“You’ll like her.”

He winks and

draws up one side of his mouth and

makes a double click.

I call it his cowboy charmer.

“Trust me.”

“Not anymore I don’t.”

Venom drips from my voice as

I give him an exaggerated smile

that quickly morphs into a frown—

the smown, we call it.

I’m famous for them.

POWER STRUGGLE

I decide to go

toe to toe

with Dr. Woodn’t-You-Like-to-Know.

When she comes into the office,

she finds me in her chair,

throwing her off her game,

taking away a smidge of her power.

She purses her lips.

“Hmm.”

Then she sits on the couch.

“Ellie, tell me why you’re here.”

My therapist is skin and bones.

Couldn’t they at least

have found a fat one

who might

understand me?

I fold my arms across my chest,

the universal sign for conversation closed.

I may have no choice about being here,

but I can choose if and when I talk.

“You do realize seeing a therapist

is about having someone to talk to,

to sort out what’s going on in your life

and how you feel about it,

to figure out what you can do

to change or accept it.

It’s nothing to be ashamed or afraid of.”

Dr. Woodn’t-You-Like-to-Know

raises her eyebrows,

forming wavy forehead wrinkles.

She’s paid to put up with me,

so I show a little sass.

“I know.

My dad’s a psychiatrist, remember?”

Eyes roll.

Mine.

Then hers.

“Not in the mood to talk today, huh?

That’s fine.”

She scribbles on a pad

until time’s up.

With each word she writes,

she takes back her power.

I wish I could smart off

to my parents like I did to

Dr. Woodn’t-You-Like-to-Know,

tell them what I really think,

especially Mom,

but I guess I’m too scared

of how she’ll react.

She makes life hard enough now,

while I’m keeping my thoughts to myself.

Why aren’t kids allowed

to tell grown-ups when they’re wrong?

They don’t know

everything.

Sometimes it’s as if

they don’t know

anything.

CHOICES—FINALLY

“While you were with Dr. Wood,

I texted Aunt Zoey, and she told me

about a new boutique

for plus-size kids and teens.”

“Whatever.”

At my size,

shopping for clothes isn’t fun.

I just want

what everyone else my age wears,

to blend in,

since I already stand out.

But it’s hardly ever in my size.

At least shopping with Dad

is way better than with Mom.

She always tells me to try on clothes

that won’t even fit over my head

and then kvetches

that I need to stick to my diet.

Mom always says,

“You’d be so pretty”

—and all the big girls in the world

can finish this sentence in unison—

“if you lost weight.”

After the boutique owner, Diana,

introduces herself and

welcomes us,

Dad says,