Puddin'(67)

“You can use the word fat, by the way. It doesn’t bother me.”

“It seems rude.”

I smile. “Because you’ve only ever used it in a rude way.”

She looks skeptical.

“Just use it,” I say. I grip my stomach and then I pinch the slightest bit of flab on her arm. “Fat. We both have it. I just have enough of it for it to be the first thing you notice about me.”

She cringes, but then her face relaxes. “Fat.”

“Actually use it,” I say. “Like in a sentence.”

Her eyes scan the sky for a moment. “I feel fat?” She says it like a question.

“Well—”

“You can’t feel fat,” calls Willowdean from the other side of the gate. “You either are or you aren’t.”

Willowdean and Ellen giggle as they fiddle with the gate before spilling into the backyard.

I turn to Callie, and in a quiet voice I say, “That’s actually true. Fat is definitely not a feeling.”

Callie nods. “Noted.”

Willowdean and Ellen whisper back and forth, their laughter growing as they shuffle through the backyard gate.

“Shhhh!” Callie and I both reprimand them in unison.

“We had a beer,” says Ellen.

Willowdean holds one finger in the air. “Singular!”

“Let’s get them inside,” Callie whispers.

I nod and the two of us guide Willowdean and Ellen back inside and up to Amanda’s room.

“Does it make me a huge nerd that I’m impressed you have keys to the school?” I ask Malik.

When I asked Malik if he was sure we’d be able to get into the school building on a Sunday afternoon, he assured me that he had it all taken care of, and he did not disappoint.

“Only if it makes me a huge nerd to have keys to the school,” he tells me as he opens the door to what was once the school newsroom.

Mr. Garvy, Malik’s journalism teacher, has tried reviving the program more than once, but the district can’t be convinced. Which means this room just sits here empty with an unused news desk while my announcements are the closest the student body gets to actual news, because the school paper is a joke that publishes sports schedules and quizzes ripped from the pages of magazines.

I lay my dress bag on the counter and look over my script. I sorted through old school announcements and combined some of them to make for some good news stories. “I should get changed,” I say.

“There’s a bathroom in the hallway,” says Malik. “It shouldn’t take long to get this stuff set up.”

“I’ll be back!” I say, and skip across the hall with my makeup and suit. The suit I’ve decided to wear is much more serious than anything else I own. I found it online and bought it with birthday money. Inga helped me tailor it while she was still pregnant.

The actual suit is a deep royal blue with three-quarter-length sleeves and cream trim. Thanks to Inga, the skirt hits my knees in the perfect spot and the jacket nips in at all the right places. Zipping up the skirt and buttoning the button on the jacket are as satisfying as a cherry on a sundae.

I slip into my red kitten heels, even though no one will see my feet under the desk, and I apply a coat of mascara and red lipstick, the same lipstick recommended to me by Callie’s mom.

I have worn clothes that have made me feel plenty of things. Like at the pageant, when I wore my gingham swimsuit and matching accessories. I felt unstoppable, and for the first time, everyone was looking at me—and in a good way.

I’ve never worn anything that’s made me feel quite like this suit does. Sometimes being fat and finding clothing is like trying to ice-skate in the desert. A lot of people might think that’s silly. It’s just clothing, after all. But clothes are the perfect way to communicate with the world around you without having to say a word. And so much of the clothing available to fat girls assumes that we all want the same thing: floral, flowy, and possibly ready to go on a cruise at any given moment. And that’s okay, if it’s your style. I know there are more options now than when my mom was my age, but I still wonder what it might be like to go into a mall and shop in any store I want, instead of just the ones who want me.

This suit, though. I put it on, and I feel like no matter where I am or who else is in the room, I’m in charge. It’s the kind of outfit that makes people feel like they can trust you. It’s no coincidence that a simple outfit can be the first step in creating the life you want.

After fussing with my hair a bit, I head back into the news classroom, where Malik is waiting.

“Wow,” he says, his voice breathy.

Anxiety spikes in my chest, and I have to remind myself to breathe. “Good wow or bad wow?”

He nods feverishly. “Good wow. Super-good wow. Like, super-foxy-good wow, but also I-feel-like-I-should-be-asking-you-to-hire-me-for-an-important-job wow.”

My cheeks ache with heat, and I can’t even blame it on the warm lights yet.

“You ready?” he asks.

I nod. “I’ve never actually sat down behind a news desk,” I admit. “What if I’m horrible at this?” Because the truth is, outside of what little experience I’ve picked up from doing morning announcements, my career as a TV reporter has only ever existed in my head.