Free Life in the Fat Lane by Cherie Bennett Page A

Which made me want to eat even more, just to numb the pain.
    With every pound I gained, I was filled with an ever growing, impotent rage. Some monster was swelling up inside me, making me get fatter and fatter. I had to force myself to be nice, sweet, good Lara, when actually I felt like this ugly, angry, hideous monster-Lara.
    I didn’t even know who I was anymore.
    At the beginning of February I’d gotten in to see the endocrinologist. Someone had canceled, and I was moved up. Mom came along, though it was clear she didn’t believe there was anything wrong with me.
    Dr. Laverly examined me and asked a million questions while her nurse took gallons of my blood. Yes, she was concerned that I’d gained forty pounds but said that the odds of its having a biological cause were very small. In any case, she promised I would have the test results the following Friday.
    I called Dr. Laverly that Friday, my heart pounding, but her nurse said that someone in her family had died, and she’d had to go out of town, and that it might be the following Saturday before we would hear from her.
    The following Saturday. More than a week more to wait. The days themselves felt fat and heavy—time crawled by. The worst thing was, I didn’t know what I’ddo if Dr. Laverly couldn’t help me. Not only was I getting fatter—I was also losing my mind.
    I opened my eyes and the tasteless, meager dinner still confronted me. I pushed the food—the enemy—away and stood up.
    “I’m not really hungry,” I lied. “I think I’ll just go work out.”
    “That’s the spirit, honey,” my mother encouraged. “Eating when you’re not hungry is a trap.”
    I went into our gym and tried to avoid my reflection in the floor-length mirror. I got on the treadmill and walked quickly, then raised the speed until I was running. I ran until I felt like throwing up.
    I had done that instead of eating dinner for the past three days. In school I felt faint. I couldn’t concentrate. I got a C+ on a history test. But as long as I didn’t eat, I didn’t care.
    I walked over to the scale in the gym and stepped on it. 159. I had gained another pound.
    I stood there, shaking with impotent rage.
    “Honey?”
    It was my mother. She stood in the doorway of the gym, looking impossibly thin.
    “Did you lose?” she asked anxiously.
    I didn’t answer her. I just stepped off the scale.
    “Would you like some raw vegetables for a snack?”
    I couldn’t speak. I felt like putting my fist through the raw vegetables, the wall, my mother.
    That night I lay in bed in the dark and promised myself I would not give in. But the other me, the crazy, out-of-control me, whispered seductively in my ear.
What’s the use? You starve yourself and gain weight anyway. Just go eat. Just go do it
.
    I did it. I snuck downstairs and, standing in front of the refrigerator, stuffed my face with every leftover I could find, all the while keeping my ears open for any sound. If someone came, I would throw the food into the sink and pretend I’d been getting a glass of skim milk.
    No one came.
    I went back to bed, my stomach now distended, groaning.
    I was disgusted with myself. Action. I needed to take action. I rolled off the bed, ran into my bathroom, and knelt in front of the toilet. I put two fingers down my throat and tried my best to make myself throw up. I tried and tried. But I couldn’t do it.
    So I laid my head down on the toilet seat and silently cried.
    “W hich one?” My mother held two dresses up to herself, one in each of her arms.
    One was long, slinky, and silver, with sheer chiffon inserts from the neck to the cleavage. The other was short, strapless, and black.
    It was Valentine’s Day, and my family was throwing its annual Valentine’s Day party. My friends and I would get dressed to the max. It was always a blast, and this year would be no different.
    Except for the fact that I didn’t plan to attend.
    Not that I had mentioned this yet to anybody. But there