#famous(55)

“Expecting somebody?”

“No.” I tugged the dress to the floor and started unzipping the one on the wall so I wouldn’t have to look at her. It was longish, a sort of a shimmery gray color, with sheer lacework over the top half winding its way up to cap sleeves and a high, scalloped neckline. It probably made anyone without a perfect-waif figure—i.e., me—look like someone’s aunt at a wedding.

“Rachel, I know how you feel about Kyle.”

“Yeah, and you know it’s pointless, so let’s not.”

“Why are you like that?”

“Like what?” I pulled the dress off the hanger and stepped in.

“So down on yourself.”

“Um, you’ve seen me, yeah? Met me? You know we hang out with the weirdos, right?” Even though he’d been nice, even though he’d said that he liked weird, it still made me cringe imagining the word coming out of Kyle’s mouth. Knowing that was how he saw me.

“Yeah, but I also know you’re awesome.”

I snorted.

“Yeah, well, no offense, but I don’t want to jump your bones, so your opinion isn’t really the issue.” I wriggled the dress up to my hips.

I stared at them in the mirror, wide, round, with a layer of pudge everywhere that Mom generously called “contouring.” I wondered what Emma’s hips looked like. Probably like something out of a Victoria’s Secret catalog. And I thought Kyle would fall for me? For this?

“I should never have done this,” I muttered.

“Then pull the plug.”

I turned to Monique. She was staring at me, arms folded across her waist, eyebrow arched in a challenge.

“I can’t just . . . stop.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . what about our application?” Monique’s lips twitched; she was definitely aware of how straw-grasping it seemed for me to be worrying about that.

“I want to get into that program as much as you do. Maybe more. But I don’t want to force you to become some kind of martyr to talk shows to do it.”

“Come on, you’re the one who tricked my mom into having me do this.”

“I’m gonna ignore that, since we called a truce. But yes, obviously I thought this was the best move. I also thought you’d come around. That you’d agree with me once you started doing it. I mean, Jesus, you’re my best friend. I don’t want you to be miserable all the time just to get us into a summer program. We’ll get in anyway.” Mo cocked her head to the side defiantly.

“So you really think I should just . . . quit?”

“I think you should try to change your attitude about this whole thing. But if you really can’t, then yes, you should quit.”

“But then . . . I wouldn’t have . . .”

“What, Rachel?”

I hated her for making me say it.

“Kyle wouldn’t talk to me anymore.”

“Yup.” Mo nodded. “You’re probably right. Quitting means losing things—lots of things. And if you stay, maybe nothing happens with you and Kyle. That’s a real possibility too. But at least you’ll have tried.”

“Are you ready?” Anastasia’s voice came through the door.

“Almost!” I yelled.

I stared at Monique. Her face softened.

“I know it’s scary putting yourself out there, Rach, especially for you. I don’t know if I could do it. But think about what you could be missing. Do this, and you’re risking something. Some pain, some embarrassment, possibly even breaking your own stupid heart.” I rolled my eyes. “But don’t you get it? Going home and doing nothing is a risk too. You can’t lose that way, but you can’t win.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Shut up.”

“So basically your advice is put up or shut up?”

“Well, yeah, but I was way more eloquent than that.”

I sighed. This is what I got for having smart friends: they were right about things.

“Fine, then zip me up. I might as well get a free dress, right?”

“Exactly what I was gonna say.”

I could hear Anastasia tapping at the door again, so I didn’t bother to give myself the once-over before heading out to the mirror gauntlet; there would be plenty of time to assess my numerous flaws from every angle.

I stepped onto the platform. Maybe I’d do an ironic hair twirl, or one of those can-can moves where you swish the skirt back; it was long enough.

I looked up to see what I was working with.

Who the hell was that?

The girl in the mirrors looked delicate, the gray of the dress turning her skin ivory pale. The cut of the dress emphasized her curves; even under the tulle skirt, you could see the outline of a rounded hip, and the lacy cover only made the swell of her chest more obvious, but her waist looked tiny in between. She looked like some celebrity on a red carpet, expensive and sexy and totally in control.

She couldn’t actually be me.

My mouth literally dropped open. I could hear Mom’s “oh!” through the door of her dressing room.

“This . . . I look so . . .”

“Let me guess,” Anastasia said from her place at Eddie 2’s shoulder. “We’ve found our dress.”