“I hear you.

It’s hard to fit in when

you’re the fat kid, too.”

“Well, at least we have each other.

That’s something.”

We don’t say a word,

yet we understand each other.

A friend hears what you say with silence.

Catalina strums her guitar,

playing softly

while I write

in my journal.

PULLING SNEAKIES

Everyone in my family plays the piano

—except me.

Years ago, I asked Mom for lessons

as a Christmas gift.

I remember joining her on the piano bench,

sliding my fingers over the slick, shiny keys.

“You really want to learn?” Mom asked.

“More than anything,” I told her.

“Fine,” she told me, and stood up and shut the lid.

“When you lose weight.”

So now I never let Mom know what I want

because she’ll keep it from me

as punishment for being fat

disguised as motivation to lose weight.

I write in my journal.

Fat Girl Rule my mom taught me:

If you’re fat,

there are things

you can’t have.

But Mom doesn’t know

I can play a few songs

on the piano.

Nana Montgomery taught me.

“Let’s pull a sneaky,”

Nana would say

when I stayed with her.

Pulling a sneaky meant

doing something Mom didn’t allow.

I remember

Nana’s wrinkled hands

positioning mine to play

“All You Need Is Love”

by the Beatles,

the rhythm slow

yet bouncy and fun,

and full of simple happiness

just like the joy

we felt while singing and playing

together.

And I remember her words

after every lesson.

“No matter what others say or do,

embrace what makes you, you.”

I finish my writing and look up at Catalina,

who strums the last notes

of her song.

“How ’bout something cold to drink?”

I ask her.

“I could use a break from the heat,

that’s for sure,” she says.

As we dance our way to the kitchen,

Nana’s words repeat in my head

like another song.

No matter what others say or do,

embrace what makes you, you.

TAKING INVENTORY

While Gigi slurps

at her water bowl,

I pour iced tea

for Catalina and me.

My stomach growls.

I’m tempted to eat

string cheese or

celery or

something like that.

But even eating a healthy snack

is a crime

for a fat girl.

I don’t offer Catalina anything,

which feels rude,

but Mom will get mad,

thinking I ate it.

Like a police detective

hot on the trail of a hardened criminal,

Mom goes through the trash,

looking for evidence

that I’ve cheated on my latest diet.

Bags.

Wrappers.

Boxes.

And she inventories the food.

I found out the hard way years ago

when she barged into my bedroom

and freaked out on me.

“You’re not supposed to be snacking.

Eating a few crackers would be

bad enough, but half a package?

No one needs that many saltines!”

I was still chewing,

and she grabbed the trash basket.