five months and twenty-four days, I’ve been too large to get through the door. But my last day of school was two years ago.”
“There are two important things we need to understand here: why you had this panic attack and why you gained the weight. That’s what we need to address. It will be a process and it will take time, but we are going to get you healthy again.”
I glance at my dad, in the armchair across from me. He knows as well as I do what the Why is. It’s everything changing when I was ten. It’s the bullying and the fear. So much fear of everything, but mostly death. Sudden, out-of-the-blue death. It’s also me being terrified of life. It’s the giant emptiness in my chest. It’s touching my face or my skin and feeling nothing. This is the Why of me staying home in the first place. And the Why of me eating. And the Why of me ending up here. But that doesn’t mean I want to die.
—
On the day before I leave the hospital, the nurse brings me a package, no return address. Most everyone else is sending me letters, not packages, which is the only reason I open it. That and the fact that my dad isn’t here to take it away before I can.
Inside is a handwritten note without a name or signature, and a copy of my favorite book. One of my actual very own copies of my favorite book, with my initials on the cover and my highlights throughout.
I thought you might want this. Unlike the other letters, this one is nice. I want you to know I’m rooting for you. For the first time in a long time, I touch my skin and feel something.
When Rachel Mendes—tutor and caregiver—arrives, I lay the book down and tell her the thing I’ve been wanting to say but no one will hear. I pull up one of the news articles on my new phone, my first phone, the one my dad bought me so I can call him if I need anything.
I enlarge the picture of me, taken the day I was rescued from our house. “This girl,” I tell Rachel. “That’s not what I look like. That’s not who I am.” I have a feeling Rachel will get this because she pretended to be straight all through high school, even though she figured out she was a lesbian when she was in eighth grade.
I say it again, “That’s not me.”
Her eyes light up. “Great. Let’s see if we can find her.”
NOW
I throw open my locker before first period, and something flutters out and lands on my shoe. It’s a piece of paper folded in thirds. I stare at it for a while because it’s been my experience that pieces of paper folded in thirds are not a good thing.
I finally pick it up and hold it inside my locker, where no one will see.
America’s Fattest Teen Rescued from House
It’s an article from the Internet, and there I am, in a blurry photo, being wheeled across the front lawn by emergency workers.
On the other side is a giant picture of my giant face taken yesterday in the cafeteria. Beside it someone’s written, Congratulations on being voted MVB High’s Fattest Teen!
I close the door and rest my forehead against the metal of the locker because my head is going hot and I feel dizzy, which is sometimes how it starts.
Is this what she felt the day she drove herself to the hospital? Is this how it began for her?
The metal cools me for only a second, but then it’s hotter than my skin and I’m worried I’ll burn myself. I concentrate on lifting my head till it’s sitting upright on my neck once again. The hallway tilts. I open the locker door and focus on the jacket hook, my books, my little corner of the universe. I breathe.
—
In first period, Mick from Copenhagen is talking to me, but I’m too busy to listen because I’m writing my resignation letter from school.
Dear Principal Wasserman,
Thank you so much for this educational opportunity. Unfortunately, I will not be able to continue here at MVB High because it is overrun by imbeciles.
I cross this out and write,
because of an unfortunate epidemic of imbeciles.
Unfortunate epidemic of imbecility?
I
“There are two important things we need to understand here: why you had this panic attack and why you gained the weight. That’s what we need to address. It will be a process and it will take time, but we are going to get you healthy again.”
I glance at my dad, in the armchair across from me. He knows as well as I do what the Why is. It’s everything changing when I was ten. It’s the bullying and the fear. So much fear of everything, but mostly death. Sudden, out-of-the-blue death. It’s also me being terrified of life. It’s the giant emptiness in my chest. It’s touching my face or my skin and feeling nothing. This is the Why of me staying home in the first place. And the Why of me eating. And the Why of me ending up here. But that doesn’t mean I want to die.
—
On the day before I leave the hospital, the nurse brings me a package, no return address. Most everyone else is sending me letters, not packages, which is the only reason I open it. That and the fact that my dad isn’t here to take it away before I can.
Inside is a handwritten note without a name or signature, and a copy of my favorite book. One of my actual very own copies of my favorite book, with my initials on the cover and my highlights throughout.
I thought you might want this. Unlike the other letters, this one is nice. I want you to know I’m rooting for you. For the first time in a long time, I touch my skin and feel something.
When Rachel Mendes—tutor and caregiver—arrives, I lay the book down and tell her the thing I’ve been wanting to say but no one will hear. I pull up one of the news articles on my new phone, my first phone, the one my dad bought me so I can call him if I need anything.
I enlarge the picture of me, taken the day I was rescued from our house. “This girl,” I tell Rachel. “That’s not what I look like. That’s not who I am.” I have a feeling Rachel will get this because she pretended to be straight all through high school, even though she figured out she was a lesbian when she was in eighth grade.
I say it again, “That’s not me.”
Her eyes light up. “Great. Let’s see if we can find her.”
NOW
I throw open my locker before first period, and something flutters out and lands on my shoe. It’s a piece of paper folded in thirds. I stare at it for a while because it’s been my experience that pieces of paper folded in thirds are not a good thing.
I finally pick it up and hold it inside my locker, where no one will see.
America’s Fattest Teen Rescued from House
It’s an article from the Internet, and there I am, in a blurry photo, being wheeled across the front lawn by emergency workers.
On the other side is a giant picture of my giant face taken yesterday in the cafeteria. Beside it someone’s written, Congratulations on being voted MVB High’s Fattest Teen!
I close the door and rest my forehead against the metal of the locker because my head is going hot and I feel dizzy, which is sometimes how it starts.
Is this what she felt the day she drove herself to the hospital? Is this how it began for her?
The metal cools me for only a second, but then it’s hotter than my skin and I’m worried I’ll burn myself. I concentrate on lifting my head till it’s sitting upright on my neck once again. The hallway tilts. I open the locker door and focus on the jacket hook, my books, my little corner of the universe. I breathe.
—
In first period, Mick from Copenhagen is talking to me, but I’m too busy to listen because I’m writing my resignation letter from school.
Dear Principal Wasserman,
Thank you so much for this educational opportunity. Unfortunately, I will not be able to continue here at MVB High because it is overrun by imbeciles.
I cross this out and write,
because of an unfortunate epidemic of imbeciles.
Unfortunate epidemic of imbecility?
I
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