Perfect (2 page)

Here is our business arrangement in times of crisis:
bribery. Of the items I own, here is what April wants:
everything.

We stepped into my office, which doubles as a bedroom, and shut the door. As if shutting doors means anything around here.

"My rhinestone barrettes," I said.

Ape Face wrinkled her nose. She has no taste. She
wears a leotard to school, if that tells you anything. And
anyway, just as a good batter never swings at the first
pitch, Ape Face never takes the first offer. She likes me to
throw some heat.

I went over to my bureau and pulled out my pink tank
top. There was a time when Ape Face would have gnawed
off her own arm for this shirt. That is, before there was a
gigantic ravioli stain on the front.

"Right," said Ape Face, and made a move toward the
door.

I had to say something. Anything. "My Wonderbra?"

Ape Face said, "That's very funny, Isahelle. You should
he a comedian."

"I'm serious. It makes you look like you have something on top even when you don't."

Ape Face narrowed her eyes at me. "Do you know that
you are exactly ten seconds away from being grounded for
life'"

I couldn't tell if she was trying to scare me or if she
meant it. With three halls, no strikes, I couldn't take the
chance. This one was gonna hurt. "My red hoots," I said.
Ouch.

"The suede ones?" said Ape Face, brightening.

"The suede ones." Noooooooo. These are my absolute
favorite boots in the whole world and she knows it. I saved
my allowance for three months to buy them.

Regret! Regret!

Ape Face came over to my bed and sat down, one leg
crossed over the other. She held out her hand to me like
she was royalty and I was supposed to kiss her ring.

1 reached under the bed to get the shoe box and handed it to her.

Ape Face took her sweet time. She laced up each
hoot with excruciating care. She pointed her toes in the
air, flexed. Pointed, flexed, assumed ballet positions. She
stood and did a few plies and arabesques. Then, even
more slowly, she sat back down and unlaced. Slowly, oh so
slowly, she placed my all-time favorite hoots hack in their
tissue paper cocoon.

She handed me the box. "I don't think so, Isabelle.
They're a little scuffed."

She's that good.

"Okay, April. Name it."

"Your mountain hike." She actually said this with a
straight face.

"You're crazy."

"Your mountain hike," she repeated.

"Have you been sniffing glue? Those fumes, you know,
they can make you nuts."

Ape Face walked over to the door, placed one hand on
the doorknob. "This is my final offer, Belly. Take it or ...
don't."

I have never hated anyone so much in my entire life as
I hated my sister at that moment. "Get out of my room," I
told her. "Out."

"Have it your way," Ape Face said. And here is what
she, my own flesh and blood, did: she placed both hands
on her nonhips, smiled at me, and started yelling. "Mahh-
hhhm! Belly's puking her guts out!"

That's how it happened. That's how my ex-sister realized her lifelong dream of seeing me placed under house
arrest. That's how I ended up here, on this pee-colored
couch from the disco era, sandwiched between a skeleton
and a whale.

"GROUP" IS MY PUNISHMENT. As in "Eating Disorder and Body Image Therapy Group." It is just how you
wish you could spend every day for the rest of your life:
sitting around in a circle, talking about things you don't
want to talk about, in a room with no air circulation and
orange carpet that smells like Cheez-Its.

The first day of Group I wouldn't get out of the car. My
mother had us parked in a ten-minute spot, but that didn't
make me move any faster. I stared out the window at absolutely nothing. Then I fiddled with the radio. When I'm in the mood I can switch stations so fast you can't even tell
what song is playing. It is quite a talent.

Finally my mother reached over and turned it off.

"What?" I said. "I was listening."

"Isabelle." She put her hand on my arm. "It's almost
five. You don't want to be late."

I moved as far away from her hand as I could get. "Yes,
I do," I said. "I want to be very, very late. You have no idea
how late I want to be."

My mother sighed and gripped the steering wheel with
both hands.

I turned the radio on again and fiddled with the buttons like crazy, which you would think would make a
mother furious. Not this mother. She is the type that says,
in a voice so gentle you want to scream, "Oh, honey."

"Fine!" I turned off the radio. I unbuckled my seat belt
to make her think I was planning on going somewhere.
"Just answer me one thing. Why are you making me do
this?"

"Because that is the deal," my mother said.

"Some deal. It's not like I had a choice."

"You're right." My mother took off the stupid black
sunglasses she always has to wear when she goes out, even
when it's raining. She turned to look at me. "About this,
you don't have a choice. You need to do this one thing."

Now I was the one who reached over to touch her arm.
"Mom. Please? It was just that one time I threw up. I won't
do it again. I promise."

"I know you won't," she said.

"You do?"

"Yes."

"So I don't have to go?"

"No," Mons said, shaking her head slowly. "You do
have to go. That's how I know you won't do it again."

"Huh," I said. I made my voice quiet and spoke directly
to the windshield. The worst words possible. "Daddy
would never make me go. Not in a million years."

The silence was so big it made my stomach ache.

My mother couldn't look at me. "I'll pick you up at
six thirty," she said in a wobbly voice. On went the sunglasses.

When I got out of the car I slammed the door as hard
as I could. I didn't care if she cried. She could cry all day
if she wanted to. Just for once, though, I'd like her to do
it out in the open, not hiding behind something like sunglasses. It's a wonder she doesn't go blind.

I stood at the curb, watching my mother fumble with
the car keys for about a hundred years until she finally
turned on the ignition. I figured I might as well wait until
she pulled away, so she could wave good-bye to me like
everything was fine. And I could wave hack like nothing
had happened.

The leader of Group is Trish, who has hair like Orphan
Annie and an overbite. I know what an overbite is only
because I have one too. At least I used to, before I got
braces. Now all I have is a mouth full of metal.

The first day, Trish bounced around handing out
three-by-five cards and touching everyone on the shoulder. "Here you go.... Here you go...." She's the camp
counselor type. If anyone can make a rope ladder out of
dental floss, it's Trish.

"Welcome to Group!" Trish said. "Why don't we go around the room and introduce ourselves.... Mathilde?"
Trish pounced on the girl to my left. "Would you like to
start?"

When Mathilde ducked her head, you could see all
five of her chins. I'm not saying this to he mean, it really
happened. She spoke so softly we could barely hear her.
"I'm ... uh ... Mathilde."

"Great!" said Trish. "Hi, Mathilde. Let's all say 'Hiii,
Mathilde."'

We all said, "Hiii, Mathilde."

You have to feel badly for Mathilde. You really do. First
of all, she wears things like shorts with little strawberries
on then, and T-shirts with iron-on kittens. You can bet
her grandmother picks them out. Second, she has the fattest legs I've ever seen. Next to hers, my legs look like
sticks.

"Dawn?" said Trish.

"I'm Dawn," said Dawn, the cute girl sitting across
from me. Long yellow hangs, sad eyes, pug nose. I liked
her right away.

"Hiii, Dawn," we said.

Then there was Rachel. Rachel looks like she should
be in a gang. She has about ten earrings in each ear and
black eyeliner all around her eyes. You can guess what
she's thinking just from looking at her. I don't need you
people! I don't need anyone!

"Hiii, Rachel," we said anyway.

Next was Lila, who is superskinny. She's always tapping
her fingertips against her kneecaps. Her skin is white, white,
white, and you can count her ribs through her turtleneck. Most people would probably think that's gross, being able
to count someone's ribs through their shirt, but personally,
I wouldn't mind looking like Lila. It's better than being fat.
Way better.

"Hiii, Lila," we said.

Finally there was me. Isabelle Lee. Here's the problem with Isabelle Lee: shorten it, and what do you get?
Izzy Lee, which I hate. Or Belle Lee, which is just as had.
And Belly.' Well, Belly is unforgivable. I wake up every day
ready to kill Ape Face for coming up with that one.

I used to be Bella, Daddy's name for me. But then he
died and I wouldn't let anyone call me that anymore. If
they did I'd bite their head right oft.

Nobody in Group knows about that. To them, I'm just
Isabelle, and that's how it's going to stay.

"Hiii, Isabelle."

"Hi," I said. My voice came out so squeaky I didn't
even recognize it.

Trish looked at her watch and said we should wait a
few more minutes, there were supposed to he six of us.
Right on cue, someone knocked at the door.

Trish said, "Come on in, Ashley."

And in she walked: Ashley Barnum. The Ashley Bar-
I1 u I-n.

I could not have been more surprised if I woke up to
find my head stapled to my pillow. I was so dumbfounded
I had to mouth the words. Hiii, Ashley.

Here is what you have to know about Ashley Barnum
to understand: First of all, the name. Ashley Barnum. Royalty, right? When Ashley Barnum walks down the hall at school, you know it, and not just by the hundreds of wan-
nahe Ashleys who follow her everywhere. By her glow.
For starters, she has blue eyes, surfer-girl hair, and perfect thighs-skinny, but muscular too, the kind that flex
instead of jiggle. You can bet they don't rub together when
she walks.

On top of that, she is captain of the field hockey team
and vice president of the eighth grade. Last year she was
voted most popular girl, and everybody knows that when
we get to high school she'll be homecoming queen and
prom queen and every other kind of queen. Let's face it,
Ashley Barnum is the type of girl that, if she stepped in
dog doo, every guy would line up for the honor of licking
her feet clean. Not that dogs would dare doo in Ashley
Barnum's path. Even they would rather die.

Ashley has three brothers, high-school age. They all
look like male versions of Ashley. Craig, Jonathan, and
David are their names, and they take turns driving her to
school in a silver convertible, so she doesn't have to take
the bus like the rest of us. They are her bodyguards. One
Barbie, three Kens.

Once, I thought I could hate Ashley Barnum on
account of her being so perfect all the time, but here is the
clincher, here is the real tragedy: she's nice. At least if she
were a snob I could he left in peace.

This year, we have the same English class, Advanced
with Mr. Minx. Now that we're in eighth grade, everything
is split into ability levels: basic, standard, and advanced.
I'm in all advanced. I'm pretty good at everything, except
for math. At math I'm the pits.

In Mr. Minx's English class, Ashley Barnum sits front
and center. Dan Fosse and Peter Marsh, soccer players
(drool), sit on Ashley's right and left, only too happy to
play the bread to her peanut butter. Like every other guy
in the school, they spend each fifty-minute period waiting
for Ashley to sneeze so they can bless her.

Brian King sits behind her. He is in love with her.
Everyone knows that of Bri is not exactly in Ashley Barnum's league. He's doughy, and there's always dirt under
his fingernails, and he wears these thick glasses that are
constantly sliding halfway down his nose. But does that
stop him from writing love notes and dropping them onto
her desk on his way to the pencil sharpener? Nope. He's
been doing this since sixth grade. And Ashley always
smiles and says thank you. She slips Brian's notes into
her backpack like she's going to read them later. Why?
Because she's nice.