Skinny(37)
The waitress returns, looking down at the barely touched salad with a frown. “Is something wrong with your lunch? You don’t like it?”
“It’s fine,” I say.
Briella takes the last bite of the deep-dish pizza and says, “She can’t eat that much.”
The waitress looks surprised.
“She’s shocked. Look at you. Nobody your size eats that little.”
“Do you want a box or something?”
I can’t eat it now or later. “No,” I say and watch sadly as she takes it away. I’m so hungry.
“So are we meeting Wolf later?” Whitney asks, and Briella nods excitedly. They talk about what they’re going to wear. Neither of them asks me to go with them, but I didn’t expect it. We split the bill. A waste of money. I scoop up all the bags and follow Whitney and Briella out of the restaurant, noticing the chewing, the smells, and the food every where I turn. I’m starving in plain sight, and no one has a clue except maybe the woman in the bathroom who thinks I have an eating disorder. I do. A surgically induced one.
“You’ll always be an outsider. Fat and hungry. How does that makeover feel now, stupid?”
On the way home I tune out the noise in the front seat, staring out the side window but not really seeing anything. I feel confused. The shopping felt good. Lunch was horrible. How can I balance the two? Everything revolves around food. Even shopping. I have to admit buying the clothes in the bags next to me gave me a satisfied feeling. It was almost as good as handfuls of M&M’s. Almost.
That night, I sit in the middle of the bed with all my new purchases spread out around me, surprised by the strange feelings of excitement at the thought of new starts and a new year.
For the first time, I really think about going back to school. I wonder if Gigi will have a new hair color and if Chance will notice my weight loss.
Scattered brushes, eye shadows, and liners have taken new spots on the top of my dresser. And in the midst of all this craziness sits something even more alien — even more intimidating — a long-fought enemy known to inspire dread and despair. A newly purchased handheld mirror.
I peek into it quickly, then stare at the blank line of my weight-loss chart for this week. It’s like a big blinking cursor on a computer screen — waiting, waiting, waiting — for me to fill it in. I finally slide off the bed and walk over to pick up a red marker off my desk. In the musical West Side Story, there’s a song that Maria, the main character, sings in front of the mirror before she goes to the big dance. I write the title of the song on the chart under the column for my playlist and immediately want to scratch it out again. I make myself step away from the chart, leaving the printed words behind.
Chapter Twelve
It’s the first day of school. When I enter first-period history, I only glance up long enough to get my bearings. That’s surprisingly difficult in this particular classroom. Mr. Landmann, my new history teacher, is also very active in the Huntsville Community Theater and is a requested favorite with students. He somehow combines his two passions, history and theater, in his classroom and it’s crammed full of every kind of historical theatrical prop imaginable. I push down the aisle between a gold spray-painted Henry VIII throne and a life-sized cutout of Magellan. I’m looking for a seat in the back as usual. Not trying to draw attention to myself. Some of the seats are already full. People are talking and chatting. New clothes. New haircuts. New hopes for new starts. One girl playfully shoves a boy. I dodge. I make it to an empty desk in the back corner. One wall behind me. One wall beside me. It feels comfortable. Protected.
The tension from a sleepless night full of first-day-back-at-school nightmares begins to ease up a bit. I pull the desktop up and snap it into place. There’s space between my stomach and the desk. I fit. Mr. Landmann is calling roll, and I almost miss my name. I fit.
“Here,” I say. I scoot around in the desk. There is room to move. To breathe. I stare at my bare forearms on the desk. It’s like someone put the wrong arms on my body. Overnight. They don’t look like me. Arms that don’t look huge and puffy. They just look like arms. Whose arms are these? My eyes fill with tears, and I feel really stupid for reacting like this. It’s just a desk. Everyone else can sit in the desks, too. Why not me?
The bell rings and Mr. Landmann begins lecturing on Tudor England, waving a large papier-mâché sword around wildly. It’s one way to keep teenagers’ attention first thing in the morning. He climbs on top of his desk, wielding the sword, and accidently knocks a stuffed owl off his bookshelf. The now flying owl wakes up the boys who are sitting in the replica of the Santa Maria when it bounces off the mast and lands in their laps. The lecture comes to an abrupt halt while Mr. Landmann recovers the owl, and I hear a voice beside me.