Fat by Sarah Levine

Ten.

The package of Oreos makes its way around the classroom, as do squeals from your classmates as they thank Jacob for convincing his mom to stop at Wawa to bring a snack for the class.

You follow the bright blue package with your eyes, not watching the beloved sandwich cookies but, instead, counting how many cookies each other student takes. Two. Three. Two. Three.

You’ll play it safe and take two—no need to stand out. 

The furthest from Jacob’s seat, you’re the last to go, and you take your two cookies, then walk the package up to the teacher’s desk.

“Of course, the fatty wants some cookies,” Jacob mocks. “She’s always hungry.”

Only one person laughs, but that doesn’t kill the sting. You want to go into hibernation and never come out. 

“Settle down,” the teacher says as she emerges into the classroom. You wonder if she heard what he said. Does it even matter?

The walk back to your desk feels endless, with the eyes of your entire class fixated upon you. You slip into your chair as quietly and subtly as possible. Suddenly you’re not so hungry for Oreos anymore.

 

Twelve.

You feel your lungs collapsing inside of you, and it occurs to you that this might be what death feels like. But 12-year-old girls don’t die from running a mile, at least not that you’ve heard of, so you keep running as much as your legs allow.

“Pick up the pace,” your gym teacher yells when you hit the marker signifying that you’ve completed the second of four loops. Doesn’t she know that, with the 40 or 50 extra pounds you’ve got on the others in sixth-period gym, this is your picked-up pace?

Around you, flocks of shorts-clad girls move along like they’re Olympians in their final stride. Meanwhile, you find yourself gradually falling further and further behind, sweat seeping through the sweatpants you’ve chosen in order to hide your jiggly thighs. 

You try to distract yourself with thoughts of last night’s episode of American Idol and your upcoming social studies quiz, but you find yourself glancing back at Mrs. Wide Load, who couldn’t herself run the mile if she tried, and whose mission appears to be humiliating you.

The mile run only comes around once a year. You can do this. You can complete this next loop without standing out or slowing down, you tell yourself, but your track record says otherwise, as does the package of Ramen noodles that you ate for a snack yesterday that’s sitting heavy in your stomach. 

There are half a dozen other stragglers with you, none of whom are as visibly out of shape as you are. It doesn’t matter. You’re the one your classmates are whispering about behind your back. You’re the one who has to come after school to attempt the mile run again.

 

Fourteen.

It’s the last day of school, and this year, the last day of school outfits are just as crucial as the first day of school outfits. You’ve spent weeks planning your outfit and feel pretty—well, as pretty as you’re going to feel—in your new dress. 

You walk into school confidently in your strut, proud of your new bright pink, blue, and yellow dress and matching yellow earrings.

During homeroom, you swap yearbooks with your friends and acquaintances and write each other messages like “This year has been awesome” and “I can’t wait to hang out this summer!” It doesn’t matter if those things are true. It’s the last day of school, and you’ve survived freshman year. 

The bell rings, and you’re off to English class, the 42 minutes of the day you have with your closest friends. 

“Your dress is too short,” Petite Angry Homeroom Teacher says as you walk out of the classroom. “I’m just telling you that for your own good. I don’t want you to be embarrassed.”

You take this as more of an observation than a recommendation and continue walking down the hall. Luckily, she doesn’t stop you and make you put a T-shirt and gym shorts on like she’s made other people do in the past. That’s not what bothers you, though. All around you, stick-thin girls are donning sundresses and rompers at least an inch or two shorter than your dress.

That’s when you realize your homeroom teacher didn’t think your dress was actually too short. She thought it was too short for a fat girl. You hate yourself for picking this dress. What were you thinking?

You take each step to English class slowly, wanting nothing more than to go home. It’s not even 8 AM, and you can already tell that what was supposed to be a fun day with friends will now be a day filled with insecurity and self-doubt.

 

Fifteen.

Having decided that you’re going to become the next YouTube singing sensation, you come home after school and go straight to the new-to-you keyboard you bought at a yard sale and practice that new song “Fireflies” that’s all over the radio. You sing the first verse and chorus over and over until you know the words by heart, then you move on to the next section. It’s as good as it’s going to get. Time to record.

You yell down the hall to your family to be quiet, close every door in the house, and press the record button on your webcam. The melody has become annoying at this point, but you’re too invested. This could be the video that makes you famous, so you keep going. You record four or five times until you’re happy with the results.

You click the upload button on YouTube and wait for the views and comments to pour in. At first, the comments are nice. They even boost your confidence a bit with praise like “You’re great” and “You’re so talented.”

Then they start to appear—the comments you’ve been dreading, the reason you were so hesitant to post in the first place. 

“Hey fatty.”

“Fat cow.”

“You’re fat.”

“Fat bitch.” 

You get over twenty-thousand views on that video, but that’s not what keeps you awake at night.

 

Twenty-Three.

You fidget in the firm, black chair, bracing yourself for a comment from the nail technician about how you need to stop biting your nails. It’s inevitable, but you promise not to let it get to you. No well-meaning but generally offensive comment is going to ruin this weekend for you. You’ve spent eleven months waiting for July to come around to stand up as maid of honor for your twin sister and watch her say, “I do.”

To your left, your sister stares intently at the design being completed on her nails, and you watch along with bated breath. After all, she had a very specific design request, and you, as part of your maid of honor duties, scoured the vicinity around her venue, searching for a nail salon that could duplicate the nail photo she found on Instagram. 

She seems satisfied, so you look back at your nails as the nail technician removes your half-chipped nail polish. She trims the cuticles, buffs the nails, and files them down as you and your sister go over the timeline for the wedding for what feels like the hundredth time.

“Are you two sisters?” your nail technician asks in broken English.

“Twins,” you reply in unison.

The woman tilts her head, and, for a moment, you wonder if she doesn’t believe you. You and your sister are not identical, but you definitely bear a strong enough resemblance that no one has ever questioned your blood relation. Instead, she turns her attention to your sister.

“If you’re twins, why are you skinny?”

The words hang there. You try to muster up a response but come up empty. With a half-completed manicure, you remain seated, stoic, as the woman continues dipping your nails into the powder. Had she really just said that? 

You and your sister make eye contact with one another. She offers a knowing look that tells you she is trying to refrain from punching the nail technician and that she knows you well enough to understand that your insecurity about your size cuts you to your core.

It’s too late. The damage is done. You’ll walk down the aisle arm-in-arm with the best man in front of loved ones, you’ll have professionally done hair and makeup that others envy, and you’ll offer up a toast to the bride and groom that receives resounding applause. 

Still, at the end of the weekend, as you fly home and send your sister and her new groom off on their honeymoon, you’ll be thinking about that moment in the nail salon.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Sarah Levine is a freelance writer and editor from New Jersey who holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Rosemont College. In addition to having completed over 200 freelance projects, Sarah has ghostwritten six novels and several nonfiction books and has been published by Trouvaille Review and RK Leighton Publishing.

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