From Butt to Booty (9 page)

My bottom lip hurts from biting down too hard.

I have curves on my hips and curves from my butt, and boobs—all of a sudden I have boobs. I can’t cross my arms like I used to. I have to go under flesh, or put my hands up on my shoulders.

I half turn to the right and keep on inspecting. There are bumps on my upper arms and there’s a zit on my right butt cheek. The backs of my knees stick out; they don’t curve in like they’re supposed to.

My neck is too short. I don’t have a swan neck, I have a chickadee no-neck thing going on.

Where have I been?

My tummy pooches out, rounded like it wants to try out for a geometry class prop.

Where’s my waist supposed to be? Is it the dip under my ribs or right before my hips take center stage?

I want to know. Have I been sleepwalking? I don’t recognize myself. I don’t know this person. I pinch my side just to make sure I can still feel pain.

I have fur between my legs and, even though I shave daily, incorrigible wannabe Chia Pets under each arm.

I face away from the mirror but peer back over my shoulder, trying to see what other people witness when I walk away.
Oh my God. Shoot me now
. I’m so hoping to find those twin dimples at the base of my spine. Hope is overrated. No backless gowns for me. Hefty garbage bags with armholes.

Snap out of it, Gert
. I tell myself to get a grip.

You’re not hideous, just not gorgeous
. There are worse things than homely. Right? I could be stupid, or dense, or incapable of honest emotion.

But here’s the hideous deal: I would trade my brains for the bod of any A-list actress. Maybe being beautiful would get old.

Eventually.

No, it wouldn’t. Who are those people who think the inside is so much more important than the outside? No one gets past the outside to get to the inside unless they like the packaging. When was the last time you bought the horridly packaged hot dogs with the little flying pigs on them because you thought the inside had to make up for the piglet motif?

Tangent: sorry.

I shut the closet door, effectively bringing the curtain down on the mirror.

It’s not me in that mirror. She’s almost adult and I’m seriously missing the mutant gene that makes me deep and unshallow. Maybe it’s my problem. Maybe someday I’ll be happy with my lumps and bumps and trunk, but that day is not today.

I’m no closer to feeling at one with my body than I am to speaking fluent Swahili. It’s possible, but not highly probable. And please, no breath-holding.

Buttocks!

I throw my naked self against my pillows and navy-puke bedspread.

How come every time I try to visualize myself comfortable and at home in my skin, somehow I’m a size two, with perfect breasts, white sparkly teeth, the hair of a goddess and golden skin? Seriously, what happened to being okay with reality? I was a happy kindergartner focused on crayons, not flaws. I colored outside the lines and I was creative. Now I grow outside the lines and I’m a mutant. I don’t get it.

“You okay?” Clarice asks me on our way to lunch the next day. “You look sick.”

“Just school and stuff.” I can’t shake the post-vacation blahs. I try, but I get bogged down in odd weepiness.

“Whatever, I get it.” Clarice pats me on the back. “When’s the big family dinner?”

I’m having dinner with Stephen’s family tonight. Maybe that’s why I feel like I’m going to puke at any second. And here I’m thinking it was the shrimp I didn’t eat last night. “Tonight.”
Breathe, Gert. Breathe
.

“Wow. You nervous?” she asks, all guru.

“Maybe.” I swallow bile.

“I think I’d be puking.”

“Hadn’t occurred to me,” I lie.

“That’s a big step, you know. They’ll be all microscoping you and judging you. And you’ll never be good enough for little Stevie.” She speaks as one who knows.

“Not helping.”
I’m going to go find a cliff to jump off, thank you
.

“Sorry. That’s just what I’ve heard.”

The Oracle, aka older sister. “Older sister, right?”

“Yeah,” Clarice says almost apologetically. “She has doozy stories about weird relatives. She pretty much says it’s the determining factor about your future together.”

“Future together?” Are we kidding? I thought it was food and talking and maybe seeing where he sleeps—a chaperoned tour, of course. Can it really be about the future? “We’re not getting married.”

“You’re certainly not getting married if his mother doesn’t like you.”

“What are you talking about?” I stumble over a perfectly flat floor. “She’s met me. Driven me.” Granted, it was terribly dark and we didn’t speak in the car.

“My sister. Head over heels with this guy, and he was great to her. Perfect. His mother still did his laundry and grocery shopping, even though he lived on the other side of town. The mother
hated my sister. Venom. He never called her again. Not that she was too upset because the dude’s boxers were always starched and she didn’t understand that until—”

I must stop the flow. “I get it.”

“I’m just saying—”

“I know. But we’re sophomores.” Like this mitigates the relative horrors.

“Never too early to be stealing away the little prince.”

Holy-Mother-of-Small-Boys, what have you done to us? Could we just have a drive-by? I can stand on the curb and Stephen’s mom can peer out the window at me and tally up all the reasons I’m not good enough to date her son and we could all move on. Do I really have to eat food while we’re at it? I’m liable to snort it out my nose.

“I wouldn’t worry, though. Really.” Clarice tries to soothe me.

The panicked horse-near-a-rattler feeling must actually be an expression on my face, not just a lump in my gut. I have nothing to say. I’m afraid to open my mouth.

Clarice’s concern bubbles out her mouth. “My sister is a lunatic. I’m sure she’s exaggerated those stories so I won’t date until I’m thirty or something.” Clarice waves her hands around and pushes her hair out of her eyes.

“Right.” I nod. Here’s what I’ve learned about Clarice’s older sister stories: rarely are they exaggerated. I’m not that lucky.

I glance down at the skirt my mother made me change into. I will never admit this, but I’m kinda grateful she gets all forceful and tells me what to wear occasionally. A plain pale pink blouse
and a black wool skirt that hits my calves. I’m even wearing ballet flats I don’t remember having.

I brush a hand over the bracelet Mike gave me, which I’m wearing for luck, and lick my pink-glossed lips. I look like a girl. A nice girl. I’d want my son to date me. I don’t have the Eve-the-seducer look about me at all.

Stephen insists on talking the whole ride over. I think he thinks he’s making things better by giving me the rundown. He’s so not. “Just ignore my grandmother, her glass eye is wonky and she’s nuts.” That’s encouraging. “She lives with us; otherwise, I wouldn’t make you meet her.”

“She can’t be that bad.” Everyone exaggerates how terribly wacky their relatives are, right? To listen, we’re lucky we evolved past rocks and spears.

“She gave me a box of Depends for Christmas.” Stephen sets the parking brake and half turns in the seat to look at me.

“Oh.” How do I react to that?

He doesn’t find my reticence off-putting. “Wrapped in shelf paper.”

What the hell is that? I nod, then give in and ask, “What’s shelf paper?”

“The ugly wallpaper that goes on shelves in the pantry and dresser drawers. She had some extra from my dad’s childhood.”

“Oh.” That’s what that’s called. Mom has rolls and rolls of it in the basement. I can’t recall ever seeing it on any shelves or in any drawers, though.
Snap out of it, he’s waiting for a response
. “That’s pretty bad.”

“You’re not kidding. She gave my brother a letter that willed him her dentures. She wants him prepared for the future.” Stephen is playing with my hair. Why is he playing with my hair?

“Your parents cool?” I’m just plain scared. I try to pass off the shiver of fear as sophistication. That so did not work.

“They’re okay.” His parents could look like Attila the Hun and his horse named Ray.

Again with the lack of comfort. This should be a fun evening. Why did I agree to this? Because I want to see his bedroom. Do you know how much a personal space says about a person? More than any book ever could. But now I’m calculating that the odds of seeing his room without an escort are nil to none.

Not that I really want to be with him in a room that has a bed. I so don’t want him to be thinking I came to dinner so he could jump my bones with Daddy’s approval.

“Ready?” He’s already shutting his door and moving. My answer obviously isn’t too important here.

I smile. I should have put gloss on my teeth like Miss America so my lips slide easily. They’re kinda sticking. He doesn’t open my door but walks up the walk without me. I scramble to catch up.

“Hey!” Stephen calls as he throws open the front door and grabs my hand, dragging me in. Or rather, I follow, because I’m afraid he’s going to dislocate my fingers if I stop the forward momentum.

“You’re late.”

“Sorry, Dad, traffic was nuts,” Stephen replies.

Traffic? What traffic? And hello—not a great start to the evening.

“We’re at the table. Come in, come in.” His mom is wearing a black suit that looks like it was sewn on. Can she breathe in that? Her hair is a reddish brown I’ve only ever seen on television actresses or news anchors. And it doesn’t move.

“I’m Ms. Hudson, Stephen’s mother, but you remember me as homecoming chauffeur, I’m sure.” She shakes my hand like she’s trying to crack walnuts.

“Gert. Garibaldi. Stephen’s …” I trail off. I glance wildly around, hoping he’ll help me, but he’s already sitting down.

“We know. That’s my husband, Mr. Blasko. And his mother, Mrs. Blasko. Stephen’s brother, Walt, is at a Boy Scout event. He’s going to be an Eagle Scout.” She head-bobs around the table. Never once losing the smile. Her smile is terribly unnerving. “Sit.”

I do, because holy buttocks, I don’t want to know what happens if I refuse. I’ve seen South American dictators with less commanding personas than Ms. Hudson.

Stephen isn’t looking at me. It’s like we’ve never even met.

His dad is reading the
Wall Street Journal
. “Dammit, cattle is up again.”

“Not at the table. We have a guest.” Ms. Hudson glares at him. Mr. Blasko puts down the paper and returns her glare.

“I hope you don’t mind takeout. We rarely cook in this house.” He directs this comment to me, but I have a feeling I’m not the intended recipient.

“I love takeout.” I feel the need to bond with Ms. Hudson. Besides, I know what home cooking can taste like, and it’s overrated.

“So, Gert, our boy here hasn’t told us much about you,” Ms. Hudson says, passing me the container of General Tso’s chicken.

“I want sardines. Where are the sardines?” Mrs. Blasko yells across the table at me, making me jump. I’m the only one who seems surprised by the outburst.

“They’re coming, Grandma,” Stephen answers without even looking at her.

Ms. Hudson is still looking at me, with her eyebrows up above her bangs and her smile gleaming. She’s being too nice. A little odd. I feel like she’s a talent scout I need to impress.

I put a spoonful of noodles on my plate. “Oh, there’s not much to tell.”

“Dear, don’t flirt with the truth. Tell us everything.” She puts some iceberg lettuce on her plate and drizzles it with vinegar. She keeps handing me containers but never puts any on her plate.

Am I not supposed to eat anything? What’s the expectation?

“So you and Stephen have been dating officially for a few weeks?” she continues.

“Yes.”

“How’d you meet?” She uses a knife and fork to eat the lettuce.

“Mom, school.” Stephen takes a breath from inhaling egg rolls and noodles. He’s not a very pretty eater.

“School,” I reiterate.

“Where are the sardines? Joan, I told you I wanted sardines.” Mrs. Blasko shouts.

Everyone just ignores her, so I shrug and avert my eyes apologetically.

Stephen’s dad picks up the paper again and mutters under his breath between bites. His mom’s cell phone rings.