Sweet by Emmy Laybourne Read Free Book Online Page A

noted.
    Just then the waiters arrived at our table with our plates, and voil à , dinner was served.
    â€œOh,” I said, as my stomach gave a decided and audible protest.
    â€œOh my Lord, look at the size of that steak!” the husband of the miserable family said.
    â€œYummy!” Viv chimed in.
    The giant steaks were some kind of icebreaker and everyone started chatting. We all told about where we were from … and if it was our first cruise … that kind of thing.
    I cut a bite. It was pink in the center and juicy, with a crust of herbs on the outside.
    I put the bite in my mouth. It was both delicious and repellant at the same time.
    I didn’t want to waste it. It was probably the nicest steak I would ever be served in my whole life.
    But I also could not have it in my mouth.
    I tried a teeny tiny bite of the fluffy, buttery mashed potatoes and got some acid reflux up my gullet.
    That was it. No more food for me.
    Not even a historical é clair.
    *   *   *
    â€œWow! It’s delicious!” Viv exclaims.
    â€œYou’d never know it wasn’t real sugar!” the mom agrees.
    â€œI don’t know,” the dad says. “Tastes a little chalky to me.”
    â€œIf it makes me lose weight, I’ll eat straight chalk!” the retired man hollers. I think he is a bit deaf.
    I set my fork down.
    â€œWhat? You don’t like it?” the mom asks me.
    â€œI’m not feeling well,” I say.
    â€œDude, look at her face,” one of the ninth-grade twins snickers, pointing to me. “She’s gonna hurl.”
    â€œNo, she’s not!” Viv says. “Are you?”
    I shake my head no.
    (But I may.)
    I can keep it down. I think I can keep it down.
    Viv flags over a waiter.
    â€œCan you get my friend another ginger ale?” she asks.
    The waiter returns a moment later with another soda and, glory be, a couple of heavy-plastic travel-sickness bags.
    â€œThanks,” I whisper as I tuck the bags into my giant purse.
    Viv pats my hand kindly.
    â€œSweetie,” Vivvy says. “If you’re not going to eat your dessert, do you mind?”

 
    TOM
    DAY ONE
    WE’RE AT THE CLUB CASSIOPEIA.
    Sabbi hinted she’d be coming here after she changes outfits. Rich and Tamara insisted we come. I don’t love being bossed around, but at least I get to dance. Get in a little cardio.
    The truth is, I like dancing. I’m good at it and the same thing happens that happens when I run—after about twenty minutes, I get an endorphin release and I can forget about everything for a while.
    Some girls dance up around me and try to engage. I dance with them. But I don’t lock eyes.
    I’m in it for the endorphins.
    I see some people taking pictures of me with their phones.
    I’m sure Rich and Tamara will be happy about that. They want me tweeted and Instagrammed and Snapchatted all over the Web. That’s what Solu’s paying me for, I guess.
    I do like to dance.
    When you’re twelve or thirteen, I think most guys all decide that dancing’s for girls, but when I was twelve and thirteen, I wasn’t really around guys my age. I was getting tutored on set and hanging around with my mom. The only kids I hung out with were my “sisters” on the show.
    In fact, when the producers figured out I actually liked to dance, they brought in an instructor to work with me.
    All a part of that initial phase where they wanted me to lean down.
    It was cute for me to be chubby as a little kid, but when I hit eleven, they decided it wasn’t so adorable anymore.
    Mari Ayn showed up and I started spending an hour a day on hip-hop lessons. It was fun. Yes, they were trying to control me and shape me up according to some plan they had, but it was fun.
    After a year, Mari Ayn brought in B-Boy Derek and then it got interesting.
    And now I can b-boy, or breakdance, as the old folks say. I have a little routine put