I think Mom’s changing when she rips

the latest weight-loss articles off the fridge,

but then I see she’s only making room

for bariatric surgery success stories.

Ugh.

I guess it doesn’t matter

that her sister, my aunt Zoey,

almost died from bariatric surgery.

Or that I’m only eleven, almost twelve.

According to most doctors,

you need to be at least fourteen

to have weight-loss surgery.

But if Mom wants me to have it,

she’ll find a way.

I realize that today,

with the articles she found

about a twelve-year-old who had it,

and—oh my gosh—

even a five-year-old.

And

a

two-year-old!

Five years old.

Two.

Their bodies cut open and

permanently, surgically altered.

Just because they’re fat.

My aunt,

despite the risks,

decided to have the surgery.

Just about everything

that could go wrong did.

I still remember sitting by her bed,

holding her cold hands,

and listening to a machine breathe for her.

She survived, after six weeks in the ICU.

How could Mom

risk putting me through

all of that?

SWARMED

Sharks usually attack when

a whale is alone or distressed.

The sharks at school

swarm around me

the day I break a desk in math class.

First the desk legs steadily, slowly spread out,

like the legs on a cartoon horse

after a fat cowboy saddles up for a ride.

I struggle to escape,

but I’m stuck.

With a final creak of the bending metal

and crack of the wood,

the desk and I crumble to the floor.

I am a sea turtle on its back,

trying to get out of the rubble,

trying to get up,

trying to will the earth to open up

and swallow me whole.

The sharks circle.

Sink their teeth in.

Take turns biting

with laughter and words.

“Splash broke a chair!”

“Duuuuuuude! That was metal!”

“Collapsed like a soda can.”

“Poor desk didn’t stand a chance.”

Metal and wood cut into and jab

my stomach, sides, back, and legs.

It hurts to breathe.

“Help me.

Somebody.

Please.”

They just keep laughing.

SCREWED

It’s like Moses with the Red Sea as

Mr. Harrington parts the crowd.

“What is going on in here?!”

My math teacher sees me,

frees me,

and stretches his hands toward mine.

“And none of you were kind enough to help!”

“As if one person could help her up,”

says someone.

“As if one fire department could,”

says another.

Mr. Harrington makes big circles

over his head,

like a cowboy winding up a lasso.

“Detention for all of you.”

Everyone groans.

He examines the desk,

says a bad word under his breath.

“Who took the bolts off the screws?

More detention for all y’all if

the person who did it doesn’t start talkin’.”

Kortnee raises her hand.

“Guilty.”

Math question:

What’s the probability of Marissa

not being the one to tell Kortnee to do it?

A ROUND OF APPLAUSE

My jaws clench so tight