Read Online The Makedown by Gitty Daneshvari - Free Book Online Page B

chewing food properly. Who am I kidding? I have a history of swallowing food whole; I am in no position to discuss the importance of chewing. Somehow, my lack of chewing makes me even more annoyed with Janice, sparking a rebellion.
    Two hours later, a lovely yellow cab drops me in front of Janice’s building with grocery bags in hand. My thighs aren’t raw. My heels aren’t aching, and I am back an hour and a half early. Instead of the usual afternoon snack, I am greeted with a curious scowl.
    “Drop the bags,” Janice demands harshly.
    “What?”
    “Turn around and go back to each store and take a picture. My digital camera’s on the desk. And leave your wallet here.”
    “Why?”
    “I sent you out on walking errands, not cab errands.”
    “I paid for the cab myself, if that’s what you are worried about.”
    “Anna, for the last time, I am trying to help you. Trust me, the world is a much nicer place without four chins and saddlebags, okay?”

Chapter Eight
    F ood interrogation has become a regular part of the job, and as a result, I’ve actually lost a little weight. For someone of my girth, fifteen pounds doesn’t translate to much; fewer indentations on my legs after removing my pants is the highlight. Most important, throughout the dietary cross-examinations, my ability to lie has not improved at all. And certainly not for a lack of trying. On nights I’ve been naughty, I toil tirelessly to perfect the cadence of my lie. In bed, I hold a mirror to study my facial expressions as I repeatedly tell the lie. By the end of the night, fatigue lulls me into believing that the fib is plausible. None of it matters, since Janice has a sixth sense with my stomach. I am convinced that Janice has x-ray vision, allowing her to discern the contents of my digestive track. That is the only explanation for her deft ability to tell when I’ve gone astray.
    On this particular morning, Janice radiates an angelic beauty, with her golden brown locks falling neatly to her shoulders. In a black cashmere cardigan and a pencil skirt, she emanates kindness, but I know it is a front; Janice is searching for a small fissure to crack open and expose my food register. A tight knot forms in my stomach, but I force myself to stay calm. I breathe deeply through my nose, concentrating on my “truth.” I read that sociopaths pass lie-detector tests by believing their own lie. I’m not a sociopath, simply a strong believer in method acting.
    “Good morning, Anna,” Janice says coldly.
    Stay calm, I tell myself. Act normal. What do I usually do when she says hello? Greet her. Speak slowly. Keep my voice even. Remember, she can’t prove I’m lying without a stomach pump.
    “How are—” I begin to inquire, but Janice cuts me off.
    “Dinner?”
    This is it. The moment I have been waiting for, time to speak my “truth.”
    “Angel hair pasta. I diced some fresh tomatoes and added a drop of olive oil. Really delicious . . . and healthy. I didn’t put any garlic in . . . because . . . I didn’t want my breath to smell,” I babble.
    Silence. More silence. And even more silence. Does the silence speak to her disbelief or belief in my lie? Has my lying improved? Has all the practice paid off? A miniscule wave of relief passes over me as she crinkles her nose and beams caringly at me. She is going to congratulate me. Remember, don’t act too surprised or grateful.
    “Anna, sweet, lovely, Anna, your nose.”
    “My nose?” I ask curiously.
    “Your nose is growing,” Janice says firmly.
    Janice’s comment causes a sweat ’stache to form on my upper lip. With each passing second, her eyebrows rise a little more. I am at a crossroads; I can either continue the lie or admit my deception. I question whether I have what it takes to maintain the angel hair pasta position. Of course, facing Janice’s wrath is hardly appetizing either.
    “Fettuccine Alfredo,” I mumble with shame. Why do I even bother? It’s futile.
    “Did you eat