Diary of an Ugly Duckling by Karyn Langhorne Page A

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.
    56
    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
    said? 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