Read Stepping Out for Free Online

Aéropostale and walk into the mall. At least the clerk looked me in the eye when I asked for a size four in the top I liked. Half the time they treat me like I’m blind too. “We’ll find you something.”
    Considering the fact that we’ve covered most of the stores at Bellevue Square Mall, I doubt it. “Maybe I’ll check out the thrift store where I found those cool pants last year.”
    Carly wrinkles her nose. She doesn’t share my taste for second-hand funk. “Not the thrift store.”
    “I’ll buy online then.” We turn the corner at Aveda. Buying online is easy, and the clerks never stare. But my order probably wouldn’t arrive in time. Especially not by Monday, when I’m testing my routines in drama class. “And don’t tell me you’re jealous, because I know that already.”
    She rolls her eyes. “Rub it in, why don’t you.”
    Carly hates that I’m a perfect size four and tall. I can’t help my Swedish genes any more than she can help her pasta-loving Italian ones. Too bad Brooke inherited the Swedish hair and I got Mom’s red frizz.
    “Let’s go in here.” She stops in front of Loft.
    “What? I’m a lawyer now?”
    She ignores the question and heads for the elevators. “You’re grumpy. You never should have gone online and looked at those other vloggers. It totally messed you up.”
    Technically I’ve been messed up since last Friday when she and Hunter dropped this bombshell of an opportunity on my head. Of course I’d check out the other nominees in my category.
    “Athletes don’t spend their time before the Super Bowl worrying about everybody else,” Carly says. “They work on their own game. That’s why we need to get you in game shape.” She stops in front of J. Crew. “How about here? We missed it.”
    I shake my head. Getting me in game shape is enough to bend even my good leg out of shape. “I’m done,” I say. “Let’s go to Jamba Juice. I’ll buy you an Orange Carrot Twist.”
    “I’m not thirsty. At least let’s go to Sephora and deal with your hair.”
    We stop in front of the elevator. Deal with your hair is such an encouraging phrase. “Do we have to?”
    She eyes the top of my head with obvious distaste. “No. Go onstage with that snarly red tumbleweed on the top of your head. I’m sure you’ll get a few laughs from it.”
    I sigh and push the Down button.

    Thursday morning, as I sit down to work in a library stall at school, I’m still traumatized by the whole Sephora experience. But considering the raw material I got, it was probably worth it.
    Walking into that store was like walking into the middle of Vogue magazine. The women all glittered. The prices were off-the-chart stupid. And the stench of perfume made it hard to think. Or maybe it was the music affecting my brain. I couldn’t hear much over it—although I definitely heard the glitter girl trying to sell me approximately $989 worth of products.
    I pretty much lost all capacity to think after that.
    It takes me most of the hour to jot down some notes and work it into a rough routine. I’m writing up my last few lines when a shadow looms across my cubby.
    I look up. It’s Ms. Vastag, wearing her infamous purple Birkenstocks and holding an armload of papers. “Why aren’t you in gym class, Larsson?”
    “I’ve been excused for a few days to practise for the competition.”
    Ms. Vastag’s eyes narrow. “Exercise is important.” She points to her ample stomach, barely covered by a tight red-and-blue-checked shirt. “Look what happens when you don’t get it.”
    “I know, and I feel terrible about missing the class, but I need the time.”
    Ms. Vastag glances around and then leans close. “You don’t fool me for a minute. You hate gym.” She glances at my leg. “You’re always looking for an excuse to sit it out because of your disability.”
    Ms. Vastag doesn’t dance around my limp like so many people do. And she doesn’t make allowances for it either. She treats me with the