She goes on, talking about how it’s important to drink lots of water and plan meals ahead of time so I know the calories. She talks as if she’s an expert on successful dieting, and it dawns on me now that maybe she’s not just naturally thin. Maybe she works hard at it. So maybe I can work hard, too.
“So what triggered this choice?” she asks a few hours later when the store gets slow. “Your grandmother used to talk about dieting all the time, but then one day she said she’s happy with herself and wouldn’t diet again.”
I laugh. “Yeah, she’s still like that. And it makes it hard for me to diet because she still cooks all kinds of delicious foods.” I curl up my lips in annoyance. “But I guess I just want to lose weight because I’m sick of being single and gross.”
“Bess, you are not gross,” she says as if on autopilot. Everyone is always quick to deny my claims of being anything less than perfect. I want to tell her it’s okay. It doesn’t matter. I’m not perfect, and I know it. It’s fine.
Instead I just nod. “I’d just really like a boyfriend, if I’m being honest.”
She puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me a sincere smile. “You just remember that it takes guys a lot longer to mature than girls. So you might be waiting a while for the right guy to show up, but trust me, he will. You’re a catch, dear.”
“Ha,” I say all sarcastically. “I am not a catch.”
“Sure you are,” she says, waving a hand dismissively at me. “You’re adorable and sweet, and you’re super smart. You’re a good friend and you’re always asking to help out. Plus, I never see you getting drunk on the beach with those other idiots who go to your school.”
“True,” I say, nodding. “I’ve never drank alcohol at all.”
I’ve also never been to a party,but saying that out loud would just make me feel like a bigger loser than I already do.
Julie brushes a strand of blond hair out of my eyes. “You’ll be just fine, Bess. If you want to lose weight and feel better about yourself, that’s fine. But don’t you dare do it for a boy.”
“Don’t worry, there’s no boys,” I say, slumping my shoulders. “They all act like I don’t exist.”
She gives me this knowing look. “Immature,” she says, tapping her temple. “I have an idea. Let’s get us some green smoothies from the shop down the street. They’re super healthy and keep you full for a long time.”
I lift an eyebrow. “I dunno, I’ve never had one.”
“Trust me, they’re good,” she says. She pops open the cash register and pulls out a twenty-dollar bill. “Go get us two of them, okay? It’s on me.”
I can’t really argue with a free healthy smoothie, now can I? I venture out of the store and head past the pizza stand to where the healthy smoothie place takes up residence between two unhealthy food places. It’s kind of ironic that way.
On the way back, I’m sipping on my smoothie (which is actually pretty good) and gazing out over the strip. The beach is packed now that it’s summer, and I can see the college guys already building their annual bonfire out on the sand. They keep it going for two weeks as a celebration of summer.
A weathered wooden mermaid sign flaps in the wind as I walk past a surf shop. The windows display mannequins dressed in cute clothes and they’re seemingly having fun, even though they’re just mannequins.
Those surf brand clothes are so cute. Bright colors, pretty styles. Even the handbags call out to me, but I’d never actually go into a store like that. They probably only sell clothes in super small sizes and the employees would look at me like I’ve gone crazy if I were to step inside.
The urge to go inside and check out some sandals or handbags is overwhelming. They even sell beachy jewelry, like ankle bracelets made of hemp and shells. I would love one, but I’m not going to let Julie’s smoothie melt.
At least that’s the lie I tell myself as I bypass the Flying Mermaid and go back to work.
Lying is much better than the truth, which is that I don’t belong in a place like that.
