Empty. Part 3

Her pretzels gaze up at me, each piece of salt a sympathetic eyea"staring, feeling deeply sorry for me. I think these pretzels understand me more than Cara ever has.

A few minutes pa.s.s. Has Cara abandoned me? Her laugh reaches their volume, and I slide farther down in my seat. The advertis.e.m.e.nt for Rocco's Italian Palace taunts me from the screen. The mounds of lasagna and garlic bread, displayed on a red-and-white checkered tablecloth, look so good I can almost taste the garlic. I eat one of Cara's pretzels instead and listen to the girls' voices. Despite how loud they are back there, I can't make out much of what they are saying. I'm midchew when one word slices through the noise: fat. My whole body freezes and I hyperfocus. More uproarious laughter, and then there it is again: fat. My stomach drops, and I cringe as I swallow the dough and salt.

Now the salt-eyes can see me from the inside. The private me. The real me. Will they still be sympathetic?

I drop my chin and stare into my b.o.o.bs. I am a freak. One of the older women in the back tries to shush them. A girl shouts, "It's a free country, lay-dee!" I'm pretty sure that was Brandon's little sister.

Cara returns, skipping across our row of seats toward me. s.h.i.t, she's a skipper now. I look down at Cara's tray. "Great," I announce. I've eaten all but two of her pretzel bites. She notices as soon as she sits down.

"Geez, Dell. I asked you to hold them, not eat them."

I hold out my popcorn.

"No. I don't want that. Whatever." She checks her phone and then shoves it back into her pocket. "You saved me the calories anyway."

I'm waiting for her to tell me why she went up there, to tell me what they said. Maybe even apologize for not inviting me up and introducing me.

She doesn't.

"I applied for a summer internship at West Chester University last night. My dad helped me with my essay." Cara shoves a drippy pretzel bite into her mouth, leans over, and whispers, "He wro tha whole thin." She swallows. "He wrote the whole thing," she clarifies. I eat a handful of b.u.t.ter-soaked popcorn.

The last pretzel bite finds its way to her mouth. She nods and says, "He's awesome."

"Nice." My father wouldn't write an essay with me, let alone for me. I crunch on more popcorn.

"I wonder where everyone is. Sydney said they were seeing this movie too."

The theater goes dark, so I don't have to hide my disappointment. Right now would be the ideal time for some magical interventiona"presto, I'm gone.

Cara is slipping away from me. I'm starting to feel like I'm a nuisance, Cara's annoying fat friend who just won't shrivel up and go away. Instead, I get bigger and bigger.

I lick the greasy b.u.t.ter from each finger and crumple the popcorn bag. I'm still hungry. Small portions are unsatisfyingly frustrating. Like when I was a kid in the sandbox, and I'd packed the bucket with dry sand, pushing it down real tight, then turned it over, expecting to see a sand castle, but it collapsed into nothing. I used to hate when that happened.

As gunfire explodes on-screen, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I jump a little. It's a text from my father. He has used all caps. He's p.i.s.sed. I excuse myself and tell Cara I have to go to the bathroom. I refuse to read the text until I'm in the privacy of a stall. Whatever he has texted will infuriate me.

Apparently the people who design bathrooms are skinny, because I can barely maneuver my body inside to close the door. No one else is around, which is good, and I slam the door and the entire row of stalls shakes. I don't actually have to go to the bathroom, so I stand in the stall. It is a d.a.m.n tight squeeze. I feel like the wicked stepsister's foot crammed into the gla.s.s slipper. I'm already breathing heavily, mostly out of frustration. "G.o.d!" I yell.

I read the stupid text from my stupid father: I CAN'T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU REFUSE TO BE HAPPY FOR ME AFTER ALL I'VE DONE FOR YOU. CALL ME!.

Yeah.

I wipe hot tears from my cheeks and sniffle. How can I be happy for him when he announced that he was getting remarried in a text message? He didn't consider me or how I'd feel. Other than hating her, I don't know Donnaa"and now she's going to be married to my father. My family will never be whole again. We will be broken forever.

I make this choking/coughing sound as I sob into my bent elbow.

I don't want to call him. In fact, I'd prefer he and DD sneak off to go live in their fairy-tale land instead of shoving his happiness down my throat. Maybe the wicked stepmother could put a curse on them. Or a dragon could eat them both.

I grab a handful of toilet paper and blow my nose. I can feel the sweat on the back of my neck. I have to get out of this sausage stall. I walk straight outside to the sidewalk because I'm suffocating. Once I catch my breath I text him back: I quit softball.

After I hit send, my heart races. That is going to p.i.s.s him off more than my "Whatever." I want my lie to make him go nuts. It would be satisfying to hear the way Dad's voice slides down an octave when he's furious. I want to hurt him as much as he has hurt me. Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment, but I want to talk to him. Maybe it'll make me feel alive. I dial his number. After a few rings, he picks up.

Dad shouts, "What do you mean you quit?"

"I mean, I quit."

Heavy, exasperated breathing fills my ear.

I whisper, "You're marrying her?"

"This isn't a good time. Donna and I are about to get ma.s.sages."

I swear to G.o.d he says this.

Now it's my turn to huff in his ear.

"Adele, I don't know why that coach didn't cut you last season. You aren't in shape. Congratulations on blowing any chance you had for a college scholarship."

I repeat my one-word eff-you, "Whatever." Him exploding right now would be the perfect vindication.

"I'm allowed to be happy!" he yells. "Do you hear me? I'm allowed to be happy, d.a.m.nit!"

I say nothing. Dad's anger isn't having the desired effect. I feel limp and tired, and just want to plop in bed and disappear underneath the covers.

I shiver as misery seeps from my pores. I press the phone to my ear, but I don't say anything. Couples and families stream by me. I watch a father and his two young daughters. The guy's got one girl on either side of him, and he's holding their hands, laughing and smiling. He looks down at his children with the best expression. Love.

I want someone to look at me like that. Accept me, love me, see me.

"Don't you answer me with one word. Do youa"" There's rustling and then Donna Dumba.s.s says something, but I can't make out the words. Dad says to her, "I'm fine, honey. I'm fine. She's just, ah, being difficult."

DD must lean in, on purpose, because I hear her clearly say to my father, "I love you."

"I love you more."

If there was any kind of sharp, pointy object within reach, it would be firmly implanted in my eye.

"Listen to me, Adele," my father starts back at me. "Donna makes me happy. I love her, and you're going to have to learn to love her too."

I swallow a scream and cough loudly in his ear. On purpose.

My father clears his throat. "Just because you are overweight and angry about it, that's no reason for you to lash out at me. I did not make you overweight."

My stomach feels like it met the fist of a prizefighter.

"My mother even bought you all of those nice clothes." I hear him say to Donna, "She's holding everything against me, even her weight."

I wipe away a tear and whisper, "Me being fat is none of your business. I was fine before you ruined everything. You act like I don't exist."

"I did not call you fat, Adele. Were you even listening to me? I think me finding happiness may have something to do with your overeating," he says.

"I . . . have to . . . go," I choke out.

"Don't blame me fora""

I hang up on him. On my way back to the bathroom to splash water on my face, I pray that the ma.s.sage therapist uses boiling-hot oil. I want their tender, exposed skin to feel pain. Pure, raw pain. Because that is what I feel.

I eventually go back to the theater. As I slide into my seat, Cara whispers, "Jeez, Dell, did you fall in?"

"Ha-ha," I say, and nothing more.

The Obvious Conclusion.

AFTER THE MOVIE ENDS, CARA AND I BLEND IN WITH the crowd exiting from other movies and stream outside. Off to the left is a huge group of kids from school congregating on the sidewalk. Cara yanks me to a stop and commands, "Hold on." I lean with my back against the building and try to look casual.

Cara is up on her toes again. "Do you see Sydney in there? I can't see her." She rummages through her purse for something. She pulls out her phone and talks to me as she texts. "I think we could, you know, break in with Sydney. She's been talking to me in French cla.s.s, Dell." She looks up at me. "I just told her that we're here."

"Cara!" a voice squeals. Sydney materializes in front of us. Her hair is so pretty. It's honey blond, straight, and shiny, and I want to pet it. I look her up and down. Cute jeans, tight V-neck tee with just a bit of her stomach showing. Sydney flashes a huge smile. "Hey, what did you guys see? She looks directly at Cara. I don't even get a glance.

Cara bounces as she talks. "The one with the soldiers and stuff." She turns to me. "What was the name of it, Dell?"

I shrug. I have no idea. I missed half of it, and the parts I saw were a blur.

Sydney says, "Oh my G.o.d, Cara, we saw Robot Nation. So stupid. The whole theater was packed. Some idiots from school were throwing popcorn and shouting, but the guy in the movie had the hottest abs."

"Kyle Wolf?" Cara yelps. "He is gorgeous! I love him."

Kyle Wolf? Who the h.e.l.l is Kyle Wolf? How does my best friend love a gorgeous actor and his abs, yet I've never heard of him?

Sydney and Cara ping-pong back and forth about Kyle's other hot body parts. I pull out my phone and pretend I'm busy texting someone. I wonder why Sydney didn't tell Cara that everyone was seeing Robot Nation. My eyes focus on my pudgy fingers, and I wonder no more. Cara wasn't told because those girls don't want to be seen with me.

"Dell!" I hear from deep in the crowd.

I turn. It's Brandon. He saddles up beside me. He reeks of alcohol.

"Yo! Dell! Sup?" he shouts.

"Nothing," I say. G.o.d, he looks hot. With his smile and those long, dark eyelashes.

He turns around and shouts, "Chase! Cah-mere! Look, it's Dell!"

Chase pushes through the other kids, dragging two other guys with him. Their eyes all have that glazed look. They're s.h.i.t-faced.

Chase raises his hand to high-five me and slurs, "Yo! Doooo it!" He turns to Brandon and leans on him. "Maker do it, B-man."

Brandon's face lights up and there's nodding and he gives me that enormous smile. "Come on, Dell. It so funny." He puts his tongue between his lips and blows a loud raspberry, clearly amused with his verbal mistake. "I mean, it's so funny. You're so funny, Dell." All of a sudden Brandon's head is on my shoulder and he's rubbing my arm. "Please."

My cheeks get hot. Brandon's hand is warm on my skin. My whole body has a heat surgea"blood is on the move, flowing and coursinga"sending p.r.i.c.kles up my spine. He thinks I'm funny. And he has his head on my shoulder. I can smell his spicy shampoo.

"Pleeeeease," he begs. My nostrils are a.s.saulted by his alcohol breath. The arm-stroking stops, and he looks me in the eye. I try to decipher if drunk-Brandon can really see me. I wonder if alcohol has the ability to make one human being see another human being. I search for any sign of this. In two seconds I realize that I can't even lock on to his eyes because they're rolling around in their sockets.

Cara stops her riveting conversation with Sydney about who would pay more money to see Kyle Wolf naked, grabs my forearm, and giggles. "Just do it, Dell. They're so wasted."

"Yeah. Wasted and hot," Sydney chimes in.

I look over at Brandon. He's now holding on to Chase for dear life as they drunk-teeter back and forth. They each have the biggest, stupidest grins on their faces. My face slides into a smile. I've liked Brandon since seventh grade, and that's a long time. I think I fell for him when he complimented the grand slam I hit during gym. He said, because I remember it verbatim, "Hey, Dell, killer hit. You have a good swing." He said it in the nicest voice. I remember my stomach had flip-flopped, and I'd b.u.mbled out a thank-you. Then he smiled and bit his lip, and I blushed.

Since then, I've fantasized about him asking me out. He only dates the most popular girlsa"beautiful girls. I am not, nor will I ever be, beautiful. Even if I were thin. I think he views me as one of the guys. Just another fellow athlete, not a girl.

Now, there's this whole mooing thing. It's my fault that he keeps begging me to do it. I started it. I did it in gym last year to be funny. I made fun of myself before anyone else could. What I do has a name: self-deprecation. I saw it on TV. I don't really care what it's called. It worked. I just never expected that I'd still be mooing for others' entertainment.

Brandon whines, "Come on, Dell. Do it."

I look to Cara and desperately want her to shake her head, mouthing, "No." It would be so cool if she would tell them all to go to h.e.l.l, but she's not even paying attention anymore. She and Sydney are busy putting on lip gloss.

Cara freezes with her hand in midair, lip gloss wand clutched between her fingers. "What's the big deal? Just do it. Everyone's waiting."

So I sumo-pose, I moo, and I bring the sidewalk down. Chase practically falls over. Cara and Sydney laugh so hard they dab the corners of their eyes. A few other guys imitate my moo and high-five each other.

Once he catches his breath, Brandon turns to Sydney and Cara. "We're going to Melissa's house. You guys wanna come?"

Before they even have a second to respond, I open my mouth. "Yeah. I'm in."

After he walks away, Cara looks at me with eyebrows raised. "Oh my G.o.d." Her smile tells me she's excited. We've never been invited to one of these parties. My smile fades as we head to Cara's car because I'm not sure if she was shocked that she got invited or because I invited myself. We're about to make quite the party team: Beauty and the Beast.

I get my answer when she asks me if I'll drive. "Okay, sure." She tosses me the keys and begins a full-on texting bonanza with Sydney. In the ten minutes it takes to get to Melissa's house, I'm privy to a whole lot of mumbling as Cara reads text after text after text. Something about a song they both love, and how hot Sydney thinks Chase is, and what she plans to drink at the party. There are even a few reactionary bursts of laughter from Cara. I'm not in on the joke. My eyes stay focused on the road ahead, and I don't bother questioning her about anything.

I just drive.

A Solid Block of Ice.

MELISSA'S HOUSE IS FILLED WITH THIRTY OR FORTY juniors. Most of the girls are drinking wine coolers, and the guys all have beer. Smoke wafts up from the bas.e.m.e.nt each time someone opens or closes the door. I think most of the kids were drunk or high before the party started.

From my vantage point on the sofa, I witness some wild stuff. Two girls are making out, surrounded by a circle of guys. Chase and Sydney are going at it on Melissa's dad's recliner, and it looks as if Sydney's going to be topless for the world to see any second. While we were standing on the sidewalk at the movie theater, she'd pulled her hair up into one of those sloppy ponytails. Well, it's beyond sloppy now. Half of her hair has escaped the rubber band, and she doesn't even notice. She's too busy slurping Chase's face off and grinding his crotch.

Melissa, Emma, and Cara are in another corner, jumping around to the blaring music. They repeatedly smash into one another. Melissa keeps falling down, and Emma keeps picking her back up again.

Cara's been jumping ever since we walked in. I don't want to be mad at her. I want her to have fun. Getting invited to one of these parties has sort of been her dream since the end of soph.o.m.ore year. She's definitely having funa"I can tell by the size of her smile. She's blissfully lost in the jumping. I'm lost here in the sofa cushions.