“I’m going to open these windows to get the smoke out,” I tell Mama.

  “Oh no you ain’t. Then it’ll let all the heat in. Plug in that fan,” she says. It’s missing a blade, but I do as told. There is no use in defying Mama. She may not be able to come after me anymore and give me a good beating, but she’ll remember any disobedience, and when I’m least expecting it, she’ll take a swat at me.

  “Bring me a snack, will ya? And some soda—you did remember this time, right?” The comment is a warning because last weekend I forgot to get her more Pepsi. Skunk only likes colored sodas like Orange Crush and Mountain Dew. Mama, on the other hand, only likes Pepsi, so of course, stupid me, I forgot it, and she let me have it.

  I follow orders. After I’m done, I go in the bathroom to rinse the film of biting ash from my hands and face.

  As I dry my puffy cheeks, I look into the cracked vanity mirror. Skunk and Fat Henry had a fight a few years ago and broke it, and we never replaced it. The good thing is, if I turn and get the right angle, I look slender. I stare at this version of me for a long time, imagining what life would be like as a skinny girl. But I’m not and never will be.

  The following afternoon, I make sure Mama is all set and leave for my shift at the Scoop and Sprinkle, the seasonal ice cream stand by the lake. I have one more week of work until school starts, which means only one more week of being keenly aware that everyone who buys a cone from me sniggers as they leave, thinking, That girl helped herself to a bit too much of the rocky road. It’s not necessarily untrue, but the laughter and looks hurt. Again, I wonder what it would be like to be on the other side of fat. Maybe not skinny, but not fat either.

  As I get out of the Honda, in the dusty parking lot, Brandon rides by and shouts, “Who stole the sausage?”

  I shake my head and go inside to get sticky up to my elbows for six hours.

  As I heap three scoops and sprinkles into a waffle cone for an impossibly lean little girl, I want to warn her not to eat it. I want to caution her of the dangers of breaking the seal with three scoops, which turn into a pint, which turns into a half gallon, but I hold my tongue.

  When I pass the cone out to her she whines, “Mom, I ordered cookies ’n’ cream, not cookie dough!”

  No, she’s probably one of the lucky ones who will be able to eat whatever she wants and have nothing to show for it—and get whatever she wants.

  The mother looks at me imploringly. “Sorry. My mistake,” I say. She passes the cone back through the little window. Although I’m sure she said cookie dough, I set it aside to eat after I finish with the short line of customers. I dish out the cookies ’n’ cream for the girl. My coworker, a girl with an eyebrow piercing, picks up the rejected cone, sneers, and then tosses it in the trash, never taking her eyes from me. The hoop in her eyebrow looks dumb, but she’s not wrong, not really. The shame of the truth stings like the dust from the parking lot when I lean out the window to pass the little girl her cone.

  Later, as I count tips, I finish off the complimentary junior-size cone the owner permits during each shift. The only redeeming thing about this job, aside from the free ice cream, is that I’ve managed to save some money. About half of my earnings I chip in for household expenses since Mama’s income is fixed and the state aid we get only covers so much, but the rest I’ve hidden away.

  As my coworkers and I leave for the night, Gina, who I’m pretty sure is bulimic, bumps into me. With her hand on her hip, she says, “Um, excuse me, you’re in my way.”

  It’s true. I’d bent over to slide the broom and dustpan back to where they go, barring the way with my humongous backside, but she doesn’t have to be rude about it.

  “Sorry,” I say quietly and press myself against the drinks cooler to let her pass. “I’ll finish closing up.” I smile apologetically.

  She harrumphs into the twilight.

  I sneak back in and grab a couple of brownies for the Fudge Sundae Special, then slip them into my bag. They’ll be stale by the following day, and the next shift will have to toss them out anyway.

  After I lock up and get into the Honda, I sit for a few minutes, watching the sun sink behind the trees. It shimmers between the leaves. I gobble the brownies and lick the remaining crumbs off the plastic wrap. I’ll miss summer. Work isn’t great, but it isn’t the routine humiliation that I face at school, nor is it the constant harassment at home. In the dusky light, I can barely see my hands as I wring them, wondering why no one, in either of those places—or anywhere really—likes me. What’s wrong with me? What’s missing inside of me? I look toward the spot where the sun twinkled and winked good night; now it’s just dark.

  Chapter Three

  Some days are more unendurable than others. It’s laundry day again. After I’ve finally satisfied Mama, running back and forth from the kitchen to her room, I go out the back door. The sun shines hot as I hang clothes out to dry. Like always, the dirt bikes buzz in the distance. I’m thankful Skunk is out there, not in here, today.

  Instead of retreating inside, I leave the empty basket on the back deck and take the short walk to our property’s edge where the Henniker River, or more accurately a trickle of a stream, littered with trash, winds along and then skirts town. It’s too shallow and rocky to swim in, but I slide down the bank, grabbing on to wispy saplings to keep from falling. I ditch my flip-flops and wade in. Lining the bank are the remains of a bicycle, rust-worn and forgotten, along with a couple of tractor tires and garbage.

  In the spring, when the snow melts, the water rises. Then it’s high enough to swim in, but it’s also colder than a witch’s tit—at least that’s what my cousin Jerry says. He hates this river. As I wipe away perspiration from hanging the laundry, I long to take a swim, something I haven’t done in forever. There’s a county pool and the lake, but I don’t dare put on a bathing suit.

  I think of Hillary’s party. Bring a bathing suit. No way. Last time I spoke to Brittany, she was still on about going, but I won’t do it. Not a chance.

  Birds call craw, craw, urging me to go in deeper, to shut out the noise in my head, the whisper telling me that I’m hungry, starving, that I need to be full. I think of cousin Jerry warning me about the water moccasins when I was still young enough to be fooled. I’ve never seen one—he was trying to scare us kids—but snakes are my least favorite critter with scales, so I’m careful. Jerry’s cautioning on a day much like today, a decade ago, during a barbeque rings in my mind. “I swear on my right hand there is a whole family of them just waiting to sink their teeth into our ankles or arms or legs or hands. And I don’t want to do no rescuin’. I ain’t riskin’ gettin’ bit. Not for none of you.” I think most of us believed him because we didn’t want to see him lose his only hand—he lost the other in a mill accident over in Vermont.

  The only difference now is that I’m alone and no one would rescue me anyway. I take my chances and slide down the rock I’m sitting on, plopping into the water. It pools around my unyielding belly. Maybe a snakebite wouldn’t be so bad. It would put an end to this unforgivable wretchedness. I lean back.

  Up the bank, my view of our sorry excuse for a house flickers between the layers of leaves and branches overhead. In the photos I’ve seen, it used to be straight and sturdy like my granddad when he was young, but with him gone, it’s sagging and weathered. I wonder what will become of it . . . of me.

  The cool water trickles and tinkles like chimes. I let my head go under and feel the rocky bottom beneath my neck and back. I open my eyes and, instead of the house, I see the sky beyond the trees. Big and blue. The sunlight dapples the green leaves. I wish for it to shine down on me and burn away my feeling of enormous insignificance.

  I come up for air. The revving of dirt bikes pierces the relative quiet. I push myself up to standing. I pick my way over the rocks and back up the bank. I slip near the top, and my chest and belly stamp into the dirt. It smears my wet clothing and turns into mud from the chest down.

  I hurry back to change, but I’m too late. Skunk and a couple other guys are on the back deck, chugging soda. Their laughter is immediate.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Skunk asks. “I knew you were fat, but I didn’t realize I had a hog for a sister.” The other two join in his laughter.

  I’m not good at comebacks. I always think of them when it’s too late, but this time one comes to me.

  “At least I’m not sweating like a hog,” I reply.

  “Sugar, you look like a hog, you smell like a hog, you sound like a hog,” says Skunk, grunting and squealing like the guys at Od Town. “Guys, what you’re looking at is a big, fat pig.” He laughs dumbly. The loud cranking of a dirt bike breaks up their laughter. The three boys look sharply toward the woods.

  “Damn. Who’s that?” Skunk asks no one in particular.

  “No way that’s Caleb or Ford,” says one of the guys leaning on the porch railing.

  “Come on, this is our trail. If that’s Dougie, you better believe I’m goin’ to kick his ass.” Skunk takes off on foot as if he’s really going to catch the kid who’s now out of earshot.

  I roll my eyes as he tries to run but instead waddles after his slimmer friends. My inner laughter meets chagrin as I realize I must look the exact same way when I try to run, which, thankfully, is never.

  I go inside to wash off the mud and shame. Brittany left me a text: Where are you? One more day of summer vaca. Want to go into Keene to shop?

  Her invitation genuinely surprises me. I consider going as I dry off and then dig through my bureau to find something to wear. I could use some new clothing, but it’s so hard to find anything that fits me other than at the plus-size section at Walmart. There’s no way I’m letting Brittany or anyone else confirm that I actually buy my clothing at Walmart; it’s bad enough for them to assume. However, isn’t going back-to-school shopping what normal girls do? Could I try to be a normal girl, even for one evening?

  I text back: Want me to pick you up?

  I beat back the knowledge that her invitation is likely nothing more than her trying to sponge a ride. I turn to my closet and slide the door open. I push a few hanging items aside and pull forward a cache of garments I’ve hand-sewn. In the front is a vintage-style cocktail dress in dusty-rose lace. The front gathers at the waist and falls just above the knees. The back is open with two inch-thick straps on either side that come down in the center to a bow. I’m still astonished at how beautiful it is. I run my hand down the front, remembering that I’ll never wear it. A secret part of me hopes beyond measure that my fat will magically melt away, and I’ll be able to wear it to prom. Then, someone would have to ask me, and that’s beyond doubtful.

  I hang it back up and admire the second garment, a vintage-style tank dress with polka dots on the top. In the middle is wide red belting. The skirt falls to the knees in a whimsical pattern of coffee cups and donuts, but from a distance, they look like large circles complementing the polka dots on the top. It’s a fun and flirty dress. But I’ll never be able to wear it either, even though I made it with my own two hands.

  When Boo, my grandmother, was still alive, she taught me to sew. It’s the only thing I know how to do well. If I had a superpower, sewing would be it, even though I don’t know how it would save the world. I could create capes and disguises, maybe? A part of me hopes that someday it will save me.

  I slide the hangers over some more and pull forward a golden dress, also vintage style. It has a fitted upper body and then a skirt with an overlay of tulle that sweeps itself into gathered tiers, each dotted with a small rhinestone. It’s something Audrey Hepburn would have worn. I’m about as unlike Audrey Hepburn as a mouse is to a gorilla, except for her hair. My thick, dark bangs, swept to the side, look like hers circa the early eighties, though my hair is long. My hair is the only thing I like about myself. When I think about all the things I don’t like about myself, I push the dresses back, hidden in the depths of my closet.

  My phone vibrates with Brittany’s reply: Cool. Be here in an hour?

  I take my time doing my hair and then put on a T-shirt and a pair of flared jeans that I read help balance out girls who are top-heavy. I’m just heavy, a voice mocks in my head. I slide on a pair of sandals and go downstairs to Mama’s room to see if she needs anything before I leave.

  “Get me my cigs,” she says, pointing to the carton my brother brings by every week.

  The acrid smell of burnt fiber hangs in the room. I want to remind her to be careful, but I’m afraid she’ll snap at me.

  “When will you be back?” she asks.

  I’m not sure. “In a few hours,” I reply. “Brittany and I are going to get some stuff for school.”

  Mama sneers at the mention of Brittany’s name. “Good luck. You probably won’t find anything that’ll fit.”

  I don’t need the reminder.

  “Heat me up some ravioli before you go,” she orders. “And, hey, bring me back something from McDonald’s. Skunk promised to earlier, but he said he forgot.”

  Yeah, right. He probably ate it.

  “OK,” I respond, rushing to the kitchen. I heat the ravioli in the microwave and pour a glass of Pepsi for good measure. I quickly devour a few slices of bread and butter along with some leftover chicken. As the microwave beeps, I fill my mouth with M&M’s, sticking the rest in my bag to eat on the way. I hurry Mama her dinner, hoping she doesn’t need anything else from me.

  I pull up in front of Brittany’s double-wide and honk.

  She comes out, tottering on heels I’ve never seen and wearing a pair of shorts that practically reveal her butt—or would if she had one. She slides into the seat beside me.

  I look at her sideways, unsure about the purpose of her getup.

  Snapping her gum, she says, “What?”

  I shake my head, saying, “Never mind.” It’s none of my business. “Where to?”

  “I dunno. I wish there was a mall nearby. The closest one is about an hour and a half away,” she says. “I mean, I guess we could go there. When did you say you needed to be home?”

  “I didn’t. I don’t know. It’s pretty far.”

  “I’ll chip in for gas.”

  I worry about leaving Mama, but she didn’t specify when I needed to be back, not that she would, anyway. I wouldn’t want her to worry, but she probably won’t. She might just get hungry and angry. I’ve never really had rules, but just made up my own, and, strangely, as I think about it, they seem like the kind a set of strict or caring parents would expect from their kid. But I don’t have either of those and neither does Brittany. Her mom left for some other guy, in some other trailer park, in some other town, and her dad’s rarely around. I wonder if he’s noticed his wife is gone and his daughter is nearly on her heels.

  Then again, I have nothing better to do. “Um. Yeah. Why not?” I say.

  I’m sure the people in the next state hear the whoop Brittany lets out as I steer toward the road.

  After playing radio DJ all the way there, Brittany bounds out of the car toward the entrance. I waddle after her.

  “I haven’t been here in forever,” she says, refreshing her gum and sticking the old piece on the side of the trash can outside the main door.

  “Me neither,” I say. “Actually, I’ve only been here once. With Hillary.”

  “And we are totally going to get you something to wear to her party,” she says enthusiastically.

  “Oh yeah. I can’t go,” I say.

  Brittany stops midstride and studies me in the pause between snaps of her gum, asking, “Why not?”

  Just like my inability to conjure a comeback on the spot, I’m also a terrible liar. I falter.

  “Come on,” says Brittany, “I’m sure so many people will be there that you’ll just be among the entourage and go unnoticed. I mean—” She stops herself. “Listen, I know you don’t like attention drawn to you because—” She stutters.

  I exhale irritably.

  “You know I didn’t mean it like that,” Brittany says. “It’s just that—” She stops herself again.

  “Listen, Brit, I thought you were supposed to be my friend. As in, beauty is beyond skin deep and all that. Like, you see me for who I am,” I start to say, but then I stop. Because to tell the truth, I’m not really sure that beauty is beyond skin deep. I have yet to see that theory proven. “Never mind,” I say. “I know what you meant. Let’s go inside.” If there are people that see the beauty within others, they sure as heck don’t live around here.

  Our first stop is a chain store that tries to be a hip boutique. I follow Brittany in and mindlessly browse the racks. Loud techno plays and the fluorescent light promises the store’s employees migraine headaches as a bonus to their minimum-wage paychecks. I examine a dress with lovely beading down the back. I wonder if I might be able to replicate it with buttons instead of beads.

  A saleswoman pops into my periphery. She has long purple nails and orangey skin from too much self-tanner.

  “Can I help you?” she asks.

  “Oh, me?” I say. “Just looking. Thanks.”

  “I don’t think we carry your size, but you could try Sears—they have a plus section. Or Motherhood—they make really cute maternity clothes these days.”

  My jaw actually drops. The air leaves my lungs and a flush rises to my face. I can’t speak. Maybe the dream of the dress made me forget who I am, because I wasn’t expecting to hear those coarse words. Reality comes crashing back as I waddle over to Brittany, who’s flirting with a sallow male employee.

  “I’ll wait for you outside,” I say softly.

  “Outside-outside or like just outside the door?” she asks.

  I exhale, wondering if dragon smoke might actually pour from my nose.

  “Right out there,” I say, pointing toward the entrance of the store and the benches beyond.

  As I exit, I feel eyes on me, but don’t dare turn around to look. I tuck myself into a corner of a vacant bench and take a handful of M&M’s from my bag. They crunch sweetly between my teeth. The sugar saturates that part of me that screams ugly . . . fat . . . useless. I exhale again and the tears that felt so close to flowing just moments ago are absorbed back into the deep well of sadness that each day grows fuller and fuller.