depended on it. You know I like Amanda, but she’s a touch dramatic.”
“Huh.” I run my fingers through my hair, trying to detangle some knots. “And you did? Take my phone away?”
“Well, I thought she was just being funny. You know I can never tell when Amanda is joking or not, but she said your social life depended on it.” She chuckles to herself. “So I took it out of your room. I figured better safe than sorry.” She winks as she twirls around to grab a jar of dried parsley off her spice rack.
I hit a button on the side of my phone, lighting up the screen to see that I’m almost out of battery. “I’m gonna go brush my hair and charge this thing for a bit.”
“Okay, sweets, this soup will just simmer for a bit longer before it’s ready. And I’ve got some prescription toothpaste and mouthwash for you when you’re ready to brush your teeth.”
I smack my lips together. If my breath smells half as gross as my mouth feels, I’m in pretty rough shape. “After the soup,” I tell her.
She smiles sympathetically. “I must have dropped at least eight pounds when I had my wisdom teeth removed, so that’s something to look forward to.”
Somehow it always comes back to weight loss. But I’m too uncomfortable and groggy to engage with this right now. “I’ll be in my room.”
Back in my room, I search for a charging cord so that I can charge my phone and use it at the same time. I quickly scroll through my text messages. What could have possibly been so horrible that Amanda would call my mom and tell her to take my phone away?
The first text message exchange is between Willowdean and me.
ME: hey youuuuu
WILLOWDEAN: Millie? Hey
ME: what if there was an app that texted you every day to tell you something awesome about yourself but what if the app was like real stuff like it knew you but not in a creepy robot way
WILLOWDEAN: That sounds awesome, but are you okay right now?
ME: I AM GRAND
ME: like if I were the app robot I would say Willowqueen, you have balls of steel and that makes you awesome have an awesome day love your awesome app robot
ME: so genius
WILLOWDEAN: Balls of steel? Am I being pranked? Did someone steal Millie’s phone?
ME: boop boop beep boop
ME: that’s robot for shhh good night
“Oh my God.” I clap a hand over my mouth. My cheeks burn with instant embarrassment. Balls of steel? I don’t think I’ve ever even said the word balls out loud.
I’ve heard of this happening. People just totally out of it on painkillers and doing or saying ridiculous things. But I was so tired. I barely even remember coming home last night.
Still, I’m scared to dive into whatever other messes I might have gotten myself into. But it’s a car wreck. And I can’t look away. Plus I’ve got to get into damage-control mode at the very least. What if I said something rude or hurtful? Or accidentally told someone’s secret? Or my own secrets?
I scroll down to the next message. Amanda.
ME: my feelings ache
AMANDA: Huh?
ME: it’s like a stomachache, but with my heart and not the one in my body I mean the feelings heart. the heart-shaped heart not the fist-shaped heart
AMANDA: Millie?
ME: i want you to always feel like we can talk
AMANDA: I can’t believe I’m asking this, but are you drunk?
ME: I like you for always okay but I felt like a bad friend for not knowing that you’re asexual
ME: I had to have my wise teeth taken out but only the very smartest ones and that’s why i missed malik’s party, but it’s okay i told him i wouldn’t be there and that we should kiss for fun
AMANDA: OMG MILLIE WHERE ARE YOU
AMANDA: Throw your phone. Do it. Right now. Throw it as far as you can. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
I clutch my phone to my chest. Oh Lord Baby Jesus. What did I do? I need to talk to Amanda. I can’t believe I told her my feelings were hurt—when I had no right to even have hurt feelings to begin with! And Malik.
I take a deep breath and hold the phone out in front of me as I click on my message thread with Malik.
ME: no party for me :(
MALIK: Oh ok. Did something just come up? You seemed excited the other night.
ME: I was excited but were you is the real question
MALIK: I don’t get it. Did I do something wrong?
ME: if being cute and wearing your stupid pennies in your stupid loafers and always having a kissable face is wrong then yes you do all the things wrong mister sir
I roll over onto my side and pull the blankets over my head. With my face pressed deep into my pillow, I scream as loud as I can. The world is a cruel, cruel place. And what’s even worse is that those were only the first few in a very long series of messages. After a few more screams, I emerge from my blankets with my hair even more mussed than it was to begin with.
I inhale for two deep breaths, taking my time to exhale each time. My breath is truly unpleasant.
MALIK: Wow. Well, this party would be a whole lot better if you were here. That’s for sure.
MALIK: And I think you’re cute, too. And pretty and basically every synonym for pretty.
I gasp, and the rush of air actually hurts the wounds on my gums, but holy cannoli! Did Malik say that? And he wasn’t even doped up on painkillers. He was just regular Malik, sitting around at his birthday party full of people, telling me I’m pretty.
ME: well if that’s true you could’ve kissed my face after the dance and not just pretended like it never happened you weirdo
I pump my fist into the air. “You go, girl!” I say, my voice no louder than a stage whisper. It’s like I’m reading a really good book—the kind that makes you feel like you’ve swallowed fireflies—except this time I’m the main character of the book. I’m the love interest! I’m the girl who gets the guy! And girls like me? You don’t find us in fairy tales or on the covers of romance novels.
Slowly I can feel myself shaking away whatever bit of embarrassment and shame I’m still clinging to.
MALIK: Would you believe me if I said I was shy?
ME: would you believe me if I said I believe you but that it’s still a dumb reason
MALIK: I better get back to this party. I wish you were here. My sisters are driving me crazy and my mom keeps asking for you.
ME: well maybe if you get better about kissing my face, we can celebrate your birthday together next year
MALIK: I like that possibility.
ME: how many cotton balls can you fit in your mouth? However many it is I can beat you.
MALIK: Challenge accepted.
I hold my phone to my chest. My lungs are swelling and I’m scared they might just burst. In a small way, I feel like a fraud. An imposter. I’m not that girl. I can’t even find it in me to tell my mom about broadcast journalism camp. I’m not the kind of girl who would just message Malik and tell him to kiss me.
But I did that. I was that girl. For a short, drug-induced time, I was that brave girl I’ve wished to be for so long. And I’m embarrassed—a little horrified, even—but that girl knew what she wanted and she took it. I remember my talk with Callie yesterday afternoon. “Why should I have to sit around and wait for him to be brave enough?” I said that. Just yesterday.
So maybe that girl who sent all those text messages last night—good and bad—is me after all.
Without me to corral the troops on Saturday night, our slumber party at Ellen’s house was postponed until next weekend. Secretly, I was pleased, because fear of missing out is a real thing and I suffer from stage four.
On Monday morning, Uncle Vernon goes in early to open up the gym, so I can sleep in a little bit before going back to school. If this is the kind of special treatment that having wisdom teeth removed affords me, I’ll take it.
Even though I’ve already ruined my perfect attendance for the year, I pull myself out of bed. I’ve gone through my prescription of serious painkillers and am only on a regimen of Tylenol now, but Mom still insists on driving me to school.
When I inherited Mom’s minivan, she and Dad agreed it was time for her to get her dream car: a champagne-colored Volvo. They had to drive five and a half hours for the closest Volvo dealership, but between the safety ratings and the buttery-leather interior, I think it’s safe to say that my mom might leave all her worldly possessions to this car instead of me.
Mom is wearing one of her matching-set velour tracksuits with a pair of her Cloudwalker Deluxe tennis shoes, because after she drops me off, she will kick off her morning routine with a trip to Cinch It!—the women’s-only circuit gym located in the mall and wedged between the only two plus-size stores in Clover City. (Both of which should be called Old and So Old You Might as Well Be Dead. Thank goodness for online shopping.) And after her trip to the gym, Mom will power walk with her girlfriends to the food court, where they’ll each get their own personally formulated smoothie at Juice Monster, with the perfect cocktail of vitamin boosters, fiber, and protein powder.
We approach a school zone and the Volvo slows to a crawl. “Dr. Shepherd says the puffiness in your face should go down over the next few days.”
I laugh. “My face is eternally puffy.”
My mom doesn’t respond. “The girls at Cinch It! have been asking after you,” she finally says. “I told them all about your job at Uncle Vernon’s gym, and they all just think it’s so great that you’re taking the initiative to work at a gym.”
I look to her, but she keeps her eyes trained on the school zone ahead, and I’m actually thankful she can’t look at me when I say, “Mom, you know that’s not why I’m working at the gym, right?”
A small boy darts out across the crosswalk, and she slams on her brakes. “I swear! That crossing guard isn’t paying attention to a thing!”
“It’s really just to help out. Uncle Vernon and Inga need all the help they can get since the twins were born. And I like boxing okay,” I tell her. “It’s fun, ya know? Uncle Vernon gives me a few pointers every now and then. But I don’t do it to become some after-picture version of myself. I do it ’cause it makes me feel good. You know that, right?”
She smiles and accelerates as we leave the school zone.
And that’s it. I wish I could figure out a way to just say it in the most blatant terms: MOM, I DON’T WANT TO OBSESS ABOUT DIETING WITH YOU ANYMORE. But instead, I’ve just sort of slipped away from her and have begun avoiding all the things that once bonded us. Now, the void between us feels so wide that I often wonder if our bond only ran as deep as our obsession with bodies we’ll likely never have.
In front of the school, we share a hug and a kiss. “Oh, I printed off the application for this summer at Daisy Ranch,” she tells me. “I’ll just need you to fill it out so we can send in the deposit. I’ll leave it on your bed for you, okay? This is the year, baby. I can feel it.”
This is the moment when I should just rip off the dang Band-Aid. “I’m not going to weight-loss camp.” Seven words. That’s all it would take. But instead I nod and say, “Sounds good, Mom.”
A cloud of hurt and anger at no one but myself follows me through the carport and into the school. I’m so scared of bursting this unspoken bubble between my mom and me, when in reality, it would be the best thing for both of us. I’ve spent so much time wondering who my mom would be without all the fad diets and the calorie counting and the absurd workout plans. Honestly, I’ve wondered the same about myself. Some part of me is scared that she’s spent so long living this life that if she stripped it all away, there’d be nothing left, and surely in some deep recess of her brain, she fears that, too.
I head straight to the front office to do morning announcements, hoping to find that spring in my step but failing.
Between first and second periods, I find Amanda waiting at my locker, tugging the straps of her backpack and twisting her toe into the linoleum. A wave of embarrassment washes over me as I relive my wisdom-tooth text-message fiasco. I might’ve been drugged, but I made something that was very much about Amanda about me and my feelings. I should’ve reached out to her over the weekend, but I didn’t know where to start. I take a deep breath and tuck all thoughts of my mom and Daisy Ranch aside. Trying to fix more than one thing at a time usually means I can only give half a mind to a whole problem. So first: Amanda.
“Hey, are you okay?” she asks immediately.
I nod and touch my cheek. “A little sore. Mom said she can’t believe I had to get my wisdom teeth out. Her and Uncle Vernon never did.”
She nods, but there’s something about her that feels off.
“We should talk,” I offer.
She waves her hand and her whole body bounces back, like she’d just as soon tiptoe around the issue. “Psh! Nothing to talk about. Well, I mean, between us.” She leans down and whispers, “But oh my God! What did you send to Malik?”
I release a heavy breath, but I can’t hide my smile. “Well, I’ve got some damage control to do, but it shouldn’t be too bad.” I’ve backed out of one tough conversation already this morning; I won’t do it again. “You know those texts I sent you about my feelings?”
She nods silently.
“That was just about me wanting you to always feel like I’m here for you and not about me thinking there’s anything wrong with you being . . . asexual.” I test out the word, wanting to be sure I’m using it in the right way. I take a step closer and cup her arm with my hand. “You’re my best friend. The only one who’s ever willing to go all in on my ridiculous plans and the only one whose faith in me is unwavering. I want you to be able to tell me everything. And if it’s something I don’t understand, I want to learn. And I know it’s not on you to teach me about it.”
Her lips split into a half smile. “It’s not that I didn’t want to tell you. I just didn’t know how. And . . .” She shakes her head. “When we were playing Two Truths and a Lie, it felt like a good time to just get it out there. Like, it wouldn’t be some big deal. It’s just my sexual orientation in the same way that you’re straight and Hannah’s a lesbian. I wanted to tell you, but I also know that you’re always looking for a solution. So I was scared you’d think this was something that needed fixing.”
“Oh, no. Not at all. I don’t think you’re broken,” I say. And I mean it. “I love you because you’re Amanda,” I tell her. “And that means loving all the little and big things that make you—you!”
Amanda throws her arms around me and squeezes relentlessly. We’ve never been the type to hug much. Not like Ellen and Willowdean. But in a way, I’m okay with that. Because this hug—this suffocatingly tight hug that Amanda has perfected from years of wrestling with her brothers—means so much more.
After lunch, I rush over to AP Psych in the hopes that I’ll catch Malik a little early and maybe we can talk. If I’m being honest, I have totally daydreamed about this moment. Us in Mr. Prater’s dark classroom with the twinkling lights. Except in my daydream, no one else is there. We would talk and talking would turn into kissing and kissing would turn into love and love would turn into forever.
I know, I know. But aren’t daydreams supposed to be embarrassing?
I settle into my seat and wait for Malik. Slowly students begin to trickle in, and my daydream begins to dissipate. The second-to-last bell rings, and Mr. Prater strolls in with a fresh mustard stain on his tie. He waits in the doorway for any stragglers, and just as the final bell rings, Malik squeezes in past him.
He plops down beside me and says, “Hey.”
“Hey,” I echo. Our eyes lock for one . . . two . . . three seconds before he looks away and we are right back where we started.
I turn away and reach into my bag for my textbook. I squeeze my eyes shut as hard as I can, because if I don’t, I might just cry.
When Mr. Prater isn’t looking, I shoot off a quick text to the one person I know has carried the weight of a truly painful crush.
ME: I’m having a CRUSH-911.
She responds almost immediately, which surprises me, even after all this time, because I’ve always felt like she’s way too cool for me.
WILLOWDEAN: Operator. What’s your emergency?