Measuring Up Page 2

  This time it’s me who sighs. I cross my arms, knowing he’s right, but not liking to admit it. “Who are they? The boy and the woman?” I ask, partially because I want to stall, but also because I want to know.

  The corners of his eyes crinkle like he’s in deep thought. Who knew it was such a difficult question?

  “Who do you think?” he asks, a slight edge to his voice. Obviously this isn’t something he likes to talk about.

  “Your mom and brother?”

  A small nod is his only reply. Tegan crosses his arms. “We’re not here to talk about them, though. You ready to do this?”

  The way he stands suddenly tense tells me I’m not going to get any more out of him. He’s my trainer so I’m not sure why I want the answers anyway. Maybe because it sucks? I feel bad for him. I can’t imagine having a brother who’s paralyzed, or is it just because I really, really don’t want to do this? “Do we have to?” My voice comes out more vulnerable than I’d like. Stupid insecurities.

  “My middle name is Edgar.”

  “And mine is Marie. Nice to meet you.” Did this guy take one too many protein shots? Juicing it up in the locker room or something?

  Tegan laughs, some of his tenseness falling away.

  “No, that’s not what I meant. It’s a lame name, right? My mom gave me a kickass first name and then my middle name is Edgar. It’s not a family name either. It’s embarrassing, so…”

  “Wow…” Not sure why I say that. It’s cool of him to try and offer something embarrassing in exchange for something that stresses me out. He might not have wanted to give me any information on his family, but he gave me this. It’s definitely not something I expected. As cool and totally unexpected as it is, it’s still not the same as getting on this scale. In fact, I’m feeling a little dizzy at the thought.

  “You can do this. You’re here, you came back three times and then you walked in the door. Don’t give up on me now.”

  Did he have to mention he saw me? But he has a point. I’m here and I’m doing this. I nod and take a step forward. Tegan messes with scale until it lands on 165.9. Great, it’s even worse than I thought. My eyes squeeze shut, waiting for the snicker, the wise crack, but I’m greeted with silence. Pretty soon I’m begging for something. If he’ll just say it and get it over with we can move on.

  “You coming, Annabel?”

  I open my eyes and he’s standing a good ten feet away from me. He’s got his clipboard in his hand. There’s no grin on his face. No mocking, just a little tilt of his head again as he starts walking. This time, I follow. Maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.

  Tegan leads me to this little cubical before handing me a small machine with handles. “How tall are you?”

  “Five foot two.”

  He punches some buttons. “Okay, I need you to grip this. It’s going to tell us your percentage of body fat.”

  I am dead.

  “Nope. I draw the line there. One look at me is all it takes to know my percentage of body fat. It’s like, a lot.”

  Tegan groans like I’m the one being unreasonable in this situation. “What? Like you would want to just offer that information to anyone?” I look at him. “Okay, well maybe you wouldn’t mind, but the average people, we mind.”

  “I’m not just anyone, I’m your trainer—kind of like your doctor. I need this information to do my job. I can easily look it up, but this is more accurate.”

  The urge to stomp my feet again strikes, but instead, I rip the fat counter thing out of his hand, and hold it. Big red numbers flash on the screen, brighter than the sign out front. “29.3? That’s like, a lot, right?”

  It takes him a minute to reply. “Does it matter? The facts don’t change. You’re here to lose and we’re going to make sure that happens. Let’s look at the positive and not go into it picturing this big mountain to climb. We’re going to take it one step at a time.”

  One step at a time. Okay. Though I’m sure that’s pretty easy for him to say since he looks like he just stepped out of High School Elite magazine and probably has Supermodel for a girlfriend.

  “One step at a time,” I confirm, trying to sound like I believe it. Luckily, we wasted most of our time together with my being late and then almost walking out on the whole getting physical thing, so by the time we’re finished setting up our workout days and getting a plan together, there’s no time to actually do the exercising part.

  Darn.

  “Alright, I’m headed to get my brother and I a smoothie. So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” Tegan says as he walks me to the door.

  That must mean his brother is here. I can’t help but wonder why. I don’t ask. Instead, I say, “Smoothie?” Like the biggest idiot on the planet.

  “Yeah Berry Berry Blast. My day usually doesn’t start unless I’ve had a Berry Berry Blast.”

  I can’t tell if he’s joking or serious. Luckily—or unluckily, I don’t have to. There are two girls sitting on the chairs we vacated earlier. One of them elbows the other while we’re standing there. They both take in the sight of Tegan. I’ll be the first to admit he’s kind of on the short side for a guy, but they obviously don’t care. They’re taking in the view.

  “Hey, T. Don’t lie to the girl, you probably have at least three a day.” One of them does that annoying giggle-and-wave thing.

  “What? I’m not that bad. I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. You ready for your workout today?” He smiles.

  Ah, so he’s nice to everyone. That explains why some of the time, he actually seemed semi-cool today.

  I don’t give him time to walk away from me, for them. “Yeah, tomorrow,” I mumble before making my way out the door.

  ***

  Dinner around the Conway house is nerve-wracking for me. It’s the one time all three of us sit down together, in the same room, talking with each other. It doesn’t happen every day because Dad’s a doctor and Mom spends her days making the inside of peoples’ homes look as beautiful as she wishes I was, but when time permits, it’s our “family time.”

  If you can call it that. It’s always a mix of emotions for me which triggers my need for chocolate. Nothing cures nerves like chocolate. Or ice cream.

  I pull out the chair to our oversized dining room table and sit down. Like the rest of the house, Mom decorated the room. It’s got a royal feel to it, done in deep reds and golds, even though we’re nothing of the sort. I’m pretty sure she’d like to think she is, though. The carpet’s red. It’s not as bad as it sounds. I actually like the shade she picked for the floors. It’s when you add in the gold crown molding, the red and gold diamonds painted on one “accent wall,” and the gaudy chandelier she loses me.

  But when people come over, they seem to like it so maybe it’s another one of my defects.

  Mom comes into the room first, long, lean, and impeccably dressed, in a slim fitting business suit. I always expect the president or maybe the pope (if we were Catholic), to magically poof into the room during one of our meals. Then I could understand the extra few minutes she spends in front of the mirror just to eat some broccoli and chicken with Dad and me.

  But who knows, I guess if I was as perfect as her, I would want to look the part 24/7 too.

  As Dad comes into the room, wearing a pair of slacks and a t-shirt, she clicks off her cell phone. I love how Dad does that. He’s a mixture of Mom’s fashion and my relaxed look. He can handle the slacks, he always says, but the second he gets home from work, he replaces his shirt with the most comfy tee he can find.

  “Hey, Pumpkin.” Dad leans forward and kisses the top of my head, ruffles my black bob (short hair makes your face look thinner, according to Mom), and sits down at the head of the table.

  “Hey, Dad.” I smile at him and he gives me a kind one in return.

  “I wish you wouldn’t call her that, Daniel. She’s too old. A young woman shouldn’t be a pumpkin,” Mom says.

  I know most girls my age wouldn’t like being called pumpkin, but I lov
e it. He’s called me that since I can remember. It’s something that’s ours and no one else’s.

  I wonder if no young woman be a pumpkin or just not the fat ones. From what I hear, Mom’s parents weren’t the type to have a “pumpkin,” just like she isn’t. According to Dad, it’s why she is the way she is. Still, why does she have to take that away from me? Because now I’m not sure I want to be a pumpkin anymore. I hate her for that.

  “She’ll always be my pumpkin, Paulette. No matter how old she is.” Dad pats my hand, giving me a smile because he thinks he made it better. I give him a squeeze so he can keep believing it.

  “I understand.” Mom sits down. “She’s my little girl, too. I still think she’s too old to be a pumpkin.” She winks at me. Does she think she’s doing me a favor? That I don’t realize she probably thinks I’m a big, fat pumpkin every time he uses the name? That taking it away will make me more who she wishes I was?

  I’m not even sure if I can be mad at her for that.

  “How was your day, Mom?” While she rambles on about color patterns and the Marsh’s daughters’ new dresses for the Hillcrest Summer Pageant, I put a piece of grilled chicken on my plate then reach for a scoop of potatoes.

  “It’s the most gorgeous shade of blue…Not so much, Annabel. It matches perfectly with Bridgette’s.”

  I don’t even know how she does that. I swear her blue eyes aren’t even facing my direction, but somehow she thinks she knows exactly how many potatoes I’m scooping on my plate. And she just automatically throws that line in there between Elizabeth’s dress color and her mom’s.

  “She has one small spoonful on her plate. Don’t micromanage what she eats,” Dad says. I probably only have half a portion. I don’t say that because I hate when they argue about me. They’re so different, but they work well together. Most of the time I’m the only part of them that doesn’t fit and I don’t like highlighting it.

  Hence the reason I ask a question I don’t really care about. “What’s their talent this year? They sang last summer, right?”

  “Oh! It’s a cheer!” Mom rambles on and on about Bridgette and Elizabeth’s cheer. What the heck is that? Who wants to see a forty-five year old woman rah-rahing, trying to reclaim her high school days? Bridgette is the queen of Botox and breast implants. Oh, and she’s Mom’s best friend since high school. Bridgette and Elizabeth do the pageant together every year since Elizabeth turned fourteen. Every year they’ve won. It’s the one time I’m glad Mom’s not happy with my body because the pageant thing is so not me. But so she doesn’t lose face, she likes to pretend she’d rather plan it than participate every year.

  After eating half my chicken and half my potatoes, I push the rest around on my plate, pretending I’m interested. The conversation goes from the pageant to a new account Mom landed, how happy she is it’s summer time and then someone nudges my foot. “Huh?”

  “Your plans for the summer? Are you and…?”

  “Emily, Mom.” As if she doesn’t know my best friend’s name.

  “I know.” She tries to laugh it off like it wasn’t an I-know-her-name-but-I-don’t-deem-her-worthy-enough-to-use-it thing. “Anyway, do you guys have big plans for the summer? It’s your last one before senior year.”

  My tongue itches to tell her. To open my mouth and let her know my only plan for this summer is to lose weight. That I’m working with a trainer so she won’t tell me how many potatoes to eat or look at me like she’s sorry for me. Because that’s the hardest. Having parents pity you.

  That I’m dealing with I’m-too-gorgeous, Tegan. The boy who’s probably pretending to care…or not care about my stupid weight when he probably pities me, too. And I hate to admit it, but so Billy Mason’s eyes will pop out of his head when he sees me next year and he’ll regret everything he’s ever said to me.

  But I won’t. Dad will just tell me I’m fine the way I am, as long as I’m healthy and active. Mom will look at him like he needs to be committed, give me the “eye of skepticism,” and then make me want to be committed when she bugs me about my progress (or lack thereof), on a daily basis.

  “Not much,” I lie. “Just typical summer stuff, I guess. Em’s taking some summer courses at the college, so I’ll be on my own a lot.”

  “Oh, maybe you can call Elizabeth—”

  I’m not sure if it’s the look of horror on my face or if Dad knows spending time with Elizabeth would be torture, but he steps in. “Paulette. She’s a big girl. She can make her own friends. If she wants to call Lizzy, she will.”

  I love my Dad for trying, but somehow his words just made it worse. We all know I’m a big girl. It’s not like any of us need the reminder.

  Chapter Three

  165.8 I CHECKED. TEGAN WAS WRONG.

  It only takes two tries to make it into Let’s Get Physical. I guess it helps that Tegan made our appointments for 8:00 AM. Who gets up that early during the summer? At least it’s early enough I can go home and take a nap before I meet up with Em today.

  I hadn’t been lying when I told my parents she’s taking some college classes. She’s hoping to graduate a semester early, with me. The sooner we can get out of Hillcrest High, the better.

  On my second trip to the glass doors leading to Hell, I see Tegan waiting there for me. His arms are crossed, making the sleeve of his t-shirt ride up, the lining of a tattoo peeking out from under it. He’s not as muscular as I thought yesterday. Definitely toned and firm, but not overbearing. He’s not like Billy and his goons. You know, those guys who lift so much they grunt and their faces turn red. The grunting does give them big muscles, but I’m not sure it’s worth it. Looking at his physique, I’m pretty sure Tegan isn’t a grunter.

  Speaking of—why the heck am I looking at his figure? My eyes snap up. Sure enough, he’s looking at me, cocky little grin in place like he’s God’s gift to the female eye and caught me praising the Lord. Before he can comment on it—and I know he will because that’s such a good-looking guy thing to do—I hold up my hand. “It’s early, I’m in sweat pants, heading into the lion’s den. Don’t start with me right now.” I stroll past him like I’m not really freaking out inside. I hear a small chuckle before he catches up with me.

  “Lion’s den?”

  Does he really have to ask? It’s pretty self-explanatory, if you ask me. “Yep.”

  Tegan leads me through another set of glass doors and upstairs to a room filled with all the treadmills, ellipticals, exercise bikes, and all that.

  “We’re going to start with Cardio.”

  Oh, joy! Just what I want to hear. I love running in front of people.

  “It’s not so bad. It’s actually my favorite part. Well, not doing it on a tread, but running, outside. There’s nothing like it.”

  I’m still trying to figure out if I spoke out loud or if he saw the look of horror I’m probably wearing on my face. For the first time I wonder how all this is going to work, if he’s going to stand around and watch while I jog and everything jiggles.

  “Do you like it? Jogging, I mean? I used to do Cross Country in high school.”

  Cross country and weights. Holy fitness buff. Is there anything to this guy other than his workouts and apparent love of smoothies? And then I remember his brother and mom. The care he showed them and the way he looked at me when I tried to help. The tightness in his face when I asked about them. Just like the rest of us, Gym Boy has his secrets.

  I shake my head, still nervous to get up there and run in front of him.

  “What do you do? Anything you like?”

  Is this how things usually go? I’m curious what this has to do with our workout plan. “Roller blade. I used to ride a lot. Not as much anymore.”

  Tegan smiles like I let him in on some deep secret. “Cool. Never done it myself. Maybe I’ll have to try it sometime.” He pats the treadmill. “Climb up.”

  Sucking in a deep breath, I climb on. This is what I’m here for. I need to get over it and do it.

  “Okay, we�
�re going to start out slow today. I want to see what you can do. Twenty minutes. A couple of them walking to warm you up, then we’ll go into a jog. Deal?”

  We’ll? I nod my head. He pushes a few buttons on the treadmill. When the belt starts moving I do too. Tegan jumps on the one next to mine. Oh, nice. Is he trying to show me up or something? But to my surprise, he keeps it at a steady walk like I’m doing. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to know what he’s doing, that he probably fears if he doesn’t stay up here with me, I’ll bolt. There’s a part of me that wants to run because hello? This is embarrassing. On the other hand, I appreciate it because somehow, it helps not to do it alone.

  Before he thinks I’m ogling him again, I face forward. We’re both quiet until Tegan asks, “You ready to speed up?”

  “I’ve been counting down the steps!” I tease.

  He chuckles. “You’re funny. Go up to 3.8 and see how you handle that.” It’s not too bad, which is nice so I fall into a jog. Tegan’s right there with me, doing the same thing. The urge to talk to him bubbles up in my throat, but I don’t risk it for a couple reasons. The most important one being I’ve been at this for a few minutes now and I’m slightly out of breath. The last thing I want is to start gasping at the boy.

  So, I keep my eyes on the timer instead. I guess like a watched pot never boils, a watched clock never ticks.

  “Hey, Tegan. Why are you up here?” A pretty, long-legged brunette walks up next to his treadmill. Who does that? Just stands there talking to someone while they’re sweating and running? Okay, so Tegan isn’t sweating like I am, but still.

  “Just working out with Annabel.”

  Legs looks back and forth between Tegan and I, but I don’t pay her much attention for fear I’ll fall and eat treadmill if I do.

  “Oh…so we’re still on for tomorrow, right?”

  It would really be cool if I had my iPod right now to help me block this out. I shouldn’t want to—I don’t know why I do—but I sort of want to hear what Tegan has planned with this girl. I’m imagining all kinds of sordid things when he says, “Yep. 9:30 AM, just like every Sunday.”