Following My Toes Read Free Page B

sometimes feel my psychic powers through my dreams.)
    When I got over to Lacey’s, she had just finished cooking dinner, some rice with chicken and vegetables.
    “Would you like some?” she asked. I looked at what she had made, and it didn’t look like there was enough for two.
    “Is there enough? I don’t want to steal your food.”
    “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’m not actually all that hungry.”
    “Then why did you make it?” I asked.
    “I don’t know, I thought I was hungrier than I am. These anti-depressants do weird things to my appetite.”
    I looked over at her, and noticed how thin she had become. Lacey always had a tendency to be small and round, but in an attractive, voluptuous way. I was always jealous of her looks, especially in high school, where I remained flat-chested through the 10th grade. I was sort of scrawny, with red hair and skin that freckles rather than tans. Although I’ve now grown into my looks, memories of the nickname “Pippi Longstocking” still haunt me. Meanwhile, Lacey’s lovely ol-ive skin and dark hair weren’t even what most people noticed about her. She had been the first girl in our sixth grade class to need a bra. However, after high school she became jealous of my ability to stay thin without a huge amount of effort. My figure was by no means boyish, but at 5’6” I was a size 8, and she didn’t think that I worked hard enough for it.
    But then, Lacey always had a weird relationship with food. We would be out, or at her place, and she would start talking about how hungry she was. So we would go get something to eat. Almost inevitably, she would take a few bites, and claim to be full, while I’d feel like a pig for wanting to finish my meal. But that night at her place it was a non-issue. There is no better diet plan than a breakup; my heartache had caused my appetite to disappear. The chicken and rice remained on the stove, congealing at room temperature, looking more plastic and less appetizing as the evening progressed.
    I sat down in her living room, which I have to admit, immediately invited me in. She had decorated the room in varying shades of blue, and anywhere you sat you could easily see the front door. There were plants everywhere, and shelves with books on subjects like the enneagram and new-age feminism, along with lots of framed photographs of her college friends and family vacations. There were two photos with me: one of the two us posing before a high school Christmas formal, and the other taken by Peter about a year ago. It had been a perfect lazy Sunday in July; our arms were around each other as we smiled into the camera, while the lake shimmered in the distance. None of the pictures were of her dad though; she put those pictures away.
    Lacey poured us some wine and handed me a glass. I noticed she poured a fairly large glass for herself, and I stopped thinking about my own tragedy for a second. Aren’t you supposed to stay away from alcohol when you’re on medication?
    “So tell me what happened.” Lacey said.
    I took a sip of my wine. I wanted to be able to tell this story with-out crying, if at all possible. “It’s Peter. Last night. He said we...want different things...he said that...he met...someone else.” Too late—The tears were already streaming down my face. Lacey put down her wine, and came and sat next to me on the couch. She took my wine from me, and placed it on her coffee table. Then she hugged me close, for a really long time, while I cried on her shoulder. But when we pulled away I was reminded again of my dream, in that her face was not the face I was expecting to see. I mean, obviously it was her, Lacey, but at the same time it wasn’t. For a moment it was like we were in that movie, “Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” I was looking at someone who appeared to be Lacey, but it was as if her soul had been replaced by a pod. Or whatever.
    “ Oh Faith. I am so sorry. Did you see it coming at all?” Lacey