Free The Fat Boy Chronicles by Diane Lang

show off to prove it. That’s what’s neat about literature—it deals with real–life issues, and we’re allowed to discuss them because it’s “in the curriculum.” Allen’s mom wanted to come and sit at our table with us, but Allen told her, “NO WAY!” I mean, how embarrassing would that be? Doesn’t she remember what it was like being in high school? It couldn’t have been that long ago. Just because we’re freshmen doesn’t mean we should be treated like elementary kids. Even my parents thought that was too much.
    At the end of the meeting, Mr. Gardner said he would stand around in our lunch period for a while, to make sure things didn’t get out of hand. He must have seen my reaction, because he said he wouldn’t make it obvious why he was in there. I thought that was pretty cool of him, even though I don’t think Allen and I need protecting. But at least our parents feel better about the whole thing. And I know that for the next month I’ll be answering the question, “How was lunch today, Jimmy?”
    Thursday, 11–9
    Please Don’t Read This Page
    It’s been two days since the meeting and nothing much has changed in the lunchroom. Mr. Gardner walked in for a minute, but he didn’t stay like he said he would. I didn’t even notice any new teachers on duty—the same two were still there, standing near the lady that sells cookies. The only thing that helped was that Spencer came by and talked to Allen and me for a couple of minutes, then went over and sat with some other soccer players. But I think Nate got the point.
    My parents asked me if Mr. Gardner came around like he said he would, and I just said yes, because I didn’t want to get them all upset and then call Allen’s parents. With kids and their problems, things usually work out—it’s just a matter of time. Most parents are too impatient to understand that.
    People act like it’s my fault that I’m fat, and maybe it is, but I don’t eat any more than most teenagers. I just have a slower metabolism than a lot of kids my age, which means I have to work at it more. But no one told me this when I started putting on the weight. I mean, I didn’t get like this on purpose. I was only a kid when this weight thing all started—I didn’t know my eating habits made me this way until it was too late.
    I don’t get Mr. Gardner. Like, why didn’t he show up in the lunchroom and hang around like he said he would? It’s like he really didn’t think it was that big of a deal. Like jocks picking on fat kids is normal. I bet he’d really freak if I started calling kids “dummies” because they don’t get good grades like I do. I’d probably get ISS if I did that.
    I mean, I have an uncle who died because he smoked when he was in the army and got cancer. What if when my parents and I went to visit him in the hospital, we didn’t tell him we loved him. What if we yelled at him for smoking? It was his fault after all? Or, what if I laughed at the kids who crashed in that wreck last month? They had been drinking, so, it was their fault that they almost died. No one would dare say anything mean to them, because they almost experienced a tragedy. But no one understands how much of a tragedy it is for a kid to be overweight, especially a kid everyone makes fun of.
    Aren’t my feelings important? Sometimes I sit in class and wonder if anyone would notice if I were gone. I guess Allen would, and Spencer. Maybe Nate, in a bad way. That probably isn’t what a kid my age should be thinking about, but I can’t help it. Thinking that way makes me depressed and then I eat more, which causes me to gain more weight, which causes more depression, and on and on. It really sucks.
    Last week we watched
A Tale of Two Cities
in history class. The first line of the movie was “It was the best of times and it