“Waylon?” Clem asks through my door. “Mom called. She’s helping Dad out at the office. She said we’re on our own for dinner.”

“Fine,” I say, facedown in my sheets.

The door creaks open. “Waylon?”

“What?” I moan.

My mattress sinks a little as she plops down next to me. “Is it that boy? If he hurt you even more, I’ll make his life hell.”

I turn my face to the side, a tear streaming down my cheek. “Don’t hurt him. He’s not worth the energy. I don’t even think he’s why I’m upset.”

“Who dares to make my perfect specimen of a brother cry? I’ll break their face.”

“Kyle.”

Her jaw drops. “You and Kyle . . . ?”

I roll over. “Oh God, no. I . . . I’m always shitty to him and so he said something about how he notices. And then he said he was only trying to get me to go out for amateur night this Friday night, but then I ended up totally unloading on him about how awful he’s been since he lost weight.”

She leans over to push a curl off my forehead.

“I don’t care that he lost weight. That’s not the problem. He should be able to do whatever he wants with his body, but it’s the way he talks about it.”

“Flaunts it is more like it,” she says.

I sigh. “Yeah, sort of. I’ve never even said anything about it to him after all this time, because he would assume I’m jealous. And that’s not what this is about. This is about him making it perfectly clear that people in bodies like mine are failures.”

Clem nods sympathetically. This—fatness—has always been the one frontier where we have trouble connecting, but she’s always been here to listen and always stands up for my body—even when I’m the one bashing it.

“I know being fat wasn’t easy for him. It’s not easy for anyone, but the difference is that I think I’d enjoy my life a hell of a lot more if I didn’t spend every ounce of energy trying to starve myself. Even now, you’ve seen the way he is with food and how intense he is about working out. He’s terrified of ever looking like me again. There’s nothing wrong about thinking about what you eat or working out. I love dancing!”

“I know you do,” says Clem. “And singing. And lip-synching. Which is exactly why you should take a chance and sign up for amateur night.”

“I don’t have time for that, and even if I did . . . there’s no way.”

She pushes at my shoulder. “Stop it! You were amazing at that party. Now’s the time!”