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“Is it?” With the loud music and the people moving around them, and Colin pressed against her like she was a support beam, Allison couldn’t pay attention.
She’d liked him like that: vulnerable, uncertain. Not worried about being the best. It had made her want to pull him into a dark corner and do things to him inappropriate for a restaurant setting. Instead, she settled for a long, deep kiss, not caring if she toppled all the other dancers over in the process.
There was a lot of stumbling and swearing, but eventually they’d figured out the steps, and arms hooked together, they’d danced their way through the rest of the song, laughing the whole time.
They’d had plenty of moments more romantic than that night, but it was one of Allison’s favorites, and as she sat on her couch, staring at her Victorian Lit reading, she couldn’t seem to stop dwelling on it. Colin Benjamin was a parasite. The more she tried to forget him, the deeper he weaseled his way into her head.
Thankfully, her phone rang a second later, chasing him from her thoughts as her mother’s brindle-coated pit bull flashed onto the screen. The dog’s tongue lolled from her smiling mouth, the white tips of her ears flapping against her breaths.
Allison answered the video call. “Cleo, tell Mom to press the forward-facing button.”
“I did press it.” Her mother’s voice rose three octaves.
“The one with the arrows in a circle?”
“Yes.” Cleo’s image shook as her mom moved the phone around.
“Press it again.”
A sigh buzzed through the phone, and, a second later, the camera blinked, offering Allison a glimpse of her mother.
They could have been twins, except for her mother’s blond hair and brown eyes. They had the same round face and apple cheeks, the same slim nose and narrow brow, the same small mouth and closed-lipped smile. Even their skin was the same fair hue, though Allison’s mother spent far more time outside than Allison did, so her cheeks had that healthy bronze glow that fled Allison’s skin as soon as school began.
Horror settled over her mom’s face as she took in Allison’s messy bun and loose T-shirt. “Please tell me that’s not what you wore for your first day of teaching.”
Allison groaned. “First of all, it wasnotmy first day of teaching. That’s not until Friday. All I did today was sit in the corner of the room and take notes. Secondly, of course this is not what I wore.”
“Good, because us pear-shaped gals need to think a little harder about what we wear.”
Allison and her mother also shared the same plus-sized body, andthe same thyroid condition that meant no matter how healthily they ate, or how hard they worked out, they would always carry fat. Something Allison’s father had given them endless grief about, lecturing them on nutrition and taking care of themselves while serving fried chicken and mashed potatoes without a vegetable for dinner, and refusing to let anyone get up until their plates were clear. A real Prince Charming, Jed Avery was.
Allison dug her heel into the carpet, doing her best to channel her frustration into the floor and off her face. “Ma. You know I hate that description.”
Her mother’s brow dipped. “I don’t know why. It’s accurate and cute.”
“It’s ridiculous and perpetuates the notion that fat people are obsessed with food.”
Allison had once taken stock of every description she could think of for large bodies, and they were pretty muchallfood-related: pear-shaped, apple-shaped, juicy bottom, big melons, etc. It was disgusting. So, until everyone started referring to thin people as “asparagus-shaped,” Allison would becurvyorplus-sized, or if she really wanted to watch people have a shock,fat.
Her mother shook her head. “I’m not having this fight again.”
“Great. I win.”
It was Allison’s favorite thing to do, and after her conversation with Colin earlier, she’d been winning all over the place today. She’d been selected for a book giveaway on Twitter, Professor Stanton had raved over Allison’s theories aboutThings Fall Apart,and Colin had slouched self-consciously in his seat for the entire two-hour seminar period to hide the pen marks on his sweater. He didn’t raise his hand once. Now she’d gotten her mom to concede on her least-favorite word.
Win. Win. Win.
“So, what’s going on with you?” Allison asked.
Her mother was one of those people who wouldn’t talk about themselves. If Allison didn’t ask her point-blank things like “Are yougoing to the doctor regularly?,” “How’s your blood pressure?,” “Is money tight?,” she’d never know anything about her mother’s life.
“Oh, you know…”
“How’s work?”
“Slow. Debbie had to cut some of the girls’ shifts because business has been down.”
“Let me guess. You gave them yours.” Allison’s mother would offer her last penny to anyone who asked, even if she needed it more.
