I wrinkle my nose.

“I gotta tell you,” she says. “Once you’re in the heat of the moment, the smell sort of goes away.”

I chuckle. “So is it true what Ellen said the other night? About you and Bo?” I glance back to the door to make sure it’s shut all the way and double-check that the record is still playing. “Having sex?” I whisper.

Her cheeks turn an alarming shade of pink and her hands fly up to cover her face. “No. Yes. Yes, yes, yes!”

I squeal to let her know I’m just thrilled for her, but inside I’m doing everything I can not to put myself in her shoes, because that’s flat-out terrifying.

“I just . . . Millie, you can’t tell anyone this—oh my God. I can’t believe I’m talking about sex with Millicent Michalchuk.”

My eyes widen. “Honestly, I can’t believe it either.”

She laughs. “The thing is . . . and I don’t even know how to talk about this with Ellen. It’s taken a lot for me to feel okay with Bo touching me. Especially in places that remind me that I am definitely fat. That probably sounds weird.”

“No.” My voice comes out like a sigh. “That’s not weird at all.” I roll onto my side and prop myself up on my elbow. She’s got my undivided attention.

“Now that I’m sort of over that . . . honestly, though, some days I am and some days I’m not. But I guess what I’m saying is, I want him to touch me and anytime I don’t it’s because of me and not him. Except now I have to think about him seeing me naked and—” She covers her face again.

I think for a long time. I think about the exact thing I would want someone else to say to me in this moment. “Willowdean, I know you’re fat. We all know it. Ellen does. So do Hannah and Amanda. And Bo does, too. You’re the same person you are with your clothes on as you are with them off. If you want to have sex—if you’re ready for that, and the only thing holding you back is the thought of yourself naked . . . well, if I had to guess, every person in the history of sex has had that same thought.”

She shakes her head. “And I’m the one who invited you over to give you boy advice. You obviously don’t need me.”

Except I do. I need Willowdean so much. Because if I ever feel like I need permission to do something that people in my body aren’t meant to do, I just look to Willowdean. She’s all the reminder I need that the only person who can give you permission to live life and to live it big is yourself.

“Oh, I need you,” I tell her. “I need you like Oprah needs Gayle.”

Callie

Sixteen

Maybe there is a God. I’m not really doing a very good job of praying to Him (or Her?), because on Thursday morning during Anatomy, I experience nothing short of a miracle when Ms. Santana hands me a note from the attendance office.

I unfold the note in my lap.

Had to leave early today and take Kyla to the doctor’s. Her fever is back and the school nurse won’t keep her in the infirmary again. You have my permission to get a ride home from Bryce, but that is it. A single car ride! School and home! That’s it! I swear, Callie, if I hear you left early or pulled some kind of hijinks, you will see my wrath. And if you think this is my wrath, this is only the warm-up, baby. Be safe. Wear your seat belt. I love you.

Mama

I fold up the paper just the way it was given to me, and I almost have to stuff the damn thing in my mouth to stop myself from screaming with joy. My arm shoots up in the air, but I don’t even wait to be called on. “Miss! I need to use the restroom.”

Ms. Santana motions to the hall passes hanging on the back of her door. “Make it quick.”

I speed out the door, and as soon as it shuts behind me, I make a dash for Bryce’s locker, where I scribble a note on his dry-erase board.

Meet me in the wrestling mat room at noon. Come alone. -C

I rush back to class, where I completely tune out the rest of the lecture and instead make romantic plans for my romantic afternoon, right down to what snacks I’m going to get from the vending machine for our reunion feast.

I use the dance-team sweatshirt from my locker as a tablecloth to lay out our vending-machine spread of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, pork rinds, a sleeve of Oreos, Skittles, Funyuns, and two Dr Peppers. Hmmm. Maybe we should make out before partaking?

The wrestling-mat room isn’t ideal, seeing as the mats are years old and carry their own specific stench, but the one thing this place guarantees is privacy. Especially since wrestling season ended early when no one qualified to move on past District.

I watch the clock above the door as the last lunch bell rings. I wish I would’ve worn something cuter today, like a little dress and some strappy sandals. But instead I wore the cheer shorts I slept in last night, an old homecoming T-shirt, and knee-high gym socks with a pair of hot-pink sneakers. I glance down at what I have to offer. It’ll have to do.

Thirty minutes into lunch, and still no show. That’s when I break into the Oreos. The polite thing to do would be to brush my teeth before any making out—Oreos have this miraculous way of working themselves into every crevice of your mouth—but Bryce is already late as hell, and I’m starting to fume. He’d be lucky to kiss my chocolate-crusted mouth at this point.

By the time the final bell for what should be my economics class rings, I contemplate going on a search for him. Maybe he never made it to his locker? Or maybe he got held up by a coach or something. But I don’t have a phooooooone. And if he shows up and I’m not here, we’ll just be missing each other again.

I crumple down on a mat and spread out like a snow angel—not that I have much experience making those.

The next bell rings for last period, scaring my whole body to life. And then the door creaks open and I shoot up. Bryce stands in the doorway, with Patrick peering over his shoulder.

“You were supposed to come alone,” I say through clenched teeth.

Bryce looks to my rations on the floor. He laughs at my one empty can of Dr Pepper lying on its side next to a half-empty sleeve of Oreos.

“And at lunchtime,” I add.

His shoulders flop as he shrugs. “I wanted to go to Taco Bell with the guys. I figured you would wait.”

I stand up, shaking the crumbs off my shorts. “And what is Patrick even doing here?”

Bryce looks over his shoulder and shrugs again.

“Hey, are y’all lovebirds gonna eat those pork rinds?” asks Patrick.

I roll my eyes and toss them in his general direction. “Get lost.”

He tears the bag open and pops one in his mouth. “Good luck, dude,” he says between bites.

The door closes behind him and I immediately ask, “Good luck with what?”

Bryce takes a careful step toward me. “Baby, we need to talk.” He drops his partially zipped backpack on the mat and a few things spill out, including his cell phone.

“Well, yeah, that would be nice! I mean, I’ve barely seen you in the last two weeks.”

He nods. “See. You get it. I knew you’d get it.”

“Get what?” For the first time, doubt ripples in my stomach. Doubt in us. High school sweethearts for a year and a half now. When people talk about living the dream, we’re the dream they’re talking about!

“I just feel so disconnected from you lately.”

“Well, baby,” I say, trying my best to keep my voice measured and even. “I’ve been grounded for three weeks. The whole no-phone-and-house-arrest situation makes it hard to communicate, but that’s not a forever thing.” I take a step closer and drag my fingers down his elbow. “And maybe I can leave you with a few good memories to get you through until this whole ordeal is over.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s just like, with you not on the dance team and working at that piece-of-shit gym . . . it’s like we’re living in different worlds.”

My stomach drops and my vision blurs. I close my eyes, blink hard, and pull back from him. “Excuse me?”

“I just, like, think we should maybe quit or take a break.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It’s like you’re not one of us anymore.”