for obese kids.

“A growing option—

that supposed to be punny?”

I cross my arms over my chest

to hide how much my hands

are shaking.

He smiles an awkward smile.

“Here’s some information for you.”

He slides a folder to

the edge of the desk,

inches from me,

right next to the plastic model of

a stomach and intestines.

This can’t be happening,

but it is.

“So do you struggle to lose weight

and to keep it off?”

The doctor leans back

and clasps his hands behind his head.

His buttoned shirt gapes open,

stretched tight over his big stomach.

“Do you?”

I stare at his belly

like he’s been staring at mine.

“Let’s focus on you.”

He explains the different surgeries,

benefits, risks, and side effects.

“Just think about it for now.

You could have a whole new life.”

Or no life at all.

The doctor nudges the folder closer to me,

as if it’s food I’ll devour.

“Is that all?” I ask.

“Well, there are pre-op tests.”

“So I do those tests and

then you slice and dice me?

Abracadabra,

I have a perfect life?

No more problems ever?

And Mom will finally love me?”

There, I said it.

I scoot to the edge of my seat

and wait for his answer.

Then Mom speaks.

“Ellie, we’re just trying to fix you.”

She places her hand on my shoulder.

And that’s the final straw.

BLADE AGAINST BLUBBER

I knock the plastic stomach and intestines

off his desk.

My mind zeroes in on

the hated stomach,

the only part of me that matters to people.

No one cares about

my mind and its thoughts or

my heart and its feelings.

“Let’s do this!”

I slam my hands on his desk.

“Where do I sign?

On second thought, why wait?”

I grab a pair of scissors

out of the doctor’s desk caddy,

knocking everything off his desk.

Then I lift my shirt,

expose a roll of blubber,

and hold the blade against it.

“Eliana Elizabeth!”

Mom jumps up and

jerks the scissors out of my hand

as the doctor rolls his chair away from us.

“I think you’d better leave,

or I’ll have to call security.”

“Really, Doc?

Don’t you want to

make—me—skinnnnnnny?!”

Mom tugs on my arm

to get me up,

forgetting how much I weigh.

I stand up,

smooth my clothes and hair.

“Nice meeting you.”

I smown.

DUI OF ANGER

The drive home is pleasant.

Pleasant like stepping on

a Texas fire ant mound.

First comes a lot of fast biting and stinging.

“You embarrassed me to death!”

The tires squeal as Mom floors it

out of the parking garage.

“Yes. It’s all about you,”

I say as she merges onto the freeway

and weaves in and out of traffic.

She’s a maniac,

driving under the influence of anger.

“You completely overreacted.”

She cuts off other drivers