Curvy Girls Can't Date Best Friends
Chapter One
TEN YEARS OLD
CARSON
“This is going to be a good move for us,” Mom
promised as the GPS told us we were two minutes
from our new home.
The home I’d never set foot in.
The home away from my grandparents.
The home away from my friends.
But it would still be filled with the same people.
The same mom who worked eighty-hour weeks.
The same dad who didn’t work at all.
The same sisters living the same nightmare
as me.
My oldest sister in the front seat barely
looked up from her phone. “Sure, Mom,” Clary
said. I didn’t even see a glint of the hope in her
face that I was afraid to feel in my chest. But
there was a reason Dad was alone in the moving
truck while we piled five people into a car that
barely fit all of us, especially now that my sisters
were older and had bigger hips that made less
sitting room for me. (Mom said that was because
they’d gone through puberty. Whatever that
meant.)
“It will be better,” Mom asserted, her eyes dark
blue in the rearview mirror. They got that color
when she was upset. Even darker when she cried.
“Your father grew up his whole life in that small
town. Around the same patterns and the same
people. When he’s in a new place, he’ll realize that
we’re what matters. I know he will.”
No one had talked to me about the Cook
Family Curse directly—they thought I was too
young—but every man on my dad’s side of the
family was abusive. Had been for generations. Clary
said it was like they didn’t know any other way to
be. My sister Sierra, who was into witchcraft, took
the curse part more literally. No one had ever said
what that meant for me.
One thing I knew—our home life couldn’t get
worse. At least, I hoped it wouldn’t.
“And you’ll all be at a great school,” Mom
continued. “The best school money can buy. You’ll
meet your best friends there; I just know it.”
On my left side, Gemma rolled her red-rimmed
eyes and leaned against the window. Her best friend
had lived next door to us at our old house, and Dad
had to peel her off the mailbox to get her in the car.
“Just stop, Mom,” Sierra said, her body stiff on
my right. “You married an abusive narcissist, and
instead of leaving him, you’re staying with him and
taking us so far away from the only family we’ve
ever known. It’s pathetic.”
I flinched at her words. I hated the fighting. I
hated how mean everyone was to Mom. Especially
since I’d seen how it felt to have some of Dad’s
anger directed at me.
Mom’s eyes grew darker. “You’ll just have to
wait and see.”
She turned onto a road at a sign that said
Rhodora Home Owners’ Association. The houses lining
the wide street were nice—not as big as the ones in
Texas; Gramps did always say, “Everything’s bigger
in Texas.”
Each home had bright green lawns and big bay
windows, and everything looked just as perfect as
Mom wanted us to believe it would be. The moving
truck was parked in front of a house painted light
blue—like it had tried to blend in with the sky but
missed a shade.
The house on the left was a boring brown color,
but right next door there was a bright yellow home
with the windows open, and I swore there was a pie
sitting in the windowsill. I wished I could move into
that house, with a perfect mom and a perfect dad
and maybe even a brother and a sister who weren’t
so busy dealing with their own problems they forgot
about me.
“This is it,” Mom announced, putting the car
into park along the curb. She got out and said,
“Carson?”
After my sisters left, I scooted out of the middle.
Mom waited for me by a white mailbox shaped like
a swan. “Yeah?”
She knelt down and put her hands on my shoul‐
ders. “I want to thank you for staying so positive.”
She glanced over her shoulder where Dad stood by
the truck, smoking, and lowered her voice. “I know
Dad’s been hard on you, but you keep being the
bright, silly, fun, good kid I know you are, and great
things will happen for you.”
My throat stung like when I had to tell
Grandma and Gramps goodbye. “Are you sure?”
“I promise. This move will be the best thing to
happen in your life.”
CALLIE
Through my bedroom window on the second
floor, I watched a man who looked as old as my dad
yank the for-sale sign out of the ground. He tossed
it aside, and a laughing woman came and
kissed him.
A boy bent over, pretending to throw up, while
three older girls walked toward the front door.
“Joe!” I called to my older brother. “They’re our
age!”
He came into my room and pulled his head‐
phones around his neck. “Any hot girls?”
“Ew,” I said, even though the girls were pretty.
They each had long blond hair like their mother
that rippled down their backs.
I didn’t focus on them for long. My eyes were on
the boy. He straightened, and sandy blond hair
covered his forehead, brushed over his dark
eyebrows. Was he in my grade? He could have
been. What was he like? I couldn’t tell anything
about him from his plain T-shirt and khaki shorts.
Only that he looked like he was my height. But
again, that was hard to tell from up here.
I wished I could open my window and lean out
to get a better look, but it was the middle of August,
and Dad would be so upset if he knew I was letting
out all of his cold air. Apparently, all of the house
was his and Mom’s...until it needed cleaning.
From downstairs, my mom called, “Joe, Callie,
come here!”
Joe and I gave each other a look. Mom always
made us greet new neighbors, but I was only
wearing basketball shorts and a T-shirt from prac‐
tice earlier today...
“One second,” we yelled at the same time.
Joe ran out of the room, and I had a distinct
feeling he was doing the same thing I was:
primping.
I ran to my dresser and dug through the bulk of
my jeans and T-shirts until I found the ones that
looked best on me. I tugged them on and started
toward the stairs. Joe came out of the bathroom
smelling like way too much cologne.
Fanning my hand in front of my nose, I said,
“You smelled better before!”
“Really?” He put his armpit in my face, and I
nearly fell down the stairs.
“Stop!” I cried, hurrying to the bottom before I
could get more hairy armpit in my face.
He finally gave up, and when we reached the
kitchen, Mom gave us an exasperated look. “You
two,” she sighed. Then she reached for a carafe of
her special homemade strawberry lemonade and
handed it to me.
I adjusted the sweating pitcher in my hands as
she gave Joe a round glass pan full of cinnamon
rolls. She’d been experimenting with different
flavors lately, and through the glass, these looked
strawberry flavored.
“Can I have one?” Joe asked.
“You don’t think they’ll notice one missing?” she
said, turning to get the plastic plates and cups deco‐
rated with tiny flowers.
“I just don’t care,” Joe retorted. “They look so
good, Mom.”
I rolled my eyes. Flattery was his strong suit.
“Kiss up.”
“Callie,” Mom admonished. “No name-
calling.”
“Even when it’s true?” I said sweetly.
Smiling, she shook her head. “Let’s get going.”
We marched out the front door and down the
sidewalk. Last time we’d done the neighbor
greeting, it was for the house across the street
where an old couple lived with their creepy cat.
It had a scraggly coat and two different colored
eyes and curled around my legs the entire twenty
minutes we were there, like it had an evil plan to
trip me. This family already seemed more
promising.
Their front door was open, and we could hear
girls arguing inside about who got which room.
“See? You’re not the only siblings who argue.”
Mom looked over at us pointedly and knocked on
the door frame. “Yoo hoo, neighbors.”
My cheeks reddened. Not only was I standing
here with a sweaty glass of lemonade, my mom said
yoo hoo.
The woman I’d seen earlier stepped from the
direction of the garage. I’d been in this house when
it was still listed for sale—it looked a lot like ours
but like someone had flipped it the opposite direc‐
tion and painted it in bright, coastal colors unlike
the beige that covered all of our walls.
The woman smiled wide and said, “Hi there.
Come inside.”
Mom walked a couple of feet into the living
room, and as we followed, I thought we might as
well have been standing on the porch.
A crashing sound came from the direction of
the garage. Shattering glass.
I flinched, and the Mom said, “Whoops. Must
have dropped something.”
It didn’t sound like dropping. The next crash
that came sounded like something had hit the wall.
The boy came running out of the garage and
ran out the back door. His mom’s eyes trailed
behind him for a moment before turning back to us,
looking tight around the corners. “It was nice to
meet you, but we better get back to unpacking.”
“Of course,” Mom said, a smile pasted on her
face like she hadn’t seen what I had. “I’m Anne,
and this is Callie and Joe. My husband is Robert,
but I’m sure there will be plenty of time to meet
him once you get settled in. Where would you like
us to set the snacks? I’m sure you’ll need them!”
She nodded gratefully. “We will. Here on the
floor should be fine.”
Mom seemed to hesitate before bending to set
the plasticware and plates on the dusty ground. Joe
dumped his cinnamon rolls, and I carefully lowered
the carafe to the floor.
As we turned and walked out, I heard a door
slam and a man’s voice grumbling something about
lazy and ungrateful.
After the door closed firmly behind us and we
heard the heavy clicking of a lock, Joe said, “That
was weird.”
“Shh,” Mom said.
“It was,” I said, my throat tight. “Do you think
the dad was throwing something at the boy?”
“I’m sure it’s okay.” Mom smiled at me, but
there was still a troubled look in her eyes. “Why
don’t you get some time outside? Maybe hang out
in the green belt.”
The message behind her words was clear.
Find him.
I cut across our lawn to the gate that opened to
the expanse of grass that cut through the neighbor‐
hood. There were a few parks dispersed through the
place, and I didn’t see him on the one closest to our
houses.
Trying to stall the worry rising in my throat, I
shucked my flip-flops, hooking the straps between
my fingers. I always felt better with the grass
forming and molding to my feet. Even so, the sense
of dread lingered.
This time of summer, it was too hot to be at the
park, I reminded myself. Everyone was probably at
the pool or the beach. Or watching TV in the air
conditioning. Having fun instead of bringing food to
grumpy neighbors. Maybe the boy had found a tree
to hide out under.
I rounded a corner and saw the next park. The
same boy from earlier sat on one of the swings,
dragging his feet over the worn-down path of gravel
underneath. His head hung low, sandy hair falling
around his face. I opened my mouth to greet him,
but he lifted his arm to his face and used the back
of his forearm to wipe his eyes.
He was crying.
It felt like a hand had reached around my lungs
and squeezed. I both wanted to run to him and
make him feel better and dodge behind a tree to let
him have some privacy. The war of the two options
held me firmly to the spot, unable to move.
Like he sensed me watching him, he looked up
and immediately began wiping at his face, trying to
hide his feelings. Before I could speak, he said, “You
live next door, don’t you?”
My chest ached even more at the sight of him
trying to hold it together, but maybe that was what
he needed—for me to pretend nothing had
happened.
“Yeah, in the yellow house,” I said with a smile,
going to the swing next to him and sitting down.
“What grade are you in?”
“I’m going to Emerson Academy. I’ll be in sixth
grade.”
“Me too,” I said. “Do you play sports?”
“Swimming. But I want to try football too.”
I nodded. “Our school does flag football in sixth
grade.”
“What about you?” he asked. “Do you play
sports?”
“Everything I can,” I answered. “I’m in a
summer basketball league, but I’ll play volleyball
when school starts. Where’d you move from?”
“Texas.” He said the word bitterly, like Texas
was just as bad as sitting on the bench a whole
game or something. He pumped his legs and started
picking up height. “Want to see who can jump
farther?”
I nodded and began swinging my legs too. “I’ll
warn you though. I’ve been practicing on these
swings my whole life.”
“Well I have natural talent.”
I snorted, working even harder. “Good luck.”
We were both high now, the chains squeaking
harshly as we worked to best each other.
“Ready,” he said.
“Set,” I yelled.
“Go!” we shouted at the same time.
We flew through the air, weightless, soaring, and
then the ground came toward us. I touched the
ground and rolled, him doing the same beside me.
As I skidded to a stop on the gravel, I looked over to
see the boy at the same distance as me.
“Tie,” he said.
I grinned. “I’ll win next time.”
A woman’s voice yelled in the distance,
“Carson!”
His expression soured. “That’s me.”
That tight feeling was back in my chest. “See
you later?”
He nodded. “Race?”
“You’re on.”
We sprinted back toward our houses, neck and
neck the entire way. When we reached the back
gate, one of his sisters was standing there with her
arms folded across her ample chest. “Looks like
you’re fitting right in,” she said drily, extending her
arm for him.
He ducked under it and started inside.
As I walked toward my house, I couldn’t get the
boy and his hidden tears out of my mind. Not
during supper when Joe told Dad what happened.
Not when our parents sent us upstairs and I could
hear my parents whispering downstairs through the
bathroom vents, and not at bedtime as I sat at my
desk, carefully braiding my hair so it would be
crimped the next morning.
Not when I heard something tapping at my
second-story window.
With my eyebrows furrowed together, I went to
the window, pushed it open, and looked down and
around. There were bright little pieces of some‐
thing on the ground. And then one pegged my
head.
Across the gap between our houses, I could see
the boy, Carson, leaning out his window, holding on
to a handful of Legos.
Before I had a chance to speak, he said, “I
didn’t hear your name.”
“Callie,” I answered.
“Same place, same time tomorrow, Callie?” he
asked.
I nodded, a smile growing on my face.
“You’re on.”
