I slipped a pair of comfy, old sneakers on and gave myself an extra spray of deo; it was hot today, and the last thing I needed was to be the smelly girl too.

I inspected myself. I looked fine. Sort of. I looked like me, like I always did. But today I wasn’t so sure how well Me was going to go down at my new school.

Bay Water High, where surfing and bodyboarding were extracurricular activities because the school backed onto the beach. I’d gone to the school’s Facebook page a few days ago and scoured their photos, hoping to find someone, anyone, who looked vaguely like me. But nothing.

Because it seemed that being gorgeous and thigh-gap thin were prerequisites for being a student at BWH. I was not gorgeous. My hair was red and frizzy. My skin erred on the pasty, pale side, with a smattering of cellulite for added texture, and the only gap I had was the one between my front teeth.

She’s just big boned, I’d once overheard my mom say to another mother. It’s probably puppy fat, she’ll grow out of it, the other mother had offered up with a look that resembled pity, as if thinking, Thank heavens she’s not mine. But I was seventeen now, turning eighteen in two months, and I wasn’t growing out of it. If anything, I was growing into it more than ever. My phone gave a sudden beep and I looked down at it. A message from my dad lit up the screen and my stomach dropped.

DAD: Good luck on your first day. Thinking of you!

I stared at the message and then left my dad on Read.

“Loooooriiii!” My mother’s shrill voice came at me again, like a sharp-beaked bird dive-bombing you because you’d stumbled upon its nest.

Oh, that’s the other thing you should know about me—my name is Lori Patty Palmer. Of course, when the elementary school bullies got wind of my middle name, which I got courtesy of my great aunt Patty, they had a field day with it.

Move out the way, here comes Lori Fatty Palmer. I could still hear their taunts. My old therapist, Dr. Finkelstein—whose name I always thought conjured up images of impassioned, academic debates in smoky, wood-paneled rooms—said that much of my anxiety stems from the bullying. From the time I’d had food thrown in my face, the time someone wrote “Kill yourself fat bitch” on my locker, and of course, there was the pool . . .

I took a deep breath; just thinking about the pool was making my insides quiver. I’d been so relieved when all of that was over and I’d gone to art school, but now, today, I felt like that person all over again.

Lori Fatty Palmer.