Curvy Girls Can’t Date Best Friends by Kelsie Stelting

One

Ten Years Old

CARSON

“This is going to be a good move for us,” Mom promised as the GPS told us we were two minutes from our new home.

The home I’d never set foot in.

The home away from my grandparents.

The home away from my friends.

But it would still be filled with the same people.

The same mom who worked eighty-hour weeks.

The same dad who didn’t work at all.

The same sisters living the same nightmare as me.

My oldest sister in the front seat barely looked up from her phone. “Sure, Mom,” Clary said. I didn’t even see a glint of the hope in her face that I was afraid to feel in my chest. But there was a reason Dad was alone in the moving truck while we piled five people into a car that barely fit all of us, especially now that my sisters were older and had bigger hips that made less sitting room for me. (Mom said that was because they’d gone through puberty. Whatever that meant.)

“It will be better,” Mom asserted, her eyes dark blue in the rearview mirror. They got that color when she was upset. Even darker when she cried. “Your father grew up his whole life in that small town. Around the same patterns and the same people. When he’s in a new place, he’ll realize that we’re what matters. I know he will.”

No one had talked to me about the Cook Family Curse directly—they thought I was too young—but every man on my dad’s side of the family was abusive. Had been for generations. Clary said it was like they didn’t know any other way to be. My sister Sierra, who was into witchcraft, took the curse part more literally. No one had ever said what that meant for me.

One thing I knew—our home life couldn’t get worse. At least, I hoped it wouldn’t.

“And you’ll all be at a great school,” Mom continued. “The best school money can buy. You’ll meet your best friends there; I just know it.”

On my left side, Gemma rolled her red-rimmed eyes and leaned against the window. Her best friend had lived next door to us at our old house, and Dad had to peel her off the mailbox to get her in the car.

“Just stop, Mom,” Sierra said, her body stiff on my right. “You married an abusive narcissist, and instead of leaving him, you’re staying with him and taking us so far away from the only family we’ve ever known. It’s pathetic.”

I flinched at her words. I hated the fighting. I hated how mean everyone was to Mom. Especially since I’d seen how it felt to have some of Dad’s anger directed at me.

Mom’s eyes grew darker. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

She turned onto a road at a sign that said Rhodora Home Owners’ Association. The houses lining the wide street were nice—not as big as the ones in Texas; Gramps did always say, “Everything’s bigger in Texas.”

Each home had bright green lawns and big bay windows, and everything looked just as perfect as Mom wanted us to believe it would be. The moving truck was parked in front of a house painted light blue—like it had tried to blend in with the sky but missed a shade.

The house on the left was a boring brown color, but right next door there was a bright yellow home with the windows open, and I swore there was a pie sitting in the windowsill. I wished I could move into that house, with a perfect mom and a perfect dad and maybe even a brother and a sister who weren’t so busy dealing with their own problems they forgot about me.

“This is it,” Mom announced, putting the car into park along the curb. She got out and said, “Carson?”

After my sisters left, I scooted out of the middle. Mom waited for me by a white mailbox shaped like a swan. “Yeah?”

She knelt down and put her hands on my shoulders. “I want to thank you for staying so positive.” She glanced over her shoulder where Dad stood by the truck, smoking, and lowered her voice. “I know Dad’s been hard on you, but you keep being the bright, silly, fun, good kid I know you are, and great things will happen for you.”

My throat stung like when I had to tell Grandma and Gramps goodbye. “Are you sure?”

“I promise. This move will be the best thing to happen in your life.”

CALLIE

Through my bedroom window on the second floor, I watched a man who looked as old as my dad yank the for-sale sign out of the ground. He tossed it aside, and a laughing woman came and kissed him.

A boy bent over, pretending to throw up, while three older girls walked toward the front door.

“Joe!” I called to my older brother. “They’re our age!”

He came into my room and pulled his headphones around his neck. “Any hot girls?”

“Ew,” I said, even though the girls were pretty. They each had long blond hair like their mother that rippled down their backs.

I didn’t focus on them for long. My eyes were on the boy. He straightened, and sandy blond hair covered his forehead, brushed over his dark eyebrows. Was he in my grade? He could have been. What was he like? I couldn’t tell anything about him from his plain T-shirt and khaki shorts. Only that he looked like he was my height. But again, that was hard to tell from up here.

I wished I could open my window and lean out to get a better look, but it was the middle of August, and Dad would be so upset if he knew I was letting out all of his cold air. Apparently, all of the house was his and Mom’s...until it needed cleaning.

From downstairs, my mom called, “Joe, Callie, come here!”

Joe and I gave each other a look. Mom always made us greet new neighbors, but I was only wearing basketball shorts and a T-shirt from practice earlier today...

“One second,” we yelled at the same time.

Joe ran out of the room, and I had a distinct feeling he was doing the same thing I was: primping.

I ran to my dresser and dug through the bulk of my jeans and T-shirts until I found the ones that looked best on me. I tugged them on and started toward the stairs. Joe came out of the bathroom smelling like way too much cologne.

Fanning my hand in front of my nose, I said, “You smelled better before!”

“Really?” He put his armpit in my face, and I nearly fell down the stairs.

“Stop!” I cried, hurrying to the bottom before I could get more hairy armpit in my face.

He finally gave up, and when we reached the kitchen, Mom gave us an exasperated look. “You two,” she sighed. Then she reached for a carafe of her special homemade strawberry lemonade and handed it to me.

I adjusted the sweating pitcher in my hands as she gave Joe a round glass pan full of cinnamon rolls. She’d been experimenting with different flavors lately, and through the glass, these looked strawberry flavored.

“Can I have one?” Joe asked.

“You don’t think they’ll notice one missing?” she said, turning to get the plastic plates and cups decorated with tiny flowers.

“I just don’t care,” Joe retorted. “They look so good, Mom.”

I rolled my eyes. Flattery was his strong suit. “Kiss up.”

“Callie,” Mom admonished. “No name-calling.”

“Even when it’s true?” I said sweetly.

Smiling, she shook her head. “Let’s get going.”

We marched out the front door and down the sidewalk. Last time we’d done the neighbor greeting, it was for the house across the street where an old couple lived with their creepy cat. It had a scraggly coat and two different colored eyes and curled around my legs the entire twenty minutes we were there, like it had an evil plan to trip me. This family already seemed more promising.

Their front door was open, and we could hear girls arguing inside about who got which room.

“See? You’re not the only siblings who argue.” Mom looked over at us pointedly and knocked on the door frame. “Yoo hoo, neighbors.”

My cheeks reddened. Not only was I standing here with a sweaty glass of lemonade, my mom said yoo hoo.

The woman I’d seen earlier stepped from the direction of the garage. I’d been in this house when it was still listed for sale—it looked a lot like ours but like someone had flipped it the opposite direction and painted it in bright, coastal colors unlike the beige that covered all of our walls.

The woman smiled wide and said, “Hi there. Come inside.”

Mom walked a couple of feet into the living room, and as we followed, I thought we might as well have been standing on the porch.

A crashing sound came from the direction of the garage. Shattering glass.

I flinched, and the Mom said, “Whoops. Must have dropped something.”

It didn’t sound like dropping. The next crash that came sounded like something had hit the wall.

The boy came running out of the garage and ran out the back door. His mom’s eyes trailed behind him for a moment before turning back to us, looking tight around the corners. “It was nice to meet you, but we better get back to unpacking.”

“Of course,” Mom said, a smile pasted on her face like she hadn’t seen what I had. “I’m Anne, and this is Callie and Joe. My husband is Robert, but I’m sure there will be plenty of time to meet him once you get settled in. Where would you like us to set the snacks? I’m sure you’ll need them!”

She nodded gratefully. “We will. Here on the floor should be fine.”

Mom seemed to hesitate before bending to set the plasticware and plates on the dusty ground. Joe dumped his cinnamon rolls, and I carefully lowered the carafe to the floor.

As we turned and walked out, I heard a door slam and a man’s voice grumbling something about lazy and ungrateful.

After the door closed firmly behind us and we heard the heavy clicking of a lock, Joe said, “That was weird.”

“Shh,” Mom said.

“It was,” I said, my throat tight. “Do you think the dad was throwing something at the boy?”

“I’m sure it’s okay.” Mom smiled at me, but there was still a troubled look in her eyes. “Why don’t you get some time outside? Maybe hang out in the green belt.”

The message behind her words was clear. Find him.

I cut across our lawn to the gate that opened to the expanse of grass that cut through the neighborhood. There were a few parks dispersed through the place, and I didn’t see him on the one closest to our houses.

Trying to stall the worry rising in my throat, I shucked my flip-flops, hooking the straps between my fingers. I always felt better with the grass forming and molding to my feet. Even so, the sense of dread lingered.

This time of summer, it was too hot to be at the park, I reminded myself. Everyone was probably at the pool or the beach. Or watching TV in the air conditioning. Having fun instead of bringing food to grumpy neighbors. Maybe the boy had found a tree to hide out under.

I rounded a corner and saw the next park. The same boy from earlier sat on one of the swings, dragging his feet over the worn-down path of gravel underneath. His head hung low, sandy hair falling around his face. I opened my mouth to greet him, but he lifted his arm to his face and used the back of his forearm to wipe his eyes.

He was crying.

It felt like a hand had reached around my lungs and squeezed. I both wanted to run to him and make him feel better and dodge behind a tree to let him have some privacy. The war of the two options held me firmly to the spot, unable to move.

Like he sensed me watching him, he looked up and immediately began wiping at his face, trying to hide his feelings. Before I could speak, he said, “You live next door, don’t you?”

My chest ached even more at the sight of him trying to hold it together, but maybe that was what he needed—for me to pretend nothing had happened.

“Yeah, in the yellow house,” I said with a smile, going to the swing next to him and sitting down. “What grade are you in?”

“I’m going to Emerson Academy. I’ll be in sixth grade.”

“Me too,” I said. “Do you play sports?”

“Swimming. But I want to try football too.”

I nodded. “Our school does flag football in sixth grade.”

“What about you?” he asked. “Do you play sports?”

“Everything I can,” I answered. “I’m in a summer basketball league, but I’ll play volleyball when school starts. Where’d you move from?”

“Texas.” He said the word bitterly, like Texas was just as bad as sitting on the bench a whole game or something. He pumped his legs and started picking up height. “Want to see who can jump farther?”

I nodded and began swinging my legs too. “I’ll warn you though. I’ve been practicing on these swings my whole life.”

“Well I have natural talent.”

I snorted, working even harder. “Good luck.”

We were both high now, the chains squeaking harshly as we worked to best each other.

“Ready,” he said.

“Set,” I yelled.

“Go!” we shouted at the same time.

We flew through the air, weightless, soaring, and then the ground came toward us. I touched the ground and rolled, him doing the same beside me. As I skidded to a stop on the gravel, I looked over to see the boy at the same distance as me.

“Tie,” he said.

I grinned. “I’ll win next time.”

A woman’s voice yelled in the distance, “Carson!”

His expression soured. “That’s me.”

That tight feeling was back in my chest. “See you later?”

He nodded. “Race?”

“You’re on.”

We sprinted back toward our houses, neck and neck the entire way. When we reached the back gate, one of his sisters was standing there with her arms folded across her ample chest. “Looks like you’re fitting right in,” she said drily, extending her arm for him.

He ducked under it and started inside.

As I walked toward my house, I couldn’t get the boy and his hidden tears out of my mind. Not during supper when Joe told Dad what happened. Not when our parents sent us upstairs and I could hear my parents whispering downstairs through the bathroom vents, and not at bedtime as I sat at my desk, carefully braiding my hair so it would be crimped the next morning.

Not when I heard something tapping at my second-story window.

With my eyebrows furrowed together, I went to the window, pushed it open, and looked down and around. There were bright little pieces of something on the ground. And then one pegged my head.

Across the gap between our houses, I could see the boy, Carson, leaning out his window, holding on to a handful of Legos.

Before I had a chance to speak, he said, “I didn’t hear your name.”

“Callie,” I answered.

“Same place, same time tomorrow, Callie?” he asked.

I nodded, a smile growing on my face. “You’re on.”