After Brittany emerges from the store with a large bag and the phone number of the guy she talked to, we go down the escalator and do a lap on the ground floor. Brittany complains about being cold and puts on a bulky sweatshirt. She stops at several more stores that don’t carry clothes in my size. Each time, I wait on a bench and watch all the shoppers parade by. They chirp about deals and fashion and the new school year. Later, when we walk by the maternity shop, I wince.

  Looking in store windows, I have to admit that none of the clothing appeals to me. It looks mass-produced. It’s better than the baggy T-shirts, stretch jeans, and black everything I normally wear, but not as lovely as the clothing that I make. But I refuse to sew for myself. If I wore a flouncy cocktail dress, I would look like a clown in costume. Nope, if I’m not skinny, or at least less fat, I’m not wearing any of it. Nevertheless, my heart aches to feel the satin and lace against my skin and to look in the mirror and see pretty. I pop another handful of M&M’s and wait for Brit.

  Out in public, away from the well-worn grooves of embarrassment imprinted along the familiar roads of my town, I feel on display. I may as well be a freak show with the way dozens of eyes bore into me, silently wondering how a person can get this way. I don’t want to look down, to acknowledge how much of me there is, but there’s nowhere else to look, unless I want to meet their disapproving eyes. I think of Mama and wonder if she’s OK. I check the time on my phone. The mall will close soon. I’m starving. Brittany acts like she’s running on trucker speed and could stuff several more outfits under her giant cotton hoodie. I know shoplifting is wrong, but I pretend not to notice.

  “Hey, there’s a Taco Bell. Are you hungry?” I ask.

  “Nah, I’ll eat later. I don’t want to spend any of my cash on food. It’s not like I can wear food,” Brittany says.

  I can and do, I think, feeling my butt and belly wiggle with every step. And it’s also not like she’s spending all her cash.

  “One more store and then we can leave. If you want to grab something, though, we can just meet at the car in, like, a half hour.”

  I agree, tired of having her skinniness draw the attention of passersby, salespeople, and kiosk vendors to my fatness.

  I’m just finishing my Gordita Supreme when my phone vibrates. I’m hoping it’s not Mama. Brittany’s name scrolls by with a text. I click it. Getting lucky. I ran into Cash after his shift. The guy who gave me his number. We’re going back to his place. See you Monday.

  I think of what to text back as worry nags at me. Is that safe? Going home with that stranger she just met at the first store she went into? Will the girl with the purple nails blab to Brittany about her fat friend? How will she get back? What if her dad gets pissed? All these thoughts clamor around in my mind until I remind myself that Brittany is sixteen and that’s what girls our age do. They meet boys. They flirt. They trade numbers. They kiss . . . and do other things. I’m not one of them. And I’m not her mother.

  R U sure? I reply.

  A second later, she answers with a winking smiley face. A mall worker sweeps crumbs, lights dim, and the sounds of the stores closing tell me to get going.

  When I pass through Keene, I remember Mama’s request for McDonald’s. I pull into the drive-through and order double, eating my portion in the privacy of the darkened car on the way home.

  After delivering the burgers to Mama, I retreat to my room and lie in bed, restless. My stomach makes unpleasant gurgling noises as if to protest all the greasy food I just ate. I place my hands on it, wishing it would settle down. Then, feeling the mushy flesh beneath, I remove them in disgust. I just wish it would disappear. Sometimes I even wish that I would disappear. I hate my body. I click on my light and go to the closet. I take out a box of fabric and my materials.

  I cut a length of a vibrant white, aqua, and black floral-printed piece of fabric. The sound of the scissors slicing through the crisp cotton excites me. I thread a needle and get out my pincushion, closing the Velcro around a wooden dowel on my footboard since I can’t fit it around my wrist. I envision the classic party dress with a full skirt, shawl collar, and the pearls I’ll use to adorn the outside of the hidden zipper running up the back. It fills me with a fizzy feeling of anticipation.

  I’m lost in my project until Skunk loudly storms in after midnight. He clangs around in the kitchen, no doubt drunk or high and searching for munchies. Then the TV turns on. It won’t be long until he passes out.

  My room is stuffy, so I open the window. Crickets and frogs perform their nightly symphony. I let the cooling air fill my lungs like a bellows. As I exhale, I replay each time, earlier in the day, when I stuffed my belly until it felt like it would explode and then double my punishment with a reminder of the coarse words spoken by the salesgirl at the mall and the stares I received from shoppers. I shift uncomfortably.

  I continue to sew until the scolding in my head quiets. With each turn of the needle, there is the hint of a whisper on the breeze, the promise that it won’t always be like this.

  Chapter Four

  The first day of school brings with it the misery that I expect. All I can say is I had a good hair day. The rest sucks. Skunk rides in with me and insists I stop so he can get a Big Gulp. He ends up getting into an argument with the clerk, which makes us late.

  It’s bad enough that everyone stares at me to begin with, but walking into a full classroom on the first day and having to shimmy my way down the narrow aisle of desks to the only available one at the way back halts the teacher’s lecture about expectations. Students move in their seats to conceal the sound of laughter as I bump and bustle my way to the back.

  The teacher says, “Nice of you to join us. Ms. Legawksee-Gracias, I presume?” He butchers my last name.

  When I sit down my shoe squeaks. Everyone thinks I farted. This time, the chuckles and titters are audible.

  With that award-winning introduction, the end of the day, never mind the end of the week, can’t come quickly enough.

  Thursday night, Brittany texts me: What are you doing tomorrow night? Wanna go to the mall again? Party?

  She ended up spending the night with the guy from the mall and claims she slept with him. Thankfully, her gushing about that overshadows her pestering me about Hillary’s party, which has the whole school buzzing.

  Can’t. :), I answer.

  It isn’t a lie, not really, but I’m not about to drive all that way so she can pound beers and screw some spindly salesman who wears too much cologne. I have other things to do. I’m just not sure what they are yet.

  On Friday morning, Mama delays me because she needs help in the bathroom. I rush to class and make it in just before the bell. I’m panting like a dog as I drop into my chair, and as usual, I feel like I have an audience. Afterward, Mr. Hammons, my homeroom teacher, pulls me aside.

  “Mercy, this is your third year here. I expect you know when the day starts,” he says, raising his salt-and-pepper eyebrows.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll be on time from now on.” I want to explain that Skunk made me late and Mama, too, but something stops me. I’m not particularly smart, but my grades have always been decent. I don’t want something as stupid as being late for no good reason to give a bad first impression; my appearance does enough damage.

  The teachers pile on homework because of the long weekend for Labor Day. By lunchtime, my stomach is growling. A senior girl with her hair pulled stylishly into a bun edges away from me in line. I fill my plate with spaghetti and meatballs and garlic bread, and take the apple pie on offer for dessert along with a bowl of Jell-O topped with a dollop of whipped cream. I can practically taste the jiggly sweetness on my tongue.

  As I scan the cafeteria for an empty table, someone bumps into me, shoving me into someone else and knocking me to my knees. The tray clatters to the floor. My lunch resembles a fourth-grade science experiment gone wrong and red tomato sauce slowly slides down my white T-shirt. I look like a gory crime victim.

  On my hands and knees, worn boots stand close to my shaking fingers. Please don’t step on me. I glance up at a pair of jeans; they’re nearly threadbare around the knees. Then I look up some more and then some more. My eyes meet a tall boy with brown, close-cropped hair—but it’s tousled on the top.

  He bends over, apologizing. He’s doesn’t look familiar. He says, “I am so sorr—”

  A round of laughter from the surrounding tables interrupts his apology as a chunk of meatball plunks from my chest to the linoleum.

  He tries again. “Listen, I didn’t see you. I didn’t—” He looks around irritably. “Come on; let me help you get cleaned up.” But he doesn’t have tomato sauce on his white T-shirt.

  My face flames hot like the summer sun. I need to get out of here. “No, don’t worry about it,” I mumble, running out of the cafeteria.

  His dirty boots scuff behind me in the hall.

  “Wait, I’m sorry,” he calls after me.

  I leave him there. The door to the girls’ bathroom flaps shut behind me. I place both hands on the white sink and let it brace me as tears fall into the drain. I don’t have anything else to wear, so after wiping off as much of the sauce as I can, I sneak outside to my car. Dark clouds form overhead, threatening rain, but the tears that continue to fall from my eyes feel like they are enough to dampen the entire earth.

  Just as I enter the house, Mama shouts, “Sugar, is that you?”

  “I’m here, Mama. What do you need?” I poke my head into her doorway. Little silver aluminum wrappers dot the dark blue carpet beside her bed like stars, hiding stains and cigarette burns instead of mysteries.

  “What are you doing home at lunchtime? Hungry? I thought you got free lunch?” A grating cough issues from her chest.

  “I just spilled some sauce on my shirt,” I reply. “I came home to change.”

  “You’re one little piggy. Inhaling your food again?” She makes a tsk-tsking sound edging toward another cough. “You shouldn’t eat so much.” I hear Brandon and Zeke’s teasing from the other day, coupled with Skunk’s stupidity. But it is nothing compared to the sting of Mama’s comments. Her remarks aren’t anything new. In fact, she was the one who first called me Sugar after she discovered me with a five-pound bag nestled between my chubby legs, eating it with a spoon, when I was three. She’s picked on me ever since, serving up a confusing and conflicting message that I’m too fat, but also that I should eat more, not get too skinny. Before she was laid up, she fed me plenty. I’m angry and embarrassed, and that all-too-familiar feeling of wanting to flee sets wings beneath my feet, but there’s nowhere for me to go.

  I quickly change my shirt and drive back to school, hoping to get to class before the bell.

  At the day’s end, Brittany catches up with me in the parking lot.

  “Do you think you could give me a ride to the mall? Please? Cash gets out at five. I’ll give you money for gas. Please? You could come to the party, too, if you want. Please?” she says again.

  At least she said please. She doesn’t sound overly inviting, but whatever I’d hoped would suddenly appear and serve as a worthy excuse to avoid driving Brittany to the mall eludes me.

  In a text, Cash directs Brittany to his place instead of the mall. At the sound of loud techno pumping from behind the door to a duplex, I edge back to my car, telling Brittany I’ll see her later.

  Late that night, with the house quiet, I continue to sew. Stitch by stitch, I step away from insulting words, laughter, and eyes suggesting, and even demanding, humiliation.

  Laundry day. Long weekend. Nothing to do. These words fill my mind as if I have a vacancy sign plastered on my forehead that advertises Bland and mundane thoughts wanted. Preferably to play on repeat. Complimentary complete and utter nothingness to draw long days out even longer, a free bonus. The house is almost too quiet. I assume Skunk passed out on someone’s sofa the night before. I’m glad of his absence as I pick my way through piles of laundry to wash.

  When I enter Mama’s room, the smell of rancid milk and cigarette smoke burns my nose. She asks me for a fresh pack from her shelf.

  “You missed Fat Henry last night. Where were you off to, anyway?” she asks.

  “I went to the mall with Brittany,” I say.

  Mama gives me a look that could melt paint. “What, pray tell, were you doing at the mall?”

  “She has a friend who works there. She wanted to say hi,” I explain.

  “Yeah, right. That girl’s a skank if I’ve ever seen one. Trailer rat,” Mama declares, exchanging her angry expression for an imperial one. If she sat upon a throne and was capable of doing more than tossing out snide comments, the look would suit her. Instead, she sits in a tangle of sheets and looks positively pathetic. I pinch myself for having the mean thought, wondering what has come over me lately. Poor Mama can’t help it, I silently correct myself.

  While searching for a shirt she asked for in the bottom of her bureau, I find an apron I’d sewn. It was one of my first projects. Alternating red and green apples dance along the bottom of the hem, and the straps have little seeds on them. I run my fingers over the frilly bit of lace and the pocket on the top. I smile, remembering Boo’s strong hands—her fingers were always busy—Mama being able to get around, and when confusion didn’t run quite so deep.

  After I give her a sponge bath, I’m relieved to breathe in the fresh air outside, even though I have a larger than normal basket of laundry. I’m thinking about lunch when a dirt bike cranks in the distance. I wonder if it’s Dougie or whoever Skunk was raging on about using “his” trail.

  “Go for it,” I whisper. If it isn’t one of Skunk’s crew, I hope they have fun speeding along under the canopy of trees, lapping freedom as they soar along the trail. Even though Skunk thinks otherwise, the trails don’t belong to him or his friends, for that matter. As far as I know, a farmer owns those couple hundred acres and probably has no idea kids are cutting paths through it with their two-strokes.

  I take a break from hanging laundry and go inside to fix myself something to eat. I turn on the TV for a few minutes and before I realize it, I doze off.

  Someone at the door wakes me up a couple hours later. Sleepily I answer. The mailman, Mr. Sheridan, holds a package out in front of him.

  “Hiya, Mercy,” he says. “How’s it going? How’s your mom? It’s such a nice day. She should get out more. I haven’t seen her lately. We’re not long for these sunny days. Autumn and then winter will come in fast. I hear the storms this winter are going to be tough.”

  I nod politely, not able to get a word in edgewise. My answers don’t matter anyway. Struggling to hold on to the box, I back away and finally close the door after he insists I promise to say hello to Mama.

  The box is for Skunk from Bandit Bikes, probably some parts or something. I slide it into the kitchen so he’ll see it. I check on Mama, who’s also dozed off, and then return to the basket outside.

  Everything is still damp but sun-warmed. I pick up a large pair of her briefs and pin one side on the line. I drop the clothespin and turn to pick it up when boots appear beneath a sheet that’s blowing in the breeze. I gasp. The underwear whack me on the head just as the face of the boy who bumped into me at lunch the day before appears from behind the sheet like a ghost.

  “Did I scare you? Sorry,” he says quickly.

  “You’re sorry an awful lot, aren’t you?” I say more sharply than I mean to. I remember his apologies from the day before. With surprising speed, the comment he made after I dropped my tray piques my interest. He didn’t see me. How could he have not seen me? I’m enormous. Hope flickers, but maybe I’m becoming so insignificant that he just didn’t notice me. There is a difference.

  “Hey, you’re the girl I collided with yesterday in the cafeteria,” he says. Even with the thin white line of a scar that cuts the edge of his lower lip, the corners of his mouth lift with the radiance of a thousand suns.

  “The one and only,” I reply, genially this time, his smile melting my suspicions about him stopping over to see how well I wear mustard or chocolate ice cream.

  He laughs lightly and the sunshine lights up his blue eyes, otherwise heavy under burdened brows. “I wasn’t watching where I was going. I’m really sorry about that.”

  “Yeah, you mentioned that,” I say. Nonetheless, a smile comes, unbidden, onto my lips.

  “Sorry to bother you. Does Skunk live here?” He says Skunk as if he isn’t sure if that is a name reserved for friends only.

  I nod. “Yeah, my brother.”

  “He rides this trail a lot, right?”

  “He’d tell you that it’s his trail,” I say.

  He rolls his eyes almost imperceptibly. “It actually belongs to my grandfather, but that’s beside the point. I lost my wallet out here yesterday. You don’t know if he found it by any chance, do you?”

  I shake my head. “I haven’t seen him since—Thursday actually,” I answer.

  “I figured I’d ask before I walked along the trail looking for it,” he says as his shoulders lower disappointedly.

  “Hang on. I’ll go inside and see if it’s there anywhere,” I say politely. But knowing Skunk, if the wallet held anything of value that would explain why he’s been MIA. I scrounge around, unsuccessfully.

  When I get back outside, the boy leans languidly against the deck rail, his legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed, and his hands in his pockets. He looks so completely comfortable in his skin. Free and like whatever burdens rock him, they don’t make him fall, or fat. I shake my head, to toss the thought out or to indicate the absence of the wallet—I’m not sure which.

  “Darn,” he says.

  I shrug and then return to the basket to continue to hang the clothing, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible with the giant granny panties blowing in the wind. Then I curse myself for bothering with this right now. Hillary, heck even Brittany, would have the sense to flirt with a boy like him.