Page 6 of Impossible

I pick up the picture with my good hand and rub my thumb over it. We all beam at the camera, the sun in our eyes making us squint. Risk spent more time in the ocean than the rest of us combined on that trip, and his hair was a perpetual crust of salt and sand. I can see the grit of it in his messy chestnut waves. He looks so goddamn happy.

I remember the way Joshua smelled when he threw his arm over me for the picture—fresh rain and sun-soaked sand and an undertone of mint from the mojitos he sipped all day. His cheeks and nose are pink and freckled in the photo—his alabaster skin burns so fast. We all took turns slathering him in sunscreen, but there’s only so much that SPF can do in the absence ofanymelanin.

And then Hollis. With Risk on his back, hand around Joshua’s waist, eyes scrunched up with his perfect, glowing smile. High on life, high on us, letting his hair all the way down onvacation. We had joked about needing to get him away from his job ever since that trip. We only ever managed the occasional three-day weekend. He was married to the victory. This feeling, in the photograph? He thought he had toearnit. He thought simplygoingsomewhere wouldn’t give it back. I can’t believe that though—his joy in this picture, it isn’t because of some mission victory. It’sus, purelyus,Midas all the way down.

I can’t look at myself in the picture. My body is a stranger’s. No tattoos, muscles like a body builder, not an ounce of fat in sight. Two hands. Whole. I’m soyoung.

I should do my physical therapy. I should eat breakfast, before classes really start for the day. I should write up Anderson’s and James’s detention slips. I should start planning the next practice mission. Should should should.

I sit and stare at the picture, my eyes lingering on each happy smile, trying to find the us of now in the us of then.

3

Identifiable

Indigo

I’msimultaneouslystandingonstage and sitting in the front row of the auditorium, looking up at myself.

The stage lights are hot, making me sweat. They cast shadows on my body. The overhang of my stomach. The flab on my arms. My double chin, jiggling as I speak my line. I can’t hear anything; all I see is the unattractive angle of my too-big nose as I mouth the words.

Cam emerges from the wings right on cue, dressed to perfection as gallant Romeo. He crosses, about to speak his next line. Then he sees me.

He freezes. His face is a mask of revulsion. He’s supposed to kiss me now. I stand there stupidly, waiting for it. Wanting it, in front of every single person in the audience. Sweat stains my dress. The fabric strains around the bulk of my arms and mid-section.

Cam turns away from me. He won’t do it. Hecan’tdo it, can’t stomach the thought of kissing me.

I watch my face. How will I react? As I wait, the me onstage grows heavier, my belly expanding until the mute button is unpressed and the sound of my dress ripping fills the auditorium, little buttons pinging off the set pieces as they go flying, unable to control my sagging fat any longer.

Up on stage, my newly naked, obese self turns and looks directly at me, smiling a grotesque smile, every inch and fold and roll of me undulating for the entire audience to see.

I wake with a violent shiver.

There’s nothing new about the nightmare—the only time it changes is when we start a new show. I thought now that I’m not actually in the show, just assisting with it, they might stop. No dice. When we did Mamma Mia I was in a wetsuit, neoprene rending as my body expanded. During Honk! It was horrid green tights. Always something unflattering, until now. Juliet.

It’s somehow worse when it’s a beautiful gown that my body explodes.

I dress slowly, my numb fingers refusing to cooperate as I ask them to button buttons, zip zippers, and lace laces. I slide on leggings under my jeans, then a tank top, t-shirt, button-up, and sweater. Two pairs of socks this time. There is a lichen in my brain, mossy and tangled as I try to wake up.

I avoid looking in the mirror until the last possible second. I don’t want to see myself—I never want to see myself. I know I should get rid of the mirror altogether, but the vindictive, cruel part of my brain won’t let me.

Instead, I’m forced to stand before it, morning and night, examining and re-examining every little flaw until I’m able to reach the place of calm, cold detachment that feels safe again. This is when I feel best about my choices, and the shame from them is most distant.

You have to work double-hard when people knew you at your fattest. It’s not enough to just get normal. You have to go out the other side, because their default mental image of you is fat. You have to provide more than just a new you. You have to provide a contrast. An opposite.

The fat hanging beneath my arms, below my chin, in my cheeks, the pooch at the bottom of my stomach, and curve on the inside of my thighs, the hint of cellulite in my ass. My hips, wider than they should be, my breasts pendulous and heavy and disgusting.

Every bite in front of my mouth is a decision—do I want to continue hating myself, or do I want to be beautiful? Healthy? Happy? Desirable?

Not romantically—I’ve given up on that altogether. Nobody would ever want somebody that looks like me, I’ve come to terms with that, even as my crush on Cam beats like a second heart within me. But my family. I understand why they made the decision they did. I still feel a little residual anger over it, but with age and hindsight I get it.

I had hoped that they’d surprise me and come for graduation in June. Watch me in my billowing gown, long and lithe and perfect, everything they wanted and missed out on watching me become.

They didn’t, of course. I was foolish to think I could be perfect. I know that now.

Fridays mean half-days and rehearsal all afternoon, so I get the rare treat of a lunch with Cam.

He’s used to my neuroses about food, so even though it rained last night and the grass is wet, we head out to the hillside overlooking the gifted campus athletics field to eat. I don’t like being in closed spaces where I can hear people chewing, and I don’t like eating in big groups, and I don’t like feeling like anybody is watching me. Cam, angel that he is, doesn’t complain, bundling up and walking with me to our usual spot.

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