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

can love

me just the way I am.”

Her mother hesitated a moment, then murmured,

“I’ve never said that, Audra,” and then hurried to

her room and closed the door.

Chapter 5

Saturday, March 31

Dear Petra,

Do you really think that I go out of my way to antago-

nize Ma? Because I really don’t see it that way—not

at all.

Besides, I don’t want to talk about her, or her

secrets or any of that stuff right now—not on the day

of my big night out!

You’ll be happy to know that after the embarrass-

ment in Marciella’s, I pulled some kind of outfit to-

gether. It’s not as glamorous as I would have liked, but

it’s nice, I think. Of course, I’ll still be the fat chick, but

I’m going to try hard to look as good as I can. Fortu-

nately, I also have my sparkling personality to rely on—

along with a fantastic repertoire of scenes from

Hollywood’s greatest!

Still . . . I’m nervous, P. Really nervous. I think he

DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

59

may really like me. God, I hope so. But the things Ma

says get under my skin sometimes and make me

doubt myself. And it doesn’t help that I have that trou-

ble brewing at work, either. Sometimes it feels like

everything’s always against me and it will take a mon-

umental change to turn it around . . .

Or maybe I just need to eat a few more Oreos!

Wish you were here,

Ugly Sister

Too trendy for words.

That’s what the place was, considering it was

in a basement, sandwiched between an Indian

restaurant and an art gallery in a “transitional”

neighborhood in Brooklyn.

It’s at least aptly named, Audra thought, studying

the bright neon script spelling out the word: Caverna.

A cinnamon-skinned teenager with long, black

hair, wearing a tiny beaded halter, stood just outside

the entrance dragging determinedly on a cigarette

and pretending not to shiver while a not-quite-

spring breeze caught the smoke and bore it away. A

short, older-looking white kid stood near her, talk-

ing excitedly, but the chick barely seemed to be listen-

ing. As Audra descended the five steps toward the

bar’s entrance, the odd couple fixed their collective

gaze on Audra, making her feel self-conscious all

over again: Her nicest black pants were tighter than

she would have liked, and the yellow-shawl-like top

from the plus-size store that had been her second

choice flapped in the breeze like a tent. The pointy

toes of her new shoes pinched her feet. Audra

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Karyn Langhorne

wished there were time for one last check of the

makeup slathered on her face like a mask by a deter-

mined beauty consultant a few hours ago, but there

wasn’t. She was here now . . . and acne or no acne,

running mascara or lipsticked teeth, her look would

have to be good enough.

Still, if she weren’t mistaken, the kids were giving

her that same folded-lip look her mother had given

her just before she’d walked out the door . . . and to

make matters worse, she thought she heard the

smoking girl burst into a twitter of sudden laughter

in the space between the time Audra’s foot crossed

the threshold of the club and the second after, when

the door thudded closed behind her.

She shook off the sound with difficulty and

looked around her.

The owners of Caverna had taken the cave thing

literally. It was dark except for a few torch-shaped

sconces set strategically around the room. The ceil-

ing dripped with stalactites and the tables and

chairs were designed so they looked like stalagmites

growing up from the cave floor. Audra thought she

heard the sound of dripping water under the pump-

ing rhythm of hip-hop music, but could not locate

its source among the crowd of youthful bodies jam-

ming every square inch of the place.

Sleek girls in slim, short skirts and high heels,

showing brown midriffs from tiny halters danced

with boys in low-slung pants and slick-patterned

shirts. Other girls were more conservative in their

strapless, gauzy chiffon and flouncy, asymmetrical

hems, but all of them were so attractive and ener-

getic that Audra hesitated, the worst memories of

DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

61

herself as an uncool high schooler returning with a

vengeance.

This was a mistake, a voice from deep inside her an-

nounced, flashing back to many a high-school

dance, when Audra’s only companion had been her

own isolation, her own loneliness. There’s nothing for

you here. Audra’s feet seemed inclined to agree. They

were already shuffling her backward away from the

dancing and the music and the whole party scene.

This isn’t high school. He invited me and we’re going,

Audra told her juvenile self, pulling the mantle of

dead Hollywood dames around her consciousness

like a shield. She strode deeper into the place, her

too-round hips bumping and jostling against the

sharp angles of the dancing young people, scanning

the corners of the room for her host’s broad-

shouldered silence. She had already decided: She’d

greet him with that famous line from All About Eve:

“Fasten your seat belts. It’s going to be a bumpy

night!” and see what developed from there.

“Marks!”

Audra turned toward her name and saw him,

standing in a dark crevice of the room where

the stone bar curved toward darkness. “Marks!”

Bradshaw shouted again over the music, waving his

arm. “Here!”

The sound of his voice erased her carefully pre-

pared dialogue, but the awkward memories of

teenageness also dissipated, so Audra wasn’t en-

tirely mad at him. Her heart skipped a quick beat

as a feeling of excitement and eagerness replaced

the unease that had been there a moment before.

She waved back, smiling, and began her approach,

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Karyn Langhorne

moving determinedly through the dancing bodies

toward the rear of the room.

He looked delicious: like the sweetest bar of milk

chocolate, luscious from the gleaming skin of his

head to the tips of his toes, and Audra could imag-

ine gobbling him up in a single serving as she took

in the pure sexiness of the man. He looked like he’d

just stepped out of a magazine, from his crisp

seventies-style butterfly-collared shirt in a soft fab-

ric that looked like linen, opened to the smooth

mocha of his perfect throat. He wore dark slacks

and shoes. But