Nora: I follow Gina into her room, and then freeze. Maybe my mouth hangs open for a moment, but I quickly shut it and continue into the room – pretending I’m not humbled, awed, diminished? By the hundreds of pictures of supermodels. Cut-outs from magazines paper the walls. The dresser drawers. The closet door. Even the headboard of Gina’s bed is a rainbow of eyes, faces, bodies.
I guess I didn’t hide my surprise so well, because Gina says, “My mom and I cut out pictures of women we admire. They’re for inspiration.”
For what? I wonder.
As if she read my mind, Gina says, “It’s supposed to help me get thin.”
“Uh huh,” I say. So lame.
Gina crosses the floor, her corduroys swishing because of her thighs rubbing together. That’s exactly why I never wear corduroys. But if Gina is embarrassed, it doesn’t show. Still, after patting down a curled corner on one of the pictures, she turns to me – a long way from supermodel thin. A long way from any kind of thin – and she says, “I don’t think it’s working, and I don’t know why. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m bulimic.”
I didn’t think I could feel any smaller than I already do, with all those beautiful eyes staring at me. But I do feel smaller, less than. And something burns in me – jealousy.
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