F.A.T.

Disgusting. Pale, ghostly skin limply doubles over my jean tops. Is there even a button on them? Did it fall off in my attempt to zip my jeans shut? I can't go to school like this. A fatty. That's what I see in the mirror.

"Dad," I call downstairs. With no apparent response, "Mom!" She rushes up the stairs, bags under her tired eyes. 

"What's the prob, hun?"

"I feel sick." No, I feel like running on the treadmill for a couple hours, then collecting every ounce of food in the house so I can throw it out. But I guess I'm sick, now. I muster out a fake cough. A sniffle.

"Oh, baby, you think you have a fever?" She snorts. "This is the third time this month. Please let me take you to the doctor?" Whenever I didn't have the guts for school, I told mom I was sick. I didn't go to the doctor. I didn't dare. It's obvious I'm not, after all, and nurses tend to get nervous around weight-sensitive people. But I'm not weight-sensitive. I'm overweight, minus the sensitive.

"No, mom. I'm sure it'll pass. I'll just sleep, kay?"

"Okay, hun. Tell me if you need anything." Mom hopped back down the stairs. I envied her naturally tiny body. So frail, so innocent. I wanted to have that figure. The one time Liz, the insane best friend of mine, told me I was sexy, I almost broke out in tears it was so funny. 

We walk out my front door, and jump in the car. It's freezing- that's the reason for my rush- but Liz, she's excited for prom. She got me into this shit. I did not want to go to prom. To make everything worse, she forced me into a shining, white mini-dress. Fat, I swear, sags out like the fabric that puffs out at the bottom. I'm hideous.

"Really, Liz, we couldn't just have a movie night?"

"Prom is super duper fun, Bethy-poo! We'll have lots of fun!" Liz is her optimistic self, as usual.

"To you. I look like a lump." I grab my stomach fat and thrust it outward to make my point.

"Oh, contraire. You look sexy, Beth." And with those words, Liz leans over- even though she's still driving- and sticks out her tongue for a phone-pic. I'm still dying of laughter. But she wouldn't retake the picture. 

I still curl my hair slightly, in case I must disgracefully step out in public. I change the see-through white tee to a long, thick tunic with a tropical flower print. It hides enough.

I've made it. The clock says six-forty five. I miss the bus, not that I ever doubted it. I'm sick, creds to mom.

Doo-doo!

A text message. Really? Who texts me at six-forty five in the morning? Loser- ooh, it's Liz.

Gerr, where are youus? Youus missd da bus!!

What the . . .? Is this gang speak? I rarely text. Excuse me. My fingers are slow are stubby, pressing all the wrong letters as I reply.

Sgick @ home.

I don't want to see her reply. I turn off my ringer and shove the phone in my back pocket. I'll probably end up washing it in my jeans.

How to spend my day . . .hmmm. Three things. Three things I have failed to do before, though I tried. Three things that are a necessity in my life. Three things that should have happened a long time ago.

Number one is for F.: forget how to eat.