Free Perfect by Natasha Friend Page A

know? Brain power? There's gonna be four of
us. Me, and my three friends."

    The checkout lady, wearing green eye shadow and a
lot of cheap-looking bracelets, looked at me like I had
three heads. "Uh-huh. Paper or plastic?"
    "Plastic, please."
    Behind the Shoe Barn, I alternated handfuls of potato
chips and HoHos with swallows of Diet Coke. The hubbies burned my nose and made my eyes water, but I didn't
stop. It always feels better coming up than going down.
You just have to get yourself to that point and then everything takes care of itself.
    I slid my fingers inside my mouth and down my throat.
I pushed and pushed until my knuckles reached the soft
place in the back, the gaggy part. I held the plastic bag in
both hands and watched everything come back up. Diet
Coke, HoHos, chips.
    Afterward I tied the handles together so nothing
would leak out. In the garbage can out front, I buried the
bag under a shoe box. Chocolate Lorena, Site 6M.
    I got home about fifteen minutes before Ape Face did.
When she came in the door I was in the kitchen making
macaroni and cheese.
    "You're cooking?" she said.
    "Yeah." I poured more milk into the pot and stirred.
    Ape Face plopped her tote hag on the floor and walked
over to the stove. She was still wearing her pink leotard
and tights. "Mac and cheese?"
    "Yeah."

    "Yum." She leaned in to take a whiff. Then she said,
"Where's Mom?"
    I gave the pot a couple more stirs before I answered.
"Upstairs," I said. "In bed."
    "In bed?" said Ape Face. Her voice sounded small.
"What's wrong with her?"
    "You know," I said. "She gets tired sometimes."
    Ape Face hoisted herself up onto the counter and
wrapped her arms around her knees. Her ballet slippers had black marks all over them. I wanted to tell her
to get her dirty feet off the counter, but the look on her
face stopped me. That, and how long her bangs were.
She needed a haircut. Didn't my mother notice anything
around here?
    "Isabelle? She's not sick, is she?"
    "Of course not," I said.
    "How do you know?"
    "I just do, that's all."
    "But what if she is?"
    "She's not! Okay? She's not sick. Trust me."
    "Okay." April leaned over and rested her top teeth
against her kneecap, biting down. She looked like she
might start crying any second.
    "Hey . . . ," I said. "Don't eat yourself. We've got a
whole pot of mac and cheese here. Much tastier than your
knee."
    Ape Face lifted her head. She tried to smile a little.
    "Come on," I said. I held out my hand to help her down
from the counter. "We can watch TV while we eat."

     

13
    ON WEDNESDAY TRISH handed out magazines. Seventeen, YM, Self, Glamour, Elle. She told us to take a few
minutes to flip through them.
    Ashley and I sat next to each other on the couch, sharing a Seventeen. Rachel didn't show up, so everyone was
shifted.
    "Look at this girl," Ashley said, pointing to the model
on the cover. "She's perfect."
    "I know," I said. "Her boobs are two perfect spheres."

    "Double bubble," said Ashley, and we both cracked
LIP.
    We flipped to the survey. Calculate Your Flirtability
Quotient. Not surprisingly, Ashley scored the highest possible mark, an 18. She is The Life of the Party. With a
whopping 6.5, I am The Wet Blanket.
    A few minutes later, Trish asked us to stop reading.
She wanted to know what these magazines tell us out
about ourselves. "Mathilde?" Trish said. "Would you like
to start?"
    Mathilde ducked her head. She was wearing barrettes
in her hair. Green plastic turtles.
    Holding her magazine up in front of her face, Mathilde
whispered, "This is what I'm supposed to look like." With
one finger, she tapped a picture of a blonde in a flowered
bra.
    Trish nodded. "Thank you, Mathilde."
    Mathilde lowered the magazine and let her hair fall in
front of her face.
    "Dawn?" Trish said. "What do you think?"
    Dawn shifted a few times in her seat. "Um ... if I want
to lose ten pounds by Christmas? I should try this new
soup diet." She held up a picture of a model doing