Curvy Girls Can't Date Quarterbacks - Kelsie Stelting Page 0,38
a statement that didn’t call for a reply.
She sighed. “I thought you would want to lose the weight like Dr. Edmonson said.”
The more we talked, the more I felt like everyone in the lunchroom was staring at us. That was exactly what I needed. For Beckett to be reminded of my spare tire and remember that girls like me and guys like him existed on different planes, mine with extra wide seats. “Mom, can we talk about this later?”
“PCOS is serious, and—”
“Mom, please?” I begged.
The last thing I wanted was for Beckett to hear about my PCOS and diet plan. Nothing killed high school romance like infertility and fat.
Her expression warred with emotions, but eventually she gave me a curt nod. “But come home after school. We need to talk about this.”
I nodded, putting “verbal lashing” and “familial humiliation” on my mental to-do list. Aiden never had to sit through any of these lectures. Probably because the guy could eat triple quarter pounders three times a day and just get more buff. Not like me—no, one look at the things and Mom would be sending me back to the bathroom with more virginal pregnancy tests.
Not wanting my mom to change her mind and hunt me down for round two, I hurried to the AV room to meet the other girls.
Jordan was the only one missing from the room. I dropped my tray on the table and glared at it. Why did my mom think she had to control everything I ate? Didn’t she know I’d be on my own in less than a year, with a campus meal plan she couldn’t monitor like a hawk and an entire life outside the oppressive weight of her thumb?
“What’s wrong with you?” Ginger asked.
I groaned and held up a French fry. “Apparently this isn’t health-teacher approved.”
“But potatoes are vegetables,” she said with a grin.
With a small laugh, I shook my head. “That’s what I said. Didn’t work.”
I took a bite and swallowed. It tasted good, just like it always did, but I couldn’t appreciate it as much. What if Beckett or Merritt had overheard my mom? That would be the end of what little clout I’d acquired in the last few weeks—the end of any chance I had with Beckett.
I sighed. “I love my mom, but sometimes I wish she would butt out.”
Zara lifted a corner of her lips. “Be thankful you have one.”
“What happened to your mom?” Ginger asked.
“She got sick when I was eleven. Breast cancer.”
Callie frowned and tried to pat her hand, but Zara put it in her lap. “She was my best friend.”
Well, now I felt like a jerk. “I’m sorry, I—"
“Where’s Jordan?” Zara asked, changing the subject.
The rest of us shrugged, just as the door opened.
Jordan had her phone pressed between her cheek and her shoulder as she dropped her tray on the table. “Fine. Fine. Do whatever you want.” She held up the screen and hit end way harder than necessary.
“What was that about?” I asked, grateful for a distraction.
Jordan rolled her eyes. “My boyfriend’s an idiot.” But she left it at that. “Let’s focus on you. How was this morning?”
I shrugged, aiming for nonchalance but probably hitting spastic instead. “Just another hi before class. Which I love. But he’s not exactly proclaiming his undying love for me... Should I be worried about that?”
Zara shook her head. “He’s still figuring out his feelings. Beckett is the kind of guy who won’t lay all of his cards out to everyone until he knows for sure how he feels.”
That made me feel better, if only slightly. “Did Carson say anything?” I asked Callie.
“Just that he’d try to talk to Beckett after the game without making things too obvious.”
I nodded. “So the game Friday?”
“Let’s go,” Zara said. “After seeing all the guys in their uniforms last time...I think I’m a football fan.”
The rest of us giggled.
“It’s a plan,” I said.
Twenty-Two
Mom and I rode to the house in silence. I knew a verbal lashing was coming about my lunchtime choices. She just didn’t get it. She ate grapefruit and stayed trim. I ate grapefruit and stayed fat. No matter how many miles I’d walked with her at Emerson Trails, the scale hadn’t budged. So what was the point in being miserable and fat? I might as well enjoy myself—or my food at least.
When we got home, I immediately went toward the stairs, wanting to avoid Mom as much as possible, but she called, “Come back here, Rory.”