Rock Bottom Girl(70)

I had a blinding and horrible flashback of my entire high school career compressed into one montage of victimology. I felt a little sick.

“Where are you guys learning this stuff?” Was there a new class that schools started teaching after I graduated? And could I audit it?

“On the gram,” Morgan E. announced.

“The gram?”

“Instagram. You know, ‘doin’ it for the gram’? Hashtag true self. Hashtag beautiful you.”

“Instagram. YouTube. They’re full of role models. You want to learn to contour your face? How to get the best clothes haul at Target for back-to-school? How to respond to bullies without losing your soul? It’s all there,” Natalee said.

The rest of the girls nodded.

“Basically, we’ve been talking, and we think you can do better,” Morgan E. said, laying a hand on my shoulder.

Vicky snored.

“Better than Jake?” I asked.

Their raucous laughter woke Vicky. “Whaz happening? Whaz going on?”

“We’re making over coach,” one of the girls explained.

“Oh, thank God. I was going to start stuffing makeup samples in her gym bag,” Vicky announced.

“Not better than Mr. Weston,” Phoebe clarified to me. “There is no better than Mr. Weston. Better than what you’re doing now for yourself.” She bounced on the seat and grinned at the rest of the girls. “Sooooooo…”

“You’re going to meet us at Ulta Saturday morning, and we’re making you over,” Natalee finished, clapping her hands.

Libby poked her head up between two of the girls. “Did someone say Ulta? I have coupons.” She grinned wickedly.

My phone buzzed in my lap.

Jake: I’m taking your silence as a “Yes, Jake, I’d love to go to the bonfire with your handsome face and hot body. I’m looking forward to it so much that I’m going to buy you a present just for inviting me.”





“I think she should get a haircut,” one of the girls said, pulling my brown, blah, nothing-special tresses out of their ponytail prison.

“I’ve got a board on Pinterest with some potential styles.”

“Oooh, let me see,” Vicky demanded. “Do you think she could pull off bangs?”





42





Marley





I sucked wind through three whole miles and felt like an Olympic champion when my parents’ house came back into view. Autumn descended with its traditional unpredictability. Pennsylvania entertained a very long winter and summer punctuated with a day or two that could be considered a life-affirming spring and cozy, crisp fall. Some of the leaves were starting to change color on the maples, but other trees had already surrendered, dumping their still green foliage to the ground.

Pumpkin spice and baggy sweaters were everywhere even though the temperatures were volleying between the 40s and the 70s.

I hosed off quickly in the shower, grabbed the closest clean clothes, and then stopped and glanced in the mirror.

Effort.

Okay, fine. I could make some. I didn’t have to dress like I was always ready for a nap or a workout.

I dug out a pair of jeans and did a happy little shimmy when I realized they were loose around the waist. Unless I was mistaken, this was the pair I’d had to lay down on the bed and zip myself into last winter.

And here I was standing up and not choking like a stuffed sausage. Huh. Imagine that.

Rifling through the clothes I’d shoved carelessly into the closet when I’d unceremoniously crash-landed back here, I found a cute cashmere blend sweater with three-quarter sleeves. I’d treated myself to it when I’d gotten my last job. The job that was going to be my big break into adulthood and importance. I winced at my na?veté and dragged the sweater over my head.

Dang. Not bad. Was it my imagination, or was my back fat a little less noticeable now?

Fully in the spirit now, I found a pair of ankle boots that made me think of tough chicks that rode motorcycles. I nodded at my reflection. Not bad at all. Maybe my team was on to something.

Speaking of, I had a makeover to get to. God, I hoped they wouldn’t talk me into dying my hair pink or something.





The entire varsity team greeted me at the door of the cosmetics store, and I had a moment of unadulterated panic. What if this was some kind of cruel joke? What if they were going to shave my eyebrows off and make me up to look like a new drag queen. New drag queens didn’t have the deft touch that experienced ones did.

“You ready for a new you, Coach?” Natalee asked gleefully.

“Uh, maybe?”

Morgan E. gave me the once over. “Solid effort on the clothes,” she said. It sounded like a compliment.

“Thanks.”

I was surprised and a little relieved to see Libby there. I considered hers to be a friendly face. I felt I could trust her. If she were here, that probably meant the team wasn’t about to exact some complex, humiliating revenge.

“How’d you get here?” I asked her as we trooped inside.

She stuffed her hands into her sweatshirt pockets. “Angela picked me up.”

My face must have given me away.

“Don’t start getting all dewy-eyed. We’re on the same team. She lives a couple blocks away. We’re not BFFs and braiding each other’s hair, so relax.”