Puddin'(54)

It’s so weird to hear both Millie and Willowdean use the word fat so flippantly. I don’t like to admit it, but I do sort of feel like it makes sense for fat people to date each other.

“That’s how it felt with Mitch sometimes,” says Willowdean.

I perk up at the mention of his name but try my best to hide my interest—interest I didn’t even know I had. I’m quick to brush it off. He’s the one semipopular person who’s not going out of his way to ignore me or ditch me. Of course his name would pique my interest.

“It’s like, if I date a guy like him,” she continues, “people will think, ‘Oh, of course, two fatties together. At least they’re not contaminating the gene pool with their fatness.’ And that just pisses me off. Then people see me with Bo, and they’re like, ‘Well, what kind of favor does he owe her to pretend he’s her boyfriend?’”

Ellen groans, throwing her hands up in the air. “Why can’t you just date whoever the hell you want—or no one!—without people making assumptions?”

Willowdean sighs. “I don’t know, but I appreciate your rage.”

Ellen lays a fat kiss on her cheek. “Anytime.”

I actually have to avert my eyes, because I can’t tell if they annoy me or if I’m jealous. I just cannot fathom how this constant finishing-each-other’s-sentences type of affection isn’t somehow fake. No one clicks with anyone else like that. Not in a real way.

Later that night, Willowdean and Ellen sleep in her room, Hannah and Amanda take the guest room, and I take the loveseat while Millie takes the sofa.

As we’re lying in the dark, slipping in and out of sleep, she says, “You survived.”

And she’s right. I did.

Instead of feeling proud, all that shrouds me is a deep sense of betrayal. There was a time when I thought that what I had with Sam, Melissa, and the rest of the Shamrocks was real. Dysfunctional, but real. But now the only thing I know is that they’re all living my dream without me, and not a single one of them seems to care.





Millie


Nineteen


Callie hasn’t said much about Saturday night since I dropped her off at home on Sunday morning, but I actually take that as a good sign.

In Mom’s craft room, she used to have a cross-stitch hanging above her sewing machine that said IF YOU DON’T HAVE ANYTHING NICE TO SAY, IT’S BEST YOU NOT SAY ANYTHING AT ALL. And I know that’s one of those quotes that people just throw around, but when I was a girl, Mom and Grandma would watch this movie called Steel Magnolias over and over again. There was this one line that always made Grandma chuckle. “If you don’t have anything nice to say, come sit by me.”

I think Callie is probably the kind of person that only knows how to tell you what’s wrong and not what’s right. So Callie’s silence? Yeah, I can take that as a good thing. And even if she didn’t have a good time, I wouldn’t care. I’m still riding the high from my night with Malik. Yesterday at school, we didn’t talk more necessarily, but there was just something different. Maybe in the way he smiled at me or how his fingers lingered when he passed me my worksheet.

Tuesday morning is just one of those days where I’m running two minutes behind no matter what I do, but in the world of first-period school announcements, those two minutes matter.

Amanda and I split off in the parking lot, and she waves to me dramatically. “Godspeed!”

I speed walk the whole way to the office and make it just in time for the final bell. I’m huffing a little, but I’m here!

Callie’s mom, Mrs. Bradley, beams as I walk in.

“You look radiant this morning!” I tell her.

She cups her hand to her cheek and waves me off with her other hand. “Call it hot-flash glow.”

I smirk and hand over the list of announcements for her to approve.

She holds a finger to her lips and gives it a quick once-over. “All looks good to me,” she says. “Oh! Except for the show-choir auditions for next fall. Mr. Turner had to move those to next week.” She lowers her reading glasses and her voice. “Rumor has it that Mr. Turner’s husband is none too pleased about the time commitment show choir requires.”

I offer a sympathetic smile, but the clock catches my attention before I can respond. “Oh shoot!” I say. “I better hop on the PA.”

She reaches around and swings open the little gate that separates the attendance office from the rest of the front office. “All yours!”

I settle down behind the desk nearest the window and pull the microphone right up to the edge of the table.

I stretch my mouth out for a minute, making ridiculous faces, before doing a few vocal warm-ups. “Unique New York. Unique New York. Unique New York. Red leather, yellow leather. Red leather, yellow leather.” I overenunciate each word. “She sells seashells on the—”

Mrs. Bradley clears her throat to let me know it’s time and gives me the thumbs-up.

I hit the red button. “Good morning, gold-and-green Rams! Millie Michalchuk here with your morning announcements. Show-choir auditions have been postponed until next week. Tune in here, or watch the schedule on Mr. Turner’s door for updates. Today’s special in the cafeteria is the ever-popular chicken-fried steak served with white gravy, mashed taters, and green beans. The Shamrocks will be selling baked goods in the courtyard, so go support their efforts to make it all the way to Nationals this year!”