Diary of an Ugly Duckling Read online

  mind my asking, what size are you?” Watching Au-

  dra’s face change, she added quickly, “I ask because

  we only carry up to size twelve. The designer is

  launching a plus-size line in the fall, but right now—”

  “Are you calling me fat?” Audra snapped at the

  DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

  53

  girl, her good mood quickly slipping away. Audra

  thought back: the woman on the subway hadn’t

  been small . . . but now that she thought about it,

  she’d been a heck of a lot smaller than Audra. A sud-

  den embarrassment swept through Audra like a rag-

  ing forest fire. Of course this was a smaller-size

  store. What on earth had she been thinking—

  But then again, the top in the window looked like

  it might be cut a little on the roomy side . . .

  “No ma’am,” the young woman was stammering

  in front of her. “ It—it’s just . . .” she hesitated, and

  then spoke quickly, as though the speed of her de-

  livery would make the words somehow less upset-

  ting. “I don’t mean to offend you . . . but I really

  don’t think it’s going to fit and these are very expen-

  sive garments. If you rip it—”

  “It won’t rip. And if it does, I’ll buy it,” Audra

  snapped at her with a force she hadn’t fully in-

  tended. The girl’s eyes widened and she 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

  54

  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

  DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

  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

  sai
d? 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

  DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

  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 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

  60

  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,

  62

  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 it was his face that most capti-

  vated Audra’s attention: those liquid eyes, strong

  cheekbones—and those lips! Audra imagined her-

  self getting a nibble of those beautiful bow-shaped

  lips and just the thought of it was better than the

  thought of a bag full of Oreos—with a candy bar on

  the side.

  She pulled at the yellow shawl, baring a bit more

  rounded, ebony shoulder, and willed the butterflies

  in the pit of her stomach to stillness as a wide,

  happy grin spilled across her face.

  “Hi, Bradshaw—”

  “Art,” he corrected, blessing her with a curve of

  those luscious lips.

  Audra’s heart did another desperate flutter up

  her windpipe and then down to her kneecaps before

  she panted out, “Art.”

  “Glad you could make it. You look . . .” his eyes

  swept over her. Audra gave the yellow top another

  tug, showing even more plump shoulder, before he

  finished, “nice.”

  “Thanks. So do you.” She glanced around. “Looks

  DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

  63

  like your daughter has a good turnout.” She peered

  around the dance floor. “Which one is she—?”

  A woman approached them, gliding confidently

  up to Bradshaw and slipping her arm through his

  with a certain possessiveness that couldn’t be mis-

  taken for anything else. At first, Audra thought she

  must be Bradshaw’s daughter, but in another instant

  she realized her mistake.

  Her skin was the shade of roasted almonds—fair

  and smooth. Her hair, long and dark, burnt straight

  and smooth by the latest chemical process, gleamed

  off her forehead until it disappeared down her back

  in a tumbling wave that brushed against the soft