Cedar Valley High Series #1
Zaydence Denholm is in trouble. She and her best friend are crushing on the same guy. On her part, she views this as the ultimate betrayal. This crush alongside overbearing and emotionally detached parents, and a complica...
Twice a week, on Saturdays and Wednesdays, Zeriah jotted my weight down in The Journal, a tiny red spiral notebook and then Mom stamped and dated the entry.
Their need to barge into my room the moment I woke up was more annoying than anything else.
Right foot on the scale. Left foot.
The red numbers blinked.
Once.
Twice.
150.3 lbs
"23.5," Mom read the data off of her tablet, "By the middle of October, you'll be back to 22."
She decided that 22 was an ideal BMI. Right in the middle. Almost. How in the middle could one get with numbers like 18.5 and 24.9? The exact mean was 21.7, but rounding up helped in my favor.
I leaned the glass scale against the side of my bookshelf.
"BMI's racist. It's rooted in misogynoir," Zeriah—my older sister—tucked The Journal under her arm and left my room.
Mom's brow furrowed, "Everything's racist. I blame Nalorn, and Bloqi, all of it!" Thus beginning her monthly rant about the perils of social media.
I didn't care enough to cover my yawn.
Henry driving me everywhere made it impossible to roller-blade. Before he became my chauffeur, I roller-bladed 4 miles a day. I missed it.
The air in my clothes.
The burn in my calves.
The hyperpop playlist on full volume in my ears.
Nothing compared.
White cheddar popcorn is almost as good as skating.
I had a hunch that he was hired to ensure I wasn't in a corner store gorging on candy or chips. Why did Mom hate corner stores? It wasn't like I'd ever been in one. Lune Park—our neighborhood—didn't have them.
I sat on the edge of my bed, "I'm going rug shopping with Wyatt's family on Tuesday, can we do the progress photos and measurements the day before?"
After all, weight wasn't the only indicator of health. My waist had grown 6 inches, leaving me with nothing but gym shorts and joggers to wear.
"Yes," she drummed her fingers against the doorframe, "If that's all, I'll be in the sun room."
Speaking of Wyatt...
"Wait," I called out, "Did you and Kiyo ever like the same guy?"
You are so obvious.
Could you be even more suspicious?
Why would you bring that up with zero warning?
From the pictures in their 1994 high school yearbook, I doubt they ever struggled romantically. They were beautiful in their own ways : Mom with her vibrant hickory brown skin and lean frame and Kiyo with her slim figure and smooth ivory skin. Too bad they lost contact after Kiyo did a gap year in Singapore.
"David Nuñez," she glanced at the mural Wyatt painted on the ceiling years before, "he revised the essay I used in my application to—"
"Sunny Hills University," I filled in. The Application that changed her entire life.
"He was," she sat beside me, "a walking thesaurus. I was jealous of his vocabulary," A tiny smile appeared on her face. She regarded those years as some of the best in her life. A happier time. I wish I'd known a happier Mom.
"What happened?" I lifted a hand.
"Kiyo asked him out first, she beat me to the punch."
"How did you get over him?"Moments like these were few and far between. Was I supposed to hug her? Rub her back? I lowered my hand back to my lap.
She explained, "Found a hobby, joined track and field."
A sigh was building in my throat.
Her story morphed into a speech on the benefits of exercising on the brain. Improved focus, regulated hormones. She had an unrivaled way of inserting exercise into any conversation.
I leaned back onto the bed, "Sports, sports, sports."
"Your grandpa died because of his unhealthy choices," she crossed her arms, "don't follow in his footsteps."
She believed she did her best in not treating her family like her clients but she was straightforward to a fault. She didn't sugarcoat anything—literally.
I groaned, "I make healthy choices,"
"I'm doing all that I can to keep it that way," Her soft footsteps grew quieter as she exited. She closed the door behind her.
What about what I was doing? What about portion control and working out?
It was my body.
I was the one putting in the effort.
I was the one who toiled for it to look like this.
I was the one living in it.
I unrolled a mat alongside the bottom of my bed. Today was cardio, Monday was strength training, and Thursday was yoga.
A good workout meant a better mood.
My mind wandered to what she said about Kiyo and David. If Wyatt and Milo dated, would I be able to pretend nothing was wrong?
You'd be supportive. Even if it hurt.
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What do you think about the weigh-ins? How would you feel if you were her?
