Chills are sent down my body with the brisk air as I take a break from shoveling after clearing most of the sidewalk. I burned a good 200 calories from shoveling and keeping myself moving. That gets rid of breakfast, and then some. But, each pound of fat is approximately 3500 calories, so it’s clear I’ll probably visit Sky’s gym later today. Hopefully her weird steroid infested brother isn’t there. He always just stares at me as I bench and press like a freak. She’s only a few blocks from my house, so it’s nothing I can’t jog. The ice may make it harder, and I may end up with an accidental rhinoplasty from falling on my face, but hey. More work = more burning. I walk back inside, and Marina’s still in the same spot. Can’t she just get up and do something productive for once? Pealing back the layers of warmth, I remove most of my jackets but two by the door. Patrick likes to save on the electricity bill, so it’s only about 75 degrees in here, which is FREEZING. But, I guess it’s better than outside, where it is literally below freezing. “How was shoveling, fat ass?” Marina spits with a playful tone, and we both can’t help but smile. I didn’t react badly because I know she was just being rude. I do carry extra poundage. But she doesn’t think so, and neither does anyone else. Even the scale keeps trying to tell me on hundred twenty-two pounds isn’t too much for my five-foot-ten-inch framework. But that stupid mirror doesn’t lie. Everytime I walk by, it shouts to me: “Hey. Chub. When are you going to lose those fifteen pounds of ugly-ass flab? Do you want to stay size four forever?” Between dance and cheer, I get plenty of exercise, so I know my real enemy is food. But calories won’t conquer me. They’re the one thing I can control. And just maybe if I can control them, make myself as thin as I need to be, the rest of my life will turn out right again. Maybe, if I can make Daddy proud enough, he’ll come watch me lead the cheer squad or watch me vie for Miss Teen New York. Maybe, if I can make Mom look really look at me, she’ll have something to think about besides Patrick. Maybe, when I’m a size two, a talent scout will take interest in me. And maybe, when Mark gets out, he’ll decide I’m the one he wants, after all. Maybe. So I’ll count every calorie. Train even harder. Fight for buff. And maybe I’ll ask Sky’s creep of a brother about those drugs I read about – the weight loss phenom of the stars.
