I almost hold my breath, waiting for her to get to me so that she can somehow enlighten me.
“Hannah, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen you in a swimsuit, and well, you go, girl.” The edge of Hannah’s lip quivers, and I swear to Christ, if Millie can make her smile, it will be nothing short of an act of God. “So, like they said at orientation, it’s the eighty-first anniversary of Miss Teen—”
“Wait. What’s my strength?” I ask.
She smiles. “Your confidence, of course.”
I zone out completely. How can she see something I can’t feel? And what’s the point in acting confident if I’m not? I never thought I cared about what I saw in the mirror. But Bo ruined that. It’s supposed to be easier to like yourself when someone else likes you.
But that can’t be true. No matter how much I tell myself that the fat and the stretch marks don’t matter, they do. Even if Bo, for whatever reason, doesn’t care, I do.
Then there are days when I really give zero flying fucks, and I am totally satisfied with this body of mine. How can I be both of those people at once?
“Do you have anything else to add, Will?” asks Millie.
I blink once. Twice. “No. No, I guess not.”
Hannah slides out of the booth. “I’m out of here.”
Amanda slurps her soda until the straw screeches loudly.
I turn and call after Hannah, “What changed your mind? When Millie first asked you, you said no, right?”
She turns back. “I get called a freak every day. I might as well make a show of it.”
“Straight from the horse’s mouth,” mumbles Amanda after Hannah’s a safe distance away.
Millie kicks her underneath the table. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“Well, neither is she,” says Amanda.
THIRTY-THREE
This time I tell Mitch that we can meet at his house. He invites me over to watch movies and I guess I just assume that his parents will be out for the night.
When the front door opens, I find the female version of Mitch wearing a light yellow T-shirt with kittens rolling in yarn. This woman who can only be Mitch’s mom throws a dish towel over her shoulder and brings me in for a hug. “Oh my word!” she says. “Mitch said you were pretty, but he didn’t say gorgeous.” She lets go of me for a second before grasping my cheeks and pulling me in through her front door.
The entryway of Mitch’s house is a bottleneck. Small and congested. But his mother doesn’t move. “Let’s get a look at this face.” She slides her thumbs across my cheeks like she’s wiping away tears.
“Mom!”
She steps back and I see Mitch there in the narrow hallway, his cheeks a deep magenta.
“Hey.”
“Hey, Will.” Mitch clears his throat. “Uh, Mom, we’re heading upstairs.”
His mom nods. “Leave the door open.”
“Mom, we’re fine!” Mitch waves for me to follow him up the stairs.
“For the Holy Ghost!” she calls after us.