I yelp, tossing my arms around her. Alice usually isn’t one for hugs. The limp hands at her sides prove that. I’m just so happy I can’t resist. Dad laughs, but Mom bangs on the table, grabbing our attention.
“But as soon as you get back, you are focusing on college,” Mom says, pointing a finger. I rise up on my toes. Nothing she can say will ruin this for me. “And I want phone calls. Phone calls, not texts. I’m talking every hour. You understand?”
I can’t hear anything else she says because I’m too busy screaming and pulling her in for a hug.
@JosieTheJournalist: shout out to plus sized clothes that are actually plus sized and not just average sizes that should already be carried in stores
When I was eight, we went to a big family reunion at Disneyland, but that’s the only time I’ve been out of the state. So I have no idea how to pack for this trip.
While Alice spends the next few days taking finals and wrapping up her first semester at college, I try to pack everything I’ll need for a two-week-long tour. On Tuesday, Maggie pops into my room and frowns at my suitcase like it’s an orphaned puppy.
“What?” I glance down at it. There’s enough, even if it isn’t all folded. “It’s not that bad. I won’t be naked.”
“But this is a big deal. You’re interviewing movie stars.” She grips my shoulders, shaking me back and forth. “Josie, do you understand what this means?”
“I mean, the biggest star in the movie is Art Springfield, and only old people like Mom and Dad like him,” I say. “I’m interviewing the newcomer, so he’s not exactly what you’d—”
“Stop ruining this for me,” she says. “I’m living through you.”
“I wish you could come,” I say. Alice isn’t around, so I can play favorites. “We would have so much fun.”
“I know.” She pouts, flicking something off my T-shirt. “But you’ll be with Alice. You guys will have loads of fun without me. She’s really excited, you know.”
I raise my brows. Maggie never picks sides when it comes to Alice and me, which means she says things no one believes. She shoves me and scoffs.
“If you can’t have fun on an all-expenses-paid trip, there’s something wrong with you.” She puts her hands on her hips. “And you need better clothes. Something nice. Something fancy.”
Ugh. I love clothes. I just hate buying them. I like looking at pictures of celebrities walking on the street during Fashion Week and watching Project Runway. It’s this odd paradox: clothes look limp, useless when they aren’t being worn, but most designers aren’t thinking of bodies like mine. Even plus-sized models look more—I don’t know—symmetrical. Their bodies look like they belong on runways. Whenever I find something I want to wear, I look wrong in it, like a gingerbread man with too much dough in the wrong places.
But I don’t know how to say any of that to Maggie. She’ll tell me I’m pretty the way I am. And it’s not like I need to be pretty. It’s not about being pretty. It’s about the way everyone looks at me when I wear clothes that don’t fit me correctly. Their mouths turn down and sometimes they even whisper. I can practically hear them thinking, Thank goodness I don’t look like her. I just want to exist without being a spectacle. I don’t want attention on me unless I ask for it.
Maggie and I talk all the time about periods and guys and bad sex she’s had. But this isn’t something I want to share with my sister. I’ve buried it deep inside me, far away from the surface.
“I have to save money for the trip,” I say instead. “So the fancy actor will just have to be satisfied with normal clothes.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Maggie says, waving her hand. “I’ll treat you.”
I can’t bring myself to say no.
Later in the week, Maggie gets Mom to watch Cash so we can all go to the mall. It’s thirty minutes of driving with both my sisters, which means I end up in the back seat while they catch up. They talk about the same things Maggie talks about with her friends on the phone: sex, guys, reality TV, hair. I tune them out and mess around on my phone.
The mall is gigantic, so there are several different stores to choose from. Maggie starts with this boutique near the entrance. I doubt she has enough money to buy us anything from this place. There’s a handful of other women, and they’re all white.
“This looks kind of nice,” Maggie says, pulling out a long purple dress. “What do you guys think?”
“I don’t think I could walk in it,” Alice says. “It’s too long.”
“But that’s kind of cool,” I say. It’s pretty plain otherwise, basically a long piece of fabric. “It would be like having a train behind you, almost like a princess.”
Alice raises a brow but doesn’t say anything. A woman behind us folds a bunch of shirts on a giant wooden table. Maggie steers us toward another rack. The white women glance at us. One whispers in another’s ear. I turn to Alice. Her eyes are narrowed.
“I like this,” Maggie says, pulling out a romper. “What do you think?”
It’s light orange, with long, loose pants, flounce cap sleeves, and an open back. The sort of thing I imagine all of the fancy ladies in L.A. wearing. It could look like a dress or a shirt-skirt combo and a romper, all at once.
“I love it.” I run my hand across the material. It’s soft. “Are you thinking of getting it? How much is it?”
Maggie glances at the price tag, eyes widening.
“Maggie?”
“Don’t think about that.” She tucks the tag back. “See if you like it.”
“I think that woman is following us.”
Alice’s voice is a whisper. Since I’m obvious, I turn my head.
