away from Audra, putting her hands up to her chest
as though she were afraid she’d have to use them in
self-defense.
“I didn’t mean to offend you—”
“I know. I’m sorry,” Audra said, and meant it.
“It’s just . . . I’ve been dealing with a lot of negativity
lately about my size,” she admitted. “And there’s
this guy at work.” She sighed. “This really, really
good-looking guy. The strong, silent type who
knows old movies. He’s got these eyes . . .” She
sighed again. “And he asked me to a party. Okay, it’s
last minute, but still, he asked me, and I’ve got to be
hip and fancy and I’ve been looking all day . . .” She
blew out a heavy exhale. “I can’t help the fat and
54
Karyn Langhorne
black parts, but . . . I just don’t want to look ugly,”
she said, more to herself than the salesgirl.
To her surprise, the girl touched her arm in conso-
lation. “I understand totally,” she said gently. “The
dressing room is behind the curtain . . . over there,”
she said, pointing to a dramatic black curtain near a
platform lined with mirrors. She hurried to a
counter and squatted. “Let me find the twelve . . .”
she murmured, and disappeared.
Audra heard the rattling of cardboard, then the
girl reappeared with a series of flat red boxes.
“Thank you, darling,” Audra drawled and swag-
gered toward the curtain as though she were really
Bette and this were really a movie scene.
Audra avoided the mirror as she stripped off her
sweatshirt, sick of the image of herself she knew
she’d find there. There was too much skin, too many
rolls. I’m not eating until after the party is over, she told
herself. And Monday morning, I’m back on my diet, she
vowed, imagining herself svelte and sexy on Art
Bradshaw’s arm by the end of the summer. In the
tiny fitting room, the image seemed possible, proba-
ble, attainable—but then, there weren’t any Oreos
lying around back here to tempt the resolution.
But Art won’t care, either way. He sees the real me . . .
my true beauty, she added mentally and dismissed
the planned day-long fast almost as quickly as she’d
embraced it.
She lifted the frothy, silvery top out of the box
with a sigh of appreciation. It was so soft, so shim-
mering, so beautiful, so fine . . . and had no price
tag—no tags of any kind—except for a tiny label
stitched into the side seam with the designer’s
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
55
name. Eager for the feel of the fabric on her skin,
Audra slipped it over her head.
She got one arm through, too, before she got
stuck, her other arm wedged trapped in the seam,
bound tight to a roll of flesh at her side. She strug-
gled with it, gently, but it didn’t give. She pulled
harder, unwilling to give up . . . and made it worse.
She was wedged into the fabric now, too in to get
out, too out to get in.
“Uh . . . help!” she called. “Help!”
The curtain parted. For an instant, the girl’s eyes
rolled upward in an expression Audra instantly in-
terpreted as “I told you so,” making the movie-star
attitude Audra had adopted now nothing more than
a useless ruse. But the girl said nothing. Instead, she
stepped toward Audra and began pulling gently on
the fabric, trying to ease Audra’s left arm through
the armhole.
“Just . . . a . . . little more . . .” Audra encouraged,
feeling her fingers stretching for light and air. “A lit-
tle more . . .”
“I don’t want . . . to rip it . . .” the salesgirl grunted,
still working the fabric. “Maybe if you suck in a
little . . .”
Audra complied. Her arm popped through the
sleeve . . . but as soon as she exhaled the fabric
stretched extremely tight over her breasts and stom-
ach, revealing every bump and roll of flesh. Audra
panted, afraid to breathe, lest the delicate side seams
pop. She stared into the mirror, seeing an effect far
different from the one on the mannequin. The woman
in the mirror looked like a plump sausage wrapped
in a casing, a silvery, gauzy wrapper.
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Karyn Langhorne
“Oh dear,” the sales clerk breathed, shocked.
“I . . . I don’t think it suits you . . .”
Audra wanted to agree, wanted to rip the thing
off and run as fast as her legs would take her from
Madison Avenue, fancy boutiques, and any hope of
glamour. But that was impossible now.
“I don’t think I can get it off,” she admitted, no
longer Bette Davis, but an embarrassed fat woman in
a shirt far too tight. Her eyes found the salesgirl’s,
seeking assistance. “Please help me out of this . . . If I
rip it”—she sighed, dropping the façade totally—“I
really can’t afford to pay for a top I can’t even wear.”
She left out that part of the story when her mother
came in from her day at the Goldilocks salon—along
with the details of her meeting with Woodburn—
concentrating instead on the magical moment when
Art Bradshaw had invited her to his daughter’s
sweet sixteen.
Edith stared at her for a long moment. “Sounds to
me like you got a date with the daughter,” she said
at last.
Audra rolled her eyes, her voice rising, ready to
re-enter the fray. “Didn’t you hear what I told you he
said? About wanting me to come? Needing me to
come—”
“Yeah, but I don’t know how you get a date out of
that—”
Audra opened her mouth to explain, but her
mother waved the opportunity away.
“It doesn’t matter, Queenie D.” She sighed. “I
been thinking about last night . . . and I’ve decided I
ain’t arguing with you no more. You want to run
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
57
headfirst into a brick wall, you go ahead. Just don’t
expect me to pick you up when you get your feelings
hurt.” She shook her head. “ ’Cause I’m tired. I’m
just too damn tired.”
“Me, too, Ma,” Audra told her, settling deeper
into the couch and returning to the mystical magic
of Breakfast at Tiffany’s currently playing on the Clas-
sic Movie Channel. “And the only thing that hurts
my feelings is that you don’t think anyone
