~BBW (Multiple), Eating, Intrigue, ~SWG - teenage impudence leads to big things for everyone involved
(Author’s Note: This story was inspired by a popular diet cereal commercial from last year. In it, a teenaged daughter shimmies into her forty-something mother’s old pants which no longer fit. The rest of the commercial centers around the mother eating the advertised cereal in an effort to get her jeans back, while her pert daughter continually parades past in her old jeans looking sexy...
Of course, by the end of the commercial, the mother has lost weight and gets her jeans back, but it's all very expected and anticlimactic. Still, the premise intrigued me enough to put my own spin on it. See if you'll agree that my version would have been the better version.)
(Editor’s Note: This story has two endings. This occurred as the result of comments and suggestions by readers in other forums where it was first posted. The first ending was the work of the original writer; the second, written by a different author, goes in a different direction. Fans can decide which they prefer.)
I – Early Expansion
“Mom! You used to wear these?”
Julie was holding up my favorite hip-hugger jeans, the epitome of trendiness thirty years and thirty pounds ago.
“Yes,” I said with a sigh. “That was a long time ago.”
“No way!” my older daughter, twenty year ld Julie said, eyeing my ample, three-kids-by-thirty figure. “It must have been a real long time ago.”
'Bitch!"I hated that I thought that, but her remark hit below the belt--and the belly that billowed over it.
“Actually, I was just about your age Miss Sassy,” I sucked-in my stomach and puffed-out my chest. “And I’ll have you know I was quite the dish.”
“Hmph!” Julie exclaimed, examining the pant’s sixties-styled stitching and design without noticing my attempts to erase the effects of gravity. “They are kinda cool though…I’m gonna try them on!”
Before I could protest, Julie bounded up the stairs with a spring and bounce found only in younger girls like herself. I exhaled, letting my paunch roll back over my waistband and allowing by breasts to resume their normal position atop it, before returning my attention to the French Toast burning on the skillet.
***
“Well, whadya think?”
I had just finished salvaging what I could of breakfast when Julie sashayed back into the kitchen. I know it goes against conventional motherly thinking, but I was secretly hoping that they wouldn’t fit, or that she’d look like a little girl playing dress-up, or that at the very least I’d remember looking better in them.
I was in for a rude awakening.
The hip-huggers aptly caressed my Daughter’s curves--curves I heretofore hadn’t remembered (or was in denial of) her having--in a gentle embrace; not the vice-like bear hug I had remembered. They smoothly followed the flair of Julie’s slightly-rounded hips and tapered delicately down the contour of her shapely thighs into a Peter Max-ish swirl of sewn-on beads and sequence, perfectly matching the multicolored anklet she wore.
Up above, her tank-topped torso funneled into the narrow waistband, without the least bit of spillage, forming a perfect hourglass. As she twirled around, I noticed how the pants fit her rear. A problem area when I wore the pants, pinching and bunching all my excess jiggles (despite my stringent yoga regime at the time), the fabric smoothly followed Julie’s toned backside as it sloped-out from the ivory valley between Julie’s ample (and still growing) chest and post-pubescent hips before gently tucking underneath the soft crease of each cheek.
Not only did my pants fit her, she looked far better in them than I ever did. How could my favorite jeans betray me like this? The flared cuffs seemed to wave at me as she moved, as if saying goodbye to an unworthy owner.
My daughter was a fox. I couldn’t deny it. My mind was a jumble of pride, fear and, I hesitate to mention it, a touch of loathing.
“They look really good on you,” I choked. Fortunately, my maternal instincts seized control of my mouth before my baser emotions could intervene.
“They look cool.” Even my eighteen year-old daughter Sara, who normally wouldn’t be caught dead complimenting her older sister, had to acknowledge the truth.
Julie beamed, did a final pirouette, then sat down at the table across from her younger sibling. I watched, hoping her teenaged belly would bubble-up over the waistband. It didn’t.
“Mom! You burned the French Toast!” Julie poked at it with her fork like she was examining toxic waste.
“Just smother it with syrup. It will be fine.”
Julie sighed a sigh any parent of a teenager is intimate with. Still, she followed my advice and proceeded to dump hundreds of calories worth of syrup over the darkened bread.
Blasted youthful metabolism, I thought, sipping my coffee and watching my daughters eat.
“I can’t wait until Hunter Tyler sees me in fourth period,” Julie said, a dab of syrup dribbling onto her alabaster cheek. “He likes all things retro.”
What? Did I hear correctly? Was my daughter actually planning on wearing my jeans to her junior college class? I wasn’t even thinking of the provocative nature of the outfit. Those jeans were mine. Mine damn it! The more I thought about her wiggling, jiggling and giggling in front of some boy with two first names wearing MY jeans, the angrier I got.
“Can I have my lunch?” My nightmare was interrupted by Julie, tapping her foot beside me. She sighed her familiar sigh as she realized I had failed to make it.
“I’m sorry, honey,” I said, retrieving my purse. I pulled-out a five-dollar bill. “Here, grab yourself something to eat off-campus.”
Julie hesitated before taking it. “You’re going to let me eat off-campus?”
I had completely forgotten that, two-months prior, I had banned her from eating off-campus. (All too often, her lunch breaks extended well into her afternoon classes.) I was pleased at her honesty. Sara, who smacked her hand to her forehead, was amazed at her stupidity.
“Yes,” I said smiling. “This is your lucky day.”
“Cool!” Julie snatched the bill from my hand. “I can finally go to McDonalds with the girls. Eating tuna sandwiches in the cafeteria was ruining my social life.”
Did she say McDonalds?
“Here,” I said, fishing another five-dollar bill from my purse. “Have a good lunch.”
Julie took the money with a smile and, after pausing to stick her tongue out at her sister, raced out the front door. Sara rolled her eyes, grabbed her books, and followed her out on the way to the bus stop.
Alone at last, I poured myself another cup of coffee, sat down at the table, and prepared to eat the last of my over-cooked creation. After poking the bread for a minute, Julie-like, I rose from the table and dumped the remainder down the disposal. I then retrieved a dusty cereal box from the pantry.
As I forced down the stale and tasteless diet cereal, my mind worked overtime.
Those pants will be mine again.
***
“Would you like the last donut, dear?”
It had been three-weeks since Julie first donned “the pants” as they had come to be known. They had quickly become her favorite jeans and she was wearing them several times a week. Did you wash “the pants,” Mom? I need “the pants” for my date with Hunter, Mom. Are “the pants” starting to look a little snug, Mom?
Actually, I just made that last one up. Call it wishful thinking. Although I contemplated shrinking the jeans in the wash, that would have shattered my dream of ever fitting into them again. As a result, I formulated an alternative plan.
“I’ll take it!” Sara exclaimed, grabbing for the box.
“Finish your fruit,” I said, yanking it away.
I took the donut and handed it to Julie. “Here you go, sweetie.”
Julie grabbed it greedily, made a face at her sister, then shoved it into her mouth with an exaggerated “Mmmmm.”
I glanced under the table at Julie’s bare belly to see if there was any evidence as to where this, her third glazed donut, was setting up residence. There was none.
Julie puffed her cheeks at Sara as she chewed; an obvious display of gluttonous triumph at getting the last one.
“The bulge of your cheeks goes with that bulge on your nose,” Sara said, referring to a bright-red pimple that was just beginning to break the surface of Julie’s button-nose. So far, it was the only visible evidence of Julie’s all-you-can-eat breakfasts, decadent dinners and ten-dollar-a-day McDonald’s lunches.
“Mom!” Julie exclaimed, rubbing the spot with a finger greasy from eating sausage links with her hands. “It isn’t that bad, is it?”
“It’s hardly noticeable.”
I lied. The rosy blemish stood-out like the North Star on a moonless night against her otherwise flawless, milky-white skin. Though I was certain most mothers would have offered-up the same supportive, yet not altogether truthful answer, I couldn’t help but feel a little devious.
Still, it seemed to placate Julie who, after an obligatory wrinkle of her Rudolf-like nose at Sara, rose and prepared to leave for school. I watched intently as she headed for the door for signs--new bulges, creases, broken stitches, etc.--that would indicate “the pants” were fitting her like anything other than a custom-made glove. Not today. Between my daily cardboard-flake meals and Julie’s hummingbird-like metabolism, I was prepared to abandon my plan altogether…
“Y’know,” Sara said, as she watched her pretty older sister strut out the front door. “If Julie keeps eating like that, she’s going to turn into a real heifer.”
Coffee sprayed from my pursed lips. “Sara! That isn’t very nice!”
I feigned indignance, but I could feel a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. I quickly covered it with my napkin.
Sara shrugged and got up from the table. “Just stating a fact.”
As she headed for the front door, she turned back to me. “That reminds me--Mom, have you lost weight?”
“Actually, I have,” I beamed. “About ten pounds so far. Thanks for noticing.”
“You look good.” Sara smiled and closed the door behind her.
That kid knew the right things to say. Suddenly, my efforts, which included a planned grapefruit lunch for myself and a chicken fried steak dinner for Julie, didn’t seem quite so futile.
***
“Julie, there’s one more cinnamon roll. Don’t let it go to waste.”
“Believe me, that isn’t the only roll at this table,” Sara said, eying the fresh fold of fat that spilled-over her older sister’s pants.
I shot her an evil look, but Sara just raised her eyebrows. “Of course, that one’s already gone to waist.”
I couldn’t help but smile. That small roll of belly fat was the first sign my efforts weren’t as fruitless as one of Julie’s junk food-filled meals. Fortunately, Julie was too involved with finishing the last of her pancakes to process her sister’s gibes.
“I can’t mom,” Julie said, her mouth still full. She leaned back in her chair and placed an open palm over her spongy belly as she chewed.
I half-expected to see the indentation of her hand when she moved it away. “I need to save some room for my date with Hunter. He’s taking me to a fancy Italian place tonight.”
“That’s not until tonight,” I said, dangling the basket under her nose.
“Yeah,” Sara chimed-in. “Besides, you know Mom is on a diet. The least you could do is help her avoid temptation.”
“Then why don’t you eat it?” Julie shot back…along with a few crumbs that were still in her mouth.
“Tell you what, I’ll split it with you.”
“Fine,” Julie said with smug satisfaction, before breaking the roll in half.
As Julie handed the smaller half to her sister, Sara flashed me a knowing smile, as if she realized she was about to take a fat-laden bullet for the team. I smiled back at my partner in crime.
It was now two-months into “Operation: Retrieve my Jeans” and it seemed like everybody was an unwitting accomplice to my scheme: Julie’s girlfriends continued to influence her daily McDonalds binges; Hunter, her now-steady boyfriend, a football stud who burned a thousand calories a day at practice, often refilled his caloric well with rich meals shared with his not-nearly-as-active girlfriend; and Sara, who used to fight Julie tooth-and-nail for the last piece of pie, cake and candy, now gladly yielded to her big (and getting bigger) sister.
“Ugh, I can hardly move.” Julie rose from the table with a sluggishness that belied her youth.
“I’ll just skip lunch today,” she said, adjusting her pants in a fit-like series yanks, tugs and gyrations.
“Sure you will,” Sara said, rolling her eyes.
“Don’t do that, honey. That isn’t healthy.”
I raced to my purse, rummaged past a ten and grabbed a twenty. “This is all I’ve got. Whatever you don’t spend on lunch, please bring me back.”
Julie’s eyes widened and she grabbed the bill. She must have expected me to change my mind, because she raced out the door as quickly as her jeans would allow. The pants still looked reasonably good when she stood (the roll around her waist disappeared…probably due to Julie sucking-in her stomach), but I could tell by the deliberateness of her gait that there was some serious pinching and poking going on underneath (feelings I was all to familiar with from my days with the pants).
“You’ll never see your money again,” Sara said, shaking her head at my foolishness. “She’ll buy nineteen-dollars and ninety-nine cents-worth of food just to spite you.”
“That’s fine, honey.” I sipped my coffee and pleasantly pondered the possibility.
Suddenly, Sara’s brow furrowed. “Mom, what’s going on?”
My heart raced. She was on to me. What should I say? I knew she delighted in the prospect of her older sister gaining-weight, but how would she react to knowing about her own mother’s hand in it?
“You’re positively wasting away!” Sara said, eying my shrinking figure. “How much have you lost now?
“Close to twenty pounds,” I said, leaning against the counter to steady my nerves. “Does it show?”
“Absolutely.”
“I was a little worried. Julie hasn’t said anything.”
“She’s got her own weight issues to worry about. I’ll bet she’s gained a pound for every one you’ve lost.”
“You think so?” Hearing someone else acknowledge my handiwork, both good and evil, made it all worthwhile. “Well, she’s still a growing girl.”
“I’ll say. She’s growing into a real blubber-butt.”
“Sara! Don’t talk about your sister like that.” I tried to sound mad, but failed miserably. I decided to push the envelope. “Do you think I should say something?”
“Why? She hasn’t said anything about your weight, why should you say anything about hers?”
I nodded in agreement.
“At least wait a few weeks. I want to see her split the seams of your pants.”
So did I…So did I.
(Author’s Note: This story was inspired by a popular diet cereal commercial from last year. In it, a teenaged daughter shimmies into her forty-something mother’s old pants which no longer fit. The rest of the commercial centers around the mother eating the advertised cereal in an effort to get her jeans back, while her pert daughter continually parades past in her old jeans looking sexy...
Of course, by the end of the commercial, the mother has lost weight and gets her jeans back, but it's all very expected and anticlimactic. Still, the premise intrigued me enough to put my own spin on it. See if you'll agree that my version would have been the better version.)
Jean Therapy
by Maverick
(alternate ending by a reader)
by Maverick
(alternate ending by a reader)
(Editor’s Note: This story has two endings. This occurred as the result of comments and suggestions by readers in other forums where it was first posted. The first ending was the work of the original writer; the second, written by a different author, goes in a different direction. Fans can decide which they prefer.)
I – Early Expansion
“Mom! You used to wear these?”
Julie was holding up my favorite hip-hugger jeans, the epitome of trendiness thirty years and thirty pounds ago.
“Yes,” I said with a sigh. “That was a long time ago.”
“No way!” my older daughter, twenty year ld Julie said, eyeing my ample, three-kids-by-thirty figure. “It must have been a real long time ago.”
'Bitch!"I hated that I thought that, but her remark hit below the belt--and the belly that billowed over it.
“Actually, I was just about your age Miss Sassy,” I sucked-in my stomach and puffed-out my chest. “And I’ll have you know I was quite the dish.”
“Hmph!” Julie exclaimed, examining the pant’s sixties-styled stitching and design without noticing my attempts to erase the effects of gravity. “They are kinda cool though…I’m gonna try them on!”
Before I could protest, Julie bounded up the stairs with a spring and bounce found only in younger girls like herself. I exhaled, letting my paunch roll back over my waistband and allowing by breasts to resume their normal position atop it, before returning my attention to the French Toast burning on the skillet.
***
“Well, whadya think?”
I had just finished salvaging what I could of breakfast when Julie sashayed back into the kitchen. I know it goes against conventional motherly thinking, but I was secretly hoping that they wouldn’t fit, or that she’d look like a little girl playing dress-up, or that at the very least I’d remember looking better in them.
I was in for a rude awakening.
The hip-huggers aptly caressed my Daughter’s curves--curves I heretofore hadn’t remembered (or was in denial of) her having--in a gentle embrace; not the vice-like bear hug I had remembered. They smoothly followed the flair of Julie’s slightly-rounded hips and tapered delicately down the contour of her shapely thighs into a Peter Max-ish swirl of sewn-on beads and sequence, perfectly matching the multicolored anklet she wore.
Up above, her tank-topped torso funneled into the narrow waistband, without the least bit of spillage, forming a perfect hourglass. As she twirled around, I noticed how the pants fit her rear. A problem area when I wore the pants, pinching and bunching all my excess jiggles (despite my stringent yoga regime at the time), the fabric smoothly followed Julie’s toned backside as it sloped-out from the ivory valley between Julie’s ample (and still growing) chest and post-pubescent hips before gently tucking underneath the soft crease of each cheek.
Not only did my pants fit her, she looked far better in them than I ever did. How could my favorite jeans betray me like this? The flared cuffs seemed to wave at me as she moved, as if saying goodbye to an unworthy owner.
My daughter was a fox. I couldn’t deny it. My mind was a jumble of pride, fear and, I hesitate to mention it, a touch of loathing.
“They look really good on you,” I choked. Fortunately, my maternal instincts seized control of my mouth before my baser emotions could intervene.
“They look cool.” Even my eighteen year-old daughter Sara, who normally wouldn’t be caught dead complimenting her older sister, had to acknowledge the truth.
Julie beamed, did a final pirouette, then sat down at the table across from her younger sibling. I watched, hoping her teenaged belly would bubble-up over the waistband. It didn’t.
“Mom! You burned the French Toast!” Julie poked at it with her fork like she was examining toxic waste.
“Just smother it with syrup. It will be fine.”
Julie sighed a sigh any parent of a teenager is intimate with. Still, she followed my advice and proceeded to dump hundreds of calories worth of syrup over the darkened bread.
Blasted youthful metabolism, I thought, sipping my coffee and watching my daughters eat.
“I can’t wait until Hunter Tyler sees me in fourth period,” Julie said, a dab of syrup dribbling onto her alabaster cheek. “He likes all things retro.”
What? Did I hear correctly? Was my daughter actually planning on wearing my jeans to her junior college class? I wasn’t even thinking of the provocative nature of the outfit. Those jeans were mine. Mine damn it! The more I thought about her wiggling, jiggling and giggling in front of some boy with two first names wearing MY jeans, the angrier I got.
“Can I have my lunch?” My nightmare was interrupted by Julie, tapping her foot beside me. She sighed her familiar sigh as she realized I had failed to make it.
“I’m sorry, honey,” I said, retrieving my purse. I pulled-out a five-dollar bill. “Here, grab yourself something to eat off-campus.”
Julie hesitated before taking it. “You’re going to let me eat off-campus?”
I had completely forgotten that, two-months prior, I had banned her from eating off-campus. (All too often, her lunch breaks extended well into her afternoon classes.) I was pleased at her honesty. Sara, who smacked her hand to her forehead, was amazed at her stupidity.
“Yes,” I said smiling. “This is your lucky day.”
“Cool!” Julie snatched the bill from my hand. “I can finally go to McDonalds with the girls. Eating tuna sandwiches in the cafeteria was ruining my social life.”
Did she say McDonalds?
“Here,” I said, fishing another five-dollar bill from my purse. “Have a good lunch.”
Julie took the money with a smile and, after pausing to stick her tongue out at her sister, raced out the front door. Sara rolled her eyes, grabbed her books, and followed her out on the way to the bus stop.
Alone at last, I poured myself another cup of coffee, sat down at the table, and prepared to eat the last of my over-cooked creation. After poking the bread for a minute, Julie-like, I rose from the table and dumped the remainder down the disposal. I then retrieved a dusty cereal box from the pantry.
As I forced down the stale and tasteless diet cereal, my mind worked overtime.
Those pants will be mine again.
***
“Would you like the last donut, dear?”
It had been three-weeks since Julie first donned “the pants” as they had come to be known. They had quickly become her favorite jeans and she was wearing them several times a week. Did you wash “the pants,” Mom? I need “the pants” for my date with Hunter, Mom. Are “the pants” starting to look a little snug, Mom?
Actually, I just made that last one up. Call it wishful thinking. Although I contemplated shrinking the jeans in the wash, that would have shattered my dream of ever fitting into them again. As a result, I formulated an alternative plan.
“I’ll take it!” Sara exclaimed, grabbing for the box.
“Finish your fruit,” I said, yanking it away.
I took the donut and handed it to Julie. “Here you go, sweetie.”
Julie grabbed it greedily, made a face at her sister, then shoved it into her mouth with an exaggerated “Mmmmm.”
I glanced under the table at Julie’s bare belly to see if there was any evidence as to where this, her third glazed donut, was setting up residence. There was none.
Julie puffed her cheeks at Sara as she chewed; an obvious display of gluttonous triumph at getting the last one.
“The bulge of your cheeks goes with that bulge on your nose,” Sara said, referring to a bright-red pimple that was just beginning to break the surface of Julie’s button-nose. So far, it was the only visible evidence of Julie’s all-you-can-eat breakfasts, decadent dinners and ten-dollar-a-day McDonald’s lunches.
“Mom!” Julie exclaimed, rubbing the spot with a finger greasy from eating sausage links with her hands. “It isn’t that bad, is it?”
“It’s hardly noticeable.”
I lied. The rosy blemish stood-out like the North Star on a moonless night against her otherwise flawless, milky-white skin. Though I was certain most mothers would have offered-up the same supportive, yet not altogether truthful answer, I couldn’t help but feel a little devious.
Still, it seemed to placate Julie who, after an obligatory wrinkle of her Rudolf-like nose at Sara, rose and prepared to leave for school. I watched intently as she headed for the door for signs--new bulges, creases, broken stitches, etc.--that would indicate “the pants” were fitting her like anything other than a custom-made glove. Not today. Between my daily cardboard-flake meals and Julie’s hummingbird-like metabolism, I was prepared to abandon my plan altogether…
“Y’know,” Sara said, as she watched her pretty older sister strut out the front door. “If Julie keeps eating like that, she’s going to turn into a real heifer.”
Coffee sprayed from my pursed lips. “Sara! That isn’t very nice!”
I feigned indignance, but I could feel a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. I quickly covered it with my napkin.
Sara shrugged and got up from the table. “Just stating a fact.”
As she headed for the front door, she turned back to me. “That reminds me--Mom, have you lost weight?”
“Actually, I have,” I beamed. “About ten pounds so far. Thanks for noticing.”
“You look good.” Sara smiled and closed the door behind her.
That kid knew the right things to say. Suddenly, my efforts, which included a planned grapefruit lunch for myself and a chicken fried steak dinner for Julie, didn’t seem quite so futile.
***
“Julie, there’s one more cinnamon roll. Don’t let it go to waste.”
“Believe me, that isn’t the only roll at this table,” Sara said, eying the fresh fold of fat that spilled-over her older sister’s pants.
I shot her an evil look, but Sara just raised her eyebrows. “Of course, that one’s already gone to waist.”
I couldn’t help but smile. That small roll of belly fat was the first sign my efforts weren’t as fruitless as one of Julie’s junk food-filled meals. Fortunately, Julie was too involved with finishing the last of her pancakes to process her sister’s gibes.
“I can’t mom,” Julie said, her mouth still full. She leaned back in her chair and placed an open palm over her spongy belly as she chewed.
I half-expected to see the indentation of her hand when she moved it away. “I need to save some room for my date with Hunter. He’s taking me to a fancy Italian place tonight.”
“That’s not until tonight,” I said, dangling the basket under her nose.
“Yeah,” Sara chimed-in. “Besides, you know Mom is on a diet. The least you could do is help her avoid temptation.”
“Then why don’t you eat it?” Julie shot back…along with a few crumbs that were still in her mouth.
“Tell you what, I’ll split it with you.”
“Fine,” Julie said with smug satisfaction, before breaking the roll in half.
As Julie handed the smaller half to her sister, Sara flashed me a knowing smile, as if she realized she was about to take a fat-laden bullet for the team. I smiled back at my partner in crime.
It was now two-months into “Operation: Retrieve my Jeans” and it seemed like everybody was an unwitting accomplice to my scheme: Julie’s girlfriends continued to influence her daily McDonalds binges; Hunter, her now-steady boyfriend, a football stud who burned a thousand calories a day at practice, often refilled his caloric well with rich meals shared with his not-nearly-as-active girlfriend; and Sara, who used to fight Julie tooth-and-nail for the last piece of pie, cake and candy, now gladly yielded to her big (and getting bigger) sister.
“Ugh, I can hardly move.” Julie rose from the table with a sluggishness that belied her youth.
“I’ll just skip lunch today,” she said, adjusting her pants in a fit-like series yanks, tugs and gyrations.
“Sure you will,” Sara said, rolling her eyes.
“Don’t do that, honey. That isn’t healthy.”
I raced to my purse, rummaged past a ten and grabbed a twenty. “This is all I’ve got. Whatever you don’t spend on lunch, please bring me back.”
Julie’s eyes widened and she grabbed the bill. She must have expected me to change my mind, because she raced out the door as quickly as her jeans would allow. The pants still looked reasonably good when she stood (the roll around her waist disappeared…probably due to Julie sucking-in her stomach), but I could tell by the deliberateness of her gait that there was some serious pinching and poking going on underneath (feelings I was all to familiar with from my days with the pants).
“You’ll never see your money again,” Sara said, shaking her head at my foolishness. “She’ll buy nineteen-dollars and ninety-nine cents-worth of food just to spite you.”
“That’s fine, honey.” I sipped my coffee and pleasantly pondered the possibility.
Suddenly, Sara’s brow furrowed. “Mom, what’s going on?”
My heart raced. She was on to me. What should I say? I knew she delighted in the prospect of her older sister gaining-weight, but how would she react to knowing about her own mother’s hand in it?
“You’re positively wasting away!” Sara said, eying my shrinking figure. “How much have you lost now?
“Close to twenty pounds,” I said, leaning against the counter to steady my nerves. “Does it show?”
“Absolutely.”
“I was a little worried. Julie hasn’t said anything.”
“She’s got her own weight issues to worry about. I’ll bet she’s gained a pound for every one you’ve lost.”
“You think so?” Hearing someone else acknowledge my handiwork, both good and evil, made it all worthwhile. “Well, she’s still a growing girl.”
“I’ll say. She’s growing into a real blubber-butt.”
“Sara! Don’t talk about your sister like that.” I tried to sound mad, but failed miserably. I decided to push the envelope. “Do you think I should say something?”
“Why? She hasn’t said anything about your weight, why should you say anything about hers?”
I nodded in agreement.
“At least wait a few weeks. I want to see her split the seams of your pants.”
So did I…So did I.
