"You're really looking good, Sara," her trainer, an athletic man named Lance, said. "Look how nice and strong your arms are getting!"
Sara looked critically at her own arms. "Look," she said, flapping her arms in the air like a crazy woman directing a choir. "They still jiggle under here." She slapped at the underside of her triceps for emphasis.
"Jiggle? There's nothing to jiggle there, Sara!" Lance replied. "Maybe you need to get your eyes checked." He patted her shoulder. "Okay. Squats now."
She checked out her own posture in the mirror. The man was nuts. She could see perfectly well with her own two eyes. Her body didn't look any better than it ever had. Of course Lance would say it did, though; he was paid to make her look better. It wasn't like he would admit he wasn't doing his job.
She did the first of her squats and studied her reflection. She could do more than this. She had access to this equipment whether or not Lance was here; she might as well take advantage of it. She could make results happen. She was Sara Tancredi; she made results happen all the time.
Michael's stomach growled loudly. Next to him, his lab partner giggled. He blushed and pretended to be really busy taking notes.
Of course, he and Lincoln had found a truce like they always did, and Michael's appetite had returned. But he'd decided that the decision he'd made in the heat of the moment was a good one, especially when he'd studied himself in the mirror after a shower. It wouldn't hurt anything if he lost some weight, he'd decided, looking at his belly with disgust, and he was going to avoid the food shelf as much as possible. There was no need to rile Lincoln up any more than necessary. Money was still tight, and however Lincoln was paying the bills, it didn't involve a 9-to-5. Michael intentionally didn't allow himself to know.
It didn't make things any easier though, when he was so hungry all the time. He drank water like a fish, trying to fill his empty belly, but that only lasted so long, and his teachers got irritated when he was always asking for passes to the bathroom (and the drinking fountain). One had even suggested he be tested for diabetes!
The bell rang. He grabbed his notebook and threw it hastily in his backpack. He had to go to Lisa's apartment and get LJ so she could get to work on time, and the bus outside the school that ran past her house always left the school exactly five minutes after three. He started towards the buses at a sprint.
He made it in time and settled into the first available seat, pulling his homework out of his backpack. It would take fifteen minutes to get to the stop closest to Lisa's apartment, and that would be fifteen minutes worth of homework he wouldn't have to try to do with LJ wanting to be entertained later.
He finished his English assignment by the time the bus pulled to the stop closest to Lisa's, and stuffed it into his bag before stepping off the bus. It was about six blocks to Lisa's, and he took them at a fast walk.
He knocked on her door before letting himself in with one of the keys hanging from his neck by a shoelace. "Lisa?" he called, still standing in the doorway.
"Yeah," she called back.
"It's Michael," he said unnecessarily.
"LJ's watching TV," she replied. She came out of her bedroom, both hands busy putting a large hoop earring into her left ear. She worked as a bartender at a local place; that was where she and Lincoln had met. Both had been underage at the time, but it was that kind of bar. She smiled at Michael. "Thanks for getting him. I knew Lincoln wouldn't."
Michael nodded awkwardly. He hated that Lisa had to point out Lincoln's shortcomings; Michael knew them as well as anybody, but he always felt compelled to defend his older brother, who was doing the best he could. The guy was only 23; Michael didn't know if he could have done better. "He's busy," Michael said lamely.
"Yeah. I know," Lisa said, sounding tired. "LJ!" she called.
There was no response. Lisa rolled her eyes.
"LJ Burrows! Your Uncle Mike's here to get you! Get your little butt in here!"
"Uncle Mike!" LJ's voice came in from the living room. "Come here!"
"I'll go get him," Michael said.
"Thanks Michael," Lisa said. She turned back into her bedroom.
Michael walked into the living room, where LJ was staring at the TV set. Barney was blaring.
"Ugh," Michael said. He hit the power button. "Come on LJ. Let's go."
"No!" LJ cried. "I wanna watch that!"
"We have to catch the bus," Michael said. "Come on." He looked around. "Get your shoes on, okay? I'll tie them for you."
"Okay," LJ said. He scampered out of the living room and towards the door. Michael sighed and followed after him.
In her dance class, Sara studied her reflection in the mirror, comparing herself with the other girls. Still taller, but that wasn't going to change, no matter how many crunches she did, she reminded herself. But her arms…well, did they look better? Maybe…she followed the rest of the class into fifth position and carefully studied her triceps. Maybe they did look a little different. They could still look better though. They could be thinner, and more toned. She could make them as thin as Leanne's, if she really worked at it. She could!
She went into a graceful plie, and studied her thighs. Now…those needed more work. They were too big. And was that jiggle? She could not jiggle. She could practically hear Madame's voice.
"Miss Tancredi, we are ballerinas. Ballerinas do not jiggle!"
Indeed. Well, she would not jiggle soon enough.
She moved into second position along with the rest of the class.
"That personal trainer seems to be making a real difference, Sara," her father said at dinner.
Sara looked up from the salad she was poking at. "Huh?" she said intelligently, pulled out of her calculations.
"Have you been working hard with him? I can tell," Frank Tancredi said.
"Oh. Yes. Thank you," Sara said.
"Well. That's wonderful," he replied. "I'm glad you've made good use of my investment."
Sara flushed. His investment? Geez. That made her feel like…like a doll or something. Like he was fixing her up for something. But she forced out a bland smile.
"Keep up the good work," he said.
"Of course," Sara replied. She stabbed rather savagely at her salad, but other than that, she gave no voice to the inner confusion she felt.
That night, in the gym, she ran like a woman possessed. Her feet beat against the rubber track of the treadmill, her breath thundering in her ears.
This wasn't his investment, no matter what he thought. This was HER investment. This was HER body and HER investment. She was fixing herself so SHE could be happy with herself, and with how she looked. She was doing this so she would get the parts she wanted, and so those stupid girls in her dance classes couldn't say all that stupid shit.
This was HERS, damn it! And she wasn't going to stop until she was happy with it!
She kept running long into the night.
LJ was asleep on the couch, finally. Michael had finished his homework, and now he needed to clean up the apartment before he too could crash.
He cleared his and LJ's dinner dishes off the table. LJ's was smeared with macaroni and cheese; it was all the kid would eat lately. His were clean as if no one had eaten off of them; he'd scraped the small amount of macaroni and cheese he'd allowed himself clean. His stomach growled, as if to protest exactly how small that amount had been.
But this little plan of his had been working well. He'd gotten the stupid trips to the food shelf down to a minimum; he'd only gone once since that fateful time when he and Lincoln had fought, and as for his diet…well, that wasn't going so well. He could still pinch that stupid inch. He was obviously fated to die of heart disease. But he wasn't going to give up. He just had to try harder. Anyway, he knew he'd lost some weight; his wrists were a little thinner than they'd been before. But his stomach wasn't. It flummoxed him that he'd only lose weight where there wasn't much to lose, and not lose any where there was plenty. Persistence would change that though, right?
He scrubbed the dishes in the sink, and wiped down the counter, then the table. He wanted to do more, but exhaustion struck him suddenly. He looked at the watch strapped to his wrist. Almost midnight.
He'd sleep now. He could finish cleaning tomorrow.
