Models Don't Eat Chocolate Cookies (4 page)

“Gross!” My stomach rolled at the disgusting sight, but even though eating didn’t appeal to me, I was jealous that he was staying home.

 

My stomach finally settled halfway through my first class. When the passing period bell rang, I slid from my seat, grateful to be feeling better. I was so grateful that I forgot to close my backpack, and spilled the contents of the big pocket.
Lord of the Flies,
my social studies book, and my notebook skidded across the floor. My face hot, I bent into the crush of kids and fumbled for my stuff.

“Whoa, Supremo Grande, you’re blocking the exit,” one of the boys cackled.

“That’s a fire hazard,” another joked. I pushed my books into my bag as fast as I could and kept my eyes to the floor as I bumped my way into the hall.

 

By second-period break, the “Supremo” reference had revived the Gaggle of Negative Comments from the night before. I stood in front of my locker, listening to the crowd of whispers in my head, searching for my Emergency Twinkie Stash, when my hand closed around the smooth plastic of the travel mug. I hadn’t dumped the drink yet.

Maybe it’s better the next day,
I reasoned,
like spaghetti sauce
. As nice as it sounded, I doubted my own logic. There was no way that glop would taste any better, plus it made my stomach do the mambo when it was fresh. And wasn’t there some mom-warning about mayonnaise spoiling fast? I debated.

“Hey! Look! It’s a solar eclipse!” Lively Carson’s excited voice sounded behind me. Without thinking, I spun around.

“Oh, it’s just Celeste. Never mind.” She flicked her hand like she was brushing a fly away and kept walking. The girls following her were laughing hard enough to pee themselves.

Debate over. I brought the mug to my lips. The cover kept the aroma from escaping, at least. Before I could lose my nerve, I slugged down the rest of the concoction in big gulps.

I bolted for a water fountain. It hadn’t aged well.

 

“You’re not looking too good today,” Sandra said as we met in the hall a few minutes later and walked to gym, our first shared class.

“Not feeling too good,” I responded, stifling a burp.

“Do you need to—”

“Oh no,” I said, cutting her off, and froze. Sandra walked into my backpack. We had just crossed the threshold of the girls’ locker room.

“Are you okay?” she asked, concerned. She raised her voice over the slamming lockers. “What’s up? Did you forget your clothes? I reminded you last night!”

“I wish,” I said. “It’s the Fitness Challenge that I forgot about. Tell me we don’t have to run today.”

Sandra plopped her backpack on the narrow wooden bench between the rows of lockers. “Can’t tell you that. We’re running the mile.”

My stomach flipped a cartwheel. I groaned.

“Maybe Coach will let you out of it,” she said. “Get changed and talk to her. I’ll go with you, if you want.” She tossed her shirt into her locker.

Not a chance,
I wanted to say. I much preferred reading to running, lounging to laps, and Coach Anapoli knew it. I bent to my lock, twisting the combination while figuring out what I was going to say.

Sandra stood in her bra and jeans, unfolding her gym shirt before putting it on. Sandra never experienced embarrassment. While other girls (including me) would tug our arms out of shirts, hunch over, pull our gym shirts over our heads and pull the other shirts out through the neck, Sandra just took everything off like she was in her bedroom at home. If I looked like her, I wouldn’t care either. Small and athletic, Sandra didn’t have any fat on her body. She also had just the right amount of something to fill her bra with—not a lot of something, but enough. On the other hand, I was always trying to hide too much of something.

I squirmed into my gym clothes, then shoved my schoolbag into my locker and slammed it. Coach Anapoli made the girls sit in the unused shower area while she took attendance and made announcements. The green tile floor was cold and dirty-looking, even though no one had showered in the room for years. I squeezed into a corner, leaning against the sticky wall tiles, still tasting the Diet Drink of Horror. Sandra went to get me a cup of water. Across the room, Millicent Taposok and Katy O’Sullivan, who Sandra and I ate lunch with, waved. I managed a weak smile in their direction. My stomach shuddered.

In front of me, Lively Carson and her friends huddled together, giggling, probably about the “solar eclipse” in the hall. Lively was AlHo’s Miss Matchy Perfect—her barrettes matched her earrings, which matched her shorts, which matched her socks. I’m sure, if I cared to stick my head down her locker row when she was changing, I’d see that her underwear matched everything too. For all her matchiness, though, Lively’s personality didn’t coordinate with her designed appearance. Her favorite sport? Being mean to everyone except her special group of friends—who she complimented constantly, if they met her standards.

The group giggle-fest over, I watched as she mocked Carlee Morgenstern—one of her supposed friends—about the new way she was wearing her hair, in a French braid. After a few minutes of incessant teasing, Carlee switched it back to the Lively-approved ponytail. Revolting.

Sandra came back with my water, but before we could talk to Coach Anapoli together she sent Sandra to set up cones. The other girls whispered on our walk down to the track, eyes sliding toward me every so often. My stomach churned.

Coach divided us into five groups of twelve (gym was not only a double class period, it was twice the size of a regular class). While one group ran laps, the other four would play soccer or field hockey against one another. Sandra wasn’t on my team. Instead, Millie, Katy, and I—three of the worst athletes in our class—made basic attempts to provide field hockey defense. Not that anyone was playing an actual game—they were just knocking the ball around enough so Coach wouldn’t make us do extra laps.

“Oh look,” Lively said as she jogged by on her way to the track, her group summoned by Coach Anapoli’s whistle, “it’s the Barnyard Squad: Cow, Pig, and Horse!” She mooed and snorted as she passed.

“Cretin,” Katy whispered under her breath. Tall, with a long face, Katy was a science brain. She was enrolled in an accelerated program, so she took high school science classes in the afternoon. Lucky.

Millicent nodded, pink scrunchie bouncing in her dark hair. “Can’t stand her.” She’d earned her nickname for wearing something pink every day. I guess having a favorite color was not high on Lively’s List of Cool.

I was about to join in when another cramp, this one epic in comparison to the ones I’d had the night before, hit my stomach like a boa constrictor squeezing a jungle explorer. I doubled over my stick.

“Celeste? You okay?” Katy asked. Her eyebrows made a deep V over her nose.

I shook my head. “Stomach,” I gasped. Sweat popped up on my forehead. I tried to breathe, regretting every drop of that drink.

“We should tell Coach,” Millicent said.

As soon as she got the words out, the tweet of Anapoli’s whistle pierced the air around the track. “Group three!” she shouted. “You’re up!”

“That’s us,” said Katy. “Do you need help?” Around us, the rest of our group dropped their sticks and headed toward the starting line.

Some short, shallow breaths helped. “I’m okay,” I said, and repeated myself to be sure. “I’m okay.” The cramp loosened its hold.

“Ladies, let’s move it!” Coach Anapoli shouted. “What are you doing, grazing?” I swore I heard Lively laughing. I trudged to the starting line, then over to Coach herself. Sandra waved encouragement from the sidelines.

Supposedly one of a pair of identical twins, Coach Anapoli stood about six feet tall. Rumor had it that she was such a good basketball player in college that she cut her hair short and tried out for the NBA. Rumor also had it that she only washed her blue tracksuit every two weeks. No one wanted to get close enough to find out the truth. What I
did
know was that she hated me. I was a big soup of things she despised: quiet, clumsy, uncoordinated, and chubby.

“Coach, I, uh, really don’t feel good,” I began.

“Don’t want to hear it, Harris.” She didn’t even look up from her clipboard.

“But it’s my stomach,” I tried. “It really—”

“Don’t care. I’m sure you’ll be fine after you run.” She held up her stopwatch. “Get in line.”

My twisting guts felt heavy. I sighed and lined up.
Four laps. Walk if you want.

When I glanced at Coach Anapoli, she held the stopwatch at the ready. “On your mark, get set . . . GO!” she barked.

I went. Millie and Katy tucked their elbows close to their sides and were soon far ahead of me. The weight in my guts leaked into my legs, and a heavy, shivery sensation crept through my body. Sweat rolled down my back and forehead, dripping into my eyes.
Halfway done with lap one—halfway done with lap one,
I chanted. As I rounded the home stretch of the first lap, Joanie Purcell passed me, finishing her third.

I dropped my head, pumped my arms, and willed my legs to move faster. A cramp clawed my side.

“Mooo! Mooo!” Lively Carson waved her field hockey stick to get my attention—as if her barnyard noises wouldn’t. “Moooove it, Celeste!”

I clenched my fists and pushed harder.
Halfway through with lap two—halfway through with lap two,
I repeated. Never mind that everyone else in my group, including Katy and Millie, had passed me, and Joanie Purcell was
done
. I just wanted to finish and get it over with. All the while, my pounding heart, rolling stomach, and heaving lungs competed to see which would explode first.

At my fastest, I moved no quicker than a slow jog. I reached Coach Anapoli at the starting line and began my third lap. “Fifteen-oh-four,” she shouted, as another runner bounded past and finished. I forced my legs to keep moving and clutched my side.

Almost free of lap three
—the words’ rhythm echoed my footsteps. Head thumping, lungs burning, I rounded the turn closest to the starting line. The rest of my group—done—were clustered around the edge of the track, leaning against one another as they caught their breath. Group four also watched, waiting for me to clear the track so they could start their run. I swiped stinging sweat from my eyes.
Hope they don’t think I’m crying,
I thought. Although I probably would have been in tears if I wasn’t concentrating so hard on not dying.

“Let’s go, Harris!” Coach hollered as I approached. She moved to the edge of the track to yell my time as I passed.

This is supposed to be encouraging?
Anyone who wasn’t watching turned in my direction.
Great
. The boys’ class was returning to the gym, carrying football equipment. A few of them stopped to catch the show. Even through my blurry vision, their pointing fingers were hard to miss. I didn’t think it was possible to feel any worse, but I did.

My heart thudded like a tennis ball down a flight of stairs.

As I got closer to Coach Anapoli, time turned funny. Everything slowed. I felt each foot land on the track. My ears rushed and roared with the sound of blood pumping through my head. Katy and Millie stood to one side, heads down and taking deep breaths, recovering. Hockey sticks swung and soccer balls bounced as my classmates watched. Coach raised her stopwatch as I crossed the line to start lap four.

“Twen—” she began. Behind her, Lively Carson and some of the boys—Robbie Flan among them—snickered. Farther down the track, Sandra raised her hand to me in another wave. Blood thumped behind my eyes.

My stomach heaved.

“Oh—” Coach Anapoli continued. My stomach heaved again, and I staggered to the side of the track—toward Coach Anapoli. Spit filled my mouth. I burped—a loud one—and my belly flipped. I hiccupped and clasped a hand over my lips. Coach’s eyes widened.

“Oooh,” I gasped. I clutched my belly with both hands.

“Harris!” she snapped. “Get—” But I didn’t hear the rest. A geyser erupted in my middle, and there’s no stopping Mother Nature.

I yurked.

On Coach Anapoli’s shoes.

“Oh
crap
!” she shouted.

If it were fizzy and not so chunky, it could have been root beer.

AFTER SANDRA ESCORTED me to the nurse’s office, chiding me for eating a “heavy snack” before gym (there was
no way
I was admitting what I’d downed before class), I spent the next two class periods on the couch, resting, and begging Nurse Callahan not to call my mom. Explaining what happened would only bring humiliation and questions I didn’t want to answer. And that outweighed spending the rest of the day in bed, listening to Theo Christmas and napping.

 

On my way home that afternoon I felt about as low as a spider’s knees, and just as ugly. As I turned onto our street, I saw Mom sitting on the front steps of our house. She was never outside when I got home. My heart picked up speed.
She knows. Nurse Callahan
did
call her
. I walked faster. She stood and waved as I approached.

“Honey, it’s great!” she called across the lawn.

She doesn’t know
. I slowed down, puffing for air.

She met me halfway. “I didn’t open it, honey, but I’m so excited. Imagine, you going behind our back like this. It’s got to be good news, right? They got back to you so quickly, and it’s a thick envelope.”

“What do you mean?” I stopped and plopped my schoolbag on the lawn.

She smiled a big Mom smile. “Don’t tease, Celeste. I’m proud that you sent it on your own. It’s okay.” She waggled a pastel-colored envelope and held it out to me.

“I didn’t
send
anything,” I protested, not taking the package.

She let out an exasperated huff of air and shook the envelope. “Just open it.”

I reached out.
Ms. Celeste Harris,
I read above our address. When I flipped it over, I saw
PeachWear Industries, 4567 South Market St., Suite 450, San Francisco, CA 94105.