Diary of an Ugly Duckling by Langhorne, Karyn (general ebook reader .txt) 📕

backed

away from Audra, putting her hands up to her chest

as though she were afraid she’d have to use them in

self-defense.

“I didn’t mean to offend you—”

“I know. I’m sorry,” Audra said, and meant it.

“It’s just . . . I’ve been dealing with a lot of negativity

lately about my size,” she admitted. “And there’s

this guy at work.” She sighed. “This really, really

good-looking guy. The strong, silent type who

knows old movies. He’s got these eyes . . .” She

sighed again. “And he asked me to a party. Okay, it’s

last minute, but still, he asked me, and I’ve got to be

hip and fancy and I’ve been looking all day . . .” She

blew out a heavy exhale. “I can’t help the fat and

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Karyn Langhorne

black parts, but . . . I just don’t want to look ugly,”

she said, more to herself than the salesgirl.

To her surprise, the girl touched her arm in conso-

lation. “I understand totally,” she said gently. “The

dressing room is behind the curtain . . . over there,”

she said, pointing to a dramatic black curtain near a

platform lined with mirrors. She hurried to a

counter and squatted. “Let me find the twelve . . .”

she murmured, and disappeared.

Audra heard the rattling of cardboard, then the

girl reappeared with a series of flat red boxes.

“Thank you, darling,” Audra drawled and swag-

gered toward the curtain as though she were really

Bette and this were really a movie scene.

Audra avoided the mirror as she stripped off her

sweatshirt, sick of the image of herself she knew

she’d find there. There was too much skin, too many

rolls. I’m not eating until after the party is over, she told

herself. And Monday morning, I’m back on my diet, she

vowed, imagining herself svelte and sexy on Art

Bradshaw’s arm by the end of the summer. In the

tiny fitting room, the image seemed possible, proba-

ble, attainable—but then, there weren’t any Oreos

lying around back here to tempt the resolution.

But Art won’t care, either way. He sees the real me . . .

my true beauty, she added mentally and dismissed

the planned day-long fast almost as quickly as she’d

embraced it.

She lifted the frothy, silvery top out of the box

with a sigh of appreciation. It was so soft, so shim-

mering, so beautiful, so fine . . . and had no price

tag—no tags of any kind—except for a tiny label

stitched into the side seam with the designer’s

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55

name. Eager for the feel of the fabric on her skin,

Audra slipped it over her head.

She got one arm through, too, before she got

stuck, her other arm wedged trapped in the seam,

bound tight to a roll of flesh at her side. She strug-

gled with it, gently, but it didn’t give. She pulled

harder, unwilling to give up . . . and made it worse.

She was wedged into the fabric now, too in to get

out, too out to get in.

“Uh . . . help!” she called. “Help!”

The curtain parted. For an instant, the girl’s eyes

rolled upward in an expression Audra instantly in-

terpreted as “I told you so,” making the movie-star

attitude Audra had adopted now nothing more than

a useless ruse. But the girl said nothing. Instead, she

stepped toward Audra and began pulling gently on

the fabric, trying to ease Audra’s left arm through

the armhole.

“Just . . . a . . . little more . . .” Audra encouraged,

feeling her fingers stretching for light and air. “A lit-

tle more . . .”

“I don’t want . . . to rip it . . .” the salesgirl grunted,

still working the fabric. “Maybe if you suck in a

little . . .”

Audra complied. Her arm popped through the

sleeve . . . but as soon as she exhaled the fabric

stretched extremely tight over her breasts and stom-

ach, revealing every bump and roll of flesh. Audra

panted, afraid to breathe, lest the delicate side seams

pop. She stared into the mirror, seeing an effect far

different from the one on the mannequin. The woman

in the mirror looked like a plump sausage wrapped

in a casing, a silvery, gauzy wrapper.

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Karyn Langhorne

“Oh dear,” the sales clerk breathed, shocked.

“I . . . I don’t think it suits you . . .”

Audra wanted to agree, wanted to rip the thing

off and run as fast as her legs would take her from

Madison Avenue, fancy boutiques, and any hope of

glamour. But that was impossible now.

“I don’t think I can get it off,” she admitted, no

longer Bette Davis, but an embarrassed fat woman in

a shirt far too tight. Her eyes found the salesgirl’s,

seeking assistance. “Please help me out of this . . . If I

rip it”—she sighed, dropping the façade totally—“I

really can’t afford to pay for a top I can’t even wear.”

She left out that part of the story when her mother

came in from her day at the Goldilocks salon—along

with the details of her meeting with Woodburn—

concentrating instead on the magical moment when

Art Bradshaw had invited her to his daughter’s

sweet sixteen.

Edith stared at her for a long moment. “Sounds to

me like you got a date with the daughter,” she said

at last.

Audra rolled her eyes, her voice rising, ready to

re-enter the fray. “Didn’t you hear what I told you he

said? About wanting me to come? Needing me to

come—”

“Yeah, but I don’t know how you get a date out of

that—”

Audra opened her mouth to explain, but her

mother waved the opportunity away.

“It doesn’t matter, Queenie D.” She sighed. “I

been thinking about last night . . . and I’ve decided I

ain’t arguing with you no more. You want to run

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57

headfirst into a brick wall, you go ahead. Just don’t

expect me to pick you up when you get your feelings

hurt.” She shook her head. “ ’Cause I’m tired. I’m

just too damn tired.”

“Me, too, Ma,” Audra told her, settling deeper

into the couch and returning to the mystical magic

of Breakfast at Tiffany’s currently playing on the Clas-

sic Movie Channel. “And the only thing that hurts

my feelings is that you don’t think anyone