Free Why Girls Are Weird by Pamela Ribon Page B

saw a mirage.
    â€œI need to measure you for your dress.” I could hear the impatience in her voice. It was the heat, I reminded myself, and had nothing to do with me. I couldn’t imagine having a list of errands to run during this nightmare. I wasn’t even getting into my car these days for fear of getting my thighs stuck to the seats and needing skin grafts to stay alive. Dale had told me Becca was pretty testy these days, so I was glad to be a peripheral friend of hers and therefore the last person she called for anything.
    â€œWhat’s the dress look like?”
    â€œOpen your door.”
    I obeyed. Becca stood with her cell phone in one hand and a measuring tape in the other. Her long brown hair had been pulled back into an official “Don’t Fuck Around With the Bride” clippie, and she was smoking with the same hand that held the phone. She squinted toward me.
    â€œHey, Anna. Can I smoke in your apartment?”
    â€œAre you kidding? Even my cat smokes.”
    I stood back to let her in. I couldn’t remember the last time we were alone together. Since the breakup, she and I only saw each other when we were with the entire group. I never had much to talk to her about. I knew she worked in a PR firm, but I didn’t know what she really did for a living. Like all the other women in my life, she floated on its outskirts as a feminine mystery.
    â€œI’d suck your dick for some air conditioning.” She walked past me into the living room.
    â€œRight back atcha.” The heat also put an end to pretenses. Everyone spoke succinctly, conserving all energy to minimize body heat.
    Becca lumbers when she walks. There isn’t a nicer way to say it. She stomps back and forth, as if both legs work independently of each other and never get on the same page. It’s like they’re playing a game with each other to see if each leg can keep up with the other one. I briefly thought of my downstairs neighbor as I watched Becca stomp over to my futon.
    I lifted the bowl of ice cubes toward her. She took one and dropped it down the front of her bra. She gave a brief, chilled wiggle and I saw her face relax slightly.
    â€œThanks,” she said with a sigh. “Lift your arms.”
    I tried to find a place to rest my gaze as my arms floated over her head.
    â€œLet your stomach out. Stop sucking it in.” Becca yanked me by the measuring tape. She should have taken more than one ice cube. I thought about dropping one down the back of her pants.
    â€œI’m not sucking it in,” I whined.
    â€œYou are too. It’s not going to help any of us if you can’t fit in the damn dress. Just stand naturally.”
    I stopped sucking it in. I hadn’t measured myself in years. The double-digit numbers she wrote to describe my waist and hips shocked me. When did a 4 get in there? I shouldn’t have anything that starts with the number 4.
    â€œYou look taller than you are. Must be your personality.” There was no compliment in her voice.
    I didn’t have the energy to invent a comeback.
    Becca slowly leaned forward, let her hair down, and then twisted it back up into the same shape, only tighter. Her face showed the strain she was under. Her eyes, normally slightly down-turned in a way that made you wonder if she was stoned, were now smaller and squinty. She looked exhausted and miserable.
    I wanted to reach out and hug her. I wanted to hold her and tell her to remember why she was getting married. I knew that she had wanted this for a while. About two years ago, Mark told me that Becca had been having nightmares in which her parents were furious with her for not being married. So they had discussed it then and realized they didn’t have the money. She never let it on to any of us how disappointed she was that she had to wait, but you could tell. You could see it in the way she looked at married couples and families. She’d get this look like she