Puddin'(91)

I don’t know when I started crying, but I am and I can’t stop.

After a while, my mother knocks on the door and says something to me for the first time in weeks. “Dinner’s ready, sweet pea.”

“I’m fine.” My voice wobbles. “Thank you.”

It’s a few moments before I hear the floor creak as she makes her way back toward the kitchen. I hear a few hushed whispers exchanged between her and my father before my dad says a little louder, “Leave her be for a bit.”

I sit there unmoving, letting the tears fall down the front of my dress. The sun floats below the rooflines of my neighborhood, and I should probably turn a light on, but I think my whole body is frozen.

My phone dings a few times and I hear a few alerts on my computer, too. Probably Amanda and Malik messaging me about silly things. Neither of them has any idea that the goal I’ve been racing toward for the last few months has just been snatched out of my reach. It almost reminds me of the treadmills at Daisy Ranch. There was this huge screen at the front of the room, made to look like we were walking down some picturesque New England trail. You’d walk over one hill and then another and then another, hoping to reach your goal. But the scenery never changed. You conquered one hill only to do the exact same thing over and over again.

When it’s almost pitch-black in my room, my mom quietly lets herself in and turns on the lamp on my bedside table. Even that little bit of light burns my eyes.

She sits on the bed and gives me space to talk. But I’m not ready. I don’t even know what to say.

“Did you open your mail?” she asks.

I nod.

“I’m guessing it wasn’t the news you were hoping for.”

“No,” I mumble. “It wasn’t.”

She presses the palm of her hand to my back and rubs in circular motions, just like she always has when I’m sick. After a long pause, she says, “I spoke with Ms. Georgia from Daisy Ranch. She said it’s well past the deadline, but that they were holding a spot in your cabin, hoping you’d change your mind.”

I can picture my bottom bunk at Daisy Ranch like it’s an extension of my own home. My wooden sign above my bed painted baby pink with teal letters that spell out PUDDIN’. I’ll always be that girl. I’ve run from her for the last nine months, trying to be someone else. A beauty queen. An aspiring news anchor. A girlfriend, even. But I’ll always be that girl who shows up every summer, hoping that this is the year everything changes.

It feels like defeat. And what’s harder is that I resent myself, but more than that, I resent my mom. I resent her for not believing I could be more. I resent her because I’m scared she’s right.

“That’s kind of Ms. Georgia,” I finally say.

“So I can let her know you’ll be back this summer?”

I nod. “Okay.”

“I’ll send in your deposit this week.” My mom pats my leg and then stands to leave my room, but then she stops and turns around. “I don’t want this to be some sort of ‘I told you so’ moment, but you know your father and I are strict for good reason. This is the exact type of pain we’ve been trying to keep you from. I’m glad that the pageant was a . . . positive experience for you. But, baby, the world just doesn’t work like that in real life. People are rude and hateful, and I don’t want that for you. I don’t want the world to miss out on you because of their own silly judgments getting in the way. You know that, right? That’s why your dad and I pay to send you to Daisy Ranch. We just want the world to see the girl we know has been inside you all along.”

My eyes well up with tears. But this time it’s anger. It’s all anger. Because my mother thinks some thin girl is living inside me when the truth is, I am right here. I am the same Millie inside and out. I want to believe that. I want so badly for it to be true. But I have to confront the possibility that maybe my mother is right. Maybe it’s too much effort to change the world. Maybe the only way to survive is to change myself.

I have an awful taste in my mouth at the thought.

Mom interprets my angry tears as self-resignation, and when she hugs me, it takes everything in me not to roar at her to get away from me.

In the end, she was right and I was wrong.





Callie


Thirty-Two


I’m in San Francisco. The whole team is buzzing with energy. Of course we all want to win the big prize, but at this point the fact that we’ve even made it all the way to Nationals is a dream so surreal none of us can quite believe it.

I groan into the carpet.

Except I’m not in San Francisco. I’m lying facedown on my bedroom floor, counting carpet fibers with my eyelashes. I have literally nothing scheduled for the foreseeable future. No dance practice. No loser sleepover party or whatever the hell it was. No job.

I’ve even studied. FOR FINALS THAT DON’T START FOR TWO MORE WEEKS. I have a research paper on natural selection due next week, and I turned it in nine days early. My teacher asked if it was a prank. I assured him it was not.

“Callie!” my mom calls from downstairs. “You’ve got company!”

“I don’t have any friends,” I call back, but my voice is muffled by the carpet.

After a moment, there’s a faint knock on the door. “Come in.”