Page 11 of The Summer I Destroyed You

“Indeed you will,” the mayor says. “Are you going to give us a little hint about what you’re coming forward with?”

I bite down on a smile and let my lashes flutter closed, as if I’ve got a secret I can hardly stand not to share. “I’m dying to give you a hint, but you’ve got to let me wow you. The architectural renderings are nearly done and all I can say is…I think you’re going to love it.”

I pick up the check waiting on their table. “Let me get this. You gentlemen have a lovely day.”

I already know this was a success—the mayor is eating out of my hand. But when I turn to find Paul Bellamy behind the register, my confidence deserts me. Paul is one of many guys who made my life a living hell in high school, and the sight of him turns me into teenage Emmy all over again—cowering, hoping to escape notice.

Are you fucking kidding me, Em? Are you seriously still scared of this asshole a decade later?

That voice in my head spurs me forward, reminds me that I’m no longer someone who gets stepped on. Ever.

Paul’s not so high-and-mighty anymore, standing there with a ketchup-stained apron around his waist, but I’m not one to leave punishment up to karma. If there’s something more to take away from him, I will find it and smash it until it can’t be put back together.

“Hello, Paul,” I say coolly, slapping the check on the counter. “Long time, no see. I’m paying the mayor’s bill.”

He looks at me with a furrowed brow and no sign of recognition. “Have we met?”

“We went to school together. Emerson Hughes.”

“Emmy the—?” He narrowly stops himself, but a mean little grin flashes across his face, which means he doesn’t mind that he started saying it. Of course he doesn’t. The kind of guy who thinks your weight is a hysterically funny joke as a teenager never stops thinking it, and in my experience, that’s most guys. Most people. The pro-size movement hasn’t changed the fact that overweight women earn less, are less likely to get a promotion, and are characterized as undisciplined and less competent based on photos alone.

When I was heavy, I spent my life apologizing for existing, for taking up space, and I was expected to be even sorrier than I was. Teachers would suggest I not have the cupcake every other kid was having; the lunch lady would suggest I not get fries. I saw judgment on a waiter’s face if I ordered anything but a salad, if I wanted a soda instead of water. Disdain for my weight breathed its way into every waking minute of my day, and a decade after I lost every excess pound, people are still laughing about the fact that I had to do it in the first place—like this asshole here.

“No fucking shit,” Paul says. “What’d you do, Atkins or something?”

“Clearly, I did a lot more than you did,” I reply with a smile, tapping my phone against the payment terminal. “Isn’t this the same job you had in high school?”

His amusement dies a quick death, and while it’s not quite the psychological beat-down he deserved, that’s okay.

I’ve got more coming.

8

EMMY

I can’t be late for the bus.

Other girls can be late. Madison can saunter down the hill whenever the hell she wants and the bus driver will just say, “I’m supposed to leave at seven fifteen, you know.”

That’s why I’m running right now. Because when you’re heavy, the whole world believes you need to be taught a lesson. They call you greedy and lazy no matter what you’ve done. They claim you don’t care enough about yourself and are also deeply selfish at the same time. They’re all dying to slam a door in your face to show you how much they despise you for it.

My thighs chafe and my waistband digs hard into my skin, but any indignity is better than having to face my mother, having to wake her up and tell her I need a ride.

I can see my classmates laughing. It’s easy enough to imagine what they’re saying since I’ve heard them say some version of it before:

Look at how her stomach jiggles.

She’s about to bust out of those jeans.

Make her run all the way to school, Mr. Holladay.

The doors close and the bus drives away—even though I’m running, even though Mr. Holladay looked straight at me. I’m not even surprised. I’ve become used to the way the whole world seems to hate me.

And now I’ve got to go home to the person who hates me most.

I wake. My heart is still beating hard. It’s a memory I’d entirely forgotten, but here it is, lodged in my chest, sharp as a new knife.

And there are far sharper knives waiting than the one that’s there now.

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