And hey, with some new clothes and a new look, I could even be popular. Laura Legs. Laura Lovely, maybe. I pictured myself wearing a white tank top and fitted jeans like Portia used to. Laura Lovely. Wouldn’t that be nice?
And then I heard it. Rattling. It sounded like a screen door smacking against the frame in the wind. Maybe a loose windowpane. There was just one problem.
It was coming from my closet.
Chapter Four
I did not sleep that night. Not a wink. The rattling would continue for a few minutes, then stop just long enough for me to start dozing off, and then start again. Admittedly I was not brave enough to go investigate—the spiders could have returned. So I just rolled around and closed my eyes and pretended that there wasn’t something rattling in my closet.
As soon as the morning sun filtered through my still curtainless window, I climbed out of bed and slowly crept toward the closet. The floorboards creaked the entire way. Stupid, insulting house. I eased the closet door open, ready to take off screaming down the hallway if a raccoon jumped out at me. When it was about a foot open, I peeked inside. Nothing. I pulled the door open the rest of the way, frowning.
It looked exactly the same as yesterday, when I’d put my ten shirts in there. Great. Now I was sure I had a haunted closet. I remembered what Tom had said—the last guy who lived in this house had disappeared. Maybe the closet ate him.
I stepped inside and looked around, trying to figure out what could have been rattling. The house had to be at least a hundred years old—maybe there was a draft in the walls or something. My eyes fell on the two boxes that I’d shoved in the bottom corner of the closet yesterday, both labelled Softball Trophies. I stared at them for a moment. I always wanted to throw them out, but it felt weird to just toss something that I’d put so much work into. The problem was that every time I saw the boxes I had this feeling of regret gnawing its way around my stomach. It wasn’t overly pleasant.
I plucked a black graphic T-shirt with a moon and two stars on it from a hanger—still looking around suspiciously—and quickly threw on some jeans. All my clothes fit the same way: loose and unflattering. I always preferred that to tight and very unflattering.
But I did have my favourites. Most of my graphic T-shirts were space-themed—I have a thing for sci-fi—and generally black, navy-blue, or grey. Colours always led to easy references for bullies—yellow was the sun, red was the Kool-Aid man, and so forth. Once I wore blue jeans and a green shirt, which did not go over well—Portia called me Planet Earth all day, and started pointing out where countries would be. The U.S. was on my stomach…she wasn’t very good at geography. My jeans were usually either ripped or worn or faded, because I hate clothes shopping. That’s not just because I’m big either—it’s just that my mom really likes to shop and we end up spending the whole day at the mall. It’s exhausting. Taking one last peek into the closet, I went downstairs, scowling as the steps groaned beneath my feet.
My parents were already eating breakfast in the kitchen. They’re both early risers—actually, I doubt my dad had even slept. He had heavy bags under his eyes, and he was drinking out of the actual pot of coffee. He had probably been up all night painting.
“How did you sleep, Laura?” my mom asked, glancing up from the paper.
She was already fully dressed and her shoulder-length blond hair was done up in elaborate curls. She always wears dark eye shadow and mascara to make her blue eyes pop, and she’d even added a little scarlet lipstick today. I often looked at my mom and wondered what had happened to me. She was slim and petite, and she looked like a model in her old high school photos with her long golden hair and fair skin. Tom looked a lot like her, while I definitely took after Stache. Big bones, strong jaw, stronger hands.
I wish I got a bit more of my mom. Maybe the petite part.
“Great,” I said, putting some bread in the toaster. “Minus the rattling in my closet. There must be a crack or something. I could hear wind.”
Stache looked up immediately. “I’ll check it out after breakfast.”
“I’m sure there’s nothing rattling in your closet,” my mom said patiently. “You were probably dreaming.”
I scowled. “I was not dreaming. I have a haunted closet.” I went to grab the peanut butter. “What are we doing today?”
“Your father is going to continue working. We can help him with the painting later. But first we’re going clothes shopping, just like I said. We need to find you and your brother something new for your first day of school tomorrow. It’s going to be fun!”
I exchanged a resigned look with Stache. “Hurray.”
—
Five hours later I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror wearing a tight new purple top and a pair of very snug blue jeans. The saleswoman said it was trendy. I said it was cruel. I tried putting my hair in a ponytail and then straight and then I just gave up.
I started to cry. I’m embarrassed to say it. But once in awhile I looked at myself and bawled. I don’t know why. Today, it felt like I was going to go to school the next day and get picked on, and my parents would be ashamed, and my teachers would pity me, and all because I eat too much breakfast or something. It’s not a good feeling.
I watched as the tears rolled over my cheeks, round and fat, and then dripped off my chin, not even making it to the floor because they hit my fat body
