“Have you ever used a hamster wheel for your contraptions?” Madelyn asks.
“No,” I reply, looking longingly at her fries. “While it could generate some energy or motion, it’s basically something that keeps going around and around, not really going— Oh.” I stop, realizing Madelyn’s furthering her case for me to finally step up to the plate.
Point Madelyn.
“Remember that time a screw or whatever got in the way of your thingy?” While it’s clear Madelyn can’t recall specific details, it’s sweet she remembers some of the constant babbling I’ve done about the different machines, along with the many, many problems I’ve had, in and outside of the club.
“Of course.”
I doubt I could forget. We used a tube shaped like a corkscrew. A small ball was supposed to go down it to hit a lever at the end, but the ball kept getting stuck. It took us nearly a week to figure out that when we screwed in the tube to keep it upright, the screw went too far in and a piece of plastic had blocked the ball from passing through.
“All you need for a clear path to Brady’s heart is to get rid of the blockage,” Madelyn replies.
There’s no need for her to clarify what the blockage is in my scenario. I keep glancing over at her as she sits with Brady. With her shiny, straight, long, blond hair and her perfect little body.
It’s truly amazing that someone so tiny can be such a huge obstacle.
But it’s not only the fact that Parker’s pretty and petite. It’s that she’s THE WORST. THE ABSOLUTE WORST. I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve spoken. Whenever I’ve attempted to talk to her, it’s like this ordeal I’m forcing her to endure. If I’m fortunate enough and catch her when she’s feeling generous, she’ll nod and acknowledge my presence. But she can never quite hide the fact that she’d rather be with anyone else.
That makes two of us.
I’ve heard people say opposites attract, but I don’t get it. Brady’s warm, while Parker’s cold and distant. Brady’s funny, while I don’t think I’ve ever seen Parker crack a smile outside of her little circle.
How could he want to be with someone like that?
“Look, Hope, you know I’m willing to have the same conversation over and over again, but three years is starting to become my limit. You need to have some sort of deadline of when things need to happen,” Madelyn states matter-of-factly, as if it’s that simple. “If not, you’re going to be forty years old, telling yourself that your time will come, only after his children graduate college and his wife dies of natural causes.”
I grimace at her because she’s right. It’s embarrassing how pathetic I’ve become. How I hold on to every small interaction. How I keep making excuses for why I can’t come clean to him. If I’d been up-front years ago, who knows where we’d be now.
It has to be now or never.
No more maybe now, simply now.
Oh God, I’m going to be sick.
No. I’m going to do something for once.
I reach into my bag to pull out the calendar I keep for the club. I’ve begun a daily countdown to the competition, to keep track of how much time we have left and everything we still need to accomplish. At least that was the original intention. With my index finger, I trace the date that’s been circled since the start of the school year.
“The competition.” It’s thirty-nine days away. I have thirty-nine days to put a Plan into place to finally make Brady mine. Bit by bit, I’ll Persevere to ensure that by that weekend I’ll get my desired outcome. (Maybe it’s time to throw Patience to the curb—haven’t I demonstrated enough Patience?) “We’ll be in Cleveland together. Just the two of us.”
“Yes, just the two of you and Dan and Conor and Mr. Sutton,” Madelyn says as she turns her attention to the slice of pepperoni pizza in front of her. “Isn’t your mom threatening to come along?”
“She’s staying home,” I state solely to assure myself. Mom’s been extremely supportive of the club. She’s that mom who enthusiastically supports me in anything I do. To some people she may seem a little clingy. (Okay, the people are me, and she can be a lot clingy most of the time.) I keep reminding myself it’s simply a by-product of me being an only child who was born premature after my parents had struggled for years to conceive. (Hence my name.)
“I bet you a vintage vinyl she’ll find a way to come,” Madelyn dares me with a smirk. “No way she’s going to let her precious baby girl go off to the big bad metropolis of Cleveland without her.”
It’s a bet I’m not willing to take, as I know Mom will find a way to come. She always finds a way. Angrily, I stab a lettuce leaf with a plastic fork and it breaks in two.
“That’s what you get for trying to eat like a rabbit.” Madelyn pushes her half-eaten slice at me. “Okay, try to convince me you don’t want this instead.”
My stomach betrays me by growling. I’m hungry. This stupid diet I found online where I only eat food that existed back in the caveman days isn’t working. I want bread. I want cheese. I want real food.
I happily pick up Madelyn’s slice and take a bite, savoring the finest cheesy, greasy goodness the high school cafeteria can provide.
“Plus, we both know Brady likes a girl who can eat,” Madelyn goes on, tilting her head in the direction of the table in the center of the cafeteria, where Brady and Parker sit with their friends. Parker’s tray always overflows with food, despite the fact that she’s a stick figure. “Although if that was all he wanted, we know he’d be madly in love with me.”
She takes out a candy bar and starts eating it with a wistful smile on her face. She prides herself on eating whatever she wants, whenever she wants. She’s been buying clothes in the “plus” section of stores since sixth grade. (According to Madelyn, “there are few places that can even attempt to contain all I’ve got to offer.”) So far, I’ve still been able to shop in the Juniors section, squeezing my hips and thighs into a size ten on a good day.
The first time I brought a salad to lunch, Madelyn moved her nose so her silver-hoop nose ring wiggled in protest. “That is so boring,” she commented. “We’re all going to die someday. I’d rather do it with my mouth full of delicious food.”
I wish I had even a tenth of her confidence.
I look over at Parker, with her skinny body, as she eats the second sandwich on her plate. She’s listening to one of her friends tell a story, her usual resting bitch face on. The only time I see her smile or show any emotion is when she has Brady’s undivided attention.
I don’t want to be one of those girls who hates on other girls, but it’s so hard with Parker. It’s impossible to like her, even for Brady’s sake. She’s a walking reminder of everything I don’t have. There are days I don’t know what I envy most: her boyfriend or her metabolism.
Oh, who am I kidding? It will always be Brady.
No, I remind myself. Things are going to change. Not tomorrow. Not in a month. Not in a year.
Now.
38 DAYS AWAY
“What’s the matter, mija?” Mom asks me for the six hundredth time since I came home from school this afternoon. “I wish you’d talk to me.”
“Everything’s fine,” I lie while skimming the menu at The Pie Shoppe. I hate shutting her out, but I’ve been in a bad mood since I found out I got a D+ on the algebra homework I spent two hours on. I’m generally a pretty good student, except if you’re talking about advanced algebra.
I’m also annoyed about Brady. Right when I decided that there was no time to waste and that I had to start making my move now … he disappeared. This happens every once in a while—he’s a no-show at our meetings, I don’t even see him in between classes. Last year I didn’t talk to him for nearly an entire month, and any time I did see him he looked miserable. And I knew it was because of her. It had to be because of her. Because it was always about her. Brady’s too much of a gentleman to confirm my suspicions, but there was only one subject he’d never confide in me about, and it was her.
 
; What really stings right now is that Brady didn’t even have the nerve to tell me directly he was missing our club meeting. He had Dan inform me that he had to take Parker somewhere.
Parker. Parker. Parker.
If I were with Brady, he wouldn’t be at my beck and call. I wouldn’t treat him like a private chauffeur. I wouldn’t make him miss out on important things because I, unlike some people, don’t think the world revolves around me.
So yeah, I’m officially down in the dumps, but since Mom’s never one to let a bad mood ruin a night out, she presses. “How are things with Madelyn? Did she get the job at the record store? How was her chemistry exam? I know she was worried about it.”
I didn’t have the energy for her twenty questions. Mom’s one of those moms who wants to know everything going on in everybody’s life. She’s that mom my friends like having around. They can tell her things they don’t feel comfortable telling their own parents. I like that about her, but sometimes I don’t want to have to talk about every little detail in my life or my friends’.
“Her exam went fine, but she hasn’t heard about the job yet.” I neglect to mention my homework grade, because Mom would call an emergency meeting with my teacher.
“Well, good news on the test. Poor thing about the job. How’s she feeling? Should I text her?” Mom lifts her phone with a frown. “Although I don’t like the fact she’d have to drive an hour each way for some job at a record store. It worries me.”
While that’s something reasonable to be worried about, my mom’s also that mom who worries about anything and everything. And I do mean anything and everything.
It might seem nuts for Madelyn to apply for a weekend job in Akron, which is an hour away, but it’s also the closest indie record store to our middle-of-nowhere Ohio town. There aren’t many things she’ll inconvenience herself for, but indie music and record stores are two of them.
“Should we get some breadsticks to tide us over until your father arrives?”
“Mom, you know I’m on a diet,” I remind her.
“Mi corazón,” she says as she takes my hand. “I wish you realized beauty comes in all sizes. You are perfect the way you are. I never would’ve snatched your father up if I didn’t have these curves.” She winks at me and I want to vomit right here and now. Sometimes Mom talks to me like I’m her girlfriend and not her daughter. I don’t want to know how she “snatched” my father.
“All I’m saying is you should be appreciative for the body you have.” That’s easy for her to say as she sits there in her skintight jeans and fitted shirt. Mom’s curves are enviable, but her figure’s an hourglass. Every curve is in the right place. (I’m sick to my stomach even thinking about Mom in these terms.) While I have Mom’s honey-colored hair (although she highlights hers), sun-kissed skin (compliments of her Mexican ancestry), ample chest (the one thing Parker does not have), and big booty, I also have a stomach. There’s this pooch below my belly button that won’t go away. No matter how many crunches or diets I do. And I’ve done them all: I’ve counted points, cut out carbs (aka fun), ate for my blood type, and even went an entire week consuming nothing but cold-pressed juice. It would work for the first week, but then I’d plateau or get hungry (usually hungry). Maybe I should forget it and embrace that I’ll never be a size four (or eight).
I remain silent. Mom isn’t helping my mood.
I know, a caring mother who unconditionally loves her daughter—what a monster! But sometimes it can be too much. She never knows when to drop things.
“There are my girls!” Dad enters the pizzeria and sits down next to Mom. He plants a kiss on her cheek before giving my hand a squeeze. “How was everybody’s day?”
“Mine was good,” Mom says as she continues to study me. “Busy. Thanks for meeting us here. I couldn’t even think about making dinner after dealing with the bake sale.”
Mom’s also a one-woman volunteer committee. If you need someone to sit on a board or raise funds, you call her. She used to only do it sporadically, but once I went to middle school, she wanted more things to do to fill her day, since additional kids were no longer an option.
“Any excuse to take my girls out,” Dad replies as he loosens his tie.
“Hey, Phil!” a guy calls out across the restaurant.
Dad waves at him. “How’s that new Explorer treating you, Bob?”
This is a common occurrence when we go out. My dad owns a car dealership. So he knows every car in town, where its owner got it, and which families refuse to buy American. (He always says that with a disapproving shake of his head.)
Waters are put in front of us and it takes me a second to place the voice asking us if we have any questions.
Parker.
This day has officially gotten worse. I didn’t think that was possible, but anytime Parker enters the equation things often go from okay to excruciating.
“Hey, Hope,” she says with a tight smile on her face that looks like it’s causing her pain. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Kaplan. Great to see you.”
I’m the only one at this table aware this friendly bit she’s currently performing is solely for the benefit of my parents.
And, of course, Mom falls for it.
“Why, Parker!” Mom replies as if they’re old friends. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
“Yep.” Parker takes the pen that’s behind her ear. “Can I start you off with something to drink?”
“I’m fine with water,” I say.
“But, mija,” Mom prods, “they have Cherry Coke here—that’s your favorite.”
Yeah, it is. But it’s also full of calories.
“Sweetie, this isn’t about that silly diet of yours, is it?” She sighs with a shake of her head.
Oh, no she didn’t! Mom isn’t seriously discussing my diet in front of Parker of all people?
“Fine. I’ll have a Cherry Coke,” I spit out before Mom does any more damage to my dwindling self-esteem. If my life were a video game, my self-worth would be flashing red right now.
“Do you want to start off with any appetizers?” Parker asks. “The mozzarella sticks are my favorite.”
Oh my God! We get it, Parker, I scream inside my head. You can eat whatever you want and have legs that are thinner than my arms.
“We also have a new addition to our menu, where you can get a basket of four appetizers of your choice.”
“Oh, that sounds delicious,” Mom replies. “I know Hope will want her favorite: the cheesy bread.”
I glare at her. “Mom, I’m not that hungry,” I say even though I’m starving. Our club meeting went over because we still can’t get the pulley to work, and we had one less member, thanks to Parker. So I haven’t eaten since lunch, which is especially cruel because my lunch period is before eleven.
“You said in the car on the way here that you were starving.” Mom glances at Dad. “Hope’s in a mood.”
“Mom,” I scold her. This is so painful. Not to mention humiliating. I ball my hands into fists under the table, trying to keep it together.
“It makes me sick how much pressure you young girls deal with to be thin.” Mom gives Parker a pat on the arm, as if she has any problems with her weight. It’s girls like Parker who make girls like me feel that pressure. “You know you don’t have to please anybody but yourself. Right, girls?”
I seriously want to slide under the table and pretend like the last two minutes never happened. Parker looks as bored as ever, her pen poised, waiting to take our order. She even suppresses a yawn as if doing her job is inconveniencing her.
I can feel a simmer begin under my skin. I know that if my parents keep it up, I’m going to explode from rage and/or mortification. It’s a toss-up at this point.
“Come on, kiddo!” Dad grabs my shoulder playfully. “Help your old man eat some cheesy appetizers!”
“Okay, fine!” I snap loudly. “Get the basket, okay? Why does everything have to be a big production? It’s a stupid basket of food. God!”
Everybody at our table as well as the ones next to us stares at me.
Parker’s mouth falls open a little. “Why don’t I bring you your drinks and give you some more time with the menu?” She walks away quickly.
This is a disaster. Perfect Parker will no doubt tell everybody about my meltdown. By this time tomorrow, the entire school will be spreading rumors that I flipped over a table or something. Parker has all the power now because I couldn’t control my temper.
So Parker wins, yet again.
I can feel tears burning in the back of my eyes. I will not, cannot, cry in front of Parker. Why did I think simply because I decided to make a change that something would happen? Yes, things have changed since yesterday, but for the worse: my near-failing grade, not seeing Brady, and now this.
“What on earth is going on with you today?” Mom asks, her voice low.
Now I feel even worse. Guilt overwhelms me as I see how concerned she is.
“Sorry,” I say as I look down at the napkin in my lap. “I’ve had a really bad day and I’d prefer it if we didn’t talk about my diet in front of strangers.”
“Strangers?” Mom looks confused. “Parker is your friend.”
It’s sad how much Mom truly believes that. She lives in a world where her daughter’s beautiful and perfect. A daughter who has all the friends in the world and everything she could ever want.
But here’s the absolute truth: I’m miserable. I see what my parents have, that kind of love, and it’s something I’ve always dreamed about. It’s something I think I can have with Brady. He’s all that I want, but I don’t have him. I’m starting to feel like I never will.
What’s worse is that it’s my mom’s fault I don’t.
There was a brief period of time when Brady and I drifted apart.
Since he’s a year older, he’d already been at the high school for a full year. At first, I didn’t think anything would really change between us. Now I realize how naive I was. We used to walk to middle school together every day. In that ten-minute walk, we’d catch up and talk. But once he was at the high school, the morning walks stopped. There weren’t any opportunities to bump into each other between classes. I hardly saw him. He had new friends and after-school activities. Whenever I saw him that year, there were awkward pauses where there hadn’t been any before. I didn’t know the mundane details of his life, the ones that I used to relish.