Models Don't Eat Chocolate Cookies by Erin Dionne Read Free Book Online Page B

was sure Sandra would tell me the details about her Secret Plot to Destroy Lively during our nightly phone call . . . But the tightness in my stomach wouldn’t go away.
     
    After dinner, I went back up to my room to start my homework and wait to hear from Sandra. My need to talk to her about the HuskyPeach had returned, but I didn’t know how to bring it up.
    I tried addressing Theo for practice: “Hi, I might be a model.” Then, “Hey, guess what, my parents want me to go to San Francisco in two weeks for a professional photo shoot.” According to Theo’s reaction, either of those approaches sounded good. I knew better. Even if Theo could like me for who I was, putting the words “plus-sized” in front of the word “model” changed everything. It was so embarrassing. “I’m going to be a fat girl model” and “I’m in a chubby girl modeling contest,” sounded even worse. The whole situation was a cruel joke. Most people would be excited about the possibility of being a model—the glamour, the clothes, the cool parties, and doing fun stuff for magazine shoots. Everything about it should be fairy tale sweet, Hollywood cool. In place of Hollywood glamour, I got a bad sitcom. Instead of knights in shining armor, my fairy tale was filled with wormy apples. Theo Christmas watched me with sympathy, a Prince Charming with a guitar instead of a steed.
     
    By eight thirty, I still hadn’t heard from Sandra. We called each other every night no later than eight fifteen, unless our families were away. She called me Mondays and Wednesdays; I called her on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I double-checked my calendar: Wednesday. Maybe her family went out to dinner, I thought. Maybe they’re late getting back. But that couldn’t be true. Sandra’s Grammie Jean, who lived with them, had to take medication every night at eight, so Sandra’s family never stayed out late.
    Eight thirty-six. My stomach felt like a tangled ball of yarn. Just call. You do it every other school night. I stared at the phone receiver, willing it to ring. Just call . I wanted to hear all about the Secret Plot to Destroy Lively. I wanted to believe there was one. If I didn’t pick up the phone, I could imagine what Sandra and I would talk about—how great it would be to laugh at what Lively and her lame friends said at lunch.
    Eight forty-two. The imaginary conversations weren’t interesting anymore. Before I could give it much thought, I picked up the phone with slick hands and punched her number. The purr of the ring tickled my ear. One . . . two . . . three . . . The McGees’ voice mail picked up on the fourth ring when they weren’t home. A click.
    “Hello?” Slurp, smack. It was Sandra.
    “Hey,” I said, swallowing what felt like an entire Jolly Rancher.
    “Celeste? Wait—what day is it? Is it Thursday?” The candy clicked against her teeth.
    “Uhh, no. Wednesday. But it was getting late, and I . . .” I couldn’t think of what to say.
    “Oh no! I totally lost track of time. Umm, well, I’m on the other line. Can I call you after?”
    Sandra knew my parents don’t like the phone to ring after nine. And who was she on the other line with, anyway? Part of me knew. Really knew. “That’s okay. We’ll talk tomorrow,” I said, staring up at my bedroom ceiling.
    “Sorry. Okay, then,” she said. “I should get back. Um, Lively is going to her first Kick Off tryout tomorrow and I’m just trying to give her an idea what to expect. It’s no big deal.”
    “Sure,” I said, blinking. “No big deal.”
    “And guess what?” She went on without waiting for my answer. “She told me a new way to pull my hair back that’ll make my eyes look bigger. And she thinks that Robbie Flan might have been looking at me in science today!”
    “Great,” I responded.
    After Sandra clicked back to Lively’s call, I sat with the receiver to my ear, hoping she’d change her mind, and hoping the deep, throbbing pain in my middle would go away.