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Chapters (67)
  1. Big Boned
  2. CONTENTS
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. One Month Later
  60. Acknowledgments
  61. About the Author
  62. Copyright
  63. About the Publisher
  64. Backad 1
  65. Backad 2
  66. Backad 3
  67. Backad 4

I stopped tracing the images and met the mirror’s gaze once more. This time, it wasn’t looking back at me like it usually was. A strange feeling washed over me as I dragged my eye from one red drawing to the next. I didn’t see the flab and stretch marks and cellulite this time. I saw something else entirely. I saw a work of art reflected back at me. Sure, not a perfect work of art, but a work of art nonetheless. A work in progress maybe? I looked at the fingerprint patchwork of drawings on my skin—they were all mine. No one in the world had this pattern of lines and dots and curves.

The white stretch marks on my hips looked like a tiger’s stripes in the moonlight, and I swear, the cellulite on my upper thighs reminded me of waves crashing against the shore. I was seeing myself through the eyes of an artist now. Like Pierneef and the mountain, like Turner and the sea, like Warhol and the soup can, and all the other great artists who chose to look at life through a different set of lenses. Who sought out and found beauty in things that no one else did. And right now, I was seeing that beauty in myself. Reflected back at me, but this time, not seeing its faults. I swept my eyes over my body and then turned slowly, looking at every last part of me. This was my body. It was unique, and if bodies like mine didn’t exist, everyone would look the same. Every artwork in the world would look identical; nothing would stand out anymore. Nothing would be different. And the world would be as boring as hell.

Things I Like about Myself by Lori Palmer

I’m a good sister.

I’m a real artist (despite what Blackwell says!).

I, Lori Palmer, am officially good with parents!

I have a voice. There is power in my art.

I am brave!

I am a great kisser!

I’m a good friend (even if I don’t really want to be just a friend).

My voice can start a movement!

My body is a work of art!

46

I rang the doorbell frantically until Thembi opened the door.

“I’m ready! I can do this!” I pushed past her and rushed straight up to her room, where I took up a position in the middle of the floor. I filled the entire space with my newfound confidence, until it grew so big that it pressed into the walls around me.

I was careful not to let go of it, though—I knew it might waver. This feeling might be short-lived and soon slip through my fingers like grains of sand. But while I had a firm grasp on it, I was going to use it. Wield it like the powerful weapon it was.