Gigi doesn’t hide her hunger.

She feels pure joy

when eating.

She devours every bite

and licks the bowl.

Her tummy full,

she circles three times before

lying down and

resting her chin on my feet

under the breakfast table.

Curled up and cozy,

she soon starts snoring.

She’s happy with her round body.

Content.

Comfortable.

And no one bullies her because of it.

Lucky dog.

FAMILY FOR BREAKFAST

We have a family tradition

of eating

breakfast and dinner all together

on the first day of school.

No exceptions.

“Grub’s ready.”

Dad slides omelets and toast onto plates.

“But scrambled egg whites or oatmeal

was what we’d agreed.”

Mom talks like a ventriloquist,

through her teeth with her lips fake smiling.

I surrender my food to Liam,

who’ll be a junior in high school this year,

and make a beeline for the fridge

for some fat-free yogurt

that’s yet to make me fat-free.

A new article dangles from a refrigerator magnet:

“Dairy Products Might Aid Weight Loss.”

It slightly covers the other articles,

including my fave:

“Tips to Be a Real Loser.”

Mom just loves hanging these articles

on the fridge for me.

She’s a writer and magazine editor,

but spins her words for a different reason than I.

I plan to become a storyteller,

and a poet,

to help people feel what it’s like

to live in

someone else’s skin.

Mom’s a journalist,

determined to expose

all that’s wrong in the world

and spotlight everyone’s flaws,

not caring if she

gets under people’s skin.

DOES SHE REMEMBER?

Dad looks at Anaïs and Liam.

Both are wearing new clothes.

I tug on the hem of my

old button-down shirt,

trying to make it longer.

“No new clothes for Ellie?” Dad asks Mom.

“She gained more weight this summer.

I’m afraid if we keep buying her bigger clothes,

she’ll just let herself get bigger.”

If Mom thinks I look horrible now,

wait until I can’t fit in anything—and

have to go naked.

Liam inhales his food

and belches, “I’m outta here.”

Seconds later, the back door slams,

and tires squeal as he shows off

his red Mustang.

He thinks he’s a stallion since he’s sixteen.

“Enjoy sixth grade, Splash,”

Anaïs calls over her shoulder as she leaves

to start her senior year of high school.

That’s like saying to a shark bite victim,

“Enjoy the free liposuction.”

I wonder if my sister even remembers

it’s her fault

everyone calls me Splash,

how that one word

on one day

changed my world.

LIFE ON A TEETER-TOTTER

Dealing with my parents is like

riding a teeter-totter nonstop.

Dad promises me a shopping spree.

Up I go.

“Good luck finding anything she can wear.”

Down I go.

“We’ll do just fine without you.”

Up I go.

Mom grabs her briefcase, purse, and keys.