The thick, heavy smell of frying bacon wakes me. It is comforting, because it is the private smell of home, of safety. Rolling over in my narrow bed, I stretch and breathe deeply. I relish the smell with my eyes closed, tasting it in the back of my throat. I imagine lying there, breathing in that seductive, smoky aroma all day. It could be my sustenance, my nourishment. It would travel through my lungs and into my veins and fortify my body. It would cushion me like a life raft on a dark, rolling sea. Slowly, I begin to drift off to sleep again. “Knock, knock! Good morning Sugarcube! Time to rise and shine,” my mother sings out, suddenly hovering over my bed. I push away my peaceful bacon dream and crack one eye open. “Breakfast is almost on the table and your father is finally getting ready to clear out,” she chirps, moving around the room excitedly. “Get dressed, Sugarcube, I want to be at the Mall as soon as it opens! We have a lot of shopping to do!” The voice, still talking, fades as she moves back down the hallway and toward the kitchen. Groaning, I open my eyes against the sunlight and throw back my checkered summer quilt. The faces of Michael Jackson, Billy Joel, and George Michael greet me with pouty intensity. In the morning light I can see their poster-thin lips smeared thick with hundreds of Chapstick kisses and blush. They certainly did get me through many lonely nights “Maybe high school will be different…” I think as I climb out of bed slowly, watching their chiseled faces watch me. She always makes a huge breakfast on Saturdays. Usually it is eggs, fresh baked bread, bacon, homemade hash browns and sticky buns. Or, if she has been inspired by one of her many popular cooking shows, it will be an exotic dish like cheese crepes, eggs Benedict, or stuffed French toast. Today it will be the usual, though. She knows I’m not a big fan of adventurous cuisine. Except, of course, for the French toast. I knew she would be cheerfully humming, possibly singing, but definitely swaying awkwardly around the kitchen in time with whatever song was on the radio. She would be wearing the fancy apron. The one with a big, yellow goose embroidered on the front, perched uneasily between her massive breasts. The thought of facing that bobbing goose is almost too much to bear. I look at my bed, wishing I could slip back in and disappear in a swirl of bacon-scented air. As I slip my nightshirt over my head, I catch my reflection in the recently installed full-length mirror crookedly hung on my closet door. It was my mother’s suggestion. She thought all “young ladies” should have a full-length mirror hanging on the back of their closet doors. She beamed when she presented it to me, beamed through my father’s labored installation, and beamed some more after as she demonstrated how she imagined I would twirl in front of it. Moving closer to the mirror, I step out of my panties and nightgown and regard my naked body. My breasts are round and full and already beginning to droop. My rounded, freckled shoulders give way to fleshy, dimpled arms. Rolling humps of flesh cascade down my body, smoothing out only over my protruding mid-section. My thighs bubble out beyond my hips and mold together into a Y between my legs. My red and ruddy cheeks seem to swallow my thin lips and I watch myself sigh miserably. “Well,” I think groggily, “there’s one thing that won’t be different this year.” I pull my cheeks up and back, imagining what I would look like with cheekbones. Better. Then, with deep concentration, I begin slowly pulling, kneading, and pinching the rest of my body as I try to imagine what it would look like without all that fat. All. That. Fat. Pinching the back of a thigh with one hand and hefting a breast with the other, the image teeters out of reach. “Lands SAKES, child, what in the world are you doing to yourself ?” My mother demands, holding a spatula in the open door way. “MOM! Don’t you knock?” I say as I try to cover myself with my own overstuffed arms. “I came to check that you were up.” She huffs. She seems poised to say something else, the big goose wavering with hesitation. Her foot rises slightly as she considers stepping into the room, then changes its mind and settles back down to the floor. She shakes her head slightly before looking back down the hallway. “Breakfast is just about on the table,” she says quietly. “Now hustle up. The Mall opens at 10:00!” I throw on a pair of jeans and a baggy t-shirt scrounged up from the debris of an ill-spent, fitful summer: unfinished macramé projects, an abandoned stencil set, teen magazines, lumps of dirty laundry, and lots of diet books. Books by experts whose wondrous and magical claims will never be endorsed to by me. The t-shirt is my favorite shade of pale yellow and has white lace embroidered on the shoulders, which I think makes me look thinner. Thank you, Madonna. Moving quietly down the steps and out to the side porch, I see the table is already set. Linen napkins are threaded through her special-occasion, porcelain napkin rings. There is a small vase of fresh flowers in the middle of the table, and two places are set. There was a time a few years ago when eating on the side porch would be such a treat. The exhilaration of fresh air combined with the sounds of the outdoors, all while having a meal would leave me breathless, giddy. When a car would pass by I would cup my palm and wave slowly, as if I were a homecoming queen on a parade float. Now I wonder what a driver would think to see me standing there. Would I look big to him? Or small? Would he even see me? “Morning, Aubry. Ready for your big day?” my father asks from the doorway. He has his hands in his pockets. “As ready as I guess I can be,” I say as I flop into a chair. “Aren’t you supposed to be scarce?” “I’m going, I’m going,” he teases with an exaggerated look over one shoulder. “Lord knows I don’t want to cross that woman when she has a spatula in her hand.” “You and me both,” I say, smiling despite myself. I’m suddenly glad he is still here. It has become a tradition that my father quietly slips out on special mornings like these, leaving us girls to have our time together. He always puts his checkbook in the top right kitchen drawer before he leaves. After breakfast, while we are cleaning up, my mother will make a big deal out of searching for it, finally pulling it from the drawer carefully. She will blow imaginary dust off the top and slip it knowingly into her purse, winking to me. Dad is always able to diffuse my glumness. Usually all it takes is a curled-under lip, a pull on each earlobe and crossed eyes. All performed, of course, behind my mother’s back. Around him I feel almost normal, though this morning he seems a bit sober as he kneels beside my chair. For a moment, he just looks at me. “What’s up, Dad?” I say, nervously refolding my napkin. “Nothing. I just want to look at my daughter, that’s all,” he says, pushing a piece of hair behind my ear. “Aubry, listen, I want you to know something” He shifts his weight so he is facing me fully. I have no choice but to look at him. “There are two women that I admire more than anything in this world. That, of course, would be you and your mother. You’re becoming quite a young lady, and I couldn’t be more proud of that.” “Oh Dad..” I say, flushed. I don’t know whether to be flattered by the compliment or offended by the comparison. Before I have a chance to sort it out, he is once again on his feet. “Enough of that, I guess. I should probably take off before your mother kicks me out the door,” he says, shuffling his feet and kissing me on the forehead. “Try to have a good time, Aubry. I look forward to getting a full report at dinner.” And he is gone. My mother and father have a normal enough relationship, I guess. I mean, they love one another. I don’t think I ever doubted that. But they are very different. My father is a slight, short man. He is quiet and reserved in public, always courteous to strangers and polite to those familiar to him. He is trusted and well-regarded in our community. A sense of calm seems to surround him, and people are drawn to that. I love to go anywhere with him. Just a trip to the bank seems to set my senses right again. He makes me forget who I am, or at least how I feel about myself. When I am with him I don’t wonder what people are thinking, or seeing, when they look at me. My mother is the exact opposite. She is loud, for one thing. She talks over people, gesturing in large, circular motions with her meaty arms. Her laughter is like a boom of thunder, reverberating through the room. She often touches people when she speaks and cocks her head exaggeratedly to one side when she is listening. She works as a real estate agent and seems to know everyone in town. She never forgets a name, or a face, and it is difficult to go anywhere that she doesn’t accost some old or new or important client or contact or colleague. She fawns over them loudly, asking questions about their destinations and private lives. I examine her over breakfast. Under the apron, she is wearing one of her typical summer outfits: A pressed linen blazer and flowered silk dress. Her hair is done up in tight curls that accentuate her puffy jowls, and a small film of sweat creeps around her hairline, where her makeup doesn’t reach. She wears a ring on every finger, stuffed down tight over each thick knuckle. Her double-chin jiggles when she eats and when she speaks. She smells of the heavy lavender powder she sprinkles over her body to prevent chafing. I pull at my t-shirt and frown. “So! Are you ready for our big outing!” She says as she daintily places her napkin in her lap. “Sure, I guess,” I say, “You know, if you have stuff to do you could always drop me off.” “Absolutely not!” she mumbles around a mouthful of potatoes. “Honey, this is our time together!” She places her hand on my wrist. I look down at it. It is like a more veiny, puffier version of my own. “You used to love our back-to-school shopping days.” It is true, I did. The whole thing. The stiff, new clothes. The camaraderie. Lunch out at the Olive Garden. But mostly it was the excitement of a new school year. A fresh start. This year, though, the thought of the whole routine is exhausting. “I really don’t think I need anything, anyway,” I say, trying a different angle. “Nonsense! And now that you’re going to be in high school, you really should consider dressing a little more…” she reaches for the right word, “feminine. I mean, there will be boys and dances and all kinds of fun and different things.” Dabbing at her hairline with her napkin, my mother continues. “How about we at least look for a nice, colorful dress for the first day of school?” Ugh! I feel myself recoil as I imagine myself in one of her flowery, noisy dresses. Pretty soon she will recommend a blazer to go with it. “It’s not like it’s going to matter.” I spit, scraping at my plate noisily. “This year won’t be any different.” “Oh now you just hush,” She says indignantly, leaning over to pinch my cheek. “You are going to be the prettiest girl in the ninth grade.” I hate when she pinches my cheek. I remember the moment when I realized my mom was not like other moms. As a child, I adored her. I clung to her legs around strangers and buried my face in her soft neck when nightmares drove me from my bed. I would wrap myself in her big, chunky jewelry and strut around as she clapped and curtsied. Her lap was enveloping, calming, and I was in it every chance I had. She was safe and beautiful and she loved me so much I often worried she might absorb me into her warm, soft skin. It wasn’t until I was half way through second grade that I saw her differently, or maybe for the first time. It was cold out, November or December, and we were starting our first Brownie meeting. I was standing with my new friends and admiring my new brown jumper and sash while the troop leader demonstrated how to make a popsicle stick Angel. The mothers were standing in a group by the back door that abruptly broke into laughter. They were getting ready to leave and all had their coats on. I remember seeing how big my mother’s coat seemed compared to the other women’s. It seemed blown up somehow. I then realized that it was her. She was blown up and…big. Suddenly, as my eyes raced back and forth between normal and not, a sinking feeling formed in my stomach that has been there ever since. My mother was not normal, which meant neither was I. I spent the entire evening comparing myself to the rest of the small, boney armed girls in my troop. In the car on the way home that night I was especially quiet. “What is it, Sugarcube, didn’t you have a good time?” “Yeah, it was ok.” I was thankful for the semi-dark glow of the dashboard. “Well something must have happened. Was someone mean to you, baby?” “No. Nothing like that,” I said, turning my head toward the window so she wouldn’t notice my tears. And it was true. Nobody was mean to me back then. We were all young and just happy to be together. No pretense. No hierarchy. But that innocence ended soon after. I don’t know if it started with my burgeoning self-consciousness, or if it was always destined to happen. The separation. By the time I was in 3rd grade the girls were drifting into packs, with the beautiful girls always out in front. And by the 4th grade I was virtually invisible. The cool breeze of air conditioning hits us as we walk through the double doors of the mall. I lead my mother by two steps, working on three. I turn left, heading toward JC Penny. “Sugarcube,” she says, slightly out of breath, “let’s head down this way.” I turn to look at her and she is beaming again. Nothing good can come from my mother’s beaming. “But we always go to JC Penny.” “Oh come on, Darling! You’re a high school girl now!” She laughs, thunder booming, as she turns to the right and starts down the massive hallway. I have no choice but to follow her. Stopping in front of the Deb Shop, she turns to me. “After you…” Once we enter any public place, my demeanor always changes. I become defensive, alert. I scan the room, estimating our proximity to others. I run through a number of complicated calculations that will help me estimate my potential for embarrassment and humiliation, two distinct probabilities when out with my mother. And so I am devastatingly alert as we walk into the Deb Shop. It is the trendiest store in the Mall. I’ve passed it many times before, but have never had the nerve to go in. The mannequins in the windows are painted day-glow neon colors and the pulse of top 40 music spills out into the hallway. I feel like the eyes of every person is watching the two of us as we, as she, pushes her way into the space before I can protest. Surprisingly, as I cross the threshold, no alarm sounds. No one escorts us out. “We have a lot to go through, let’s start with that first day of school dress!” Her thick hips ruffle the carousels of clothes on either side of her as she talks over her shoulder. “Oh honey this is darling.” She says stopping abruptly, grabbing the first dress she sees. “Here, just slip it over your head to see if it fits.” “I’ll wait until we get to the dressing room,” I bristle. Boy George’s Karma Chameleon is thumping in my head. “Don’t be silly. Just put it on over your shirt. Oh, no one is looking. It’s simply too darling, I can’t wait to see how you look in it.” “I said I’ll wait.” I reply with great restraint. “Fine then, be a grouch. It must be the first thing you put on then.” Hopelessly, I allow her to drag me around the store, gathering up jumpers and corduroy pants and practically anything flowered. I marvel at how different the store looks from the inside: the harsh florescent lights highlighting the dead carcasses of moths, bees, and flies pooled in the bottom of plastic domes. The garish bright metal racks holding cheap clear plastic hangers propping up too bright, too trendy, ill fitting garments. Scuffed, carelessly mopped, speckled linoleum squared floors. Breathing in a lungful of dry, stale air, I sigh. “Oh honey, LOOK at this dress!” she squeals loudly, holding up a bright, paisley, ruffley thing, “You should definitely wear this on the first day!” At least it isn’t flowered. “Can I set up a dressing room for you ladies?” A sales clerk pops up out of nowhere to save me. Her sculpted arms are crossed in front of her chest. “Why yes, that would be lovely, thank you.” My mother replies sweetly. “Was there anything in particular you were looking for?” the clerk says with a furrowed brow, taking an armful of clothing from my mother. “No, just shopping for my wonderful daughter here. She’s starting high school next week and I want her to look marvelous!” “Of course you do.” The clerk chirps, nodding from my mother to me, the look of concern replaced with a cardboard smile. “Just so you know,” she confides to us in a low voice, “if you’re having trouble finding the right size, you might be interested in exploring our brand new Plus section in the back of the store.” Rearing back with a snide smirk, my mother replies sharply, “Thank you for your concern, Miss! I think we can manage just fine up here with the regular folks. Do be a dear though and hang those things nicely in our dressing room.” “I just meant—” “I really don’t care what you meant. I also don’t care for your attitude. Now run along and hang our things,” Mother says patiently and with finality. Fuming, I split off from her and head down an aisle. I duck behind a rack where she can’t see me, and pick at a few items hanging there. Suddenly, I hear the familiar sound of giggling girls. I peek around the carousel and my heart sinks to see three girls in my grade, Amy, Shelly, and Sabrina. “Oh my gawd Sabrina, you have got to get that skirt. It is so cute!” Amy screeches. “You think so?” “Totally.” Shelly adds. “Matt would totally think you’re rad in that.” “Ok, ok, let me try it on first!” Sabrina responds, pleased by the attention. The voices grow fainter as they head to the dressing rooms. I shift over to the rack they were looking at and see Sabrina’s skirt. It is pink with a lace ruffle around the bottom. I pick one in my size off the rack and hold it up in front of me. “Oh honey, that is DARLING!” my mother says, startling me from behind. Apparently she is becoming a master at sneaking up on me. “You have GOT to try it on!” Quickly, I put the skirt back on the rack. “No, that’s ok.” “Oh, I’m SERIOUS. That skirt is you sweetie. At least try it on.” I look at the skirt for a few more moments. Her eagerness makes me instantly want to reject it, but it really is pretty. Almost too pretty. I grab it and lay it gently over my arm and allow her to lead me around the rest of the store. Once in the dressing room, I can barely breathe. She refuses to let me dress alone, which is why we are crammed in a space not made to fit one let alone the two of us. It is dark and stuffy and the walls, painted white a lifetime ago, are stained and battered by a thousand purses, elbows, and umbrellas. The carpet is sticky and slightly damp under my bare feet. I am huddled in the corner, trying to pull on the skirt without falling over as I avoid her wide-set frame packed in close to mine. Sweat is rolling down my back, between my shoulder blades, as I stand in my white bra and underpants. We tried on everything else and had negotiated down to a few respectable pieces to buy. Corduroy pants, yes. Paisley dress, no. The whole experience has left me worn out and irritated. The skirt is the only thing left. I stand up in it awkwardly, feeling like a sausage, and stare miserably at the gaping part in the curtain my mother can never seem to pull the entire way shut. I catch the sound of giggling from a few dressing stalls down and say a silent prayer asking God to keep them from seeing me here with my mother. To keep them from seeing me at all. “See now look, that’s just darling.” She says in her cheeriest voice, beaming at me. “I think it’s too small.” “It’s not too small! It’s not too small at all. You’re just not wearing it right. Here, let me help.” “I’ll do it!” I snap back, working the skirt around my sticky thighs. “Stand up straight, I can’t see where the hem falls.” “I’m standing up.” I mumble, eyeing the thin curtain. “You’re not, you’re slouching. It’s sitting too low, you have to pull it up to your waist. To your belly button. Here, let me.” I want to back away, but there is nowhere to go in that room. The backs of my knees are already pressed against the bench that protrudes from the back wall. The heat is unbearable. I can hardly breathe. Then my mother proceeds to do what I absolutely despise her for. She begins hitching up the skirt, leaning over me with each hand grasping the fabric on either side. Her damp cheek rests against mine as she strains with her slick, dimpled arms to wrestle the fabric up around my waist. My big, fat waist that, no matter how hard she struggles, would not surrender. Mortified, I stare straight ahead, straight out that slit and into the cool fitting room hall. “I can’t see in this light, come out here darling, to the mirror.” She drags me out of the dressing room before I can protest and stands me in front of a mirror. A three-way mirror, as if one wasn’t enough. “What do you think?” “I look ridiculous.” I whisper, nervously peering down the hallway. “You look absolutely like an angel, Sugarcube. You look like a young lady.” She says, standing back dramatically. At the same moment, Amy and Shelly come around the corner, each holding her own copy of Sabrina’s skirt just as Sabrina herself steps from her stall and into the hallway. She is, of course, also wearing the skirt. “I still think it’s sitting just a little too low,” my mother says quietly, as if to herself, as she bends over to do some more hitching. The girls are pretending not to see us, looking at and flattering one another on how great they are going to look as high schoolers. Hearing this, my mother stands up and turns to face them. She looks back and forth between them and me. “Well lands sakes, don’t you all look beautiful!” she exclaims. She turns to me, all smiles, laughter cracking through the air. The girls continue chattering, pointedly ignoring my mother. “I said, don’t you girls look beautiful!” My mother says, even louder. This time the girls stop talking and look at us. My heart almost stops beating. They are looking. At us. At me. “You could be the four musketeers in these pretty pink skirts,” my mother continues, heartily. Amy and Shelly look at one another, then at Sabrina. Their smirks are on the verge of breaking into laughter. Quickly, they dive into Sabrina’s dressing room, where peals of laughter erupt. Sabrina regards us more seriously, disgusted, then looks me right in the eyes. “As if,” she says before slowly sauntering behind the curtain herself. Letting out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, I look at my mother. Her face is pale and white and her shoulders slump. She looks like someone who was just slapped. The look is all too familiar to me. She seems to choke on something, making a very small noise, and then she busies herself with the contents of her purse. “How rude…” she says weakly, almost to herself, peeling a stick of gum from its wrapper. I think I see her bottom lip quiver slightly and I suddenly feel the incredible need comfort her. Instead, I turn and walk straight over to Sabrina’s dressing room and yank back the curtain. My heart is beating through my bosom. Instantly the whispers stop. They look at me with wide eyes. Their six thin, tan legs move closer together, like a flock of birds. Their frail arms jolt back in surprise. “You.” I say in a quiet, even voice and looking directly at Sabrina. “You girls are no better than me. Don’t. Ever. Forget. That.” Turning quickly, not waiting for the gaping, squawking response I was sure would come, I return to my dressing room and pull the curtain shut. The whole way shut. I change slowly and gather up the clothes we are going to buy. Carefully, I lay the pink skirt on top. Exiting the dressing room, I see the girls are gone, but my mother is there, still standing by the dreaded threeway mirror. Her eyes are moist and she isn’t beaming, but I can tell she wants to. As I approach her there, under the glow of dozens of florescent lights, she looks bigger than ever.