it’s now one of our favorite things

to do together—

but it’s storming.

So we end up listening to music

in my room and

singing along using licorice

as microphones.

We’ve grown so close,

we also tell each other

almost everything.

I even told her about

my mom’s obsession with inventorying food,

so now Catalina brings snacks

along with her guitar.

“I keep my backpack stocked,” she says,

licking the spicy coating from her chips

off her fingers.

“Ugh.

Still red.”

She heads to the bathroom

to wash her hands.

While she’s gone,

I quickly stuff all the trash

in her backpack.

I know she’ll

understand why

I did it.

NO MIRRORS

When someone comes to your house,

it’s easy to forget that

what’s normal to you

can seem so strange to others.

Catalina looks around my room.

“I just noticed something.

There’s not a mirror anywhere.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m willing to try.”

She sits crisscross applesauce

and strums her guitar softly,

like a soothing lullaby.

Maybe that’s why I start talking.

First I bite into a marzipan,

and the crumbly, nutty candy

melts in my mouth like powdered sugar,

taking away some of the bitterness

I feel remembering the day

I took down the bathroom mirror.

“I haven’t had a mirror since the day

my mom made me look into one

while she pointed out everything

wrong with my body.”

I don’t tell Catalina

what she actually said:

“Cellulite on your thighs.

Stretch marks on your arms.

Rolls of fat on your stomach.

Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

Mirrors are heavier than they look.

When I tried to pry mine off the wall,

I dropped it.

Watched it shatter into a bazillion pieces.

I saw bits and pieces of me

in the shards.

And it hit me.

That’s how people see me,

as bits and pieces of fat.

Not as a person.

MADDENING CYCLE

“Has your mom always been so terrible?”

Catalina asks.

I let out a sigh.

“She’s obsessed with diets,

trying to find the magical one

that’ll make me skinny.

She’s got me on one now

—or had me on one.”

I ball up the candy bar wrapper,

throw it at her, and grin.

“Sometimes I wonder why I even try.

I mean, I’m not even sure being fat

really bothers me.

How people treat me

because I’m fat bothers me.”

“And her diets don’t help?”

“Sometimes.

For a while.

But not really.

It’s like I’ve gotten trapped in

this maddening cycle.

You’re a little overweight as a kid.

People hurt your feelings about it.

You eat to bury the shame.

People hurt you more.

You eat more.

Infinite loop.”

“Have you gotten teased

since you were little?”

“The word is bullied.

And yes.

People never leave me alone.

Not at school.

Not anywhere.

Not even at home.