Avoiding mockery at Hillary’s party, hanging out with Even, and returning home to find Skunk out of the house and Mama asleep is like winning the lottery. I float off to sleep, recalling Even’s gentle touch while he cleaned my lip, his concern and laughter, and his comment about my smile and hair.

  The following morning I go to church and thank God, with everything I have, inside and out, that the previous night turned out to be OK. Maybe even more than OK. I pray my grandparents are at peace and that Mama gets better. Healthier. I have the fleeting thought for myself, but like Mama says, I was born fat and will forever be fat. That’s just the way it is. I pray for my father, too, wherever he is, and that he’ll someday find his way back to us, if that’s what he wants.

  Afterward, I head over to Od Town and pick up our groceries for the week. Disappointingly, the Twinkies are gone, but those little bags of cookies, the fancy ones stacked neatly in little cupcake wrappers, are five for a dollar. They are out of date, but I doubt they’re stale; the regular grocery store just can’t sell them anymore. I buy ten packages, five for me and five for Mama. If Skunk wants any, he’ll have to get them himself.

  When I get home, I surprise Mama with my purchase. She coughs for a good spell before opening the bag.

  “Do you want me to call the doctor about that?” I ask.

  She insists it’s nothing.

  Later, I bring her oven-cooked french fries and a TV dinner that was also on sale at Od Town. She seems content, so I excuse myself to get some of my homework done. I’m polishing off the second bag of cookies while conjugating Spanish verbs when Skunk comes in, as loud as ever.

  He hollers for Mama, as if she’s going to miraculously get up onto her feet and greet him. It’s quiet for a few minutes, but I stay cloistered in my room, hoping he’s had enough time to cool off after yesterday’s confrontation.

  Around dinnertime, I sneak downstairs to get something to eat. The familiar sounds of explosions issue from Skunk’s video game. I try to be as quiet as a mouse, but drop a metal bowl on the floor. For a moment, the game is quiet. Seconds later, Skunk walks into the kitchen.

  “Hello, dear sister. How are you this evening? Making dinner, I see?” he asks in his syrupy, faux-polite voice, which is almost more venomous than his angry tone.

  “Yup,” I reply.

  “Shall I set the table? Iron the napkins? Bring out the fine china? Polish the silver?”

  I’m about to roll my eyes, but think better of it, not wanting to let him get a rise out of me. “Nah. You don’t have to trouble yourself, but thanks anyway,” I say lightly.

  “If there’s anything I can do to help you, just let me know, ’K?” he asks.

  Facing away from him, I roll my eyes beneath my bangs and continue to stir the macaroni I have boiling on the stove.

  He shoves me and my belly hits the pot.

  “Ow,” I cry out.

  “Oops. Butter fingers. Sorry, Sis. No, I don’t have any Butterfingers, if that’s what you’re thinking. Don’t get excited, fatty,” he says.

  I should have known better than to turn my back on him. I grab a cloth and run it under cold water. Then I lift my shirt and expose my stomach, letting the cold soothe the burn. I see how he’s playing it. He’s not done seeking vengeance. I’ll have to be watchful.

  By the time I finish cooking, he’s gone. I settle on the couch and eat my mac and cheese followed by the other cookies, including my favorite, the soft-baked ones with the chocolate chunks. This reminds me of the little island off the coast of Massachusetts where Hillary went one summer. She returned with seashells and the story of her first kiss. All I can think about are Even’s lips and how he said we’ll go to the coast.

  The following day we have off from school because of the Labor Day holiday. I loaf around the house, alternating television with homework and fixing Mama snacks. A show called Hoarders sucks me in. I get teary toward the end when the lady confesses she can’t stop collecting things, especially those weird plastic troll dolls with pointy hair. I flip off the TV and look up at the porcelain-doll collection, with their smooth, perfectly symmetrical faces and delicate fingers. After a moment, I remember how when I was a little girl I felt like they stared at me, their glassy eyes teasing that Mama loved them better than me.

  I realize this space looks like prime fodder for that show. There’s so much clutter. Piles, stacks, and heaps of junk cover every surface and fill every corner. When we moved in, Mama didn’t bother discarding or storing Boo and Granddad’s belongings. It served as a foundation for all of our stuff. Before Mama was stuck in bed, she loved going to the dollar store. I look at the meaningless tchotchkes and suddenly feel tight and breathless with claustrophobia.

  With effort, I slide the back door open and let fresh air in. I sit on a deck chair and look up to the stars, wondering if there’s one for me up there, if somehow, something far, far away will make this get better. The burn on my belly stings. I feel hungry, but for the first time ever, not for something sweet or savory. Not for something salty or creamy. I’m not sure what I want, but I don’t think it’s something to eat.

  On Tuesday, I prepare to leave the house fifteen minutes early to avoid Skunk’s routine of rolling out of bed and hitching a ride to school with me, inevitably making me late. I also just want to be on time for once. Even if I can’t dress like I belong, I quickly double-check my hair, smoothing my bangs and combing my fingers through my long, silky locks before sweeping it over my shoulder and rushing out the door.

  When I get out to the Honda, it looks lopsided. I tilt my head, studying it. I scurry to the other side. Both front tires are flat. I run my hand along one of them; a deep gouge slices through the rubber.

  I look around dumbly as if whoever did it will be hiding in a bush or something. I glance toward the end of the road and see the taillights of the bus rumbling by. I slump. Just my luck. I have no one to call to bring me to school. I sling my backpack over my shoulder and start to walk. The seams of my jeans rub angrily together, chafing my inner thighs. I happen to know it’s nearly three miles to the school. I will be late. I promised Mr. Hammons to be on time. I do something I haven’t done since fourth-grade PE, before I claimed to have injuries each week or got surly with the instructor.

  I put one foot in front of the other and run. Kinda. More like lumber. But it’s not walking either. Faster. The breeze sweeps my hair from my neck. My breath wants to catch somewhere between my throat and chest, but I push it down, filling myself up like a balloon. Maybe I’ll float away. I pass Natty Gimbal’s. She’s put a potted mum on the porch, and a scarecrow on a stick leers at me. I laugh in its face as I press forward, trying to outpace humiliation and the ticking clock. I’m sure I look like a fool, worthy of a fat-girl joke. Maybe I don’t care.

  I miss homeroom, but make it to first period on time, although completely out of breath. My skin is moist with sweat, and my face is as red as the traffic light I spotted Hillary drive through.

  Between classes, I go to the water fountain and gulp the trickle of water that comes out of the gummy spigot, feeling refreshed and having forgotten how good plain old water tastes.

  In Spanish, Hillary glares at me. I ignore her until Señora Whitaker arranges us in groups for conversation. Hillary and her friends whisper, looking in my direction as they stifle laughter. I have the urge to roll my eyes at them. But the bell rings before I can make up my mind.

  At lunch, I carefully carry my tray toward the back of the cafeteria. Before I take a bite of pizza, Even appears.

  “Hey, wanna join me on the picnic table outside?” he asks.

  I look around, but no one appears to be gawking or waiting for the punch line.

  “Sure,” I say when it appears safe. I follow him into the fresh air. I feel myself standing a little taller as I walk behind him, and somehow my stomach and butt don’t feel quite like the usual giant locomotive and caboose on the chubby train.

  “How was the rest of your weekend?” he asks when we sit down.

  “Homework, grocery shopping—oh, and Skunk, I think, slashed my tires,” I answer.

  “He wouldn’t do that, would he?” Even asks.

  “Remember my bike?” I say. I want to mention my lip but avoid it. “He would. I mean, it’s just a guess, but he also—” I stop myself, knowing that Even doesn’t want to hear about how Skunk pushed me and scalded my belly. I don’t need to draw any more attention to it.

  Even waits for me to finish, but I shake my head and look down at my tray.

  “If I can get your car to the shop, I can change the tires. I’ll meet you after school and have a look. Sound good?” he says.

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “No, but why not? You need your car, right? And, plus, then we can hang out for a while. Cool?” Even asks.

  I’m brightly aware that this is what normal sounds like.

  I nod and eat about half of my lunch. I leave the extra cup of Jell-O, not feeling the need to join the clean-plate club today.

  I wait for Even in front of the school, stricken with the thought that maybe he rides a different motorcycle to school than the one he’s repairing. His offer to take me to the ocean on his soon-to-be new bike was sweet, but nothing is funnier than a fat chick on the back of a motorcycle. I cringe, anticipating the rumble of a bike, but it doesn’t come.

  Even scuffs toward me with his backpack slung over one shoulder. Since he grew up by the sea, his skin retains a warm color from the sun; it’s not pasty and doughy like mine.

  “How’d you get here this morning anyway?” he asks.

  “I kinda ran. Walked,” I answer.

  “Then let’s go,” he says.

  We make it to the end of the bus loop when I remember I forgot my history book.

  “Fudge,” I say.

  Even’s eyes get wide. I fear that he might think I want fudge. I explain about my book and then add, “As a rule, I don’t say the F word. When I run out of alternatives or when I really need to use it, then maybe it’ll cross my lips, but not until then.”

  “So ‘fudge’ for now?” he asks.

  “Or ‘fark,’ ‘feck,’ ‘ferk,’ ‘flak’ . . .”

  Even laughs.

  I smile.

  “There it is again. I like to see that,” he says.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Your smile.”

  When we reach my house, I thank God for answering my prayers that Skunk not be there. Even has a quick look at my car, shakes his head, and then leans against the hood. I feel like I should offer that he come inside and have a glass of lemonade, but the thought makes me cringe.

  “What are you doing this afternoon? Homework? A job? Rescuing remote villages from war and famine?” he asks.

  Two weeks ago, his comment would have colored my cheeks pink, but Even’s words don’t cause embarrassment to worm inside my head. Instead, I shrug. “I’ve been working on a dress. I thought I might add some—” I interrupt myself. I’ve never told anyone about my sewing, not since Mama chuckled and in her most venomous voice said, “Sugar, don’t kid yourself; ain’t none of that ever gonna look good on you.”

  “You sew?” Even asks, apparently genuinely interested.

  “Yeah,” I say, feeling out of breath but excited like this not-secret was burning for me to share it. I don’t hide my sewing, but I don’t advertise it either.

  I lead Even away from the house. I don’t care where we’re going, but my passion for sewing, my thing, threads me along, away from Mama’s ears.

  A memory, like a warm quilt, teases more of my not-secret hobby from my lips, and I say, “My grandmother, Boo—she’s passed away now—taught me how to take scraps and string and make something beautiful. I started simple: a heart on a potholder, a cloth bookmark, and beanbags. Then moved on to clothes for my dolls, then other projects like Christmas-tree decorations, bags and purses . . . For a while, I got carried away. Seriously, I sewed everything: pillowcases, hair accessories, a teepee—except Skunk ripped it. I made my mother an apron . . .” I wonder if it means anything that she kept it.

  I take a deep breath, letting the memories of Boo and me together, sitting in her sunny sewing room, warm me. She’d swear in Polish, under her breath, every time she accidently knotted a stitch. She’d pat my hand, telling me I was a natural, letting me pick my favorite threads from her sewing box. In those moments, I wasn’t Sugar or fat or afraid of anything.

  “Then Boo was gone and—” I want to say that so much as looking at a needle made me weep, but that was brief and the truth was stronger: I returned to sewing clothes, but full-size. I found vintage fabrics and patterns in the sewing room, and kept Boo’s box for myself. But for me, the clothes just aren’t big enough. Making a dress that big would almost be like making this version of me permanent. I exhale and say, “—and I couldn’t not sew.” Unable to help myself, I smile.

  “Maybe you can make me something.”

  I can’t think of anything that would make him look better.

  We reach Even’s street.

  “Like what?” I ask, not sure if he’s just indulging me.

  Even stops, scratches his head, and then turns around and says, “An invisibility cloak, to start.”

  I glance back; a pickup truck looms in the driveway.

  He and I aren’t that different, appearances aside. We’re both stuck, with nowhere to go and no way to get there.

  Chapter Seven

  It takes nearly a month to get the tires in for the Honda. Even tells me it’s because he’s getting them for free, but I secretly think he likes waiting for me on the corner halfway between my house and his apartment before school, walking together, and repeating it in the afternoon. Or maybe that’s just me.

  I glance at the clock. I’m running late. I check my teeth and, sure enough, they appear whiter. It was hard, but I’m glad I ditched the soda for the last few weeks. One morning, much like today, while I got ready for school, the sun’s light in the bathroom shone so it made it appear my teeth were discoloring. I recalled a science experiment in grade school with different beverages and their staining ability. I reasoned that if Even likes my smile—heck, if I like my smile—I can’t have rotten teeth. I picked up some whitening toothpaste at the drugstore and ditched the soda. I also started flossing. My old dentist would be proud. I tried to get Mama to use the paste because I noticed her teeth looked yellow, too. She said it was too spicy for her and spit it out, missing the cup, and showering me in the process.

  After fussing with my hair a minute too long, I decide my waterfall braid is good enough, and I fish around my dresser drawer for my pair of pants with the flared bottoms but can’t find them. After dervishing my room, I discover they’re in the laundry. The sour smell of dirty clothes scolds me for not getting it all done over the weekend because Even and I had hung out.

  I grab a different pair. When I bend over to hastily stuff all my books in my backpack, my pants slide down. I tug them up and then realize I need a belt. I need a belt.

  My mouth falls open. I don’t dare look down, but run my finger along the waistline, and sure enough, there’s room to spare. I don’t have a belt, so I try for a third pair of pants, ones I’ve never worn because they were too small, that being a relative word. Sure enough, they’re perfect.

  As I stride to our meeting spot, standing a little taller, the leaves on the trees, just beginning to turn from a muted green to the colors of autumn, rustle. Even’s in the distance, waiting. His outline is like a wood etching, solid and rooted, but something tells me he could just as easily fly away. I’m smiling already. I have no idea what he sees in me, aside from so much of me, but he’s sweeter than sugar. I stop in my tracks, disarmed by the thought.

  He takes a step toward me and shouts, “Did you forget something?”

  I hurry toward him. I think back over the recent weeks and realize my craving for sugar, my consumption of food for that matter, hasn’t been made with as fierce a desperation to feel full of . . . I’m not sure of what I wanted to feel full of, not exactly. All I know is that I feel perfectly satisfied right now. There might very well be a skip in my step.

  “No, nothing,” I say when I catch up. “How’s progress on the bike?” This has become my routine question at the beginning, middle, and end of each week.

  He smiles broadly and his blue eyes twinkle. He usually fills me in on technical things, and I listen intently because he describes it all with such passion.

  “Next weekend, you and I are going to the ocean,” he declares.

  I haven’t officially agreed to this yet, but don’t want to dampen his spirits. This trip has motivated him to work on the bike as often as possible, clearly something he loves to do, and I don’t want to rob him of that by saying no. My feet will remain on the ground.

  “Wow. You’re making quick work of it,” I say, pushing away my thoughts and the disappointment sharing them will bring. The conversation turns to a project I’ve been working on for English, a band he had me listen to, and then our favorite seasons, holidays, and the holiday we’d invent if we could. Me—a day to be happy just ’cause. Everyone, everywhere, smiling, laughing, and being kind all day. He riffs off this with complimentary smiley-face T-shirts for all participants. Even says he’d vote for a day of peace, which I realize is so similar to mine we could combine them, but I don’t say any more because I probably already sound like a dork.

  “You look nice today, your hair especially,” he says.

  Before I can say thank you, he disappears into the pack of students rushing to class.

  The week breezes by with the only hiccup being Mama’s increasingly raspy cough. I hear her at night, hacking, but when I ask her about it, there’s nothing for me to do. She refuses help. I meet Even on Friday morning as usual, but I’m tired from listening to and worrying about Mama all night.

  “Ready for the big ride tomorrow?” Even asks.

  I stammer. “Well, I don’t know. Laundry day. I have to help Mama out. And Skunk, he hasn’t been to school in over a month. I think he’s going to fail or drop out. I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” I say.