“I will.”
“And she chooses whether to meet me. You don’t arrange my forgiveness through your daughter.”
Betty nodded.
“I’ll talk to her about confidence, school, and speaking up. I won’t be used as a before-and-after lesson.”
“I understand.”
“You don’t arrange my forgiveness through your daughter.”
“Do you?” I asked. “Because an hour ago, you thought my smaller body was the happy ending.”
Her face tightened.
“You’re right. I still had it wrong.”
“Tell Layla what you did. Then ask what she needs.”
“I will,” she said. “And I won’t ask you to forgive me tonight.”
“Tell Layla what you did.”
That mattered more than another speech.
“Good.”
***
Over the next two weeks, Betty met with Layla’s teacher about the edited photo. After Betty told her the truth, Layla decided she still wanted to meet me.
They met me at a coffee shop.
Layla kept her sleeves pulled over her hands.
Layla decided she still wanted to meet me.
“My mom told me what she did to you,” Layla said.
“That must’ve been hard to hear.”
“It was. I got very angry with her.”
“You had every right to be angry.”
Betty swallowed.
“That must’ve been hard to hear.”
“She asked me why I lied. I told her I was ashamed.”
Layla looked at me.
“Then she said you might understand.”
“I understand what it feels like to think a picture can prove something bad about you.”
I opened my bag and placed my school photo on the table.
“I told her I was ashamed.”
“That’s you?” Layla asked.
“That’s me.”
“You look sad.”
“I was, but I was also funny, loyal, and good at fixing things.”
Betty reached into her handbag and pulled out a creased class photo. One corner had been cut away.
Layla’s chair scraped backward.
“You look sad.”
“Mom.”
“I found it in your trash,” Betty said. “I shouldn’t have taken it without asking.”
Layla stared at the missing corner.
“May I put it here?” Betty asked.
Finally, Layla nodded.
The two photos sat side by side.
“May I put it here?”
“How did you lose the weight?” Layla asked.
“I changed my habits because I wanted to feel healthier. But I wasted years thinking my life would begin after I looked different.”
“What changed?”
“I stopped waiting.”
Betty touched the cut edge of Layla’s photo.
“They’re just jealous,” she began, then stopped. “No. What they’re doing is cruel, and I’m going to help you deal with it.”
“I stopped waiting.”
Layla looked at her.
“For real?”
“For real.”
I slid my photo toward Layla.
“That girl deserved to stay in the picture.”
Layla pushed her own photo beside mine.
“So does this one,” she said.
“That girl deserved to stay in the picture.”
***
When I reached my car, I didn’t hide my old photo.
I placed it on the passenger seat.
For years, I had told myself that high school was in the past while carrying it into every room.
Betty had once taught me to disappear.
