Second Helpings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [29]
“Omigod!”
Sara’s voice is unmistakably snotty. (Ha. In more ways than one. Her parents are so moneyed, you’d think they would’ve paid to have her adenoids yanked out of her nose, then had a bit lopped off the bridge in time for her senior portrait. Or at the very least, provide her with a travel pack of tissues before she leaves their seaside estate.)
“Omigod! Look at me, Jess! I’m skinnier than you are!”
I wasn’t about to endorse her eating disorder by agreeing, but it was true that Sara had lost quite a bit of chunkage. Even more disturbing than her anorexia was her tanorexia, which had reached savage, Bain de Solunatic levels. Tanning was the closest that Sara came to having a hobby, other than gossiping or surfing pro-ana websites, that is. She started every morning with a half-hour fake bake in the bed her parents bought her before the junior prom. Then (weather permitting), between ten A.M. and four P.M. every day, she would soak up UVs on the beach in her backyard. The result? Even the webbing between her fingers was the color of coffee without cream. Even for someone with her Italian heritage and dark coloring, it was unnatural and alien-like.
“Do you even recognize me now that I’m quote a perfect size two unquote?”
Had an Amberzombie salesgirl called Sara “a perfect size two”? Or was Sara acknowledging that she isn’t really a size two, but close enough? Or had Sara’s quote/unquote catchphrase gotten to the point that she was starting to use it inappropriately? You know, like the foreign-restaurant owner who doesn’t know how disconcerting it is for a potential diner to see a sign that reads: TODAY’S SPECIAL: “CHICKEN” CHOW MEIN!!!!
These are the types of things I think about when Sara talks at me. Her verbosity is such that my brain can take a two-week Club Med vacation right in the middle of the conversation. When my gray matter comes back, it’s all refreshed and relaxed, knowing it hasn’t missed a thing while it was away.
“Omigod!” shrieked Sara, taking a pink tube top emblazoned with a glittery Playboy bunny out of her shopping bag. “I will look so cute in this!”
I was not fooled by her buddy-buddy behavior. Sara was simply thrilled to have the opportunity to brag about her diet, how much weight she had lost over the summer, and all the guys she’d hooked up with as a result of her makeover blahdiddyblahblahblah. Sara was very proud of her accomplishment: She had finally mustered enough discipline to become the full-fledged anorexic of her dreams. For years, she had hated herself for not having enough stick-figure stick-to-itiveness. Now she showed off her physique in a backless apron shirt and hoochie shorts that were so tight, I could see ample beavage. Foul.
“Omigod! I can’t believe you eat that stuff. I’ve lost all taste for junk food.”
The saliva fizzing in the corners of her mouth said otherwise. I must admit that I took much pleasure in biting into the oozy, caramel-coated, bizillion-calorie Bon. However, I was also afraid that she would grab my hand and bite off my frosting-sticky fingers.
Throughout this conversation, Manda acted like she couldn’t have been more bored. She lazily skimmed her new paperback copy of Reviving Ophelia—she must have read the old one down to shreds. She just stood there, popping another piece of Doublemint, or reapplying her lip gloss, or slapping her ever-present pack of Virginia Slims against her palm. (Insert oral fixation jokes here, here, and here.) Her hair—usually dishwater brown and wavy—had been straightened and bleached the color of sweet corn since the last time I saw her. I couldn’t help but wonder if this