Darling Rose Gold(5)

I thrilled over my casual use of “a-hole.” Swearing hadn’t been allowed before.

    Me: I’m over it

Me: How was your day?



I’d always hoped I was being hard on myself. Everyone else couldn’t think I was as ugly as I feared. But Brandon did. My scrawny body looked more like a six-year-old boy’s than a woman’s. I had no boobs. My teeth were jagged and rotten. Even after putting on thirty pounds, I was still too thin, still couldn’t fill a bus seat. No one considered me beautiful, not even Mom, who was always careful to call me a beautiful soul, but never beautiful. She chose the worst times to be honest.

    Phil: Sorry about the jerk

Phil: My day was snowy ;-)



Phil had moved to Colorado a couple years ago so he could snowboard more often. He had convinced his parents to let him live at his aunt and uncle’s cabin in the foothills of the Front Range, forty-five miles southwest of Denver. This rebel streak plus his romantic interest in me had been enough to pull me in. He also helped me figure out what Mom was doing to me, so he pretty much saved my life. We met in a singles chat room when I was sixteen, soon after I convinced Mom to get the Internet to help with my schoolwork. She only let me online for thirty minutes a day, but I snuck on after she was asleep to talk to Phil. Now, two and a half years later, we were texting daily. No calls or video chats, though. I wasn’t good at conversations on the fly. With texts I had time to prepare my responses. I couldn’t risk losing him.

After tossing the empty macaroni tub in the garbage, I carried my Lunchables to the living room. I sat on one of the BarcaLoungers Mom had bought years ago at a garage sale and popped up the footrest. I stacked a square of cheddar and a piece of turkey atop a cracker, then paused. Was my stomach noodley, or was I imagining things?

Out loud I said, “Nothing is wrong with the macaroni.”

I picked up the DVDs on the side table: Alice in Wonderland and Pinocchio. As a kid I’d only been allowed to watch three movies—Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, and Beauty and the Beast—so I’d been making up for lost time. So far I had worked my way through half of the library’s collection of Disney movies. None of them could beat my all-time favorite, The Little Mermaid—I’d watched it thirty times. I was trying to get to thirty-three, for good luck.

But a movie wasn’t what I wanted. I studied my khakis and blue uniform shirt. Tomorrow I’d be wearing the exact same outfit, straightening the same stack of magazines, refilling the same kiosk for the next a-hole who came into Gadget World to tell me how gross I was.

What if Brandon came back to the store? What if I ran into him at the gas station or while buying groceries?

Maybe I was overreacting. I had a boyfriend and a full-time job and my own apartment. I’d been to a dentist, who said with some extractions and an implant-supported bridge, I could have beautiful white teeth. Since then, I’d started saving fifty dollars from every paycheck to put toward my new smile. I was making progress, so what was one hot guy’s opinion? Brandon was nobody to me.

“You are not disgusting,” I said, sick and fidgety. I didn’t believe me.

I wasn’t ready for a move to a new city. I’d spent most of my life in the same town house, only leaving for doctors’ appointments, visits with our neighbors, and school until Mom had pulled me out. Even though a lot of the people in Deadwick annoyed me, at least they were familiar faces. I could hold it together as long as I had our brown recliners, the corner grocery, and Mrs. Stone—known for her oatmeal cookies and eternal optimism—a five-minute drive away. A move was too big. But a short change of scenery could work.

Make a list, Mom whispered. Here were all the people I knew who didn’t live in Deadwick: Mom; Alex, who lived in Chicago; and Phil, who was all the way in Colorado. Phil and I had never suggested meeting. Face-to-face meant no more fantasies. If Phil met me, he might call me disgusting too. He might even break up with me. Still, the ants in my pants wouldn’t shut up.

I drafted the text for forty-five minutes before settling on the most straightforward approach.

    Me: How would you feel about me coming to visit? :-)

Me: I need to leave home for a little while



The three dots hovered, floating on my screen. He was typing and typing and typing. I tugged at a hangnail. Don’t get balloon hopes.

    Phil: Now’s not a great time. Sorry babe

Phil: Maybe in a few months?



I let out the breath I’d been holding. I didn’t dare ask why now wasn’t a great time, but instead made another list: Possible Reasons My Boyfriend Does Not Want to Meet Me. Maybe he had another girlfriend. Maybe I was the mistress. Maybe he wasn’t allowed to date. Maybe he didn’t know how to snowboard. Maybe he was uglier in real life than in his photo. Maybe he knew deep down I wasn’t the cute girl he hoped I was—although I’d given him a fake name to stop him from finding me.

The run-in with Brandon was the closest I had come to my first kiss. Eighteen was too old to still be waiting—I had learned that much from the pages of Seventeen. I decided to keep working on Phil. He was my best shot. Besides, if we were meant to be together, didn’t we have to meet at some point?

I drummed my fingers on the recliner’s arm, racking my brain for another way out. I could visit Chicago. For months my best friend and Mrs. Stone’s daughter, Alex, had offered to show me around. Gas for a three-hour drive wouldn’t cost that much.