Faded Denim: Color Me Trapped Read Free Page A

eat
that
?” And then, of course, there’s
the look
—the way his brow creases when he sees me eating something he considers “fattening,” or even if he catches me just sitting on the couch. It’s like he’s really obsessed with my weight lately. Like it’s becoming his own personal problem. And I’m thinking,
this is
my
body
—
get over it, Dad!
Of course, I don’t say that. I’d rather pretend that everything’s cool—that Dad and I are still good buddies and he likes me just the way I am.
    “I’m fine,” I finally mutter to my hovering mom as I shovel the last soggy bite of sweet cereal in, realizing with some dismay that I still feel hungry. What
is
wrong with me?
    “Can you pick Matt up at noon?” she asks as she heads for the kitchen. “I promised to meet Karen for lunch today.”
    “What about Dad?” I protest as I follow her into the kitchen. “Why can’t he pick him up?”
    “He’s golfing.”
    I make another groan, for sympathy’s sake, and then agree.
    “Thanks, sweetie.”
    “Yeah,” I say in a flat voice as I rinse my bowl and put it in the dishwasher. “It’s not like I have a life anyway.”
    “Oh, honey,” she says, her voice full of sympathy. “Of course you have a life. What do you mean by that?”
    “I don’t know . . .”
    Then she magically produces a box of Krispy Kremes that I didn’t even know were in the house. “Want one?”
    “Where’d these come from?” I ask as I take one.
    She grins with mischief as she pours some cream into her cup of coffee. “I hide them.”
    I consider this as I take a bite, wondering who she hides them from. But maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe I don’t even care. The pastry tastes so sweet and rich right now . . . so comforting, distracting . . . that I’m thinking maybe it really doesn’t matter. I mean, who really cares how much I weigh or what I look like? It’s not like I’ll be going to prom or anything. This fact is driven home when, just as I swallow the last bite, Leah calls and begs me to go prom-dress shopping with her.
    “I really
need
you,” she pleads after I make up an excuse to avoid what will surely be pure torture. “If you don’t come with me, Kellie will insist on coming, and you know that would be a fate worse than death. Pleeease, Emily, you have to do this for me.”
    I consider the prospect of Leah’s dad’s girlfriend at the mall with Leah. Kellie is one of those women who’s in her forties but dresses like she’s still fifteen. Honestly, Leah and I are both certain that Kellie believes Britney Spears is still the hottest thing out there. For Leah’s dad’s sake, we try to humor this woman.
    “Okay,” I finally say, “but I have to pick up Matt from practice first.”
    “Why don’t I pick him up for you?” she offers. “It’s on my way to your house anyway. Then we can leave even sooner.”
    I agree to this plan, realizing I better start getting ready for our shopping expedition now. I can be sure that Leah will look totally chic, but the mere idea of following Leah around as she tries on size 3 or smaller gowns is so disturbing that all I can do is sit on my bed and stare into space and think about food. Life gets no better when I discover I can’t even fasten the button on the waist of my biggest jeans—and they are a size 17, the largest size you can buy in the junior section. After that, it’s old-lady clothes that are buried in some “fat-girl” section in the back of the store. Probably right nextto sporting goods. I try on a couple other pairs of pants with even worse results, and I finally opt for good old stretchy sweats. Okay, they’re a little warm for May, but they’ll have to do. I tell myself that it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I wish I were someone else.
    “Hey, you!” calls Leah from downstairs. “Ready to go, Emily?”
    “Coming,” I call back with fake enthusiasm. When I see Leah, she looks very cool in this great little T-shirt that’s