Cover

Dedication

To every kid who’s ever been told, “You’d be so pretty or handsome, if . . .” You ARE beautiful. Now. Just as you are. You deserve to be seen, to be heard, to take up room, to be noticed. So when the world tries to make you feel small, starfish!

FOR JUST A WHILE

I step down into the pool.

The water is bathwater warm

but feels cool

compared to the blisteringly hot air.

Kick. Gliiiiiiide.

Stroke. Gliiiiiiide.

Side to side

and back again.

Dive under the surface.

Soar to the top.

Arch my back.

Flip. Flop.

As soon as I slip into the pool,

I am weightless.

Limitless.

For just a while.

NAME-CALLING

Eliana Elizabeth Montgomery-Hofstein.

That’s my name.

My bestie, Viv,

and my parents call me

Ellie or El.

But most people call me Splash

or some synonym for whale.

Cannonball into a pool,

drenching everyone,

and wear a whale swimsuit

to your Under the Sea birthday party

when you’re a chubby kid

who grows up to be a fat tween

and no one will ever let you live it down.

Ever.

SPLASH IS BORN

Now, whenever I swim,

I use the steps to ease into the water,

careful not to make waves,

because the memory

of my pool party plays

in my head like a video on a loop.

It was my fifth birthday.

I wanted to be the first one in, so

I ran to the edge and

leapt into the air and

tucked my knees into my chest.

Water sprayed up

as I sank down.

I bobbed to the surface,

expecting cheers for

the splashiest cannonball ever.

That didn’t happen.

“Splash spawned a tsunami!”

my sister, Anaïs, shouted.

“She almost emptied the pool,”

my brother, Liam, chimed in.

I dove under,

drowning my tears.

I wish I could tell everyone

how they made me feel that day—

humiliated,

angry,

deeply sad.

But every time I try to stand up for myself,

the words get stuck in my throat

like a giant glob of peanut butter.

Besides, if they even listened,

they’d just snap back,

“If you don’t like being teased,

lose weight.”

FAT GIRL RULES

Some girls my age fill

diaries with dreams and

private thoughts.

Mine has a list of

Fat Girl Rules.

You find out

what these unspoken rules are

when you break them—

and suffer

the consequences.

Fat Girl Rules

I learned

at five:

No cannonballs.

No splashing.

No making waves.

You don’t deserve

to be seen or heard,

to take up room,

to be noticed.

Make yourself small.

WHAT, WHY, WHO, HOW, WHEN

The first Fat Girl Rule

you learn hurts the most,

a startling, scorpion-stinging soul slap.

Something’s changed, but you don’t know

what.

You replay the moment in your mind from

every possible angle, trying to understand

why.

Why the rules exist and

who.

Who came up with them and

how.

How does anyone have the right to tell you

how to live just because of your weight?

Mostly, you remember the smack of

the change.

One minute you were like

everybody else, playing around, enjoying life,

and then,

with the flip of an unseen cosmic switch,

you’re the fat girl,

stumbling,

trying to regain your balance.

Acting as if you know what you’re doing, like

when

you used to play dress-up

and tried to walk

in high-heeled shoes.

THE GIFT

Every time I see a pudgy preschooler,

I want to hand her my list,

like the answer sheet for a test,

to spare her the pain of learning

the rules firsthand.

But instead,

I give each girl the gift

of more days,

weeks,

and months

of a normal life.

Whatever that is.

BELLIES DANCING

Viv’s mom caught her dad with

another woman and said Texas

wasn’t big enough for the three of them.

So now my best friend has to move

to Indiana.

In my backyard, we livestream

the Latin Music Festival

on an outdoor screen

as part of her going-away party.

Viv starts belly dancing

like she learned in a class at

the Dallas Public Library,

where her mom was a librarian.

I follow her lead and

our arms morph into snakes

as our hips figure-eight.

My dog, Gigi, a pug,

runs circles around us as

we sing at the top of our lungs

along with the bands and

dance with complete abandon,

like you do when you’re alone in your room

trying out some new moves

or making up some of your own.

Except it turns out

we’re not

alone.

THE NEW NEIGHBOR

Mid-twirl, I open my eyes to see

a girl’s head pop up over the fence,

then disappear and reappear.

This trampoline girl

saw me shake parts of me

I didn’t even know I had.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

I stop dancing so fast

I about give myself whiplash.

I see her head again.

“IheardDíasDivertidos.”

She says it so quickly it’s like one word.

She disappears and reappears.

“Couldn’thelpmyself.”

In a flash,

she climbs over the fence

and lands in front of me.

“I’m Catalina Rodriguez.”

A POET AND A MUSICIAN

Catalina points to the concert on the screen.

“Wow! So you like Días Divertidos, too?

I have all their songs on my playlist.”

“Me too,” I say.

“Who else do you listen to?”

“Don’t get Ellie started.”

Viv rolls her eyes.

If eye-rolling were an Olympic sport,

she’d be a gold medalist.

“I’m a poet, so

I love music because

lyrics are sung poems,” I say.

“Rap and country are my faves.”

“I’m a guitarist,” Catalina says.

“I like all music but love Latin.”

She chooses her words carefully, like me.

But she’s not like me.

Catalina’s skinny

like a pancake.

I’m more like a three-tiered cake.

My fatdar should be sounding the alarm.

Why isn’t it?

THE THING ABOUT FATDAR

Fatdar is a lot like

Spider-Man’s Spidey sense,

a sixth sense.

Somehow we just know when

someone’s about to say

something hurtful or

do something mean.

Even in a crowd,

I can spot a fatphobe,

someone who’s grossed out

by overweight people.

Fatphobes give off this vibe.

Part discomfort.

Part shock.

Part fear.

Part anger.

And all hatred.

SHADOWS

“‘Baila conmigo’!”

Catalina shouts as the next song starts

and she dances with us.

“Teach me that one move, Ellie,” she says.

“Which one?”

“The one where you were

kinda kicking your leg

while you spun.”

When I dance

knowing Catalina’s watching,

I feel every pound of my legs,

see my fat shake,

and notice how round

my shadow on the grass is

next to her angles,

so I stop.

Fat Girl Rule:

Move slowly so

your fat doesn’t jiggle,

drawing attention to your body.

But that uncomfortable-in-my-own-skin feeling

fades as the music blares

and Catalina squeal-screams,

going all bananas with us,

during the tribute to Selena.

If dance partners were food,

Catalina and I would be

peanut butter and jelly.

Cookies and milk.

Chips and salsa.

We’re different, but

make a perfect combo,

heads, hips, and hands

moving in sync.

Right on cue as the sun sets,

the katydids start their singing,

fast and furious since

their tempo’s based on heat

or maybe Selena’s bidi-bidi-bom-bom beat.

“Catalina, dale las buenas noches

y ven a casa,” a woman’s voice calls out.

“Gotta go,” Catalina tells us.

“Thanks for letting me crash your party.”

She climbs back over the fence,

then trampolines.

“Can’twaittocomeoveragain.”

LIKE PICASSO

Some people have mood rings.

Viv has mood hair.

You can always tell how she’s feeling

based on her hair color.

Since she has to move,

she’s like Picasso

—in a blue period.

Her bottom lip juts out

as she pouts,

and when she huffs,

her stick-straight blond bangs

with blueberry tips

stand straight up for a second.

“What’s wrong?”

I ask when we float in the pool,

cooling off after the concert.

“Today was our last day together

until who knows when

and not only did I have to share you,

but I also had to watch while

you made a new friend.”

New friend?

Catalina?

Is she?

SAYING GOODBYE

The stars at night

might be big and bright

deep in the heart of Texas,

but not where we live,

thanks to light pollution.

“Sirius.”

I point to the brightest star, the only visible one.

“Leave it to you to know the dog star.”

“Notice there are no cat stars.”

“Maybe not in the Milky Way,” Viv says,

“but I’m sure there’s a galaxy

—more evolved than ours—

where cats rule.

They’ll invade our planet

and make all pugs prisoners.

Admit you’ll miss Oreo.”

She splashes me with each syllable.

“Only if you admit you’ll miss Gigi.”

I splash back.

When Viv’s mom picks her up,

we promise to text, video-chat—

whatever it takes to stay connected.

Viv suggests we make a blood oath.

I remind her she faints when she sees one drop.

We settle for a tame, lame pinky swear.

Viv starts to open the car door,

but then throws her arms around me.

We cry our goodbyes.

SUPER SLEUTH

Every kid needs one place

they can escape to when

life gets to be too much.

The pool is my place.

Today I’ve been in the water so long,

my fingers look like raisins,

but I plan to swim and float for hours more,

mourning my first day without Viv

and the last day of summer vacation.

“Ilovetoswim.

CanIjoinyou?”

Catalina’s back on the trampoline.

I barely know her,

so can I trust her

with the pool?

I haven’t swum

with anyone

but Viv since

the Under the Sea party.

I still don’t know why

Catalina wants to hang around me.

Could she be friends with

Marissa and Kortnee and

helping them set me up for a prank?

I climb out of the pool and

wrap my towel around my

shoulders like a superhero cape.

Time to activate my sleuth powers.

“I wish I could keep swimming,

but I have to get my stuff ready

for school tomorrow.”

I don’t lie.

Catalina climbs over the fence.

“I’ve been putting it off, too.

I dread being the new girl.”

Like Wonder Woman with her lasso,

I seek truth.

I ask Catalina,

“You going to go to Kiser Academy?”

“Is that where you go, Ellie?”

I nod.

“I wish. Then we’d be together.

But I’m going to Bishop Joseph Catholic School.”

Wonder Woman wouldn’t give up

until she had all the answers.

Neither can I.

“Wanna get our stuff ready together?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

A FRESH START

The best part of

going back to school

is the back-to-school supplies.

We dump everything on the floor.

Catalina zooms in on one of my prized finds:

flamingo pens with feathers.

“Watch what happens when you write,” I say.

The flamingo dances

as I scribble on a piece of paper.

She trades me a unicorn pen for one.

It lights up when she taps it.

“Great for writing in bed.

The best ideas for songs come at night.”

“Same with poems!

Viv and I used to do this,

swap and share supplies.”

“Me and my friends, too,

but they’re all back in Houston.”

So she’s not from here.

She doesn’t know Marissa and Kortnee.

She doesn’t know I’m Splash.

Being friends with her will be like

opening a brand-new notebook,

a clean, fresh start.

LUCKY DOG

Every morning,

my pug stands on her hind legs,

snatching kibble out of the scoop

before I even have a chance

to dump the food into her bowl.

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.

“Just don’t forget El’s first appointment

with the therapist.”

Down I go.

Fast.

Hard.

Like when the other person

jumps off the teeter-totter and

throws everything off-balance.

“Huh? Wait. What?”

Mom’s shoulders droop as

one hand freezes on the doorknob.

“You said you’d tell her.”

She shoots eye daggers at Dad.

He shoos her away like an annoying fly.

“Go on. I’ve got this.”

The whale has to go to a shrink?

It’s a punch line for a bad fat joke.

JUDASED

Dad rips the weight-loss articles off the fridge

and tosses them into the trash.

“I’m sorry you found out this way.”

He says he never got around

to talking to me about the therapist

because he’d been swamped with work—

but then he goes on and on about

the importance of talking.

Do parents ever hear themselves?

“You’re a psychiatrist, Dad.

I talk to you all the time.”

Dad straddles the chair next to me.

“It’s not the same thing.

Your mom and I agree

Dr. Wood could help you.”

Translation?

Mom nagged, and Dad caved.

“Judasssssss!”

I hiss the s like

a western diamondback rattlesnake.

Dad’s always had my back.

Not the knife in it.

THE LESSER OF TWO DEVILS

I don’t ride the bus.

Dad takes me.

When we turn the final corner

and I can see the school,

my stomach somersaults;

it’s the only part of me

that can do gymnastics.

I text Viv.

I really need her,

especially after that

freaking family breakfast.

Don’t know if I can do this alone, Viv.

I’m freaking out.

Just chill.

I’m tryin’.

It’s just—ugh.

I add a string of emojis.

Frowny face.

Worried face.

Sad face.

I know.

I know.

She adds a hug emoji.

But if I can do it, so can you.

After all, I’ve gotta go to

a whole new school.

Remember, the devil you do know

is better than the devil you don’t!

Yeah. But they’re both devils.

H-E-DOUBLE-HOCKEY-STICK

Happy Monday, Dallas!

the radio deejay yells over the airwaves

as Dad pulls into the drop-off lane.

Gonna hit one hundred and ten!

Perfect weather to hang out by the pool.

I wish.

“Okay, Ellie. Have a good day at—”

I slam the door,

cutting Dad off.

As he pulls away,

I hear someone singing

“Baby Beluga.”

I don’t have to turn around to know

it’s Marissa.

And so it begins.

Giggles.

Stares.

Rejection.

The devils I do know.

Kortnee holds open the door—until I head in.

It slams, nearly smashing my face.

“Oopsie!”

she yells over her shoulder.

Even without the scorching Texas sun,

I am officially in

h-e-double-hockey-stick.

PRETEND-IOUS PRETENTIOUS

While conjugating verbs in French class,

I imagine Viv

at her new school and

figure I stink

because I don’t want to think

of her making new friends.

To punish myself,

I conjugate the present tense of puer

from I stink (Je pue) to

They stink (Ils/elles puent).

The lunch bell rings.

Thanks to Chef Brigitte at Kiser Café,

gourmet food is on the menu every day,

as in artichoke pizza on wheat flatbread or

veggie burger with Moroccan cilantro spread.

Chef? Oh, yes. A chef.

A cafeteria worker simply won’t do,

nor will the word cafeteria.

Mais non!

Our private school’s too classy,

uses français

to make everything from aah to zed sound good.

But let’s call it what it is.

School lunch is for bullies

to dine on their prey.

Bon appétit.

HUNGRY GAMES

I stare down the hallway,

Katnissing in the Hungry Games,

wanting nothing more than to get out alive.

I spot muttations—

part piranha with their gnashing teeth,

part wolverine with their claws,

and part hyena with their howling laughter

—posing as students.

I’m hungry for escape.

They’re hungry for laughs.

And there’s no way out but through the arena.

“Get back! Make room! Thar she blows!”

A guy sucks in his stomach

and slams back against the hallway wall

as if my blubber takes up all the room.

Viv and I call him

Enemy Number 3,

ranking behind

Enemy Number 1, Marissa,

and Enemy Number 2, Kortnee.

The sea of students parts

as everyone crashes left or right

to hug the hallways.

It happens every day.

Every day since first grade.

Ils puent.

LIFESAVING LIBRARIANS

The library is my safe harbor since

I dare not go into the cafeteria alone,

a whale surrounded by starving sharks.

It was hard enough when

Viv and I faced them together.

“How’d your summer reading go, El?”

Mrs. Pochon asks.

I tell the librarian about my new favorite

novels in free verse.

“Imagine that, eh?”

Her Canadian accent is strong.

“Poetry at the top of your list.”

She smiles as she scans a book,

its spine snapping and plastic jacket crackling.

I breathe in the smell,

hungry to read the words.

“You’ll like this one,” she says.

“I’ve been looking forward to seeing you

so you could check it out.”

She’s the first person to smile at me today.

The first to make me feel wanted.

Understood.

I blink back tears.

It’s unknown how many students’ lives

librarians have saved

by welcoming loners at lunch.

SMOWNING

Wind chimes dangling from the door

bang and clang,

announcing my arrival at

the dollhouse-sized office with

its living room turned waiting room and

sunroom turned therapy room, which

is all so fitting for

my life turned nightmare.

Dishes rattle in a sink somewhere and

a voice calls out,

“Make yourself comfortable

in my office, Ellie.

Join you in a minute.”

“That’s Dr. Wood,” Dad says,

taking off his cowboy hat

and sitting down in the waiting room.

You can take the man out of the ranch,

but you can’t take the ranch out of the man.

“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,

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

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