I continued
ignoring texts from Nate all weekend, and I hovered around Joey to keep myself from breaking. She teased me about it, all the while coming up with stuff for us to do to fill the meager amount of time left until finals.
I was just fine with my Math and English finals, but it was my fashion design final that was absolutely killing me. It probably had to do with the fact that I was completely avoiding finding any models, and all my friends were too short or too curvy or both to fit the bill. As a result, I’d designed every outfit on a freaking mannequin, totally defeating the purpose of the project—design clothing that was shocking and could actually be worn. As many points for creativity as for wearability.
I was screwed.
I was shuffling through my portfolio on Sunday night, hoping to dig up some sketches I’d done when my head was clearer. Before I’d done the stupid nude modeling and had the gall to think that any guy on this stupid college campus would genuinely want to have a relationship with me, let alone fall in love with me. Before my head had been filled with working out and learning to enjoy life after my accident.
As I dug some stray scraps of paper out of the bottom of my huge portfolio, a thick, glossy tri-fold thunked to the floor. When I read the wording on it, the tears flooded my eyes again—they hadn’t for days. Dammit.
REAL WORLD. REAL WOMEN. Design competition for clothing sized 12-18.
I blinked back the tears. This is the thing that had sparked my interest all the way back in the first week since I’d met Nate. But I couldn’t have done it then, not really. Then, I didn’t see my body as a canvas, as a gorgeous work of art, except for when Nate was telling me in real time.
But all those weeks with Nate, however fake they might have been, did do one thing for me. Whether the rest of the world saw me that way, I knew now that I was strong, and I was beautiful, just the way I was.
And girls like me needed gorgeous clothes too.
I stuffed everything I’d done all semester back in my portfolio.
As I frantically sketched, I realized that what Nate had told me the very first time we were together was absolutely true, and I could only see it now that it was laid out in front of me in a form grid, in black and white. I was not only beautiful—I was as close to mathematically, architecturally perfect as you could get.
I double- and triple-checked my measurements, and then, for the next week, I basically moved into the studio.
***
A week later, I’d scoured every nook and cranny of the design studio, as well as spent hours with the scissors, tissue-paper patterns, and sewing machines. The students who signed people in and out of the studio started bringing me coffee.
That Friday, I squeezed in an appointment with Doctor Albright. She was the only one who I wanted to share this project with before I shared it with everyone, for two reasons. First, she’d been right about Nate not being a guaranteed presence in my life, about not needing him to give me my self-worth, and I didn’t want her to think that was lost on me. But second, and most importantly, I wanted her to see how far I’d come—from hating myself and feeling trapped in my own skin to accepting that I was beautiful like this too, and using my design talents to make myself look gorgeous in a way only I could.
I moved the box of tissues and knickknacks from her coffee table and spread out my design sketches. She looked at them and beamed at me. “You decided to do it. What made you decide?”
“I realized that I don’t want to have to count on anyone to take care of me except me, including my body image. And if being taken care of doesn’t mean having a fabulous wardrobe, then…”
“What’s the point?” She laughed. “I couldn’t agree more. I’m so proud of you, Cat.”
The truth was, I was probably more proud of myself than anyone. And in that moment, I realized that I had needed that more than anything.
***
By Sunday, I’d turned the sound off on my phone, and Nate’s texts got less and less frequent. His last one said simply,
I don’t want to give up. But I don’t want to be a creep. I’m still coming to the show, but only because I want you to know how much I support you. Always have.
It was the only one I replied to. I couldn’t help myself as my fingers flew over the touch screen
. No you don’t. Trust me.
I do. If I come, will you freak out?
Do what you want. It’s a free country.
Then, as soon as I’d hit send,
We’re not hanging out
.
No hanging out. Got it.
I stared at my studio table, strewn with fabric scraps and coffee cups, and then looked over at the mannequin I’d hacked to reflect my measurements.
I’d turned this studio upside down. And I’d turned myself around in the process.
The same suitcase that I’d brought to Nate’s mom’s house for Thanksgiving sat in the corner. I set to work carefully folding and tucking the outfits into the suitcase, taking care to keep all the pieces together.
Like I’d finally stitched the pieces of my life back together. Despite my accident. Despite Nate’s lies. I was finally happy in this skin. Strong enough to finally love myself, no matter what size I wore. And even better? Proud of what I’d accomplished. Tomorrow was going to be awesome. I hoped.
The next morning, I wheeled the suitcase behind me with one hand and holding a duffle bag full of curling irons, steamers, and seven different pairs of shoes, among other things. Joey scurried to keep up with me while holding two steaming cups of coffee.
“Oh my God, Cat, this is so freaking exciting. I can’t believe you never took me to one of your modeling things! I mean seriously, this is too much fun!”
I looked over at her, rolled my eyes, but then smiled wide. “Thanks for coming with me. Seriously. I never thought I’d be doing this again.”
It still wasn’t modeling like I used to do—Piper was one of our sorority sisters, who also happened to be a photography major and amazing at studio work. When I found out she’d be able to use photographing parts of my final application for credit in one of her classes, it pretty much sealed the deal.
I was going to design outfits for the Real Woman Challenge, and I was going to be my own model.
The only thing I had never anticipated was that I would be, in every way, the absolutely perfect person for the job.
Piper smiled wide when I arrived in the studio, showing me the curtained changing area and helping me hang up my outfits. She oohed and ahhed over each one, and helped me separate denim from silk from wool, deciding on the perfect plain-colored background for each.
I stepped into my first outfit, dark skinny jeans, red patent leather stilettos to die for—which I could never actually walk in, but were perfect for a photo shoot where I didn’t actually walk anywhere, and a white silk top that dipped and draped in swoops that accented my breasts, showed off my toned shoulder muscles, and nipped in at my upper waist. I looked like a goddess, and I knew it.
“Shit,” breathed Piper and Joey at the same time. “You’re stunning.”
Piper held her fancy camera so casually it might as well have been a hairbrush. “Okay. Just stand on the mat. You know the drill, right?”
“I do,” I smiled. I’d done my hair in large, soft waves, and I loved the way they felt brushing across my cheekbones and teasing at my neck. I looked hot, size fourteen body and all.
Piper smashed her eye up to the camera and peered inside. “Just gonna run some test shots, okay? Give me some poses.”
And so I did. I leaned over ever so slightly, made my lips pouty. I pushed my hands back through my hair and twisted at my waist.
“Yes, yes, Cat. Gorgeous. Give me more of that.” The camera was snapping away and I hadn’t really realized how much I had missed it. But I had. A lot.
Suddenly, that feeling surged through me again, for the first time in a year. The power of being absolutely beautiful, of being capable of being admired, and of being wanted, was so strong that I could barely stand it. And it had nothing to do with my weight and everything to do with my attitude. A grin stretched across my face.
“Incredible, Cat!” Piper seemed to love that, the show of genuine emotion. “Jesus, you are stunning.”
I tried to remember if I’d ever used that true smile anywhere since the accident, except under the covers with Nate.
Nate. Shit.
Knowing he was bad for me was very different than the memories and emotions that told me just how badly I missed him every single minute. The tears welled in my eyes again, but I willed them to go back. Nothing was going to ruin this shoot. Nothing.
But it did remind me of the most important thing of this whole project, which was not me looking hot in stilettos.
“Hey, Joey. Would you grab those big white cards from my suitcase?”
This was the project—Project Real Woman. I was at the center of it, and I was going to make it the best damn thing these judges had ever seen.
The huge
auditorium at the center of Temple’s campus had been completely transformed into a Paris runway. Hundreds of chairs lined a long, sleek platform that ended in a black curtain. Lights were rigged to showcase the incredible creations of the student designers.
I’d waited two years to finally have the privilege of helping construct some of the fashions that would go on the models that Temple brought in from as far away as Manhattan. And now I had chosen not to. I had to admit I felt a pang in my heart when I saw some of the truly gorgeous designs of my classmates coming down the runway—wild creations made entirely out of red feathers, or understated but structurally astounding outfits made out of strange combinations like black gauze and tweed.
As beautiful as the clothes were, it was strange to watch the girls wearing them. I’d spent so much time being told that I was beautiful when I looked like they did, feeling comfortable in a stick-thin body that, as it turned out, wasn’t actually the body that looked best on me.
I’d done a pretty good job, between physical therapy and climbing and walking with Nate, at getting my leg back into shape. If I wore the right shoes, it hardly even hurt anymore.
I could have gone back to the hardcore workouts and the barely-eating that had kept me in top shape for the teen model competitions in high school and the runway jobs in college, the kind of calorie counting that had kept my Philadelphia agent happy. But the satisfaction of being stick-thin and only focused on how I looked had lost its appeal when I was with Nate.
Nate had helped me realize that I wasn’t most attractive when I looked like everyone else—I was most attractive when I looked like myself. When I
acted
like myself instead of worrying about what everyone else thought of how I looked.
And now, standing here, ready to bare my fashion-designing and body-image soul to a crowd of my professors and peers, I felt just as strong as the first time I went rock climbing Except not on the outside. The outside wasn’t important anymore.
A row of models finally appeared on the stage to thunderous applause—this was the fashion show equivalent of a curtain call. Each student designer had chosen the outfit that she felt best represented her collection and abilities, and chosen that as her final image.
The emcee, the dean of the fashion design school, stepped out to the podium and gestured to the models behind him. “Let’s give these hardworking ladies one more round of applause.” I joined in. I knew the long hours those girls worked sitting under makeup lights and then strutting unnaturally under stage lights. It was tough work making clothing look like art, no matter what size you were.
“Now, a very special addition to this year’s program. We asked our design students to consider thinking outside the box in their design projects. And this year, we offered a specific assignment with an incentive. Project Real Woman is funded by the Body Image Awareness Council of the United States of America. The challenge was to transform the idea of fashion for a beauty industry that can often be narrow-minded both figuratively and literally.”
The crowd chuckled, including the stick-thin models on stage. I knew full well from working with them that most of them weren’t starving themselves—for most of them, being tall and thin was just as hateful as being heavier had been for me. They’d just found the one place where looking like that was accepted.
My stomach twisted with anticipation. I knew that my project was up first, because the students on tech were rolling in two humongous TVs. My project was entirely on video. If these thin model bodies were considered art, this crowd was about to get a blast from the past, a genuine Botticelli.
“Before we begin with our first entrant, fashion design program junior Catherine Mitchell—” I stood up from my chair right beside the stage and gave a little wave—“we have a very ... insightful introduction from architecture student Nathaniel West.”
My heart stopped. I knew he was here somewhere but I had told myself that I’d show my project and it would do its job. I wouldn’t have to speak to him, or see him, at all.
Why the hell was he introducing the one project he’d discouraged me from doing? The one that he seemed to hate so much just a year ago at USC?
He stepped up to the podium and my stomach clenched at how good he looked. He was wearing a plain black suit with a white shirt and a pale blue tie. As much as I hated him, and as far down as I’d tamped down the feelings of love that had been just about to brim out of my mouth before I stormed from his house, they all came rushing back.
And God help me, he’d known exactly where I was sitting, because he flashed those puppy dog eyes at me before he started.
He cleared his throat.
“Good evening. My name is Nathaniel West. My friends call me Nate. That’s for a very specific reason.” He held up a small black remote control and clicked a button. The TVs behind him flashed on to the very same yearbook photo that I’d seen, sitting in Nate’s living room a week and a half ago. Of the pudgy kid with neck fat and a jaw hidden by chub. He glanced back, then turned red and chuckled.
“That’s me. At twelve years old. The only girl I could get to kiss me,” his eyes flashed to mine, “was in a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven at summer camp. Kids made fun of me all the time. I didn’t sit at anyone’s lunch table, and I sat warming the bench on every sports team that would let me on.”
He clicked again, and the picture changed to the next year’s yearbook photo—pretty much the same. “I was fat, and school sucked, but at home, I was happy.” He clicked a few more times, and a series of pudgy-Nate pictures scrolled over the screen, a bunch with his dad.
“When my parents got divorced, I got depressed. Really depressed. And I blamed the fact that I was fat. So I lost weight.” He clicked to the picture of skinny Nate, a senior in high school. “But by the time I got to college, I’d realized that, surprise surprise, being skinny didn’t fix anything.” The crowd chuckled.
“But I was stupid. I was so stupid that I thought I should get big. But not fat.” He paused for half a second, then clicked. “Buff.”
That fourth bodybuilding picture came up, the one that looked mostly like MY Nate, the one I saw when it was just me and him and his body under my hands.
Oh, God. I couldn’t think like this. For whatever reason, he was here and about to reveal his douchiness to everyone.
Except, before a project like this, where bigger models were the subject matter, it made absolutely no sense. That was everything he stood against.
“I even wrote articles for a website just for kids who wanted to be buff like me.” The exact same articles I’d seen in his house scrolled past in rapid succession.
“I had skinny girlfriends. Sometimes I had buff girlfriends. They were all society’s definition of hot.” Pictures of Nate and various girls flew past now. Some wolf whistles sounded, and I rolled my eyes.
“And then at USC, one of the art magazines did a spread of plus-sized models, nude. And because of how sad I had been as a kid, and how much I had been taught that anything overweight turned into anything bad, I let what happened to me eight years before turn into the most hateful article I’d ever written.”
Various phrases from the article zoomed onto the screen, ending with the one I thought was worst:
Big bones didn’t make them like this, big meals did
.
The room was completely silent.
“The day that article came out, I was a hero in the gym. All my buddies clapped me on the back. And my girlfriend giggled because she was so the opposite of all the stuff that I thought was so very wrong. And I even got some comments telling me ‘way to go,’ on the site.
“But the next day, as often happens with these things, there was a side effect. A ripple. One of the girls in the photo shoot for that magazine? It was her first time posing nude.” A photo of a girl with skin the color of chocolate and short, curly hair, probably a size bigger than me, in jeans and a sweater, filled the screen.
“This is Anna Hawthorne. She read my article. And what she had done, posing for that spread? Had taken all her courage. And she didn’t have that much left to deal with the stupid opinions of jerks like me. That night, she tried to kill herself.”
There were a few gasps in the crowd, but it was mostly silent.
“I felt awful. Of course, by then, there was nothing I could do. I sat with her in the hospital. I apologized. And I quit bodybuilding, because I didn’t like what I had become when I was in that environment. I was arrogant, and I thought that the way people looked could tell me something about who they were.
“So I transferred here to a school in Philadelphia, hoping to escape it all. But I should have known, you can never escape your past. Almost as soon as I set foot on campus, I ran into the first girl who had ever made me feel good about myself, no matter how I looked.” A photo of him and me came on the screen—one of the ones we’d snapped on a cell phone after rock climbing. “And I realized that she was the last girl I ever wanted to make me feel that way, too. I fell in love with her.”
“But, once again, I made a really big mistake. I didn’t tell her what a jerk I used to be about girls that had a little extra weight than your average praying mantis, and she found that article that caused Anna Hawthorne so much pain. And it caused her pain, too.”
“But the truth is, from the moment I saw her again, I realized that not only do I not find the thinnest bodies the most attractive, but that what our bodies look like doesn’t even factor into the equation. I love her just as much meeting her now as I would have if I met her two years ago, when she looked different.”
“That girl’s name is Catherine, and she’s a really impressive fashion design student. I worked with her, I’ve seen her in action. She has incredible ideas, and I know that when she shows you this project, she will blow you away.
“And since she asked me never to talk to her again, I just want this opportunity to tell her, for the first and last time. I love you, Cat. Thank you for everything.” His voice hitched at the end, and he sat left the stage and took a seat across the runway from me.
Shit. Shit, shit shit.
I’d had no idea. How could I? Anger and guilt roiled through me in equal measures. I should have let him explain, maybe. But it was too late now, and if my Real Women Project wasn’t basically a big “fuck you” to ... well ... him, I didn’t know what it was.
I swallowed the lump in my throat as I walked up the stairs to the podium, particularly aware of the hot lights shining on me. Sweat beaded at my hairline.
“Ah....thank you, everyone. And thank you, Board, for considering my entry.” I cleared my throat. This was going to be harder than I thought. “A year ago, I weighed about sixty pounds less than I do today. I worked as a model, and I think I even shared the runway with some of these beautiful women behind me. I was in a horse-riding accident last spring break. My tibia was shattered, and now a rod and bolts replaces the solid bone that once was there. Ah....”
I shuffled my papers. Oh, Jesus. This was going to be ridiculous.
“I couldn’t exercise, and I was on steroids. And I was depressed. So, in ten months, I gained about sixty pounds. And now I look like this. When I came back to school, the guy I’d been seeing dropped me like a bad habit. And I felt horrible.
“I was so depressed, it was starting to get hard to function. I saw a therapist, and she told me to get back into modeling—nude modeling. That’s how I met Nate. But then...he hurt me. And I cried.” I laughed, trying to hold back tears at that moment. “But then I got my act together, and realized that with or without him, or any guy, or any modeling gig in my life, I was just fine. I was still me, still lovable and worthy and attractive. No matter what I looked like.”
“I didn’t find any models for this project. Every model is me. Because this journey is mine, and I am a real woman.”
The applause was ridiculously loud for just an introduction, and I was so embarrassed of the attention that I was relieved when the lights went down.
Joey had helped me settle on a slow, sexy track as a backdrop for the photographs, mostly because she thought it would be a good contrast to what people normally heard behind these things—it would make them slow down, and concentrate on the cards I held in front of each outfit.
The outfits themselves were gorgeous—a red satin evening gown, the flowy white blouse, the tweed suit with ruffles peeking out everywhere. Each design had been inspired by the architectural insights I got from Nate, almost without realizing it. Each design on a plain-colored background. And for each photo, I held up a simple white board sign with hand lettering:
The thing is
As much your words hurt my heart
I needed to see what an asshole you were
To realize that I was
Who I was
Worthy
Strong
Deserving.
Without you.
I am real. I am beautiful.
Even though I’d known what the last shot was, it surprised me when I saw it—me, sitting cross-legged in a chair in the sunlight. Naked, and holding the sign in front of my chest.
When the lights went up again, the applause was thunderous. And then, they got even louder. After a few seconds, Nate started the standing ovation.
I counted to ten before I stepped up to the microphone again.
“Thank you, so very much.”
And that was about all I could take. I walked off the stage as quickly as I could without looking like a freak. I knew I was supposed to sit in my seat, but as the dean of the school said, “Next up, our second of three entrants in the Real Woman Project....” I passed my seat and just kept going.
I made it out into the hallway, a long empty space lined with trophy cases and speckled tiled floors. Even though the fluorescent lights were atrocious, at least it was light and open and cool. And I could breathe.
I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to talk to Nate. But I did know one thing. I wanted to find out. The anger and panic and nervousness roaring through my ears must have blocked out the sound of his footsteps.