Read Online Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Single by Heather McElhatton - Free Book Online Page B

bigger than a plus-size model . Iwas hanging onto size ten this summer, hanging on for dear life, but this fall I lost my grip and tumbled into a size twelve. And here I was considering the possibility of going on a date with Brad Keller?
    Me? The jumbo loser girl?
    I sit and think every vile thought I can about myself. I beat myself up. While the lights are flashing I am tearing through an inner dialogue that would make Mommie Dearest frightened. I am stupid, fat, lazy, ugly, unlucky, bad at card games, bad at math, a terrible driver, a worse tennis player, I snore, I get gas when I eat ice cream, I’m utterly tone deaf. I’m stuck in this job in this city in this life and nothing will ever be different because I will never be different. I will always be the same flaky, undependable, untalented, overlooked girl.
    Brad turns around and smiles at me. A hard jolt of electricity flashes down my right arm and I almost fall off my bucket. I smile and blush without meaning or wanting to. I have my arms clamped so hard to my sides it hurts. I take out my phone and surreptitiously text-message Christopher, begging him to bring me deodorant.
    The strobes keep flashing and the girls strike different poses. In a way, it’s easier to shoot plus-size models; it goes more quickly because there are fewer pose options. There’s no jumping in the air or squatting for these girls. There’s no hugging each other or crossing their arms, nothing that squishes arm fat. There are no serious expressions. No staring in the distance or pursing their lips. Big girls are happy girls, period. They can smile, put one hand on their hip, or pivot. That’s about it.
    I shouldn’t be so mean. I don’t mean to be mean—after all, a lot of these girls are just like me. They’ll go to prom with their girlfriends, telling each other it doesn’t matter that they don’t have dates, that they have each other, which is all a girl reallyneeds. And they’ll all laugh and sneak a bottle of champagne into the rented limo and they’ll all be very careful not to look too deeply into each other’s eyes, because behind the fun and festivity, the smiles and the laughing, is a growing pool of panic. If they don’t have dates now, will they ever? If they haven’t found the man they’re going to marry, will they ever?
    And if I was there with them, so many years older and wiser, what could I tell them? If I told them the truth, I would say something I never dreamt of believing back then. I would tell them to grab a nice guy and make it work no matter what. I’d tell them to consider arranged marriages, that their parents will be able to pick a better mate than they will. I would tell them no one is perfect and no Prince Charming is coming. I would tell them there aren’t any white horses or knights in shining armor to save them. They have to save themselves. I would tell them they have every reason to feel panic, and to hurry.
    The shoot finally, mercifully ends and the lights are shut off one by one, cooling the room by degrees. Just as people start leaving, Christopher finally appears.
    â€œGreat timing,” I hiss. “I’ve been sitting under these hot lights for hours, smelling like blue cheese, with Brad Keller standing two feet away from me and now that it’s over, you show up. What the hell is that?”
    â€œAll I could find was baking soda.” Christopher hands me the little yellow box.
    â€œAre you kidding me? What am I supposed to do with this?”
    â€œJust put some under your armpits. Baking soda soaks up any smell.”
    â€œWhere did you get it?”
    â€œEmployee break room.”
    â€œGreat. That’s where that guy keeps his diabetes syringes.”
    I stomp off to the bathroom, which has two people in it already, so I lock myself in a stall and try to put baking soda under my arms. I end up doing this half-swami double helix thing with one foot