Free Life in the Fat Lane by Cherie Bennett Page B

was no way I was going to be there, with everyone looking at me, whispering behind their hands, their eyes full of pity.
    It was bad enough that everyone at school had watched me blimp up to 159 pounds. Now I was supposedto greet my parents’ friends, many of whom had not seen me since last year, and stand there while their faces went from shock, to pity, and then to some mask of false gaiety while they tried to cover up what they really felt: disgust.
    And who could blame them? I
was
disgusting.
    I stared at the row of pageant trophies on my dresser, and at the photo of me and Jett from homecoming, which I had stuck into the edge of my mirror. I felt tears coming to my eyes again. I was getting used to them.
    “Honey?” Mom asked. “Maybe I should wear silver, and you can wear black. Black is very slimming.”
    I wanted to kill her. But of course she hadn’t done anything. It wasn’t her fault if I was an out-of-control disgusting fat pig.
    “Okay, fine, I’ll wear black,” I told her.
    She sat down next to me. “I want you to know I’m with you a thousand percent, honey,” she said quietly. “It’s the new year, and a new start, right?”
    I nodded dully.
    “First, we have got to acknowledge that there’s a problem, which we do, right?”
    Not we
, I wanted to scream.
Me. You still wear a size six. You still have a twenty-five-inch waist
.
    “Maybe Dr. Laverly will find something,” I said.
    Mom sighed. “Maybe.”
    I rubbed my temples. “Mom, I’m really not feeling well. I might just stay upstairs tonight—”
    “Lara, you can’t run away from your problems,” my mother said. She snapped her fingers. “I know! Tomorrow we’ll go register you for Jenny Craig. And we’ll simply find a doctor who will put you on diet drugs. That—”
    “Please, Mom,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “I’m not going to Jenny Craig. And I’m not taking drugs, either. Those things are for fat failures with no willpower.”
    Mom’s silence said it all.
    I
was the fat failure.
    She put her arm around me. “Come on, honey. We can lick this together. Where’s the girl who accomplishes anything she puts her mind to, huh?”
    Mom went to my closet, took out my new black dress, a forgiving size twelve, and laid it on the bed.
    “What did Dad say to you?” I asked, my voice tight.
    My father had just returned that morning from a weeklong trip to New York. He had walked into the house, his usual perfect-looking self, and come into the kitchen to see me there, pouring coffee. I had on my long, oversized sleeping T-shirt. I saw the look of disgust in his eyes as he scanned my porky body.
    “Hi,” he’d said. He didn’t rush over to hug me.
    “Hi.”
    “Just having coffee?” he had asked.
    “Yeah.”
    “Well, good. How’s the diet going?”
    I felt like throwing up.
    “I’m working really hard at it, Daddy.”
    “Sweetheart? Is that you?” Mom had flown into the kitchen and wrapped her sinewy arms around his neck. She had on a pink leotard and black bike shorts. She was so thin. “Ooo, I missed you!” she’d squealed.
    He’d given her a perfunctory kiss. “I’m beat. I’m just going to run upstairs and shower.”
    That was the last I’d seen of him all day. I’d stayed in my room. He never came to see me. But I knew thatbehind closed doors my parents had to be talking about their fat failure of a daughter.
    “All he said was that he’s concerned,” Mom said. She hesitated, her nervous fingers plucking at my quilt. “Is this about me, Lara? Something I did?”
    I felt such rage. And I felt so guilty that I felt it.
    “No, Mom. You’re wonderful. Don’t blame yourself.”
    “Something I didn’t do, then? You have so much going for you. I just don’t understand! You have parents who love you; we’ve never deprived you of anything, have we?”
    I didn’t reply. The monster was choking me.
    “I just can’t stand to see you ruining your life like this!” she exclaimed. “You’re