I Dare You (Pheacker)

Part III - Dysfunctional

Ever since that one night, I've never had to worry about a full stomach keeping me from sleeping at night. Every time I've been dared to stuff myself full again, George has stayed to rub my belly and make sure I fall asleep. I've given up on wearing pajamas to bed, as they just seem to keep getting tighter and tighter. Instead, I started wearing just sweatpants to bed. It makes it easier for George to rub my belly without a shirt on, anyway. I really have to make this whole dare thing stop somehow -- It's really stretched my stomach out a lot, which makes me eat more during normal meals without even realizing it sometimes, and that doesn't help the whole weight gain problem. -- but I don't like saying no to my friends. Luckily, my friends have been running out of options on the bar menu, and they seem to be losing interest in my stretchable stomach. It doesn't change what's already been done to my body, though. And they still seem to have intentions to do it at least a few more times, since they haven't stopped yet on any drunken night.

Now, it's already January, and I'm supposed to start my second semester of college soon. I've been home for the holidays with Frances, visiting my parents and siblings, Angelica (age 16) and Alexander Jr. (AJ, age 14), before I have to return to classes. My parents' names are Alexander and Eliza, and there's John, my step-dad, too. My dad and my mom got divorced when I was AJ's age, and, a year and a half later, my pa married John.

My visit's been going well so far, and I'm currently staying with my dad and John (and Frances) after staying the first half of my time here with Mom and my other siblings. But one night, the last night before I'm supposed to leave, my dad brings up a comment during dinner that he seems to have been holding back on saying for a while: "So Philip, you, uh... seem to be eating well."

I freeze, the fork of chicken pot pie that was halfway to my mouth now just hovering there. This is the first time anyone's said anything about it outside of the Truth or Dare? nights. I'm not really proud to admit it, but the last time I checked, I weighed 162 pounds. That's thirty-two pounds more since november, and a whopping fifty more than the last time I saw my parents. But the last time I checked was also three weeks ago, and I ate more than I should have during the holidays.

Frances stays silent beside me, just eating her food as if she has nothing to do with my obvious weight gain. "I..." I start, setting my fork down in the bowl. "I guess I've been... letting myself go a bit..." I admit. To be fair, I can't let Frances or any of my other friends take the blame for this. Even though they have been pressuring me to overstuff myself on certain nights, it's not fair to blame them entirely, because those certain nights couldn't have been enough overall to cause this much weight gain.

No, I gained weight because I let myself eat to the point where I'm completely full on a daily, every-meal basis, rather than just having enough. I always seem to take more than enough, and it's almost always food that's fatty and greasy, because that kind of food just tastes so good after a long day of classes. And I still haven't tried to exercise much. I did visit and try out the campus gym a few times, but it couldn't have been enough to slow much of the weight gain down.

"Let yourself go a bit..." my dad mumbles.

"Excuse me..." After all that, I suddenly don't feel hungry anymore. I get up and go to my room, really the guest room, since Frances is the only one with another bedroom of her own in this house (aside from the master bedroom), uncomfortably aware of how my belly jiggles a bit under my too-tight shirt as I walk, and how my butt and thighs jiggle in my sweatpants -- the only pants that fit me anymore at this point -- with each step. And how every part of myself in general just seems to... jiggle.

I close the door and sit down on the bed, looking down at myself. I didn't eat much before I left the table, so I know my stomach itself isn't filled much. I can't blame the size of my belly on food from dinner. No, the size of it, practically resting in my lap at this point, is entirely made up from fat. I put my hands on it and squeeze some of the fat in my hands, frowning. It's embarrassing how much I've really let myself go. My belly is soft and squishy, and it feels kind of nice to touch it. But I'm ashamed of it. My own gluttony and greed led to this. And now I'm paying for it by remembering what looked like a face of shame on my father when he commented on my eating.

I look up to hear a knock at the door and quickly pull down my shirt, which pronounces my oversized belly anyway. "Come in," I say, trying to sound like I'm not about to cry.

The door opens and my dad steps in, slowly closing the door behind him and standing against it. "Hey, Pip. You doing alright?"

I don't reply, only nodding, for fear of a sob escaping my throat.

"I'm sorry for saying what I said. I didn't mean to upset you, Pip," he says softly.

"...No," I say, my voice already a bit shaky. "You were right. And you didn't even say anything bad. You were only saying that I was... eating well..." I mumble the last part, looking down at myself again.

My dad comes over and sits next to me, putting a hand on my back. "Yes, but I'm sorry for bringing the subject up." I stay silent, so he adds, "So why did you let yourself go? Is there something going on? You haven't had problems with not gaining weight before..."

"My... friends dared me a few times to... eat more than normal. I guess they just wanted to test the strength of my stomach or whatever. You know, stupid college stuff..." I explain. "But I guess it happened enough that my stomach stretched out, and... you know how hard it is for me to resist eating just a little bit extra sometimes, when the food is really good. And I've been having a lot of good-tasting but greasy foods..."

My dad pulls me into a hug. "Well, I'm not going to tell you what you have to do. But if you want to lose that weight, you should try to have a bit more self-control when it comes to deciding whether or not to have that bit of extra greasy food. I know it's hard, but you can be a tough kid." He pulls away. "Whatever you decide to do, I still love you. And you're still my handsome boy just the way you are." He smiles and pinches my chubby cheeks.

I laugh a little, the "handsome boy" comment reminding me of when he used to say it when I was a little kid. "Thanks, Pa. I'll do my best."

"Our best is all we can do," he says, kissing me on the forehead before standing up and going to the door. "I'll wrap the rest of your bowl up and put it in the fridge in case you decide you want it. But don't feel like you have to finish it. It's okay to not always finish everything on your plate." He gives me one more smile before leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

I feel a lot better after that. I love my dad. He's the best. I decide to get ready for bed, since I have to get up early to leave in the morning. However, I just end up sitting in bed on my phone for three hours afterwards anyway. And then I realize I feel hungry. Probably since I didn't eat much for dinner.

I get up, leaving my room in just my sweatpants, my upper-body chubbiness all on display for anyone to see. Everyone's most likely gone to bed by now, though, or is at least in their rooms, so I'm not worried about that. I just want food.

I quietly open the fridge and take out the bowl from earlier, setting it down on the counter and taking off the plastic wrap. I heat it up in the microwave, being careful to stop it before it goes off and possibly alerts anyone to what I'm doing. Then, I take it out and set it on the table, sitting down and eating it quickly and hungrily, ignoring that some parts of it are very hot and some parts of it are still cold. That's microwaves for you.

Once I finish the bowl, I bring it to the sink and set it with the other dirty dishes that will no doubt be getting washed tomorrow. I go to the fridge and grab a water bottle, taking a few sips. As I'm standing there, I notice a tupperware container: the chicken pot pie leftovers. I stare at it for a minute, sipping my water and contemplating taking it out and having more. I do still feel hungry. And John's chicken pot pie is just sooo good.

Without much more thought, I take the container out of the fridge and heat it all up, -- all three or so servings of it -- not sure how much more I'll want to eat. I take it out of the microwave and sit down to eat again.

Before I know it, I've finished the whole container. I stand up and put it in the sink, and only when I get back to my room and sit down on my bed do I realize what I've done. I did not exercise self-control at all. In fact, this was even worse than usual, a whole two servings worse than usual, just like when my friends give me those dares, except it wasn't a dare. And now, my stomach is overstuffed again. And there's no one here to rub it while I fall asleep, so I have trouble for an hour and a half before the food has digested enough for me to fall asleep.