Fade In:
SLIP BACK INTO NOELLE’S SKIN
You hardly slept at all last night, caught up in the excitement of the rally tomorrow, not to mention the prospect of traveling to Hawaii with your best friend. This trip will make Grace understand that you need her in your life. Maybe even that you love her. Seeing her at church this morning only made you that much more determined to spend as much time together as possible.
Not with Daniel attached, though, Noelle.
Something about him makes your skin crawl.
He just might have tainted her.
Regardless, you’re on a mission. Perhaps even a two-pronged mission: resurrecting an old friendship and cultivating a new one. You hate to elevate your hopes too high about either, but seriously, you don’t have much to lose by trying. Plus there is now the tantalizing prospect of romance.
Gabriella invited you over after church to hang out for a little while, the first time anyone has extended such an invitation in a very long time. She lives in a tidy apartment with her sister, Lucinda, who’s five years older and just about ready to graduate college.
“Where are your parents?” you asked, and were immediately sorry you did.
“We’re not sure. They were afraid to be deported, so they left for California. We hope to hear from them soon.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Right before school started.”
They left Gabriella with her sister so she would have a safe place to stay. But they didn’t realize Lucinda would be in danger of deportation, too. She’s a Dreamer—undocumented, but allowed to live in the US as long as she follows certain guidelines. She’s adhered to every rule. But the law is changing and her status is in danger.
Which is why Gabriella, who was born in the United States and is a citizen, has been so actively involved with immigration issues, including the rally tomorrow. It was her passion that inspired your own interest. But you never would’ve guessed she might be attracted to you.
Don’t be ridiculous.
Who’s the “dreamer” now?
It’s a wild notion, you understand that, and you’re probably just imagining the way she scooted a little closer when the two of you sat on her sofa, or how the brown suede of her arm brushed your pallid skin more than once as you lettered signs for the rally. And surely her intense gaze when her eyes locked with yours didn’t mean a thing.
All those things add up to exactly zero promise of anything more, and are open to interpretation. So you counsel yourself to take it easy and see where, if anywhere, your friendship with Gabriella leads. But between her and beach time with Grace, you’ve been inspired to reinvest in yourself, something you never would’ve believed possible only Friday.
But yesterday you took a decent walk around the neighborhood, the first real exercise you’ve managed in a very long time. While most athletes would probably find that laughable, you’re sore today, leg muscles achy with the effort of transporting 215 pounds for forty minutes. You should take pride in that pain. Own it.
Only problem is, you’re finding it hard to get off your butt and do it again today. It will be easier once you’ve shed some pounds, so you go to your computer and research rapid weight loss.
There’s plenty of information out there. Too much, in fact—one site disputing the “facts” you find on another. Most of them agree on some things: eliminate sugar, especially the sweet stuff found in soda, juice, and alcohol; ditto simple carbs like bread and rice; beef up the protein (or fish or chicken it up); eighty-six salt, drink tons of water.
But some say eat fruit; others, never. Some insist on whole grains; others, not so fast. Fat is good; fat is bad. Caffeine either boosts your metabolism or makes it crash. Exercise early in the day. Or right before dinner. Weight training or aerobic workouts? Yoga or Pilates? It’s confusing. Anyway, you’re hungry.
Wait. On a hunch, you search weight loss and epilepsy. Sure enough, there it is. A whole lot of anecdotal evidence that the drug you’re taking to control your seizures is linked to the inability to lose pounds, despite controlled diet and exercise.
Great. One step forward, three steps back. You should talk to your doctor, get her advice. “Consult your physician before starting any weight-loss program.” You quote the common disclaimer out loud.
You really are hungry, so head to the kitchen in search of protein, no carbs, except maybe a vegetable, which is the right kind of carb. Probably.
The house is quiet. Your dad is playing golf today, and your mom is having coffee with a friend. “Unless you don’t want me to?” she asked when she dropped you off at Gabriella’s after church. “We can have a girls’ lunch together if you’d rather.” Her ever-present worry.
You opt for a can of tuna (protein), minimal mayo (fat), no bread. Plus a cup of instant coffee (caffeine), chased by a huge glass of water. Oh, you’re supposed to drink the water before you eat. Fool your tummy into thinking you’ve put more in it than you have. Next time. You groan. Is there a right way to diet? Or exercise?
Might as well try to make the latter fun. You grab your phone and earbuds, head outside, turn on your music, and walk to the beat, mirroring the tempo of each song. Faster rhythm, quicker pace. Before too very long, you’re hoping for ballads.
Halfway around the first block, your mom texts: EVERYTHING GOOD?
You reply: PERFECT. DON’T HURRY. I’M WALKING.
Despite your slight discomfort, you find yourself enjoying the activity, especially when you lose track of the effort as your thoughts turn to Hawaii, and Grace. Yesterday was amazing. You thought she’d hurry off, scurry back to Daniel, but she actually stayed for a decent amount of time.
Together you created bucket lists, including things you can maybe check off after your trip to the islands. “I’ve always wanted to go horseback riding on the beach,” she suggested.
“That would be awesome.” You agreed, even though your first thought was they’d have to put you on a Budweiser Clydesdale or something so you wouldn’t make the poor horse go all swayback.
At that point you were investigating tourist sites. Bad idea. Everything Grace came up with sounded great. For someone her size.
“Zip-lining?” she asked.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Anxiety struck, considering the logistics of strapping yourself into a harness (if they even make one big enough to fit you), then stepping off an insanely high platform (if you could manage to climb the stairs up to it), and rocketing down a wire, praying the brake would work at the far end. Or, alternately, getting stuck halfway so someone would have to come rescue you. You blushed embarrassment, but Grace didn’t notice.
“You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”
“No. I’m afraid of the cable breaking.”
“Don’t be silly. They’re made out of steel.” Her smile was like the first star in the evening sky—familiar, yet something you’re never quite prepared for. “Okay, then what about paragliding?”
“Looks fun.”
It does. But parachute lines are flimsier than steel cables. And you’d probably need buckle extenders for the life jacket. Quad rides? Maybe, if you can stretch your thighs across one of those big seats. Surfing? Ha ha ha ha. Good one. Bodysurfing, maybe. You’re pretty good at floating.
Quit lying to yourself.
You’ll never do any of those things.
You’d choke before you even tried.
By the time your lists were completed your brain was exhausted, just thinking about such physicality. Leave it up to you, you’d spend the week reading on a recliner overlooking the ocean. You don’t need to do stuff with Grace. You just need to be with her.
Because, oh, was it thrilling, sitting in such close proximity to Grace all that time.
Inhaling the melon scent of her lotion.
Brushed by the sweep of her long auburn hair.
Every now and again, touching her paper-smooth skin.
Joking. Laughing. Dreaming. Planning.
More than once, you had to stop yourself from throwing all caution to the wind and declaring your feelings.
More than once you leaned toward her, thinking about kissing her, and not on the cheek.
More than once you silently scolded yourself for almost blowing the best chance you’ll likely ever have of convincing her to love you the way you love her.
She’ll never love you like that.
And neither will Gabriella.
The first time she watches you seize,
she’ll run, run away, as fast as she can.
Right before Grace left, she took selfies with you, the first ever. Back when your friendship was going full throttle, neither of you owned cells, at least not high-tech enough to have cameras. In fact, the last picture you have of the two of you is the one with Santa. The one . . . You had to clean free of blood.
Breathing is currently difficult. Lost in thought, pacing yourself with the music in your ears, you’ve walked faster than you might have otherwise. You pause, draw in narrow pulls of air like sucking it through a straw. This will get easier, right? Sure. Sure it will.
Every scintilla of happiness vanishes, swept into the trash heap by despair. So many times you’ve stood, toes at the end of the high dive, hoping a gust of courage would push you over the edge. You always chickened out, but the option has remained within reach.
Go on. Take the plunge.
The house is still parent-empty when you get home, which is fine by you. Last thing you want to do right now is talk to your mom. You pop an ibuprofen to fight the tenderness in your legs and prep a bath.
You run the water über-hot, add bath oil beads, and the steam that rises to fill the bathroom smells like cinnamon and apples. It’s been a while since you’ve enjoyed the luxury of a tub. Generally you shower, and you tend to go quickly, as looking at your body tends to be an exercise in self-loathing.
Indeed, now as you start to relax, you can’t help but notice how your oversize breasts float barely above two belly rolls. You close your eyes so you don’t have to look. There’s no reason to beat yourself up when you’ve made the decision to change, however long that takes. So you go ahead and soak. Absorb the heat. Bask in oily water, perfumed by hints of apple.
Sleep eluded you last night. It tries to claim you now. Your head tips to one side, toward dozing, and in that dreamy state a memory you’ve tried hard to erase finds you here in the bathtub.
You weren’t even as heavy then as you are now, though you’d been gaining weight steadily for maybe a year. A reliable size medium in the past, you’d ballooned into an extra-large, and filled it to the max. Today you’re in plus sizes.
But that day you had a dentist appointment and had just finished up. Gums still numb and face swollen, you squeezed into the elevator, which was already crowded. Maybe it was thoughtless, and looking back you guess it kind of was, but all you were thinking about at that point was fleeing the torture chamber.
“Seriously?” groaned a girl in back. “You’ve got to be kidding me. How much weight can an elevator hold, anyway?”
Most people were polite enough to stay silent, but there was a burst of laughter, too. You kept your eyes tuned on your feet, as much of them as you could see, anyway.
“At least if we fall it’s only three floors,” added the girl, initiating another round of guffaws.
You were also grateful the ride would be short, and when you got off on the ground floor without causing an elevator crash, you hurried out of the air-conditioned comfort behind the glass doors into the crushing heat of an Arizona summer. The sudden temperature change sent your head spinning.
The blood rushed from your face, and feeling it go cold white, you plopped down hard on the sidewalk, rather than chance a fall. You sat there beneath a cloud of humiliation, internalizing every drop, alternating between rage and ruin. When the sneering girl walked by, you decided you’d show her and went home, where you took revenge by downing a hot fudge sundae.
Killing yourself with comfort food.
You’ve been doing that for years.
There are faster ways, you know.
You just have to decide it’s time to go.
By the time the water cools you’ve managed to stow that recollection again. Once you towel off, brush through your hair, and get dressed, the need for a nap hits you square. You go to text your mom to let her know you’re resting and notice Grace has forwarded the selfies she took yesterday.
Like that day at the dentist, your face frosts over. You thought you looked better in that dress. Well, at least your eyes are pretty, thanks to the makeup you rarely bother with. But you wanted to look especially nice for Grace. You wanted the afternoon to change everything back like it was before. Surely it meant something.
You turn on your computer, dive into social media, scroll through Grace’s pages to see if she cared enough to post one of the selfies, because that’s what a friend would do. You find pics of Daniel: at the club with Cami and Rand; riding bikes on the same trail you and Grace used to travel together; stopped at your favorite overlook.
There are lots of selfies of the two of them.
But not a single one of you.
Suddenly the air around you goes electric with a static sizzle, signaling the onset of a seizure. Exhaustion plus anxiety, whipped up by a bad case of resentment, are a bad combination. Toss in too much time on-screen, you were asking for trouble.
You lie on the floor, where you can’t fall. Grab the pillow on your bed to put under your head as you tumble toward oblivion, hit by the smell of burnt oil and this sentiment:
One afternoon can’t change everything.
Not even close.
Fade Out