Saving Ruth (8 page)

Jill let go of the rope and plopped down on the ground. “We'll give them ten minutes. In the meantime, let's tan.” I dug in my bag for my towel and unfurled it. The sun was spotty through the trees, but its warmth soothed my face. I closed my eyes.

“Wass, you're gonna get the gnarliest tan lines in that gramma suit,” said M.K. as she untied her top.

“Oh, excuse me, I have a job to go to after this. Sorry I can't wear a bikini to save lives.”

“But you will get a bikini this summer, right?” asked M.K.

“I dunno. I mean, I don't think my stomach has ever seen the light of day.”

“Well, it's not like it's going to go up in flames, Wass. I think you're safe,” said Jill.

“Will you go with me to buy one?” I asked. “Will you tell me the truth if I look like a fat-ass?”

Jill sat up and hovered over me. “You're not serious, right?”

I opened one eye. “What? About coming with me?”

“No, about thinking you could look like a fat-ass anything.”

I grunted in response.

Jill grabbed my arm. “Wass, I can fit my hand around your entire upper arm.” She gripped it tightly.

“Ow, Jesus!”

“I'm starting to think you might have, like, a disorder or something.” M.K. was sitting up now too and nodded.

“Is everything okay?” she asked, her blue eyes searching mine. “I mean, I know how much you wanted this—wanted to be skinny and all. And you do look pretty great.”

“Too skinny. You looked great at Christmas,” interjected Jill. “Now you look like a scarecrow.”

“That's harsh, Jill,” said M.K.

“It's not.” She turned back to me. “I'm sorry, Ruth. I don't want to be a bitch, it's just that I love you so much and I'm worried about you. You are beautiful, you know? You've always been beautiful—skinny, not skinny, whatever.”

“It's true,” agreed M.K. “Don't you know that?”

“I'm fine,” I said softly. “I'm just on a diet, you know? You don't understand because you're just naturally this way. You don't have to worry about every bite that goes into your mouth.”

“Sure I do, Ruth. It's just not that important to me.” Jill cupped my face. “You can let go a little. Relax the calorie counting for a while.”

I removed her hands gently and shook my head. “I really can't.”

Jill opened her mouth to argue with me, but I didn't give her the chance. “Listen, guys, I promise you that I eat. I really do. Like I said, I just have to be careful. I like looking like this,” I explained, shrugging.

“I wish there was something I could say that made you understand that you can look the way you look, maybe even better, and ingest a fat gram every once in a while,” said Jill.

“And if you're gonna work this hard for it, believe in the fact that you can rock a damn bikini,” said M.K. “Okay?”

I nodded. Why was it so hard for me to admit out loud that I was worried about myself too? I feared that vulnerability the same way I feared French fries. Indulgence on any level would be the end of skinny Ruth, and skinny was the only thing I'd ever really been acknowledged for.

“Hey, are the river rats still there?” I asked, eager to change the subject. I crouched low and peered over the edge of the bank. “They're gone!”

“It's probably free skate day at The Roll,” said Jill, making us all crack up. The Roll was a skating rink on the edge of town.

“Remember Kelly Ragstone's birthday there in the second grade?” asked M.K.

“Yes!” I said, laughing. “Her uncle had that crazy beer gut, and her grandmother was chain-smoking Kools?”

“Hey, Wass, I think that was the first time you'd ever been roller skating,” said Jill. “Remember?”

“Oh man.” I put my face in my hands. By the grace of God, I had finally managed to haul my sweaty, round body around the rink, only to realize that I was being watched by the entire party, who burst into applause at my finish. My eight-year-old self had been mortified, and I had spent the remainder of the party eating birthday cake.

“I think I kissed my first boy at that party,” said M.K. “Robert Mitchell.”

“Roberttttttt,” we sang back to her.

“You loved him!” declared Jill.

“I really did. We went steady for about two weeks, and then I dumped him for Mark Kelly.”

“Heartbreaker,” I said.

“Yeah, well, easy come, easy go,” M.K. said as she winked at us.

“Okay, let's get serious,” said Jill. “It's rope-swinging time.” We stood up. “I'll go first!”

We circled the thick rope. Jill gave it a few solid pulls and even hoisted herself up onto it to check for reliability. “Solid as a rock.”

“Or a rope,” I said.

“Very funny.”

“All right, here we go,” said Jill. M.K. and I clapped and whistled as she walked backward with the rope in her hands. When she had pulled it taut, she extended her arms and grabbed it at a higher point.

“If I die, tell Malik that he's the love of my life, please!” She ran forward and launched herself off the ground. The rope swung her over the water, and she hung in the air for a second like a hummingbird, before letting go and throwing up her middle finger as she fell into the water. We ran to the edge, to make sure she surfaced.

“That was awesome!” she yelled after her head broke through the water. “Wow!” She swam the short distance to the bank and hauled herself out. “Y'all, that was even better than I remembered!”

I looked at M.K. “You mind if I go next?”

“No, go ahead.” She handed me the rope. I backed up with my heart racing. What if I cracked my skull open on a rock or some redneck's discarded commode? What if this was my last moment on earth?
So what.
I broke into a run and flew out over the river, watching it sparkle in the sun below me. I closed my eyes and hit the water, its coolness a welcome treat.

We spent the rest of the morning passing the bowl back and forth and taking swinging turns. Finally, when our river stink was at its peak, we piled back into Jill's car. In the backseat, I watched black dots swim in front of my eyes. I was sun-soaked, starving, and faint, but it didn't necessarily feel bad—just kind of like I was floating.

Jill drove up my driveway. “Great day, sweets,” she said, turning around to say good-bye.

“The best. I'll call ya later. Hey, are my eyes super-red?”

“A little, but you can just say it's from the river,” said M.K.

“Good point. Bye!” I shut the door and made my way toward the house. All I could think about was the bag of jumbo marshmallows waiting for me inside. I could taste the sugar on my tongue already. I opened the door to find my dad sitting at the kitchen table and eating a sandwich.

“Hi, Ruthie,” he greeted me. This was going to be tough. I was stoned and marshmallow-obsessed. I prayed that his lunch hour was almost up. His office was close by, and if he didn't have a client lunch, he often came home to eat.

“Hey, Dad,” I said. I dropped my bag on the floor and opened the cupboard by the refrigerator. There they were. Hallelujah. I grabbed the bag and ripped it open. Soft and supple, the marshmallow dusted my hand with white powder as I plucked and then popped it into my mouth. I moved to the table and continued my pluck-and-drop in gluttonous silence. Five 'mallows later, I took a breath and looked up to find my dad smirking at me.

“That's lunch?” he asked. “Sugar?”

“Oh no, I had lunch with Jill and M.K.,” I lied. “This is dessert.” I smiled weakly.

“You know, smoking marijuana before work is probably not a smart move, Ruth.” He popped his last sandwich bite into his mouth and watched my reaction as he chewed.

“Huh?” I asked, feigning innocence.

“I'm not going to say it again.” He gazed at me with disappointed eyes. “It's your job to keep kids safe at a pool, and you show up stoned?” He shook his head. “Shame on you.”

He dropped his dish in the sink and left the house.

9

S
weat dripped from my brow as I jogged to a stop at my driveway. Panting heavily and feeling light-headed, I walked up the street to catch my breath. I thought about my dad's insight into my marshmallow binge yesterday. As far as I knew, he had never smoked weed in his life. Then again, I guess you didn't have to partake yourself to know that red eyes and maniacal face-stuffing were clues to such.

As if on cue, he walked out of the house on his way to the office.

“Dad!” I yelled. He looked up and frowned.

“Wait up!” I called, jogging back to him. He rested his briefcase on the top of the car and dangled his keys impatiently.

“Dad, I'm sorry about yesterday. I—well, I could lie and tell you that I hadn't smoked a little, but that would be pointless, right?” He raised his left eyebrow.

“It was just a little, I swear, and in the morning. I was fine by the time I got home. Just really hungry. Marshmallows are my weakness, you know.”

He closed the door of the car and leaned against it. “Pot smoking is for losers, Ruth. You're not a loser.”

“Dad, I think that's a bit extreme. I mean, I would venture to say that 90 percent of the world population smokes pot. Are they all losers too?” I had statistics on my side—made up or not.

“Jesus, Ruth, you're not 90 percent of the population as far as I'm concerned. You're special. You're better than that. This is the same conversation we had about your drinking in high school. I just don't understand why you continue to sabotage yourself. You have so much potential, but you'd rather drink, smoke, and starve yourself into mediocrity. Why? It's such a waste.”

I shook my head. “Dad, I think you need to relax. I'm sorry I can't be the paradigm of virtue you want me to be.”

“I don't expect you to be perfect, Ruth. Really, I don't. I just wish you used your head more. The Ruth who came home from Michigan is someone I don't recognize.” He laid his keys on the hood of the car and took my hand.

“Sorry, Dad.”

“Yeah, I know. Promise me you'll start taking better care of yourself? I'm really worried. Your mother and I both are.”

“Okay, no more reckless weed smoking. Scout's honor.”

“And what about this food thing? I know I joke around about it sometimes, maybe make light of what you're eating or not eating, but it's only because I'm uncomfortable.” I chewed the inside of my cheek as he spoke. “Should I be thinking about getting you some counseling?” He nudged me. “Look at me, Ruth.” I tore my gaze away from the garage floor and faced him.

“Dad, it's just a diet,” I whispered, feeling strangely like crying. “I swear.”

“Really? What kind of diet calls marshmallows lunch?”

“I told you, it was a dessert. I had a salad earlier with Jill and M.K.,” I lied.

“All right. I'm going to believe you because I don't know what else to do. Please talk to us—me and your mom—if you feel like this ‘diet' is slipping out of your control, okay?”

“Okay.” He hugged me.

“I'm gonna get your suit all wet!” I mumbled.

“Who cares.” He released me. “See ya later, Ruthie.”

“Bye, Dad.”

I watched him get settled into his seat and thought about what it would be like to go back to the way I used to be. I couldn't do it. Not now. And it was stupidly easy to fool everyone, including myself, into thinking that this was just dieting. Deep down, I knew damn well that it wasn't. That it was a problem. But I was too scared of the alternative to do anything about it.

I glanced at my watch. Today was my first Khaki lesson, and I had five minutes to make it to her house. So much for appearing presentable. I jumped on my bike.

“S
o, what grade will you be in this fall?” Khaki looked up at me with the most convincing
fuck off
eyes I had ever seen from anyone, much less a nine-year-old. I'd arrived at her house to discover that her mother had completely blindsided her. Not only had Khaki had no idea that I was coming, but she'd also apparently had no interest in going anywhere with me. First she had refused to get dressed. Then she had deliberately riled her mother up by pairing a ratty, too-small Dora the Explorer T-shirt with sleep shorts instead of the matching pink outfit Laney had laid out for her. Finally, as her last act of defiance, she had opened up the back door and thrown her sneakers into the yard. She shuffled angrily beside me now in a pair of misshapen and bedazzled purple Crocs.

“I think fourth, right? And you're at Jacob Ray up the street?” She didn't answer me.

“I went to Jacob Ray too, you know. I had Mrs. Mason for fourth grade. She was tough, but I liked her.” I looked down at the top of Khaki's head. Her brown hair circled it in limp waves. From this angle, I could see the way her stomach strained against the cotton of her T-shirt. She remained silent, but I continued on.

“So I figured we'd just take a half-hour walk or something—get to know each other a bit. Since we're going to be doing this all summer and all.” Khaki came to an abrupt halt and put her hands on her hips. Or what would have been her hips.

“Do what now?” She looked up at me angrily.

“Me and you, all summer. Exercise buddies.”

“Are you serious?”

“Well, yes. I think we'll have fun?” Her accusatory stare turned my statement into a question.

“Can we sit down for a sec? Just over on that curb over there?” she whined.

“Well, Khaki, I think that kind of defeats the purpose of our time together, you know? Why don't we walk and talk.”

“Miss Ruth, can I be frank?”

Taken aback by her sudden morphing into a fifty-five-year-old accountant, I stammered. “Uh, sure, of course, I mean, why—”

“I need to sit down to process this, please. We'll get back up in two minutes and strap weights around our ankles or whatever the fudge my mother is paying you to do.” This was the same nine-year-old who had thrown an epic tantrum ten minutes prior? The one in a Dora T-shirt and bedazzled Crocs?

“Um, okay, just for a minute.” She shuffled over to the curb and plopped down. She sat Indian style, her hands cupping her chin. I hovered over her.

“You sit too, please. You're making me nervous.” This was unreal. Who knew that Khaki Moorehouse was such a badass? I sat beside her in the damp grass. “Laney really outdid herself this time,” she said.

“Laney? You call your mother by her first name?”

“Not to her face.” She wiped the sweat from her pale brow. “Well, sometimes to her face, if she's really gone too far. Like now, for example. Hiring somebody to exercise me—like I'm a dog or somethin'—is going too far.” She looked up at me. “Don't you think?”

“Well, I guess she thinks she has your best interests in mind, Khaki,” I offered weakly. “She just wants you to be healthy and happy.”

“She wants me to be happy, or she wants to make herself happy? I'm happy the way I am. She's the one who wants to die because she has a fat daughter.” Beneath the bravado, her voice trembled.

“Hey, who said anything about fat?”

She rolled her eyes. “You're here because I'm skinny? Come on.”

“No one said anything about fat, Khaki. Your mom just wants you to try to think differently about exercise. See it as fun instead of boring. And for whatever reason, she thought I would be a good person to help you with that.”
Never mind that it's a warped case of the blind leading the blind.

“I guess it could be worse.” She up-downed me. “You seem all right. Better than the aerobics classes she drags me to sometimes.” She winced. “Uch. The worst.” I stood up and extended my hands to her to help her do the same. She grabbed them tentatively.

“We don't have to run or anything, do we?” She looked up at me, alarmed.

“Not right now. But maybe by the end of the summer, you'll want to.” She cocked an eyebrow at me.

“Miss Ruth, get real.”

I
leaned against the sink, greedily gulping a glass of ice water.

“Ruthala!” My mom slid in beside me. She was a high school guidance counselor, and her summers off were her excuse to be as lazy as humanly possible and still maintain a pulse. “What are you doing home?”

“I have the day off.” I rubbed the cold glass against my forehead.

“Want to go to the mall with your mama?”

“Oh, Mom, shopping? Now?”

“C'mon, I'll buy you a treat and we can grab a girls' lunch.”

Saying no would have just been cruel. And to be honest, a new something for my date with Chris sounded pretty appealing. But lunch? What would I eat?
Shut up, Ruth. Just do this, please.
“Okay, sure. Why not?”

“Great. You ready?” She was practically behind the wheel already.

“Slow down there. I have to shower and, you know, get ready.”

“Oh, okay. I'm going to be in my room. Just call me when you're ready.” She got up. “But don't take forever, okay? It's the mall, not prom.”

“What would I know about prom?”

“W
hat exactly do you do that takes you so long?” my mom asked at a red light.

“You're already annoying me. I thought this was going to be fun.” I stared out the window morosely.

“Honey, don't be so sensitive. I really am legitimately curious. You prepare yourself for a good half-hour, and when you finally emerge you look exactly the same.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“No, I don't mean it in a bad way! You look great. I just—I know you're putting on makeup because I see it in your room, but I don't see it on your face.”

“Hello, that's the key to good makeup. It's subtle. The key to looking good is appearing as though you've spent no time doing so.”

“But, honey, you're nineteen. You don't even need the makeup.” She glanced at me. “Well, maybe you do now. You never used to.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Ruth, a steady diet of sugar and air doesn't exactly provide a glowing complexion.”

“Very nice, Mom. I'm glad you're perfect.”

“C'mon, Ruth, it's not like you aren't aware of these things yourself, right? You're a smart girl.”

“Mom, Dad already read me the riot act this morning. Can we please move on?”

“Oh yes. I heard about the grass.”

“The grass? Is this 1969?” She pursed her lips.

“Okay, well, I apologized to him for acting so irresponsibly, and I'll apologize to you too.”

“Thanks for the apology, but it doesn't change the fact that you did something really stupid.”

“God! I know! This is like, some déjà vu shit. I had the talk with Dad, okay? I get it.” Arguing with my parents took me from nineteen to thirteen at time warp speed.

“All right. We'll move on. For the moment at least.” She sighed. “Are we looking for anything in particular today?”

“Not really. Maybe a cute top or a miniskirt. I'm not really sure.”

“Are you going somewhere?” She pulled into a mall parking space.

“I have a date,” I explained coyly. My mom had had a crush on Chris as long as I had, really, but not in a creepy Mrs. Robinson way. More in an appreciation of male charm kind of way.

“Oh, that's nice. With whom?”

“Mom, you're acting pretty nonchalant. I was hoping for more of a dramatic reaction. I think I went on a total of three dates during my entire high school career.”

We began walking toward the entrance. “Sure, you didn't date much in high school, but that's because you had no confidence in yourself. It's different now. I'm not surprised at all.” She put her arm around me.

“Mom, give me a break. The reason I didn't go on dates was not because of a lack of confidence. I was fat.”

“Ruth Wasserman, you absolutely were not fat,” she hissed. “I can't believe you're saying that.”

“Mom, c'mon.” We stared at each other. “You yourself told me I needed to lose some weight.”

“Sure, a few pounds, but not anything extreme.” She opened the door to the mall. “Oy, this air conditioning! And anyway, the only reason I said that was because you seemed so miserable about your weight. I wanted you to be happy.”

I thought about Laney. Did she think that was all she wanted for Khaki as well? Was she blind to her own intentions? “Hey, Mom, it's okay to say that you wanted me to lose some weight for your own well-being. It's not a crime to want your daughter to be thin.”

“Ruth, what are you talking about? Sure, I could have used one less shopping trip with you that didn't go on for hours on end with you in tears, but I honestly just wanted you to be happy. I suppose maybe I knew that your life would be easier if you were thinner . . . oh, who knows. I mean, God knows I'd like to lose a little weight.” We made our way past an array of stores displaying bedazzled T-shirts, leather bomber jackets, and Crimson Tide paraphernalia in their windows.

“I just like food too much these days to be good. It's like I opened Pandora's box, except the box in question has Entenmann's written across its top.”

“You never used to eat like that. Remember when you only ate grilled chicken for six months?”

“Grilled chicken and hard-boiled eggs. I looked wonderful.” She sighed.

“And what about that cabbage soup kick you were on for David's bar mitzvah?”

“I had forgotten about that.” She smiled wistfully. “I was practically down to my birth weight.”

“God, you were such a bitch that year. You banned everything. The kitchen was like the Sahara.”

“But did I look gorgeous or what? That photo of the four of us is a masterpiece.” I rolled my eyes.

“Am I responsible for this?” She stopped midstride and faced me.

“Responsible for what?”