The Pretty One Read Online Free PDF Page B

noticed it.
    â€œThat
thing
is Jay Gatsby’s living room,” I say, annoyed.
    I did my first diorama last year for a set design class and it has become a sort of hobby for me. I make at least one every other month, usually based on the books we are reading in school. Since I can wield a circular saw with ease (even though I pretty much just use hand tools for my diorama creations), they are pretty elaborate, with real wood paneling, dollhouse furniture I pick up on eBay or make myself, and, as in the case with
The Great Gatsby,
wallpaper I design and paint with tiny little stencils. Mrs. Bordeaux always said she was giving me extra credit for them, which was kind of a joke between us, since I always got an A in English anyway.
    â€œWell, it doesn’t belong on the table,” he says, totally unimpressed by Mr. Gatsby’s varnished wood floors, heavy tapestry drapes, Oriental rug, miniature potted palm, and velvet furniture.
    â€œWell, there’s really no other place for it,” I say defensively.
    My dad stops stirring the eggs. “
Find
a place,” he says in a tone that lets me know he’s about to blow.
    Lucy looks up from the paper and shoots me a nervous look like,
Please don’t get him all upset on our shopping day!
    I grudgingly take the diorama upstairs and set it in the middle of my bed.
    By the time I get back to the kitchen, the table is set and Dad is dishing out the eggs.
    â€œNone for me, thanks,” Lucy says, waving them away. “I’m just going to have toast.”
    â€œYou feel okay?” he asks, concerned.
    That’s another thing. If I said I didn’t want any eggs he never would have assumed I was sick. Instead, he would have assumed I was dieting and congratulated me on my willpower.
    â€œI just don’t want to be all bloated when I try on dresses,” she says.
    My dad glances at the eggs he has already dished out on my plate, like,
Uh-oh.
    I’m half expecting him to rush back over and spoon some off my plate, so I take my seat and (even though I’m not hungry in the slightest) shovel a giant forkful in my mouth. What he doesn’t know is that, unlike Lucy, I don’t have to worry about bloat. Yesterday I stopped at the mall in the Inner Harbor and purchased some SPANX Power Panties with Tummy Control. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

    After breakfast I wedge myself into my father’s convertible Cabrio and we drive to the Towson Town Center. Both my dad and I follow Lucy through the mass of stores and into Lucy’s favorite, Mein-U. Lucy flips through rack after rack like a cranky Simon Cowell dismissing contestants before finally yanking out a bright fuchsia silk dress with spaghetti straps. I can tell it’s for me, since Lucy’s dresses involve just enough material to dry a wet dish. I can also tell that I already hate the way it looks on me, even though I haven’t tried it on yet. “What do you think?” she asks.
    â€œI’m not sure about the color,” I say, chewing on my thumbnail. Actually, I love bright colors, but everyone knows that they’re not slenderizing, so I prefer to stick with basic black.
    â€œI like it,” Dad says from behind us.
    I accept the dress from Lucy and hug it to my chest and stand there waiting patiently while Lucy pulls several pastel-colored dresses for herself and two more for me, one black and one red. Finally, she takes her seven dresses and I take my three and we head toward the dressing room, where, even though it is really crowded and Lucy sees me naked every day, I still insist on getting my own room. I don’t want Lucy to know about the SPANX, and besides, I have a feeling the dress Lucy chose for me isn’t going to work out and I have no intention of humiliating myself any more than necessary.
    I walk into the dressing room and lock the door behind me. I take the SPANX out of my purse and step into it, yanking it up