Blob (3 page)

“Okay,” I agree.

Before I know it we're at Sanders department store. It's packed with kids and parents. I don't see anyone I know. We walk past the rack with small sizes. Zoe and Sarah could fit into these jeans, but not me. Not now.

We pass a rack with larger sizes. I look around. No one I know is here. I grab a few pairs of blue jeans in different sizes and zoom into a dressing room. Mom follows me and waits outside.

I lock the door. I stare at the jeans. Which one should I try on first?

I try on the largest pair. They're huge on me. Hooray! I'm not
that
big. Now for the real test. I grab the smallest pair. I slip one leg in and try to pull the jeans up. I wiggle and wiggle but they're stuck around my mid leg. I yank them off and slump down on the stool.

I stare at the jeans the next size up. “You'd better fit,” I say. I slide one foot in, then the other. The jeans are halfway up and still moving. I yank them up higher. They're a little snug at the waist, but I can breathe. I can just manage to zip them up. I suck my gut in just a little and I can button them. I sit down. I don't think I'll split my pants but they're tight. I'd better not gain an ounce or they won't fit.

I pop out of the dressing room. “These work,” I tell Mom. “Let's take two.”

“You need shirts too. You can't keep borrowing Dad's.”

We find two white shirts and one red shirt. They hang loose over my pants, but I know I'm not fooling anyone. Under these shirts, I'm still fat. I'm a blob, and everyone can see it.

“You look good in white and red,” Mom says cheerfully.

“I look fat.”

“You're not fat. You've gained some weight. It's no big deal. You'll lose the weight, although I'm not sure the fruit and veg diet is the best way to go.”

“I'm trying this diet for now. Don't worry, I'll be fine. I won't faint or anything.”

Mom says nothing. I know she thinks this diet is dumb.

At home, I hang up my new clothes. Then I eat a giant fruit salad. I used to love fruit, but now I'm beginning to hate it. And in two days I will only be able to eat bananas and milk. I'd rather have my teeth pulled.

That night I dream of roast chicken, grilled steak and stuffed turkey. I dream of hamburgers, pizza and mashed potatoes. Marshmallows dance through my dreams. I swim in a tub of whipped cream. I dive into a hot fudge sundae. Jelly beans cascade down my face. They get tangled in my hair. Zoe tosses them at me. Jelly beans hit my nose and wake me up before my alarm blares. I pop my eyes open and shake the images of flying food out of my head. Then I remember breakfast.

Vegetables! How can I eat vegetables at 8:00
AM
?

I slip into my new jeans and a white shirt and head downstairs. I open the fridge and stare at the vegetables filling the shelves and overflowing in all the bins. And then I see veggie juice! I can drink breakfast!

“I thought you might like that,” Mom says, heading over to the coffeemaker.

“Yes! I love veggie juice. Thanks!”

I slurp down a glass. Then I cut up carrots and cucumbers. I pop them into a bag with baby tomatoes.

All the way to school, I think, One size down in a week. Two sizes down in two weeks. Soon you'll be back to your old weight. All you have to do is get through day two of the seven
-
day diet. It's one day at a time, and in the words of the diet—
you can do it
!

And I will!

“Never eat more than you can lift.”

—Miss Piggy

chapter seven

I think of food in homeroom. I dream of food in English. I want food in history.

I even think about food during art, my favorite class. As I put the finishing touches on my ad for chocolate, Ms. Holmes tells us about our next project. She wants us to take an everyday object and give it a fresh visual twist.

I dab deep brown paint on my chocolatebar picture and imagine a cookie tin as a jewelry box. I wonder what an empty bag of potato chips might look like as a puppet. I can almost see the mesh bag for oranges as a funky purse. Everything I think about is linked to food. Oh no! I am obsessed. I am a food addict!

Just stop thinking about food, I order myself. I need to choose something for my next project that has nothing to do with food. But all I can think about are things that relate to food—cans, bottles, baskets, cartons, crates.

At lunch, I sit with Denise and Carolyn. I eat my vegetables and try not to stare at Denise's tuna sandwich. I look away so I will not drool over Carolyn's strawberry yogurt. But when she pulls out her bag of chocolate-chip cookies, I eye it like I've never seen a cookie in my life. She offers me one, but I decline. I crunch down on a carrot. It tastes like wood.

Zoe saunters in with Sarah and Mia. I glance their way and catch Zoe pointing at me and laughing. Mia laughs, but Sarah doesn't. I can't imagine what Zoe is saying about me. But I know it's nasty.

I listen to Carolyn talk about her art project. She did an ad for hot dogs. Denise did one for gum.

“Gum is your favorite food?” I ask Denise. “Is gum a food?”

Denise laughs. “It was either gum or tuna. And I couldn't think of anything to make tuna visually exciting. Ms. Holmes wasn't crazy about my gum idea at first, but she finally said I could go ahead.”

“So, what did you do?” I ask.

“I wrote
No time to exercise? Try gum.
The tastiest way to exercise your mouth
.”

Carolyn and I howl. “That's great,” I say.

“That's my kind of exercise,” says Carolyn.

The bell rings. “Are you joining a club?” asks Carolyn as we head out of the lunchroom. “The deadline is Friday.”

“I don't know,” I say.

“We're thinking of becoming mentors,” says Carolyn.

“What's that?” I ask.

“It 's a new prog ram called Girls Helping Girls. You meet with girls from middle school who have issues like family problems or body image because they're fat or…oops. Sorry,” says Denise. “I wasn't thinking of you. Really. Anyway, you're not fat. You're just a little bigger than you were last year.”

“It's okay. I know I'm fat, but I'm going to lose the weight. Why do you want to mentor?”

“It might be fun to help someone. I could tell the girl I mentor how I overcame hating my ugly nose.”

“Your nose is not ugly,” I say.

“Are you kidding?” says Denise. “Look at this hideous bump.” Denise touches a tiny bump in the middle of her nose.

“It's hardly noticeable, and it's not hideous,” I tell her.

“You're just saying that to be nice. I've wanted plastic surgery since I was five, but the doctor won't touch my nose till it's fully formed. He said I have to wait a few years. Meanwhile I'm stuck with it. So I've decided to ignore it, but you can't imagine how hard it is to live with a nose like mine. I see it every time I look in the mirror.”

“Oh,” I say. I really can't see the problem with Denise's nose.

The mentoring program sounds interesting. Only how can I help someone when I can't help myself? No matter how much I try to convince myself not to care about how fat I look or about Zoe's comments, I care.

And I hate dieting. I can't stand another vegetable. I'm seriously considering buying a chocolate bar after school. How can I be a mentor when I have no self-control?

Before I head home, I check out the bulletin board and scan the announcement about the mentoring program.

“Are you planning to help another fat girl?” someone says. It's Zoe.

I glare at her. She's standing with one hand on her hip and smirking at me. Her long hair is so straight, it looks ironed. There's not an ounce of blobbiness about her. Even her arms are skinny.

“Why are you being so obnoxious?” I say.

“I'm not being obnoxious. I'm being helpful. I'm calling a spade a spade, or in your case a blob a blob. Get used to it. I'm not the only one in school who's noticed that you're obese.”

Zoe turns around and prances off. She walks down the hall like a model on a runway.

I hurry toward home. Tears gush out of my eyes like I've sprung a leak.

When I get to the convenience store two blocks from my house, I wipe my eyes. Then I head inside and buy a chocolate bar.

For one block, I hold the chocolate bar in my hands. Then I stop and begin to unwrap it. But I don't eat it. I walk another half block and unwrap it some more. I still don't eat it. A few steps from home, I take a small bite. The chocolate tastes rich, dark, creamy. I'd forgotten how good chocolate tastes. I take another small bite.
Mmmm
. “I've missed you,” I say out loud.

It takes all my willpower to stuff the rest of the chocolate bar into my backpack.

“The only way to lose weight is to check it as airline baggage.”

—Peggy Ryan

chapter eight

There's a note on the kitchen table.
I'm out
shopping for my book club meeting. It's at
our house tonight. I thought I might bake
cookies, but I won't if it bothers you. I'll get
store-bought just in case. Love, Mom.

I chug down a tall glass of veg juice and head to my room. No new articles about food addiction litter my bed. I sit down and pull the chocolate bar out of my backpack. I nibble a tiny bit. Then I stuff it into my desk drawer and start on my homework.

A half hour later, I hear the front door open. “I'm home!” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Would it bother you if I baked cookies?”

I head out of my room. “No. I'll even help.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I'll enjoy the smell of chocolate and get the buzz without the calories.”

“Really?”

“Watch me.”

Mom and I gather all the ingredients. We sift the flour, add salt and baking soda. We cream the sugar and butter and mix everything together. Then I drop chocolate chips into the soft dough and gently mix them in. When Mom isn't looking, I pop some chips into my mouth.

I watch the spoonfuls of warm batter spread into shapes in the oven. Oh no! They look like blobs. I snap the oven door shut.

Soon a sweet chocolaty smell fills the kitchen, and I pull the cookies out to cool.

“You're being very strong about this,” says Mom.

“I'm determined to lose weight, and nothing will stop me. Not even chocolatechip cookies.”

“I'm sure one cookie won't spoil your diet,” says Mom.

“Mom! Don't tempt me!” I say. “I have to be strict about this diet or it won't work.”

“I'm sor r y, Eve. I'm on your side. I shouldn't have suggested the cookie.”

Why am I annoyed with my mother? She bought a whole fridge-full of fruit and vegetables to help me. She didn't force me to eat a quarter of a chocolate bar or the handful of chips. Maybe all the fruit and vegetables are making me insane! I need more protein, but I can't have that till day five of my diet.

After a supper of cooked carrots (no butter), steamed potatoes (no butter), spinach (no butter), lettuce and tomato salad (no dressing), I head to my room to work on my math homework. Ms. Murray is zipping through the material so quickly my head spins.

Soon I hear Mom's book-club friends come in. They comment on the delicious smell lingering through the house.

“It smells like chocolate perfume in here,” says one of mom's friends.

Yes! Chocolate
is
the best perfume in the world. They should bottle it. Then I could just dab it on my skin and not eat it. But I'd miss eating it. It takes all my willpower not to charge into the kitchen and grab a cookie.

“Eve baked the cookies.” I hear Mom tell her friends.

“What a lovely girl,” says one of Mom's friends. “My Zoe never helps out. She does nothing at home but text message her friends.”

Zoe's mother is in my mom's book club! I'm not stepping out of my room till they leave. I do not want to meet Zoe's mom. What would I say? Your daughter is obnoxious. She humiliates people. I hate her.

I start working on math. I can only figure out eight of the twelve questions. I stare at the four I can't figure out, but nothing comes to me. I pull out my chocolate bar. Maybe a little chocolate will help me think better. I take a bite, then another. I figure out one of the four questions. Maybe the chocolate is helping!

I eat some more. I've finished three quarters of the bar, but I'm still no further ahead with the other three math questions.

I stare at the questions for another twenty minutes and then give up. I'll ask the teacher tomorrow. I pull out the rest of the chocolate bar and eat the last few pieces as a reward for my efforts.

I enjoy every rich, melt-in-your-mouth bite, but when I finish I check the wrapper. I have just consumed three hundred and fifty calories. I can feel my gut getting blobbier by the minute.

“I keep trying to lose weight, but it keeps finding me.”

—Author Unknown

chapter nine

I meet Carolyn on the way to school. Denise is sick with the flu. We talk about our art projects. Carolyn pulls out her ad for hot dogs to show me. It's great.

She has a man walking a dog down the street. A woman watches him while grilling sizzling hot dogs. The woman is grinning. The ad says:

Enjoy a hot dog today. One dog you
don't have to walk.

“Ms. Holmes cracked up when she saw it,” she says.

I tel l Carolyn the slogan for my chocolate-bar ad.

“Fabulous,” she says. “How's your diet going?”

“Not so fabulous. I got through day one, which was all fruit, and day two, which was all vegetables. Today I can eat a mix of fruit and vegetables, and I'll be fine. But tomorrow will be hell. Tomorrow I can only eat bananas and drink milk.”

“That's disgusting.” Carolyn wrinkles her nose. “How will you stand it?”