The Makedown by Gitty Daneshvari

around for crap pay isn’t easy, but the bottom line is I am helping you, so shut up and say thank you!”
    “Thank you,” I say weakly before continuing, “You’re the Fairy Godmother I always wanted, only a whole lot meaner.”
    “I take that as a compliment. Oh and Anna, I wouldn’t even try walking in to get takeout. I gave them your picture.”

Chapter Nine
    I always imagined it as winning the lottery. First, I would crumble in shock, repeating, “I can’t believe it!” over and over again. Then with a burst of adrenaline, I would spring to my feet, dancing around the room, high-fiving myself. Never in any of these fantasies did I think it would fly beneath the radar, bringing forth no response whatsoever. Yet that is exactly what happened. Walking down Broome Street at a rapid pace, I ran ChapStick over my sore lips. Something about this reminded me of the pain I endured when I first arrived, my legs swollen from rubbing against one another.
    And that’s when I noticed it. My legs no longer touch when I walk. They didn’t touch yesterday or the day before, yet beyond that I am unsure when this blessed event actually occurred. Odd, given how preoccupied I have been with envisioning myself thin, that such a colossal accomplishment transpired without my conscious knowledge. Yet somewhere along the seven and a half months since I handed Janice my handwritten and photocopied résumé, I have lost fifty-nine pounds. I estimate that to be the body of a six-year-old girl. Mind you,
I
far exceeded that weight at six. Naked or clothed, I am now a different person. Well, not entirely. My face remains ravaged with acne, but my ass no longer falls below my knees.
    Hello Fatty,
    Even in the dark, the rough texture of your skin is visible. It’s tough and crunchy with large red sores and small white pustules. People focus on your brown eyes just to stop themselves from barfing.
    xoxo Anna
    Even with my body on track, insecurity plagues me. My face greets me every morning with red bumps and maroon scars that even the heaviest makeup fails to conceal. Unless people agree to talk through a screen or remain five feet away from me, I cannot bear to make them continue engaging with such a face. When I was fat, people assumed my acne was because I ate pizza and fried food. Now that I am skinny(ish), people presume it’s due to poor hygiene. Why does no one ascribe it to bad genetics or exposure to toxic chemicals? Tired of the quiet expressions of repulsion, I approach Janice about this sensitive matter. She pays me minimum wage and doesn’t offer health benefits, which is horrendous. Conversely, she buys me clothes, feeds me, and generally improves my exterior, so I might have to call it a wash.
    Standing across the island in D&D’s kitchen, I watch Janice chop celery with the precision of a surgeon. There is no second-guessing or fear in her movements. She is preparing a celery root soup with horseradish crème fraîche for a women’s luncheon. And even though the combination sounds peculiar to my unrefined palette, I am sure it will be scrumptious. Nervous, I inhale deeply before speaking.
    “Ever wonder what you would do if you cut off a finger?” I ask, realizing only after the fact that the words send a strange serial killer vibe.
    Janice immediately stops chopping and looks at me warily. “What did you say?”
    “You know, let’s say you cut off the tip of your finger, thinking it was celery. What would you do?”
    “I would probably scream and dial 911.”
    “What a luxury that must be!”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You know, to have health insurance,” I say melodra-
matically.
    “What is this? You rent
Sicko
last night and now you’re going all Michael Moore on me?”
    “Well, you have to admit, it’s sad for people like me.”
    “If you cut off your finger while working here, I promise to take you to the hospital, or at least drop you at the Canadian border,” Janice says snarkily.
    “It’s about more