Page 5 of Absorbed

“Stacey, I’m doing the best I can. I hope you never have to find out what it’s like to raise a kid on your own.”

“Dad bought my car. He’s paying my insurance. There’s no way I’m calling to ask for a swimsuit, too.”

“You’re going to need more than one suit to lifeguard the whole summer. The card you used is almost maxed out. Call your step-mother. She’ll give you the money.” Her mom set her fork in the sink, put the leftovers in the fridge and refilled her mug.

Stacey snorted. “No way am I asking Jackie. I’ll buy it myself.”

“Don’t go spending your money before you earn it. You need to pay for gas, too.”

“Whatever,” Stacey said, picking up her backpack. “I need to study. More finals tomorrow.”

“Open your window,” her mom called after her. “I’m turning the AC off.”

Stacey waved a thumbs-up over her shoulder without turning back around. Murphy trotted after her, and once they’d both slipped into her bedroom, Stacey slammed the door. The full-length mirror hanging on the back rattled. She turned on her stereo, letting Jewel’s “Pieces of You” saturate the room, and fell onto the bed. Stacey dialed Gabe’s number, biting the inside of her cheek. Busy. She let the handset roll onto her pillow.

“Nothing’s ever good enough, Murph.” She buried her face in the dog’s neck. “I made dinner, found the swimsuit. I’m a straight-A student, and never get into trouble! But that’s not enough, is it? I’m too fat. Too ugly. A total dork. I’m so sick of it!”

Tacked to the wall above her dresser was an ad for Eternity perfume. A beautiful couple rolled in the sand, so clearly in love. That’s what she wanted: for Gabe to take her in his arms and confess he was crazy about her. Or Jessie to even acknowledge her existence. Anyone to ask her out. Kiss her. They’d fall madly in love. Get away from Mesa Valley. Together. Forever.

Then she could stop feeling so alone.

For that, Stacey would do almost anything.

Chapter Three

Standing in her underwear, Stacey checked the number on the scale. Ten pounds heavier than she thought. And only three days before she was supposed to start at the pool. She kicked the scale back under her bed and stood in front of the mirror, pinching her belly fat and groaning at her thighs.

“I look like the Blind Melon Bee Girl,” Stacey whimpered.

Murphy raised one eyebrow, but didn’t lift her muzzle from her paws at the end of the bed.

At ten that night, done studying, Stacey started exercising frantically. She was determined to have an hourglass waist and supermodel thighs before morning. She rotated sit ups, leg lifts, and crunches, ignoring the acid lump her dinner formed in the back of her throat. Digging through the entryway coat closet, she pulled out her mother’s ThighMaster triumphantly.

With Nirvana Unplugged in the background and the soft glow from her lava lamp, Stacey laid on the carpet on her right side, Suzanne-Somers-style. She started squeezing the royal blue foam-wrapped bars between her knees. After twenty squeezes,her inner thighs started to burn. The ground was hard under her hip, so she switched to the left, getting winded around fifty reps, then flipped again. With both hips aching and beads of sweat on her forehead, Stacey grunted her way to eighty, then laid back to catch her breath.

Checking the clock on her nightstand, Stacey dropped her head in defeat; she’d only exercised for fifteen minutes. Accepting she wouldn’t be able to pull an all-nighter, she hoped she could at least manage two hundred reps. Stacey repositioned herself to sit on the edge of the bed, and turned the direction of the ThighMaster to face outward.

Her inner thighs were sweaty and sore. Her legs struggled to grip the ThighMaster in the new position. It slipped multiple times, and her knees quivered. Then, on squeeze one hundred and twenty-six, the boomerang-shaped torture device launched like a missile across the room, onto her desk. It flew straight into her lava lamp. The glass broke, along with the internal lightbulb. The room was instantly dark.

Murphy sat up on the bed and barked.

“What was that?” her mom yelled from her bedroom.

Stacey stood and pulled on the ceiling fan light to survey the damage. The mix of water, glass and pink goo dripped and pooled on the carpet.

Her mom threw open the door wearing a threadbare nightgown and waving a fireplace poker.

“It’s only me!” Stacey hovered over the mess, attempting to block her mother’s view of the hot pink stain forming.

Her mom hit the power button on the stereo, silencing “All Apologies.” “Why didn’t you answer me?”

“Get Murphy out. There’s broken glass!”

“What the hell happened?” Her mom tugged the dog by her collar into the hall, then closed the door.

“I need a towel or something.”

“What broke? It’s water, right?” She handed Stacey the towel that was draped over the corner of a drawer. “Is that the ThighMaster?”

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