We sat by the falls for a while. In his backpack, Oliver had brought cut melon in a Tupperware. I ate a piece. Ros hated cantaloupe. The Jammers hung around, looking at us. They were jealous of me, these girls, I could tell—getting to spend time with Blade—but all I could think about was Ros. What was wrong with me? As much as they were looking at Oliver, they were looking at me—like they couldn’t believe my good fortune, to be out here, in the woods, with the guy from Power Jam. And I was fortunate. So why couldn’t I like him? What was wrong with me? How could Blade push all my buttons, but Oliver still felt so much like a friend? And why, oh, why, was I still so hung up on Ros?

We rinsed our hands in the pool, and when Oliver wasn’t looking, I cupped my hand and drank the water, germs and all.

Later, bored and alone in the Lily Pad, I did two things: I baked a gluten-free cake that came out soupy in the middle thanks to the shitty oven, and I tried on the Cinderella dress that I was supposed to have returned to the Togshop weeks ago. The cake was an unmitigated disaster. But the dress?

Sure enough: It fit me perfectly. It was just a smidge stretchy, heavier than I’d expected, and as I slithered into it I felt like I was pulling on armor. I studied myself in the mirror, and I finally understood why my mom was always lamenting my wearing my preferred palette of grays and olives and browns—the sunset color of the dress did something for me, made me look alive, less waxy, brought out the golden undertones in my hair. The fit was snug on the hips and boobs, and my waist looked tiny, the cut like no dress (or pair of overalls) I had ever owned before. I was shocked. I had a body. I had a shape. I looked, no joke, like Marilyn Monroe. I turned in front of the mirror, stunned. I felt like a whole new person—a cross between a mermaid and a phoenix. And a thought occurred to me.

Maybe, no matter how much spring water I drank, I wouldn’t fall out of love with Ros.

But maybe, just maybe, if they saw me in this dress, the opposite would be true: Maybe they would fall in love with me.

Footnotes

17 The whole situation reminded me of my mother’s principal critique of Power Jam, which was “Where are these kids’ parents?” (Her other two favorites were “Do these kids ever go to school?” and “Why aren’t these kids in therapy?”). “Just let it go, Mom,” I’d say with a sigh. “Just enjoy it.” Because they seemed to enjoy it on the show. And Ros sure seemed to be enjoying it now.