guaranteed-to-add-two-cup-sizes-or-your-money-back, “Mammo-Glamm.”
Unfortunately it wasn’t very glamorous. Hand-size plastic pink paddles connected by a coiled spring. We read the directions over and over, then practiced extending our arms straight out, grasping the Mammo-Glamm between our palms and then pumping in and out. After six weeks we only gained sore muscles—without enhancing even one measly cup size! Our pathetic little boobies remained pathetic and little. And the Mammo-Glamm Company never did refund our money.
Dreams shifted as I drifted back to consciousness. Tossing from side to stomach then back to side, I couldn’t get comfortable. Something hard and round poked my chest—two somethings actually. I reached up to push away these annoyances, and found them attached.
“What the—!”
Memory crashed in like a ceiling of bricks. I longed to go back to my dream, to be flat-chested and happy Amber.
Before I could sink too deep into depression, I heard a snicker, and looked over at the foot of my hospital bed. I saw a skinny blue-eyed boy, about nine or ten. His curly, dark-blond hair was pulled back under a blue bandana, and he wore a leather jacket and baggy black jeans.
He was a stranger.
But then so was I.
“Why you touching your boobs?” His cynical, crude tone seemed at odds with his young face.
“I wasn’t,” I retorted. From the inside, Leah’s voice didn’t sound as sweet as I remembered.
The boy crossed the room to stare down at me. His scowl gave a strong hint that he didn’t like me very much. Who was he anyway?
“I know you don’t want me here, so just tell me why and I’ll get out,” he said bluntly.
I cringed under those hate-filled blue eyes. “Why what?”
“You know.”
“Yeah, like not.”
“Liar! You can’t fool me. I know all your tricks.”
I almost snapped back angrily, until advice from The Bait of Debate popped into my head: To succeed in a confrontational situation, project calmness and curiosity . “I don’t understand,” I said. “Who are you?”
He snorted. “Acting dumb isn’t gonna work.”
My throat burned, so I just shook my head.
“Come off it, Leah.”
“I-I’m not … not her.”
“You’re so full of it, and you look like crap.” He reached out for a plastic pitcher of water and poured some into a glass, then handed it to me. “Here.”
My hand shook as I took the glass and lifted it to my lips. Cool water eased some of the pain but I still ached with confusion. I couldn’t figure this kid out. He seemed to hate me, yet he offered me water.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“Since when do you thank me?” He took the glass back and set it down on the tray. “Usually it’s ‘get lost, vermin’ or ‘bug off, brat.’ You must really be sick.”
You have no idea, I thought wearily.
He plopped down on the corner of the hospital bed and pulled out a shiny pocketknife. It was larger than his hand, with a wicked etched dragon design. I recoiled, afraid he’d flip out a menacing blade and stick me, but he just idly rubbed his thumb over the etched dragon.
“Dad’s pissed off, and Mom’s freaking out more than usual,” he said, gazing down at the dragon.
“Dad? Mom?”
“Well … duh. They’re so messed up it’s pathetic.”
“Your parents?’
“Duh. Who else?”
“Do I know them?”
“Ha! The whole poor pitiful Leah act, like that’s going to work. Faking a lost memory won’t get you out of trouble.”
His chilly expression was similar to the cringe-worthy stare Leah had given me during the “puffin” incident. “You’re her … Leah’s … brother?” I guessed.
“And her memory returns,” he mocked. “Hallelujah! It’s a miracle!”
I took that as a “yes.” Obviously Leah and her brother weren’t close, but this hostility seemed extreme.
“I won’t ask where you got the pills,” he said accusingly. “I already know.”
“What pills?”
“The ones you swiped from Mom’s
Unfortunately it wasn’t very glamorous. Hand-size plastic pink paddles connected by a coiled spring. We read the directions over and over, then practiced extending our arms straight out, grasping the Mammo-Glamm between our palms and then pumping in and out. After six weeks we only gained sore muscles—without enhancing even one measly cup size! Our pathetic little boobies remained pathetic and little. And the Mammo-Glamm Company never did refund our money.
Dreams shifted as I drifted back to consciousness. Tossing from side to stomach then back to side, I couldn’t get comfortable. Something hard and round poked my chest—two somethings actually. I reached up to push away these annoyances, and found them attached.
“What the—!”
Memory crashed in like a ceiling of bricks. I longed to go back to my dream, to be flat-chested and happy Amber.
Before I could sink too deep into depression, I heard a snicker, and looked over at the foot of my hospital bed. I saw a skinny blue-eyed boy, about nine or ten. His curly, dark-blond hair was pulled back under a blue bandana, and he wore a leather jacket and baggy black jeans.
He was a stranger.
But then so was I.
“Why you touching your boobs?” His cynical, crude tone seemed at odds with his young face.
“I wasn’t,” I retorted. From the inside, Leah’s voice didn’t sound as sweet as I remembered.
The boy crossed the room to stare down at me. His scowl gave a strong hint that he didn’t like me very much. Who was he anyway?
“I know you don’t want me here, so just tell me why and I’ll get out,” he said bluntly.
I cringed under those hate-filled blue eyes. “Why what?”
“You know.”
“Yeah, like not.”
“Liar! You can’t fool me. I know all your tricks.”
I almost snapped back angrily, until advice from The Bait of Debate popped into my head: To succeed in a confrontational situation, project calmness and curiosity . “I don’t understand,” I said. “Who are you?”
He snorted. “Acting dumb isn’t gonna work.”
My throat burned, so I just shook my head.
“Come off it, Leah.”
“I-I’m not … not her.”
“You’re so full of it, and you look like crap.” He reached out for a plastic pitcher of water and poured some into a glass, then handed it to me. “Here.”
My hand shook as I took the glass and lifted it to my lips. Cool water eased some of the pain but I still ached with confusion. I couldn’t figure this kid out. He seemed to hate me, yet he offered me water.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“Since when do you thank me?” He took the glass back and set it down on the tray. “Usually it’s ‘get lost, vermin’ or ‘bug off, brat.’ You must really be sick.”
You have no idea, I thought wearily.
He plopped down on the corner of the hospital bed and pulled out a shiny pocketknife. It was larger than his hand, with a wicked etched dragon design. I recoiled, afraid he’d flip out a menacing blade and stick me, but he just idly rubbed his thumb over the etched dragon.
“Dad’s pissed off, and Mom’s freaking out more than usual,” he said, gazing down at the dragon.
“Dad? Mom?”
“Well … duh. They’re so messed up it’s pathetic.”
“Your parents?’
“Duh. Who else?”
“Do I know them?”
“Ha! The whole poor pitiful Leah act, like that’s going to work. Faking a lost memory won’t get you out of trouble.”
His chilly expression was similar to the cringe-worthy stare Leah had given me during the “puffin” incident. “You’re her … Leah’s … brother?” I guessed.
“And her memory returns,” he mocked. “Hallelujah! It’s a miracle!”
I took that as a “yes.” Obviously Leah and her brother weren’t close, but this hostility seemed extreme.
“I won’t ask where you got the pills,” he said accusingly. “I already know.”
“What pills?”
“The ones you swiped from Mom’s
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