The List. Siobhan Vivian

Crestmont Outlet Mall had opened a few new stores since she’d last been there, and Bridget came to a stop in front of one she recognized. It was a surf shop, complete with longboards that doubled as the cash stand, beaded curtains on the dressing room doors, and twangy songs vibrating through the glass window. The same store was in the mall back home, only the clothes there were full price.

      As soon as she walked in, she spotted a sherbet-y orange gingham bikini with a white eyelet lace ruffle. It was the last one, it was her size, and it was marked an additional 50 percent off. She ran into the dressing room while Mrs. Honeycutt reminded her daughter to leave her underwear on, lest she catch an STD.

      Bridget frowned as she pulled the bottoms up. They were surprisingly tight. The elastic cut into her legs. Maybe it was her underwear? She took them off and tried the bottom on again, but the fit wasn’t any better. Her belly rolled a soft, fleshy wave that crashed over the ties at her hip. The top was similarly ill-fitting. The shoulder straps dug into her skin, and when she managed to test the limits of elasticity on the chest strap, poof! Back fat!

      Bridget had never considered herself overweight before seeing the fabric stretched across her. But the reflection in the dressing room mirror startled her. She panicked, remembering her friend’s End of School pool party last week, how she’d walked around the whole day in her old bikini without even a T-shirt on, in front of boys and girls, completely clueless as to how awful she’d looked.

      She checked the size tag, expecting an error. But it was no mistake. The bikini was the same size as the other new clothes she’d bought. Her size.

       This is an outlet mall.

       That’s why the clothes are cheap.

       Because they’re irregular.

       Imperfect.

       Defective.

      Even though Bridget knew this, she couldn’t quite hold on to the idea. It was slippery, sliding right out of her as she rushed back into her clothes. She clipped the suit back onto its hanger. Sadly, it was still a cute bikini. So very cute. Or it would be, if she were maybe five or so pounds lighter.

      Bridget smoothed her hair as she stepped out of the dressing room. Mrs. Honeycutt stood by the register impatiently, her credit card already out, chatting with the salesgirl. The waist of Mrs. Honeycutt’s navy linen pants swelled underneath her sleeveless white shell, the skin on her bare arms taut and overstuffed and about to split, like hot dogs left too long on the grill. Her mother never wore shorts. Her mother never swam in the ocean. She stayed in the air-conditioning in those wide-legged pants.

      All of her aunts said that Bridget looked exactly like her mother had as a teenager. Staring at her, Bridget realized she had no memories of her mother being thin.

      Bridget placed the bikini on the counter, careful not to look at it or anyone else while her mother paid.

      As she walked back to the car, Bridget rationalized her decision. Everyone did it. Bought clothes that fit a little too tight, with the hope they would be inspiration to lose a few pounds. It would be a reward for good behavior. The bikini became a test. A test Bridget hoped to pass by the end of the summer.

      And just like that, a new part of her mind lit up as she became acutely aware of all her bad habits. It dinged like a warning alarm when Lisa tore open a bag of Old Bay potato chips for movie night, or when Bridget got too close to the dish of salt water taffy her mom kept filled on the kitchen counter. Bridget’s brain continued to evolve over the months, rewiring her cravings for boardwalk soft serve with the challenge to run another mile to the next pier, brainstorming excuses to skip out on Dad’s amazing tuna fish sandwiches, until it commented not only on everything she put inside herself, but every piece of food she even thought about eating. It wiped away any memory she ever had of being pretty, and made it a goal, something she might be lucky enough to accomplish one day if she worked hard enough.

      By the Fourth of July, she’d aced the test. With flying colors.

      But even after she’d fit into that beautiful bikini, Bridget hardly wore it. Instead, she practically lived in her jeans. At the end of summer, they were so loose that when Bridget pulled the waistband flush against her hip, there was enough room to fit her whole fist on the other side.

      The return trip to Crestmont Outlets at the end of summer provided her with a new wardrobe at a low, low size. But deep down Bridget knew this wasn’t a good thing. At least that part of herself was still working. She wasn’t totally gone.

      Bridget’s stomach rumbles.

      As she climbs out of her car, she tugs on the hem of her tan cable-knit sweater, attempting to bridge the gap of skin between it and the waist of her jeans. The skinny space in her waistband four weeks ago has shrunk. Or rather, Bridget has expanded. She can only fit a few fingers now. Not her whole fist, like before.

       You weren’t healthy before.

       You had a problem, but now you’ve got it under control.

      On her way inside the school, her dark hair whips in her face, the sweet scent of coconut shampoo blowing across her with the breeze. It is too sweet, too rich. Her stomach twists on itself. Change jingles in her pocket. Enough for a bagel with cream cheese. She’d counted it out after passing on the bowl of cereal Lisa had poured for her. She shouldn’t have said no to the cereal. Especially when she’d only picked at last night’s dinner.

       Prove that you’re fine, Bridget.

       Eat a bagel with cream cheese.

       Eat it all before homeroom!

      Every Monday, student council sets up a huge banquet table practically in front of Bridget’s locker. There are huge paper bags filled with bagels, economy-size tubs of cream cheese and butter. Bridget takes careful steps matched with careful breaths. The smell is overwhelming. The yeasty, spongy sourdough. Charred bits of garlic. The sweet stink of bloated raisins suspended in bread. Her stomach squeezes, only not in hunger.

       Don’t you dare, Bridget.

      Bridget is Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Two sides of herself, always arguing. She is tired of the fight, the constant struggle between a muddied version of good and evil, where right feels wrong and wrong feels really good.

      “Bridget!”

      One of Bridget’s friends steps out from behind the bagel table, fingertips glistening with buttery residue. “Have you seen the list?” The girl smiles wide, a few poppy seeds black between her teeth. “You’re the prettiest girl in the junior class!”

      In spite of herself, Bridget gasps. All the bagel smells fill her up like helium inside a Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon. And in a flash, the guilt, the sadness, and the depression she’d felt the whole way to school vanish and are replaced by warmth.

      Bridget Honeycutt made the list?

       Impossible.

      Someone else hands her a copy. Bridget reads aloud, “What a difference a summer can make.” She looks up and blushes.

       You know why.

       You know what’s different.

      “Here!” her friend says. “Have a celebratory bagel on the house!” The girl takes a serrated knife and slices a bagel in half. Seeds and crumbs sputter off the blade and drop to the floor. When the table is packed up and put away, there will still be crumbs everywhere in the hallway. Bridget will feel them squish and pop underneath the soles of her shoes on the way to first period. Big, like gravel. Like boulders.

      “Do you want butter or cream cheese?”

      “Neither,” Bridget says. She pushes her hair back. It is damp around the edge of her scalp.

      “Oh. Well … congratulations again!”

      “Thanks,” Bridget