Chapter 1
I spent ten years rebuilding the confidence high school had taken from me. When I finally walked into my reunion, I expected awkward stares and old memories. I never expected the former prom queen to react as though seeing me had uncovered something she had been hiding for years.
Betty stared at my name tag, then dropped her earring into the sink.
"Leah?"
Her voice came out thin.
A moment earlier, she'd been smiling at me through the restroom mirror and telling me she loved my dress. Now, all the color had drained from her face.
"Yes," I said. "I'm Leah. Remember me?"
Betty stared at my name tag.
She took one step back, then another.
Before I could say anything else, Betty turned, rushed into the nearest stall, and locked the door.
A few seconds later, I heard her crying.
I stood beside the sinks and looked at my reflection.
Ten years earlier, Betty had been the reason I avoided mirrors.
Now, she couldn't look at me.
I heard her crying.
***
If you'd told me in high school that I'd one day attend our ten-year reunion, I would've laughed.
Back then, I weighed more than 300 pounds.
I had severe acne, kept my head down, and spent most days trying to pass through the halls without anyone noticing me.
It never worked.
I weighed more than 300 pounds.
People knew who I was.
I was the girl who took up too much space in class photos, checked chairs before sitting down, and pretended not to hear the whispers behind her.
I wasn't bullied every hour of every day. That almost made it worse because I never knew when the next comment would come.
Betty was good at timing them.
People knew who I was.
She was beautiful, popular, and eventually crowned prom queen. She also knew how to make me feel invisible with a single laugh.
Once, during lunch, I walked toward an open seat at her table.
Betty placed her bag on it.
"Sorry," she said. "We're saving this one."
"For who?" I asked.
"We're saving this one."
She looked at my tray, then at me.
"Someone who only needs one chair."
Everyone around her laughed.
So did I because my only other option was to cry.
***
After graduation, I realized I couldn't keep living that way.
Everyone around her laughed.
At first, I thought losing weight would solve everything. Then I learned that a smaller body didn't automatically give you a louder voice.
The change took years.
I learned to cook differently, started walking after work, and eventually joined a gym.
At first, I barely made it around the block, and I assumed everyone was watching me.
Most people weren't.
I thought losing weight would solve everything.
Slowly, I stopped seeing myself through old eyes.
By 28, I'd lost 150 pounds.
But the bigger change had nothing to do with a scale.
I'd learned to say no.
I'd learned to ask questions when something felt wrong.
I'd learned that confidence wasn't walking into a room without fear. It was walking in while fear came with you.
I'd learned to say no.
Then the reunion invitation arrived.
I almost threw it away.
For three days, the invitation sat unopened on my kitchen counter.
On the fourth morning, my boyfriend, Andrew, picked it up.
"You don't have to go."
"I know."
"But you haven't thrown it away."
Then the reunion invitation arrived.
"I don't want to become a before-and-after picture."
Andrew set the invitation down. "Then don't go for them."
"Who would I go for?"
"You."
That answer landed harder than I expected.
"Then don't go for them."
A few days later, I bought a blue dress.
On reunion night, I sat in Andrew's car and pulled the fabric over my stomach.
"Do you want me to drive around the block?" he asked.
"No."
"We can go home, Leah."
I looked at the bright entrance. "I want to go in."
"We can go home, Leah."
Andrew reached for his seat belt. "Okay."
"Wait."
He stopped.
"I'm not pushing you."
My fingers tightened around the dress.
"I know. I want to go in because I want to stop letting 17-year-old Betty decide where 28-year-old me is allowed to stand."
"Wait."
Andrew nodded toward the door. "Then let's get you inside before fear changes its mind."
I opened the door.
At check-in, the woman found my name on the list, then looked up at me twice.
"Leah?"
"That's me."
Her eyes widened.
"I'm sorry. I just didn't recognize you."
I opened the door.
Andrew smiled.
For the first few minutes inside, no one paid much attention to me.
Then a woman in a red dress bumped into my shoulder.
"Oh, sorry!"
"No worries," I said with a laugh.
She froze.
"That laugh."
Andrew smiled.
I studied her.
"Sarah?"
Her mouth dropped open.
"Leah?"
"It's me."
Sarah called two other women over.
"You look incredible."
"It's me."
"You look like a different person."
"How much did you lose?"
"One hundred and fifty pounds," I said carefully.
After the fourth compliment, I said, "I also learned how to change a tire last year, but no one seems nearly as excited about that."
Andrew laughed.
"One hundred and fifty pounds."
Sarah gave me a small, uncertain smile.
"You were always funny."
I wondered whether she really remembered that or had simply run out of compliments.
The room started to feel too warm.
"I need a minute," I told Andrew.
The room started to feel too warm.
"Comfort, honesty, or five quiet minutes?" he asked.
"Five quiet minutes."
"I'll be near the desserts."
I headed for the restroom.
That was where I found Betty.
She stood at the mirror, adjusting an earring.
"Five quiet minutes."
Ten years had changed her, but not enough to make her difficult to recognize.
Her hair was shorter, and there were fine lines beside her eyes. However, she still carried herself as though the room would move around her.
She glanced at my reflection.
"That color looks beautiful on you."
"Thank you."
Ten years had changed her.
"I'm Betty."
"I know."
She smiled and returned to her lipstick.
"Everyone knows everyone tonight, I suppose."
"Something like that."
She capped the lipstick.
"I'm Betty."
"It's strange, though. People walk in with new hair or clothes and expect us to forget who they were."
"People change."
"Not that much."
I met her eyes in the mirror.
"Maybe they want a fresh start."
Betty laughed softly.
"People change."
"You can't erase the past."
"No," I said. "You can't."
That was when she noticed my name tag.
***
Now, she was crying behind a locked stall door.
The old Leah would've rushed over. She would've knocked three times, apologized, and asked what she'd done wrong.
"You can't erase the past."
This Leah turned on the faucet and washed her hands.
"Betty?"
"Please leave."
"No."
"Leah, I can't do this."
"You're the one who ran into a stall."
I faced the door.
"Please leave."
"I'm not going to ask three times. You can tell me, or I can leave."
"Wait."
I stayed where I was.
The lock clicked.
Betty stepped out with mascara smudged beneath her eyes.
"My daughter is going through what I put you through."
For a moment, I said nothing.
The lock clicked.
"Your daughter?"
"Layla. She's nine."
Betty gripped the sink until her knuckles paled.
"She has a thyroid condition. Her doctors are still adjusting her treatment, and her body changed before she understood what was happening."
"Your daughter?"
"What happened at school?"
"Two girls started whispering whenever she walked past. Then someone edited her face onto a picture and sent it around."
Betty wiped beneath her eyes.
"Last week, I found her cutting herself out of a class photo."
My anger shifted, but it didn't disappear.
"What happened at school?"
"What did you tell her?"
"That those girls were jealous and probably insecure."
"You don't believe that."
Betty stared at me. "Why wouldn't I?"
"Because you weren't cruel to me because you hated yourself."
Her mouth tightened.
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Maybe you were insecure," I continued. "But you kept doing it because people laughed."
She looked away.
"Every laugh gave you attention, approval, and a place at the center."
Betty's shoulders dropped. "I never meant to ruin your life."
May you like
"You didn't ruin it."
She looked up.
