Skinny Read online

  “She was expelled last week for urinating in the soft drink she served her ex-boyfriend at the basketball game,” Rat says.

  “Gimme a P!” I say, shaking fake pom-poms in the air.

  At the end of the driveway, Gigi Retodo and two other drama geeks wave a big cardboard sign announcing the upcoming musical. Gigi’s changed into a pioneer-era costume, which looks really bizarre with her blue/pink/purple hair. Standing on tiptoes, she belts out the title song while the two boys run around frantically trying to get kids to take their flyers. Jackson stands at the corner watching Gigi. Just seeing the look on his face, I feel a sharp jab of jealousy kick into my stomach. My throat aches with the desire to have him look at me like that. I would do anything. I blink to clear the longing out of my eyes before Rat sees. Rat glances over at me. I’m not quick enough.

  “Did you say something about someone not knowing you’re alive?” Rat’s voice is dry. I ignore him. Rat knows how I feel about Jackson. He was, after all, Jackson’s delivery boy for that note so long ago that read, “Do you like me? Circle yes or no.”

  A tall boy that I vaguely recognize from American history class punches Jackson once in the arm, distracting him from Gigi, and they scuffle across the median, laughing and yelling. I’m not close enough to see the crinkles around Jackson’s dark blue-green eyes, but I know they’re there. He used to laugh with me like that. About 150 pounds ago.

  “They’re doing Oklahoma for the spring musical,” I say to Rat.

  “I saw. Why don’t you try out?”

  Rat pushes his glasses up over the slight bump on his nose. He got it when he broke his nose playing kickball at recess in the second grade. I know because I was the one who kicked the ball. That tiny mark under his left eye is from my lightsaber at his fifth birthday party. I also know he has a jagged scar on his left calf from when we were eight and jumped off the pier into Lake Conroe. We were holding hands and he said, “Jump,” and I said, “Wait.” That was also the year Jackson Barnett moved in down the street and, for a short time, two best friends became Three Musketeers.

  “Maybe next year,” I say. “They do a musical every spring. Besides Oklahoma’s never really been one of my favorites.”

  “Right.”

  We both know I won’t be trying out this spring or next spring or any spring after that. It doesn’t matter that I have the best voice in the school. It just matters that there aren’t many parts for a 300-pound girl who just wants to be invisible.

  Rat turns left out of the school parking lot. He’s been my personal driver since he got his license six months ago. It means Lindsey doesn’t have to know me anymore, which works for Lindsey. It also means I now have to go wherever Rat goes after school and that includes community service. We pass the Walmart on the right and then McKenzie’s BarBQ on the left. It doesn’t take long to get anywhere in this town.

  An hour north of Houston, Huntsville sits on the edge of the East Texas Piney Woods and has some odd extremes when it comes to attractions. Visitors can go to the Texas Prison Museum and see “Old Sparky,” the electric chair that killed 361 condemned criminals over forty years of service, or head south of town to view the world’s tallest statue of an American hero — Sam Houston. Rat’s dad is a ranger for Sam Houston Park. His mom, an elementary school teacher, was my mom’s best friend from the moment we moved in next door to them. I still see the grief in Mrs. Wilson’s eyes when she looks at me.

  I glance over at Rat. “Your hands are blue,” I say. I’m not really surprised.

  “One hand. The left,” he says, “and it’s indigo.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “I was synthesizing one of eighteen azo dyes according to a parallel combinatorial synthesis scheme.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, really sorry I asked.

  “After the exothermic reaction subsided, I collected the precipitated indigo by suction filtration.”

  I know from experience this can go on forever. “And you spilled it on your hand,” I interrupt quickly.

  “There were several more steps before that occurred.” Rat sighs in frustration at the idea of a good chemistry experiment story cut short, but he finally admits, “But, yes, that was the eventual outcome.”

  We pass Tinsley’s Fried Chicken with the big sign outside that reads, Try Our Big, Juicy Breasts.

  “They really should change that sign,” I say.

  “Why?” Rat asks. He slows at the corner, his indigo hand spinning the wheel into the right turn, and changes the subject.

  “Ugly Number Two has homework tonight,” Rat says. “A poem written from the perspective of one of the characters in Huckleberry Finn.”

  “It will cost her,” I mumble. Briella, my other stepsister, is a sophomore like me and Rat, and she’s in his sixth-period English class.

  “I’m thinking maybe Dreamgirls download?” Rat says. I nod. “Original cast or movie?”

  “I already have the original cast. Movie.”

  “She needs it by Wednesday.”

  “She’ll get it tomorrow if she can pay.”

  Briella gets a hefty allowance from her real father every week in child support. Most of it goes toward clothes and shoes, but a growing percentage comes my way these days. I work for iTunes downloads and guarantee at least a B. I also agree to never take the credit for her passable creative writing. It seems to work for both of us.

  “Can’t you just drop me off at home before you go to the center?” I ask.

  “We’re already late. Besides, a little community service never hurt anybody.”

  I always ask. He always says no. I sigh, but the truth is I don’t really mind. The age-five-and-under kids at the Sam Houston Boys and Girls Club are probably the only people in the world who might actually miss me if I didn’t show up. Anyway, I like to think so.

  We enter the building and part ways. Rat goes toward the office. He’s doing something with their computer database. I don’t ask many questions. I head toward the door in the back where the youngest kids hang out. Skinny takes a break. Weird thing about hanging out with five-year-olds: You don’t need anyone to tell you what they’re thinking. They just say it right out loud. Like the first time I came with Rat to the center. A little dark-eyed boy came and stood in front of me while I waited in the hallway.

  “You’re really, really fat,” he said.

  “I know,” I said.

  He sat down in the chair next to me, sliding back into the seat until his feet dangled above the floor. Kicking his feet slowly back and forth, we sat in silence for a few minutes.

  “My name is Mario. What’s yours?”

  “Ever.”

  “Like happily ever after?”

  “Yes.”

  Leaning into my shoulder, he looked up at my face intently.

  “Do you know any stories?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” Sliding out of the chair, he took my hand and tugged me back to the playroom. And that was that. I’ve been coming here and telling stories ever since.

  Today there’s a big commotion when I enter the playroom. I’m noticed, and not in a bad way. Instantly, tiny hands pull at me, touch me, reach for me. I don’t flinch or jerk away.

  “You’re finally here.” Valerie Ramirez, the tiny five-year-old drama queen, rolls her eyes. “Do you know how long we’ve been waiting?”

  “A long time,” Mario says solemnly. He’s always so serious.

  “How’s kindergarten?” I hope the change of subject will help me get out of the doghouse.

  “School’s a lot of work,” Mario says.

  I laugh. “You’ve got a long way to go. What’s your favorite part?”

  “I liked the letter C.”

  “More than the letter A?” I ask, smiling.

  “A was boring. We had to eat apples.”

  “And what did you eat for the letter C?”

  “Chocolate candy.” He grins. I grin back.

  “We sing a lot in kindergarten. I like that.�
�

  “I liked that part of kindergarten, too,” I say.

  Valerie clutches her best friend Keisha’s hand and swings it, making all the brightly clipped pigtails on Keisha’s head fly about wildly.

  “Ever, it’s story time!” Valerie proclaims. Keisha nods furiously and giggles.

  “Cinderella. Cinderella,” they chant like the mice in the Disney movie version.

  I settle into a special setup of three wooden chairs, which they have already lined up to hold me. And I begin.

  “Once upon a time there was a girl named Cinderella,” I say.

  “No!” they scream in anguish. “Sing it!”

  I know the lyrics by heart. Just like I know almost all the lyrics to any musical by heart. It’s a well-guarded secret that only a select group of poor five-year-olds have somehow coaxed out of me. I sang Cats last week and bits of Wicked the week before, but they always come back to their favorite, Cinderella. But I don’t sing. Not yet. If there’s anything I’ve learned about telling stories to kids, it’s to keep them in suspense.

  Mario says he’ll be the prince, but only if he can be the Phantom next time. The two girls agree, and the three of them dance across the block-strewn carpet with gusto.

  “Tell me the part about the prince again.” Keisha pulls away from the rest of the group and pushes her way into my lap, snuggling in like my body is some kind of floppy blanket. She’s still breathing hard from the dancing, her tiny pink T-shirt moving rhythmically up and down over her chest. Mario stops to make a flourishing bow in front of Valerie. Keisha leans back against my chest to pop a thumb into her mouth as I speak.

  “And they danced and danced until the clock struck midnight,” I say, as Mario and Valerie waltz wildly among the scattered blocks.

  “And they were happy?” Keisha asks.

  “They were happier than they’d ever been in their whole life,” I say. For some reason the words bring tears to my eyes. I don’t know why. It isn’t a sad story.

  The dancing five-year-olds end up in a giggling pile of bodies in the middle of the home center.

  “Now sing,” Mario commands. But I don’t because Valerie jumps up suddenly, grabbing between her legs.

  “I gots to use it!” she declares and gallops toward the bathroom. It’s hard to argue with that. Cinderella’s ball stops.

  I see Rat standing in the doorway, tall and serious, watching me. He shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. I’m not sure how long he’s been there.

  “I have to go,” I tell the kids.

  “Nooooo,” they squeal, grabbing my arms and begging me to stay. Valerie returns to join in the begging.

  “Just one song,” she pleads, stamping her tiny tennis shoe on the red ABC carpet for emphasis.

  “Sorry. My ride is here.”

  “You mean your carriage?” Mario asks with a rare smile.

  I look up at Rat and grin. He smiles back and pushes his glasses up on his nose.

  “He thinks you look ridiculous.” Skinny is back. Lately, she’s started to do Rat. I don’t like it.

  “Let’s go.” I push past him, the smile gone from my face.

  Chapter Three

  My stepsister Briella is already at the kitchen table when I walk in the door. Meat loaf and mashed potatoes sit untouched on the plate in front of her while she texts frantically in her lap.

  “Eat your dinner, Briella,” my stepmother, Charlotte, says from the kitchen.

  My mom, my real mom, was an artist. She illustrated children’s books. Fairy tales, picture books, animals. She was amazing. Sometimes I would fall in love with one of the illustrations, and she would give it to me. I kept them in her old portfolio in my closet. Bears with clothes on, kids going to school, but the one I kept on my wall — my very favorite was an illustration of Beauty dancing with the Beast. She painted that one when she was pregnant with me.

  “I told you no gravy,” Briella says, not looking up from her phone. She’s wearing a black pleated miniskirt and a soft, bright blue sweater that hugs her fifteen-year-old curves. I know without looking under the table that she’s also wearing black Ugg boots. The miniskirt and the sweater I covet, but those black fur-lined boots with all that room left around her tiny calves make me absolutely livid.

  I’m starving. All I had to eat today for lunch was a salad and an orange. Of course that didn’t include the three Snickers I stuffed down one after another in the bathroom stall between fifth and sixth periods, or the Little Debbie Honey Buns I bought from the vending machine when I was supposed to be at the library. I try to hide the actual eating part from almost everyone, especially the bad stuff that I’m not supposed to eat, because everyone knows the fat girl is going to devour the big chocolate sundae with the sprinkles on top, right? It’s expected.

  Publicly, at the school lunchroom table, I eat salads and fruit. But secretively I continually push enough food into my body to result in my current weight. That’s a lot of secrets to swallow. It’s harder to keep the pretense up at home. I pick up a blueberry muffin off the countertop and cram a quick bite in while I look for the plate in the pantry. Charlotte frowns at me. I know what she’s thinking just by her glance.

  “Do you really need that muffin, too? You’re going to eat dinner,” Skinny hisses.

  Charlotte isn’t a bad person, and she obviously loves my dad. She just isn’t my mom. Her blond hair is perfectly cut into a mooth bob of highlighted strands. Hair spray, a straightening iron, mousse, gel, and lots of time are required to get to this final look. She also never leaves the house without makeup. It’s a rule. My mom’s idea of makeup was the tiny bit of shiny clear lip gloss she put on before she left for the store. It’s different now.

  “Is Dad here?” I ask.

  “He’s going to be late. Go ahead and eat without him,” Charlotte says. She rinses off a spoon in the sink and opens up the dishwasher to stick it inside. “I’ll keep it warm and eat with him when he gets here.”

  Not a big surprise. Dad works late a lot. He’s a Walker County Sheriff, and he’s been pretty busy lately. Last week, Bubba Rose pleaded guilty to attempted felony theft after Dad caught him stuffing a lead weight in a fish during a tournament at Lake Conroe in an attempt to win the grand prize, a fifty-five-thousand-dollar fishing boat. What can I say? Fishing is serious here in Texas. The week before that Dad helped catch an escaped prisoner who had broken out more than seventy times to go shop across the street at the Walmart.

  I push the rest of the muffin into my mouth, crumbs dribbling down my shirt, and carry a fully loaded plate of meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and gravy over to the table. I sit down next to Briella. She glances over at me, looking pointedly at the food on my plate. I know what she’s thinking, too. I know what everyone is thinking about me. All I have to do is listen to the voice in my ear.

  “How can anyone possibly eat all that? And you wonder why you are huge?”

  I take an enormous bite of mashed potatoes and gravy, looking directly at my stepsister. She rolls her eyes at me.

  “Where’s Lindsey?” Charlotte asks.

  “I don’t know,” I mumble around a huge bite, the gravy dripping down my chin. But even though I just walked in the door, I do know. Everyone knows. She’s in front of the mirror in her room, applying a final coat of mascara or lip gloss or hair gel. As head cheerleader, she’s like God. And no one disturbs God on the evening of the Friday pep rally. Especially when it’s the night before the basketball playoff game.

  I break off a piece of meat loaf with my fingers and slide it under the table. It’s snatched from my hand.

  “Ever, do not feed that goat from the table,” Charlotte says.

  She is referring to Roxanne, our chocolate Lab puppy. The goat dog, as Charlotte prefers to call her, is in trouble because she got into the pantry yesterday and ate two kiwis, a raw potato, and most of a pound of sugar. The rest of the sugar was scattered across the kitchen floor in a fine layer of gritty carpet that we’ll still be feeling we
eks from now. Roxanne also chewed up a hardback book from Charlotte’s library, ate her fur headband, and put holes in her black tights. I didn’t tell Charlotte I’d also seen Roxanne standing on the dining-room table last week, licking the wooden top. Roxanne and I have to stick together. Neither one of us is on Charlotte’s list of favorite things.

  Charlotte frowns down at her coffee cup as she refills it at the kitchen counter. No matter what time of the day it is, Charlotte usually has a cup of coffee in her perfectly manicured hand.

  “She hates you,” Skinny says. “She wishes you weren’t here.”

  I finish up the mashed potatoes and take a bite of the meat loaf. Briella is still texting, her food sitting untouched on the table.

  “Have you done your homework?” Charlotte asks. I know she’s not asking me, so I ignore her. Briella makes a noise that’s supposed to sound like a yes but can later be said to be a no. I glance her way, but she doesn’t raise her eyes from the phone in her lap. It doesn’t matter. Based on Rat’s information about her English assignment, she’ll be looking for me soon enough.

  “Your dad sent the check today,” Charlotte says.

  Briella looks up from the phone in her lap.

  “Did he say anything about this weekend?” she asks. “Is he coming?”

  “He didn’t say, but I wouldn’t count on it, Briella. He’s really busy these days.”

  “Right,” Briella says, and goes back to texting. Roxanne licks my hand to remind me she’s still under the table. Waiting.

  “You’re invisible to everyone but the dog,” Skinny says.

  I clean my plate, then walk over to the dishwasher to put my dishes inside. Charlotte moves over to let me pass. A car honks outside and Charlotte walks over to the front window, pulls back the shades, and peers outside.

  “Lindsey!” Charlotte turns away from the window to yell up the stairs. “You’re going to be late. Hannah is here.”

  No answer from upstairs.

  Roxanne follows me, looking up with her big, golden “I’m starving to death down here” eyes. When Charlotte looks away, I slide a piece of meat loaf into a napkin and then into my pocket. Roxanne wags her tail just a little bit and goes to wait for me at the bottom of the stairs. She might be part goat, but she’s not stupid.