Braced Page 5

  He shrugs. “He left for college last week.” One day when Kyle tried to get Tate to ditch gym and then made fun of him for not doing it, we started talking about how his older brother, Adam, kept getting in trouble for skipping school. After that, we talked about Adam all the time. Tate said once that I was the only one he ever talked to about him. “I mean, it’s really good for him. Not so great for me. I already miss him.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I want to tell him that I get what it feels like to miss someone, because Dad is gone most of the time, but I can’t figure out how to say it. Then Kyle shouts, “Tate-O,” so I just look into Tate’s eyes and nod.

  “Let’s do it, dude.” Kyle aims his water bottle at Tate and it accidentally squirts Ladan.

  “Stop being annoying,” she says. Then she squirts him back with her water bottle.

  “Bring it on,” Kyle says. She rolls her eyes and turns away.

  “I should go,” Tate says.

  “If you, um, ever want to talk more about your brother, I can listen.”

  “That’s really cool of you to offer,” Tate says. Then he walks over to Kyle.

  When I look up, Ladan and Hazel are both smiling at me, like maybe they can tell this is a thing—Tate and me—and not just in my head. Maybe Tate asking me out could be a real possibility, except everything is about to change.

  MOM SIGHS WHEN she realizes we have to park in the red garage at the mall because the blue lot is full. There’s nothing that wrong with the red garage, but it means we got a late start, and somehow the day already feels ruined.

  She swerves through tight rows of parked cars until she finds an empty spot and pulls in. I get out and open the trunk. Every time I move, I feel this blister on my hip where the brace tugged at my skin too hard. Mom told me not to scratch or pick at it unless I want it to be there forever, and I don’t, so I tuck my free hand in my pocket and try to think about anything other than scratching. The trunk is empty except for my brace, which is hidden in a pink cloth bag I found in the downstairs closet. The swirly Pepto-colored pattern is all happy and attention grabbing, which I don’t want, but it was the only thing I could find that was big enough to carry the brace. I drape Dad’s sweatshirt over the top so the plastic ends don’t peek out.

  “Let’s go,” Mom says.

  I slam the door shut, and we walk through the parking garage toward the elevators.

  “Where should we go first?” she asks me.

  I shrug and let her question hang in the air. Sad truth: I haven’t spent a single second thinking about my first-day-of-school look since the brace happened.

  Mom and I ride the elevator up into the mall. When the doors open, she turns right as if she’s heading straight for Macy’s. I can’t stand the thought of walking into a big department store. “Maybe we should try Olivia’s,” I say. I might have more room to breathe in a small boutique.

  “Great idea.” Mom taps her nails lightly against my back.

  Olivia’s is the kind of place where they only have one or two of everything, so it all looks extra special and one of a kind. “Let me hold your bag,” Mom says to me as soon as we walk in. “You need both hands to shop.”

  I hand her the pink bag and smile, because it’s the kind of thing Mom would say if everything were normal. But then she slings it over her shoulder and the sweatshirt falls off, landing on the floor. She picks it up and drapes it over her arm. The ugly plastic ends of my brace are sticking out for everyone to see. I keep waiting for her to realize what’s happening and cover it up, but she doesn’t.

  “I’ll just carry it,” I say.

  “What’s the problem?” Mom asks.

  “I don’t want it hanging out like that!”

  “Fine.” She shakes her head, then shoves the bag into my arms and walks away so I know it’s not fine. I cover the brace before anyone else has a chance to see it and follow her toward one of the salespeople.

  “Hi, Justine,” Mom says, glancing down at the girl’s name tag. “I’m looking for clothing options for my daughter. She has to wear a brace for her back, and she’s a little embarrassed about it.” Mom says it like she thinks she’s whispering, but really the entire store can hear her.

  Justine nods and looks over at me. She’s wearing a fitted dress covered in sunflowers that hugs her tiny body. She’s all perky and happy to help. I hate her for thinking she understands me. “I’m guessing Rachel wears a size four.”

  “Except she’ll need to go up a few sizes.” Mom says that part a little softer than before.

  The lump in my throat is growing from a small marble to a rock, and the tears in my eyes make everything blurry. This isn’t exactly news. I get why I need new clothes; I heard Mom say this before on the phone with Gram. But I don’t want to go up a size, or a few of them, because once the evidence is hanging in my closet, the brace will be real.

  “Can I see what we’re working with?” Justine asks, walking over to me.

  “Of course,” Mom says, following her. I hold on to the brace as tight as I can. I feel like a genius for taking it away from Mom. She’d probably whip it out in the middle of the store if she had the chance.

  “Not right here,” I say.

  “Oh. Sure.” Justine has this sweet, soft voice that people probably compliment her on. “Tell me, Rachel, what’s your style like?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “I don’t have one.” It’s a blatant lie. Hazel says certain things look like me: retro patterns, lace details, and soft, happy colors. I have a feeling my style is another thing that’s going to change this year. “I want to blend in,” I say.

  Justine nods, trying to figure out what to do next. “What do you think of this?” She picks up a slouchy, glittery sweater I’d never wear.

  “Um, no,” I say.

  “It’s really cute on. It looks totally different.”

  I shake my head. I hate when people say that. It’s usually a lie, and I don’t care how this sweater looks when it’s on. I’d never wear it, ever.

  “Come on, Rachel,” Mom says. I can’t believe she’s taking Justine’s side.

  “Why don’t I pull some options and bring them into the fitting room for you?” Justine asks.

  “That’d be great,” Mom answers for me.

  I’m pretty sure I see Justine roll her eyes at one of her co-workers when she thinks we aren’t looking.

  The fitting rooms only have curtains for dividers and doors. Anyone can peek through the leftover space between the wall and the fabric. “I don’t like this kind of dressing room,” I say. The way the curtains sort of tie together, but never really close, reminds me of hospital gowns.

  “Me neither,” Mom says, sitting down on a chair inside one of the rooms.

  I ignore my phone vibrating in my pocket. Frannie’s been texting me all day about sleeping over after practice tomorrow. I can’t. I have to wear the brace for eight hours tomorrow, and right now, soccer is the one thing that feels good and regular. I’m not going to tell Frannie and ruin that until I absolutely have to.

  There’s a mirror on the back wall, which means I don’t have to go anywhere to see how I look. “I’m nervous everything is going to look bad,” I say to Mom. I want her to tell me it’s not true, to say, “We’ll find something. We’ll figure it out.”

  “I thought you wanted to come to this store,” she says.

  “I didn’t want to go to a department store.”

  “Oh,” she says.

  “I like my old clothes.”

  “They’re not going to fit. And you can’t wear that sweatshirt to school for the rest of the year.”

  “Why not? Maybe I will.” I know I’m making it worse, but everything Mom says feels like the opposite of what I need.

  “Fine.” Mom sighs and rubs her belly, like talking to me is taking up too much energy, and she has more important things to worry about, like the baby.

  Justine walks in a few minutes later with shirts, sweaters, and pants draped over her
arms. There’s so much hanging off her she looks like she might topple over.

  “Thank you, Justine,” Mom says. “We appreciate your help.”

  “No problem. I’m going to leave everything in here. Let me know if you need me to pull any other sizes for you.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  She smiles at me and walks away.

  Mom takes my brace out of the bag and holds it up in the air like it’s a prize. After she’s done tightening the Velcro straps on me, she picks up a blue shift dress with little flowers. “This is cute. Don’t you think?”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” I nod. “It could be.”

  She hands it to me and then holds the curtain shut as much as possible, keeping her eyes pinned to the floor like she’s trying to give me privacy.

  I pull my arms through the stretchy sleeves, careful not to snag the soft material.

  Mom looks up at me. “The color is beautiful on you.”

  I glance down at myself. I’m wearing a tent. “It looks like one of your maternity dresses. No offense.”

  “So that’s a no,” she says. She hands me a pair of pants—black jeans—and a gray long-sleeved shirt.

  I don’t take the dress off. I sit down on the edge of the chair and slide each of the pant legs over my feet. I can’t bend over enough to step into them. I inch them halfway up my thighs, stand up, and hoist them over the brace. Even if I pull them up as much as I can, they won’t button over the middle of me. I lift the dress enough to show her.

  Mom sighs and shakes her head, as if I’m happy about the fact that so far nothing fits.

  I take off the dress and pull the shirt over my head. It gets caught on the top strap, so Mom has to help me.

  I stand up and look at myself in the mirror. The long-sleeved shirt is thin and tight, like a layer of tracing paper showing off an outline of my brace. My plastic hips jut out through the pants that won’t button, and the ventilation holes scattered across my stomach make me look like a block of Swiss cheese covered in cloth. The part of the brace that goes into my armpit pushes against my boob so it looks dented. I turn around. It’s even worse in the back. Under the fabric, the straps look like three bulging humps. The bottom of the brace is long and flat, so I have a cardboard-box butt. “Pants are out,” I say.

  “You can’t wear a dress in February. We live in Massachusetts!” she says. “We need to find you a few pairs of pants.”

  “Good luck with that.” I mean, I get that pants are practical, and in general, for life, I’m pro-pants. But pants plus a back brace: No. Fail. Abort mission, unless you don’t mind looking like you have a pancake butt.

  Mom hands me a black dress. I slide it over my head. From the front, it doesn’t look that bad.

  “It looks great. Really. It does.” Mom nods her head quickly, trying to convince me she’s right. I want to believe her, but when I look behind me, I can see an outline of the straps and hinges. I look like hammers and screwdrivers and other things that belong in a toolbox are poking out of me.

  There are voices outside the fitting room, a mother and daughter, I think. Their words keep getting louder, like they’re closing in on us. “Let me know if I can help you with anything else,” a salesgirl says. All of a sudden, it feels a lot less private back here.

  Mom pulls the curtain open. “Go look in the big mirror.”

  I shut it. I’m not walking out dressed like this.

  “How are you doing in there, Rachel?” Justine asks. I can tell she’s standing close, on the other side of the fabric.

  “Okay,” I say. My voice sounds squeaky and small, like it doesn’t belong to me.

  Mom opens the curtain, and I back into the corner. The brace makes a loud noise when it hits the plaster wall, like a car door slamming shut.

  “Come out so you can see yourself in the big mirror,” Justine says to me.

  I don’t move. I don’t want her to see me from the back or the side.

  “Go ahead, Rachel,” Mom says.

  I poke my head out first to make sure no one else is there, then walk down the hall to the three-panel full-length mirror. My hips lead the way. It looks like I’m wearing a hard, thick life jacket under my clothes, only the buckles are in the back. I’m lumpy and wide and weirdly shaped. I turn back around as fast as I can.

  “This is a winner.” Justine nods. “It’s very flattering.”

  “Definitely,” Mom says.

  I catch them exchanging a look that tells me they’re on the same team. I want to be on a team with Mom.

  “I think you should get this one,” Mom says. “Don’t you?”

  “Sure,” I say, because I know it’s probably the best we’re going to find. Nothing in the mall is going to make the brace invisible, although that would be pretty awesome.

  “We have it in purple too,” Justine offers.

  “We’ll get both,” Mom says.

  “Just black,” I correct her, because I think the lumps will stand out even more in a purple dress.

  “Okay,” Mom says. “It’s a start.”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  The curtain to the other dressing room opens and a girl who looks my age walks out. “I think we need to go down a size in these,” her mother says, following her out of the fitting room. She’s holding a pair of corduroys. “Don’t you—” She stops talking as soon as she sees me standing there. “There’s something wrong with that dress, honey,” she says to me. She squints at my stomach like she’s trying to figure out why I look weird. “It’s all lumpy in the middle.”

  I don’t say anything. I drop my head to my chin and walk as fast as I can into the dressing room.

  Mom closes the curtain behind me and holds it shut while I pull off the dress. Then she takes off my brace, puts it in the pink bag, and covers it up with the sweatshirt. I change back into my regular clothes and sit down. The air is hot and thick and heavy against my chest, like I’m underwater and the waves won’t give. I’m not wearing the brace anymore, but it’s still there and it’s not going away. Even if I never say it out loud or tell my friends or buy new clothes, the brace is real. It makes me look lumpy and wrong. I feel like no matter what I wear, I’ll stick out. And I’m going to have to deal with it every day.

  Mom sighs. “Why don’t you go over to the Gap while I finish up here and pick out a few things that you think will fit? You can try clothes on at home and I’ll return whatever doesn’t work.” She’s whispering and rubbing my back in soft, soothing circles. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.”

  I nod. I know what she means by “before.” “Mom,” I say. “Thank you,” and I mean it.

  The sky is still blue when we get home. I carry my brace and shopping bags up to my room and drop everything in a pile by the door. It’s all dresses and skirts. I can forget about looking like I’m not trying too hard ever again, because from now on, I’m always going to be dressed up like a fancy freak.

  My jean shorts rub against the raw skin on my hips. The padding inside the brace pulls at me every time I take a step, stand up, or turn to the side. It’s like walking around in a pair of bad shoes that rub and squeeze all day. I know it’s just a preview, and I still need to be able to run in it for soccer.

  That’s when I remember the rubbing alcohol. As I head for the bathroom, I almost trip over the shopping bags piled up in front of my door. I turn around and kick them one by one across my room. It feels good to watch the perfectly folded clothes wrapped in tissue paper fly through the air and scatter across the carpet.

  I open the bottle under the sink and soak a few cotton balls in the clear liquid until it’s seeping onto my fingers. I sit down on the floor next to the tub. Mom is banging around in the kitchen, which means Dad will be home for dinner.

  I lift up my tank top. There are blisters on my right and left hips. I hold my breath and place a wet cotton ball against my skin. It feels like the time Frannie burned my ear with a curling iron, but I press down harder.

&
nbsp; I can hear Mom on the phone. She’s sitting at the bottom of the staircase now, where everything echoes. “How do you think I’m doing? I don’t understand, David. I felt so lucky. I felt thankful that they could fix what was wrong with me. I never complained about anything, and it was so much worse.” Mom stops talking and listens to whatever Dad is saying. “Don’t even say that. I can’t think about it. Her brace is going to work. It has to. I’m barely making it through this.” She listens again. “I think she should try, but I’m worried. It’s going to be hard. And I hate to say it, but it could be … awkward.” She pauses. “No, of course not. I mean, the orthotist said it was fine for her to play. I just don’t think she realizes what it’s really going to be like. But what can I do? Okay. We’ll see you in a few minutes. I love you too.”

  So Mom thinks playing soccer in my brace is going to be awkward and that I’ll be bad now. Great. That’s perfect. Well, I don’t care what she thinks. She’s wrong. She doesn’t know anything about soccer. She never even played. I’m going to find a way to be good, because I’m not giving it up. It’s too important to me. Also, Hazel said we’d figure it out and she always tells me the truth, which means the truth is: I can do it.

  When I get back to my room, I step around the scattered clothes and turn on the new playlist I started making last night. It’s mostly pop with Motown mixed in. I always try to add mellow songs that sound dark and important, but I can’t help that I like the peppy ones that make me smile and dance the most. It’s just who I am music-wise.

  My phone is buzzing and flashing. I have a group text from Frannie: The entire seventh grade is talking about you and Tate.

  Serious? I write back.

  No. I’m lying.

  Swear on Chanel, I say, because it’s the most important French thing that’s coming to mind right now.

  Haha, Hazel writes.

  I swear, Frannie says. And shut up, Hazel.

  Tate is totally going to ask you out. Everyone knows he likes you. Officially. Ladan told me.

  I want to believe her, but I don’t think I should get my hopes up until after Tate sees me in the brace.