Elaine
The Slut Stall has taken on a life of its own. I don’t think Kelsie or any of us ever meant for it to get out of hand the way it did. I mean, it was so completely gross by Christmas I couldn’t believe the stuff some people were writing. I only wrote in it that one time, the day Kelsie told us about Alice’s abortion. But once was all it took. I told you people are always copying the things that I do.
I can’t believe the school never cleaned it off. I can’t believe Alice’s mother never complained. It’s weird how things can just get out of control sometimes. And it’s weird how, like, when it’s your job to be a popular bitch you just feel compelled to keep doing it sometimes. That sounds so lame and like a total excuse, I get it. But it is what it is.
Not too long ago, just before Winter Break, I saw Alice walking out of school with that super weirdo Kurt Morelli. They’ve been hanging out. Before everything happened, Alice walking around with Kurt Morelli would have been the equivalent of the Queen of England walking around with a homeless person or something. I wondered if Kurt knew about the Slut Stall or the abortion. I think even he’s clued in enough to know about that stuff. When I watched them heading out of the building, I wondered if they were dating. I really wondered if they were sleeping together. Which would be kind of gross, but … anyway, it was odd to see them like that, together.
But in this strange way, it kind of made me feel less bad about everything. Don’t get me wrong. There’s this part of me that still really can’t stand Alice and thinks she got everything that was coming to her. For fooling around with Brandon back in eighth grade. For standing there while Brandon read my diary. For sleeping with two guys at my party. For being responsible for Brandon’s death.
But I guess there’s this other part of me that wonders if maybe things have gone too far. I don’t know. I keep thinking about that question my friend Maggie asked Kelsie that day we found out about Alice’s abortion.
Don’t you feel even a little bit sorry for her?
It’s sort of hard not to. Feel sorry for her, I mean. At least a little.
Something else that’s happened recently other than Alice hanging out with Kurt is I stopped writing in my diary. I eventually dug it out of the closet and tried to write in it again, but it just felt stupid somehow. A diary is supposed to be private, and even though the only person who’d read it other than me was dead, it still felt weird, so I ripped out every page and sent it through the shredder my dad keeps in his study. And then I put all the shredded pieces in a bag and dumped it in our neighbor’s trash can. Just in case.
Despite how odd this year has been in many ways, the thing is, I like it here and I don’t ever want to leave. I want to go to UT and then marry a guy who wants to stay in Healy forever and I want him to take over the business from my dad and I’ll help run it, and I want to have a daughter who’s just like me, and I’ll join Healy Boosters and be the dance squad mom and help out during the Christmas Carnival and all of that.
I know what you’re thinking. So lame. So small town. But why is it lame? Why is it lame to want to be in a place that feels safe to you and that you like? I’m not an idiot. I have a B+ average and and I watch the local news every morning while I’m eating my oatmeal and blueberries (Weight Watchers points = 4). I can name both of my senators and I understand how payroll taxes work on account of I’ve worked at my dad’s shop every summer since I was thirteen and I can probably find most major countries on a map if you give me a second.
I remember sophomore year when the Fashion Club went on a school trip to New York City. And our tour guide at the museum at the Fashion Institute of Technology smiled in this super pitying way when we told her where we were from. I mean, it’s one thing to be from Texas, but they really think you’re a hayseed if you’re not from Houston or Dallas or something. Or at least San Antonio.
“Healy? I think you’re my first group from there. And how many people live in Healy?” She was talking super slowly to us. I thought New Yorkers were supposed to talk fast.
“A little over 3,000,” my teacher said.
“Oh my! I think that’s how many people are in my building!”
Ha-ha.
Alice Franklin had been on that trip. She’d saved her babysitting money and her Healy Pool North money to pay for it. I remember how when the tour guide said that, I looked over at her and we both rolled our eyes at each other.
If I’d grown up in Manhattan and I wanted to stay in Manhattan and never leave because I felt safe there and I liked it, nobody would think twice. People would think I was sophisticated, probably. And why? Because they have a subway system? Because there’s more than one movie theater? Because of the lions in front of the New York Public Library? (Yeah, I know about those, too.) I honestly don’t get the difference. If I’d been born in Manhattan, I probably would have wanted to stay there just like I want to stay in Healy. And honestly, even in Manhattan I think I still would have been considered popular. And I’m not so small town that I don’t realize that even in Manhattan, a girl like Alice Franklin would still have been considered a slut.
I forgot. There’s one other big thing that’s happened this year. I finally stopped going to Weight Watchers.
Right after the holidays my mom came into my room early one Saturday wearing her weigh-in clothes. She always wears these cotton pajama pants and a tank top to every meeting because she’s convinced that they only weigh, like, half an ounce. She’d been all stressed out because over Christmas she’d eaten three thousand candy canes and twenty gallons of eggnog or whatever.
“Elaine, meeting,” she said. “Time to get up.”
Like most of the things I do, I can’t really tell you why I did it, but I pulled the covers up over my head and said, “I’m not going.”
“What?”
I was staring at the tiny pink flowers on my sheets. I focused in on one and stared it down.
“I’m not going,” I said again.
“Elaine, why? You’ve had such a great week. I saw your food tracker and you’ve eaten beneath your daily points target every day!”
And I’m starving, I thought to myself. And if I eat any more Greek yogurt I’m going to become Greek.
“I just don’t want to go,” I said.
“Would you at least take those covers off your head?”
I thought I would totally lose my nerve or something if I had to look her in the eyes, but I did take the covers off my head and I did stare at her and I did say again, “I just don’t want to go.”
My mom did this deep breath thing and tried to smile, but I could tell she was ticked off. The deal with my mom is that she’s always trying to be my friend, so I could tell she was debating in her head whether or not she should make me go or just pretend that this week was only this weird break in our gal pal routine.
“I just know you’ve had a loss, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she said.
I dug my hands under my covers and I squeezed the pink-flowered sheets and said, “Mom, I’m not going. I’m not going today, and the thing is, I’m not going next week either. I’m not going to Weight Watchers anymore because I don’t want to and I don’t need to. If you want to go, that’s cool, okay? But I’m not going.”
Okay. There. I said it.
My mom did this whole pouty face thing, and I knew she would ignore me for the rest of the day. She turned around and left me alone, and after she walked away, I fell back against my pillows, pretty much totally in awe of myself.
No more holding my breath during weigh-ins. No more listening to old ladies talk about spraying their pizzas with Lysol so they wouldn’t eat them. No more low-point substitutes that taste like crap when you compare them to the real thing. No more no more no more.
I waited until I heard my mom back her SUV out of the driveway. I knew my dad was still asleep. I went downstairs and found a box of S’Mores Pop-Tarts in my dad’s section of the food pantry and I took it back up to my room, crawled into bed, and ate all six of them in ten minutes. The chocolate icing melted on my tongue and the marshmallow filling seemed to be made of nothing but sugar and lard. I didn’t even need to toast them. I just ate them, and I loved every single bite.
When I was done eating, I patted my stomach. Then I looked out the window by my bed down onto my street that goes past the Nealy house and the Carver house until it curves down and around a corner. I couldn’t see past that corner, but I know all of the houses beyond it and I know all of the people who live in them. Just like I know what and who was around every corner of every street in Healy. And this fact, like the box of S’Mores, made me very happy. It made me, like, completely content.
I tossed the empty box into the garbage can where I knew my mom would find it eventually, and I slid back under the covers and fell asleep.