Chapter One
With nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, Sasha rolls over to her mat next to the hall mirror.
It’s Lulu’s old exercise mat. (A used mattress would surely be under bed-bug assault.)
“Sasha sweetie,” Lulu says, “those jeans are filthy and as big on you as this skirt is on me. I certainly hope that isn’t the style now. You need some Calvin Kleins to show off that gorgeous little figure of yours.” Same world, different universe.
Having or not having a “gorgeous little figure” is not yet in Sasha’s inventory of things to hate about herself. Pre-Apocalypse, Sasha’s self-hatred focused on not being black enough, not being white enough. Because we’ve recently moved from near starvation to desperately hungry, she’s put on just enough weight to sprout breasts. But, thankfully, my mother can’t whisk Sash off to Nordstrom and have her fitted for a padded training bra. (I myself dealt with this in therapy years ago.)
“Mom,” I say. Lulu gives me that blank, who-are-you-speaking-to look. “Lulu,” I amend, “I’m going to finish preparing food for tomorrow.”
In a voice most people reserve for Shakespearian tragedy, she says, “Sophia, I need, need, need a tailor.” Twisting in front of the mirror, she says, “But, I have lost thirty pounds.” She gives herself a wink. Her sallow skin is the color of Baskin-Robbins’ butter crunch ice cream, blushed cherries on her sunken cheeks. “Clothes fitting properly are so very important. I’ve told you since you were Sasha’s age to pay attention to your presentation. But look at you, you look like one of those women who push a grocery cart full of garbage.”
I no longer let her disappointment that I will never, ever win Best In Show get to me.