Puddin'(53)

In the TV room, I sit down on the floor beside Amanda. I figure she’s a safer bet than Hannah, who seems to be in a constant state of brooding.

Millie stands up, holding out a movie for us to see. “Okay, as a continuation of your romantic comedy education, I give you—Clueless!” She turns to me. “Last time we watched Bend It Like Beckham.”

I nod, impressed. “Good choice.”

She curtsies. “Thank you.”

She pops the movie in, and I reach over Amanda for the bottle of nail polish. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all,” she says. She throws her body against the bottom of the sofa while the opening credits play. “I can never do my right hand. Do you think you can learn ambidexterity, or are you just born that way?”

I shrug. “Who knows? But I give a pretty bitchin’ manicure. Let me.”

“Oh.” She tentatively holds out her hand for me, like she’s deciding whether or not to trust me. “Cool. Thanks.”

If I’m going to infiltrate this group for the night, I definitely chose the right girl to sit next to.

Ellen steps over me with a bag of Doritos hugged to her chest. She spreads out behind us on the couch, with Willowdean sitting on the last cushion with Ellen’s head in her lap. Willowdean lets out a long sigh, and I can’t tell if it’s contentment at sitting with her BFF or exasperation at my presence. Probably both.

Millie takes up residence on a plush-looking armchair as I reach for a coffee-table book and a napkin to use as a flat surface to paint Amanda’s right hand in the neon-yellow polish she already used on her left hand.

We watch the opening scenes of Clueless, and we all laugh along at all the jokes that hold up to this day and of course the nineties fashions that I secretly love. My dad is actually the one who first shared this movie with me. He says it was one of the first dates he took my mom on, and that after she went out and bought a plaid skirt just like Cher’s and wore it for two weeks straight.

Outside, the sun slips down beyond the horizon and the room grows darker, almost like a movie theater. For my nail polish, I choose a fluorescent orange. One of my favorite polish colors, despite my mother’s insistence that it makes me look like I dipped my fingers and toes in a bag of Cheetos.

By the time we’ve made it to my favorite scene, where Cher is giving a classroom presentation, I’m blowing on my fingers, waiting for them to dry. I don’t even realize I’m quoting along with Millie when Cher, with her long, perfect blond hair and her gum wrapped around her pointer finger, says, “And in conclusion, may I please remind you that it does not say RSVP on the Statue of Liberty?”

On the screen, the classroom erupts in applause as Cher puts her gum back in her mouth. In the TV room, Millie lets out a giddy squeal. “I just love that part. I want a cross-stitch with that quote on it!”

“Okay,” says Hannah. “That was pretty badass. But just so we’re clear, that brunette girl doesn’t even need a makeover.”

Maybe if the whole night is just movies and no talking, I’ll survive.

Halfway through the movie, I notice Hannah struggling with her right hand as she tries to apply her purple polish. She’s holding her hand up in the air the way I used to before my mom taught me how to paint my nails properly.

I lean forward and say, “The trick is to lay your hand down on a flat surface and paint a strip down the center of the nail and then thin strips on either side.”

At first she just gives me this how-dare-you-speak-to-me look, and maybe after what I said to her at first, that’s fair. But she doesn’t reject me when I hand her the napkins and coffee-table book I used for Amanda and myself.

After the movie, we turn on a few lights, and Millie pulls out all the stops to try to get everyone to indulge in some girl talk, but no one’s really interested in divulging any personal secrets, and truthfully, it’s probably due to my presence.

So Millie takes her own bait and tells us all about that boy Malik, who everyone else already seems to be aware of. She blushes when she recaps the long stream of embarrassing text messages they exchanged when she was on painkillers last weekend, and she swoons when she relays the story of their first real kiss last night. She’s even charitable enough to say that I’m one of the people who encouraged her to make a move—and I think she’s actually serious.

“Was he your first kiss?” asks Willowdean, her voice so warm that I think she might have forgotten I’m even in the room.

Millie blushes but shakes her head. “No.”

“What?” Willowdean sounds genuinely shocked, and I am, too. “Millie Michalchuk, a woman of the world!”

“I kissed a few guys at Daisy Ranch, that weight-loss camp my mom used to send me to.”

Fat camp? If Millie’s gone to fat camp, why is she still . . . fat?

“A few?” says Amanda. “I thought it was just that one.”

“Well, he was the only memorable one,” says Millie. “But it was nothing like kissing Malik. And most of those guys at Daisy Ranch acted like I should be so lucky to kiss them. Like they were doing me a favor.”

“I totally get that.” Willowdean rolls her eyes. “It’s like people get it in their heads that fat people can only date fat people, which is so annoying.”

“Yes! Most guys treated me like they were my only shot at love. It didn’t help that the guy-to-girl ratio was like one to ten.”