Then Everything Happens at Once, page 4
On my way to the change room is my favorite section of the store, underwear and lingerie. Last year, I spent all my Christmas money on one of the fancy, push-up-plunge bras that are arranged high on the wall, prominently displaying their back-fat-smoothing design. It changed my life—no exaggeration. Wearing a bra is torture on account of the wire stabs and strangulation marks courtesy of the bands and straps, but with this design, it hurts like, 75 percent less.
“Stop it,” Mom says from where she flips through the rack of clearance dress pants. “Keep moving.”
Too late. I fall deeply in love with a hot-pink leopard-print set that comes with matching underwear. “Moooom!”
“No.”
“Mother, please. This is life or death,” I say, already reaching for the back of the rack, looking for my size. “I have a coupon for forty percent off a regular-priced item!”
Mom sighs. “Just go try things on, and we’ll see.”
In the change room, I waste no time slipping the most beautiful bra in the world over my D-cup boobs, and it looks as amazing as I knew it would, seeing as the other two bras I rotate through at home are the exact same design, just in simple black instead. I come out in the red tunic over the black leggings I came in with. “Mom?”
My mother steers Rebecca’s chair between the racks of clothes, making her way into the change room hallway, blocking the way for the two other ladies who are trying to come try stuff on.
“I’m sorry. I just need a second,” Mom says as she tries to maneuver around the boxes, empty racks, and clusters of plastic hangers. Rebecca’s chair is lightweight and low-profile, but it’s still a chore to get around the random crap store employees have piled against the wall. The women wait with polite smiles.
“Oh, Boss. “ Mom grimaces. “That shirt is not appropriate at all.”
“I know. It fits all stupid.”
The neckline is hanging so low that my future bra is on display, clashing with the red of the shirt, while the waist sits too snug against me. Why do these designers assume being this fat means having a flat stomach while also having Triple Z boobs?
“Go try the other stuff,” Mom says.
I come out in the eighties graphic top, super disappointed in the overly short sleeves.
“Now this I like,” Mom says.
“I’d have to get something to wear over my arms,” I say, pulling at the sleeves as I stand in front of the full-length mirrors at the end of the hallway. All I see is the squishiness that seems to hang down over my elbows. These are the arms of an old lady who bakes cookies for her grandchildren, and she hugs them too tight so they suffocate.
“The shirt looks great.”
My mother is the type of lady who will wear anything without consideration as to how it might look on her. Whatever 3XL garment that is hanging on the thrift-store rack is worth getting, just because it’s there and it’s cheap. Right now, she’s got on a sweater that’s meant to be oversized, yet it barely goes past her belly, and her jeans are baggy in the butt and tight at the ankles.
“I don’t really trust your opinion, Mom,” I say.
“Why?”
“Well, you’re my mother,” I say.
“If you get the top, I’ll get you the bra,” Mom says, looking very proud of herself.
“Blackmail!”
“Not blackmail when I’m offering to buy you two things instead of one. Right, Beck?” Mom says, tapping my sister’s foot.
I let out a sigh. “I accept.”
I’d do anything for the bra and me to be together. Besides, I have a cropped denim jacket at home that I can pair with the tee.
I head back to the change room to slip back into my own clothes. I rip the tag off the bra, then slide back into the black baby-doll top I came in with, my favorite shirt design because the front fans out under the breast area, which means the boobs get to be on display while the belly can be free under the lovely, loose-fitting part. I stare at myself in the mirror, tousling my hair to add volume. I smile because the mirror usually reflects a flattering version of myself, the version I want to see. The mirror is kind; it’s the camera that’s a bitch and reflects all the shittery.
The salesperson reaches for my purchases over the counter. I pull away when she tries to reach for the folded black bra in my hand. “This is the one I came with. I’m wearing the one we’re buying,” I say, pulling the strap out from under my shirt so she can see. She takes the tag when I hand it to her and gives me a plastic bag for the bra I came in with.
While Mom pays, I take a moment to check my phone and see a few unread texts from Lara. But a new text from Freddie takes precedence.
[Freddie] You and I might be going for a ride later. Just saying.
[Baylee] Did you fix your car?!
[Freddie] Or maybe I’m just borrowing my mom’s car. You’ll have to come over and find out.
Finally having a friend who drives is the coolest thing ever, and the fact that it’s Freddie—my stomach does little somersaults, thinking of the idea of riding next to him, the confidence of wearing a sexy new bra running through me.
I might have to be a little later getting to Lara’s. Perhaps Freddie could even drop me off there.
“I guess I’m just the bank, huh, Boss?” Mom says, pulling me out of my daydream.
“Thank you, Mom,” I say, and she nods. “Sorry.”
We stop at a bench so Mom can check Rebecca’s feeding tube to make sure it hasn’t leaked all over the place, which is a thing that can happen because either the cap on the tube comes open by accident, or liquid manages to come out from around the tube. Mom usually puts a diaper against that part of my sister’s belly when we’re out and about, under her shirt, to absorb any potential mess. While Mom does that, I take a moment to redo my sister’s ponytail, which looks horrid now that she’s accidentally hooked her fingers through it while going wild with excitement earlier. She gives me a dirty look but doesn’t fuss, probably because she knows I’d tell her to be quiet. Not, like, in an evil way, but in a stop-whining-I’m-trying-to-help kind of way.
“There,” I say, patting the top of her head. “You no longer look like crap. You’re welcome.”
Rebecca cracks a grin, staring off at the tiled floor. People assume kids like my sister don’t really know what’s going on around them, but this kind of thing totally proves otherwise. She might not understand words, but she gets tone.
“Let’s go,” Mom says.
“Can we grab something at the food court, though?” I say. “I can’t be this close to the smell of deep-fried stuff and not get anything. That would just be cruel.”
“To go, though,” Mom says.
A DM pops through.
[Alex] About 2 years.
His answer to my DM to him last night, asking him how long he’s worked at Bookworm.
[Baylee] Can I ask you another question?
[Alex] Totally.
[Baylee] What does “partial high school dropout” mean?
[Alex] Well I sort of messed up some of Gr 10 and most of Gr 11. My attendance was minimal at best.
[Baylee] What grade are you in then?
[Alex] I’m working on credits now at Castlehill Alternative. Not exactly in a grade, but I guess I should technically be in Gr 12 now. What grade r u in?
[Baylee] 11. Were you at St. Peter’s?
[Alex] No. C-High.
[Baylee] That’s my school. Do we know each other?
[Alex] Maybe? You would’ve started Gr 9 and I would’ve been in Gr 10.
Grade Nine at Castlehill High was a blur of nerves and excitement of being at this big, new school full of older people. It would help if I knew what he looked like, but I feel weird about asking him to share a photo of himself. I bet if I described myself plus the way my hair was back then, he’d know exactly which of the awkward fourteen-year-olds I was—there weren’t that many of us fat girls with dumb hair.
[Alex] Look at the yearbook. You’ll see me.
Except I don’t have the yearbook for Grade Nine. It’s way too expensive. Lara has it, though.
[Baylee] Okay. I will. 😁
“Let’s go, Boss,” Mom says again.
I compose a response to the DM, allowing myself to become consumed by the swirl of glitter surrounding me, as I think about the fact that Freddie is waiting for me, I’m wearing the most attractive bra ever, and this Alex guy is messaging me again. A burst of butterflies erupts as I picture myself cruising down a country road with Freddie.
[Lara] What time can you come?
[Baylee] Maybe 7?
All I know is I’m going to Freddie’s, alone.
Five
Freddie’s street runs parallel to mine. From my mother’s bedroom window, I can see his, which overlooks his backyard, just four houses to the right. There’s a perfectly situated shortcut a little way down the road, a walkway that connects our streets. As usual, I’m in completely inappropriate footwear considering the weather, so I take careful, slow steps, aiming for the cleaner patches of pavement. It’s worth it to have that sound in my ears, the pretty sound of heels clicking on the ground.
There’s a tightness in my belly as the walkway comes up on my right, and I take a peek to see if anyone’s there. There is nothing but an empty tiled path, so my confidence returns, and the clicking of my heels carries me all the way to Freddie’s house.
His garage door is open as I come up to the house, and the Shitbox idles in the driveway, dense exhaust smoke and rock beats escaping from the car. The sun is already going down, and it feels so much colder than it did earlier.
I tap on the passenger window. Freddie waves me in.
I open the door, leaning my head in through the escaping cloud of strawberry vape. “It works!”
“Get in!” he shouts, putting his vape on the dashboard.
I am about to be the girl Freddie takes for a ride, in this car, at last. We’ve driven around the neighborhood in his mother’s SUV a couple of times, but this is us in his car. We can go wherever we want. Total freedom.
I tuck myself into the car, immediately realizing that I failed to consider this thoroughly. This car is small. I reach for the adjustment bar under the passenger seat to push the seat as far back as it’ll go.
“Trey and I did most of it ourselves last night. We kept going until two a.m.,” Freddie says as he turns the volume down. “But his brother came to help us finish.”
“Oh,” I say, totally distracted by the sensation of doom that moves through me as I realize the seat belt won’t reach all the way around me to clip. Freddie is looking out his window, and I yank on the belt. He doesn’t turn to look over, which tells me this is him being thoughtful and looking away from this awkwardness. “That’s awesome. Uh . . . so it’s safe to drive?”
“One hundred percent. His brother took it for a test drive,” he says. “I told you Mark’s a mechanic, remember? He helped us finish this morning, and he double-checked everything.”
“Right,” I say, wrapping the belt around me, trying again to bring the two pieces of stupid-ass metal together and failing. “Mark’s a mechanic. Very cool.”
I could just puff out a huge breath of annoyance at the awkwardness and effort it takes to get my big self into this tiny car, but instead, I take small breaths, sucking my belly in for dear life, still not able to make the stupid metal pieces come together.
“Where would you like to go?” Freddie asks. “You get to choose.”
“Um, let me think.” I take advantage of the moment he spends scrolling through his phone to place my purse against my left side, camouflaging the belt latch resting against me, coming at least five inches short of meeting the buckle.
This is a total nightmare, and I should’ve seen it coming.
The reality is: when you allow yourself to get too full of excitement and delight, thinking everything is just wonderful, the universe will intervene and put you back in your place.
Freddie starts reversing the car. His left hand is on the wheel, while the right is on the stick, which is like, two inches away from my thigh. The speakers are pumping out Freddie’s rock tunes, and even though this isn’t exactly my kind of music, when I’m with him, I can see how this stuff would have a spot on the playlist of my life. The nerves give way to a pink and glittery feeling. This is a whole vibe, me going for a ride with Freddie. It makes me wish his hand would find its way to my thigh.
The only way the moment could be better is if it was a summer night. And if the seat belt was longer.
We are quiet as Freddie drives us through the streets of our town, headed for the highway. I feel totally safe with him at the wheel, and that thought just adds a whole new layer to my crush.
“So do you think Trey knows he and Lara are actually done for good?” I ask once we’re in the middle lane of the highway, cruising.
“Who knows?” he says. “But honestly, she deserves better, right?”
This comment pulls my gaze to his face. “Why do you say that?”
“Look, Trey’s my best friend.” He sighs. “But he’s not trying to have a deep relationship. So if that’s what she’s trying to create with Trey, it’s not going to happen. She could find someone decent, but she just doesn’t.”
I turn my head the other way, staring at the pavement blurring next to me. “That’s true.”
“She was out of his league,” Freddie says.
My heart twitches with a flash of darkness. I would be lying if I said I’ve never worried about Freddie and Lara finding each other. I’ve thought a lot about this, and I’ve come to the conclusion that he could be complimenting his mother’s Dyson vacuum and I’d still take it personally, like what he was actually doing was going on about all the things the vacuum has that I don’t.
He continues, “But if anyone knows that, it’s her, right?”
“Stop it,” I say, yet all I feel is grateful for the addition to his comment. This is the reason I don’t spend every moment riddled with fear that Freddie will go for my best friend.
“She’s completely in love with herself,” he says.
I let his words hang in the air. Is that a good thing? A bad thing?
It reminds me of this saying I’ve heard before: You can’t love someone else until you love yourself. I’m kind of fuzzy on the actual wording. It might be: You have to love yourself before another can love you.
The heat coming through the vents starts to overwhelm, and Freddie reaches to turn the dial to the middle, red and blue on either side. “All right, now that I’ve got you cornered with no place to go,” he says, “I gotta ask you for a favor.”
“You’re going to ask me to babysit your sister, aren’t you,” I say, and he flashes me a toothy grin before returning his gaze to the road ahead. I can’t help but smile back. “When?”
“Monday night.”
I fake a sound of annoyance, as if hanging out at Freddie’s house to watch his two-year-old sister is the worst thing in the world.
“Come on, Bay. It’s for a great cause.”
“Fine, I’ll do it.”
“Yesssssssssssss,” he says. “Thank you. I owe you.”
“You should pay me.”
“I am now broke,” he says. “Any dollar in my possession from now on will go directly into this gas tank. I’ll be broke forever.”
“Not if your script ends up being a movie.”
Freddie snorts. “It’s a long way from that,” he says. “Anyway, don’t you want to know what I’m doing Monday?”
“Not really, but you seem very interested in telling me.”
“Jess is in town,” he says, wagging his eyebrows my way. My insides disintegrate with the venom coursing through me.
Jess, the girl who is supposed to be living three hours away, too far to still be so present.
“Wonderful,” I say. “I’m really sad to see how hard it is for her to find someone in her new town.”
“But Bay, why would she need to find some moron over there when she can come home and hit this”—those eyebrows again—“Whenever she wants?”
With that, I roll my eyes and stare forward. His words knock me off-balance. Sometimes, it’s like he thinks I’m a guy, the way he talks to me. Maybe I should fist-bump him, but all I want to do is claw Jess’s eyes out.
“I’m kidding,” he says. “We’re just going to the coffeehouse. Who knows where things will end up?”
“Sounds lovely.”
Up ahead, cars begin to light up red, and just like that, we’re in some random bout of sudden traffic. We go from zooming in the fast lane to crawling. The seat belt I was holding around me seems useless now that we’re not moving, so I loosen my grip on it and breathe a little.
I focus on my phone, grateful for the distraction of Rianne’s latest DMs. Lara sends me a photo of herself with her cousins, along with a reminder to get my butt over there.
Another DM waits to be read.
[Alex] So r u an actual bookworm, then?
[Baylee] I like to read, but I’m not always the best at getting all the way to the end. So much homework and stuff to read for school. It gets in the way. By the time I get back to the book, I forget what it was about, so I have to start over.
[Alex] I know what u mean.
[Baylee] I kind of just love Bookworm in general. I ❤ all the journals and stationery. And the cafe, of course. I go there a lot with my friend Lara.
[Alex] Weird that I don’t remember seeing u there.
[Baylee] Weird that you went to my school.
[Alex] Weird that we’ve frequented the same spaces and never met.
[Baylee] So weird.
[Alex] 😁
“Anyway,” Freddie says. “Wanna hear how expensive car insurance is?”
“So much.”
It goes in one ear and out the other, but I do enjoy the feeling I get texting Bookworm Alex while Freddie’s voice swirls around me.
I tap my name on the screen, which takes me to my Instagram profile. I try to view my profile the way I imagine Bookworm Alex might. Photos of fresh manicures I give myself, books I say I’m reading but that I don’t finish, my friends while hanging out at Freddie’s or one of Rianne’s parties. And many face shots, either showing off when I nailed my winged liner, or when my shadow was blended expertly. When there are body shots of me, it’s usually just the upper body, and although I clearly look like a significantly fat girl, I’m also super aware that only my best angles are on display here.
