The Almost Murder and Other Stories (10 page)

I wish I had a dollar for every time I've heard somebody say to me, “You'd be so pretty if you lost some weight,” or another version of the same thing, usually said to my parents or friends, “She has such a pretty face, but she'd be so pretty if …”

Despite actress América Ferrara doing her show
Ugly Betty
and that movie,
The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants
, as well as JLo, with her famously big booty, no one really thinks that being, or seeing, a fat girl is cool.

I've tried dieting, but it's a real yo-yo thing with me. I lose some, then gain more, lose some, then gain more again.

Between genetics and my extreme love for food, chocolate and fried things, in particular, I am a “big girl.” I have the large, rounded behind of my mother and the jutting belly of my father.

Until I was eleven years old, I was pretty much just an average chubby kid. Then, at twelve, once I stopped growing—vertically, that is—the only inches I've added have been in width. I just got fatter and fatter. I mean, I'm not an elephant or anything, but, still, I'm not too far from becoming obese.

When nutritionists come to talk to girls at school every year, I can always feel them eyeballing me. They might act as if they're speaking in general about the health perils of being an overweight teenager, but it's just me and a few other fat girls and boys they're actually hoping to get through to.

In Phys Ed, I surprise everyone by running every bit as fast, or even faster, than my way-skinnier friends. People are always commenting, “Wow, she can move so well for such a big girl.” They're right, too. I'm quick and I can jump and dunk a basketball right into a hoop easily, despite being short.

My muscles are strong as can be, and I do a lot of walking. I ran track for three years. I'm only off the track team now because I'm a senior and it's been a wild, busy year, with college applications and nonstop activities. I've stayed active, but I'm still fat. It's simple: I eat too much of all the wrong foods.

When I look in fashion magazines, so many of the regular models and starlets on those pages look ready to drop dead of anorexia, just totally starved. They are way skinnier than even the very thinnest girls in my school. Even the plus-size models look slender, compared to me. So I don't buy magazines much.

I stand out in a crowd of people my age, even in my mostly Latin-and-black high school. The truth is, though, it's pretty likely that the majority of my Latina girlfriends will end up being overweight, just like most of our mothers, after they get married and pop out some babies.

Boys around here don't act bothered at all by my weight. I've never had a shortage of dates and
novios
. Teasingly, more than one of them have said there's “more to love” with a girl my size. Still, I know I'd look way better if I'd slim down, and I intend to do it.

Diets make me crazy, though. Whenever I go on the kind where you eat veggies and salads mainly, I feel like a hungry bear who can't think of anything but meat. I've been a carnivore since birth. Taking chicken and beef away from me doesn't work.

A bunch of times, I've tried the Atkins Diet and other zero-carb or low-carb ones. For a few days, I'll feel full and
as happy as can be. I might even drop a few pounds, despite eating a really bizarre amount of meat, fish, eggs and cheese. By the fifth day on those programs, though, I get such a craving for sweets that I cheat on something like a candy bar, and then totally blow it.

As a dieter, I'm a flop.

I've even tried diets as stupid as all-salad, all-fruit, all-protein, even all–ice cream. I had no luck with those, either. Whatever I'm supposed to eat starts to sicken me, and all I can think of is whatever foods are forbidden and not on my okay list. I know it shows lack of discipline, but my love for food, my great big appetite and feelings of deprivation when I can't eat what I want are intense.

I asked my mom at Christmas if we could go on the Jenny Craig Diet together, since she's always complaining about her weight, too. She's always saying, “
Mija
, you look like a house, and I look like a horse.” She's teasing, though, not being mean.

Mom would have gone for Jenny Craig, and she even called their local weight-loss center here but the price was way too high. Mom decided that everyone in our family needs to eat the same basic foods at mealtimes. It's not like it's my dad's or my brother Vic's fault if both Mom and I overindulge.

I kept on asking about Jenny Craig, showing Mom all the pictures of Valerie Bertinelli and how good she's looking now, but Mom reminds me that Miss Bertinelli isn't paying Jenny Craig; Jenny's paying her—like a million dollars. The actress also has personal trainers to help. So, Jenny Craig is one of the few diet plans I haven't tried.

Papi's short and his weight is strictly average, though he does have a jiggly mid-section. The rest of him is muscular. Vic is like a clone of him, body-wise.

Papi says he likes his women big, but tells me that if Mom and I want to lose weight, all we have to do is “the
Pushing Diet,” meaning we need to start pushing away from the table and just not eat so much. That's not as easy as it sounds, of course.

Many of my female neighbors and classmates are big-boned and heavyset, but, like Papi and Vic, they aren't really overweight. A lot of kids my age were taller than me by the time we hit thirteen. Now, they tower over me, even though they're Latino, too.

Men and boys seem to have all the luck, except when it comes to going to war. Around this 'hood, they get way more pressure than girls to do a hitch in Iraq. Recruiters are all over the high schools.

While some boys' fathers tell them to say “no” to drugs, Papi coaches my brother Vic to say no to the armed forces, and I'm very glad of that. My battle of the bulge is nothing at all compared to going to war. I have enough sense to know that.

My aunties are all kind of chubby, but Mom is the fattest of the adult women in our family, and I'm the fattest of the teenaged and young-adult cousins.

I have never been a sneak-eater, though. I eat right in front of my family and friends. If anybody has something to say about my appetite—and they often do—I just laugh it off, which is a whole lot better than crying or arguing.

I've gone online looking for diet tips plenty of times, and was shocked when Google directed me to some really gross pro-anorexia Web sites that are sick beyond belief. I never knew anything like those things existed, and they should be illegal.

On those sites, hundreds or maybe thousands of dangerously underweight girls share tips on how to starve themselves to death. There are Web page after Web page of their idols' pictures—terrifying, rail-thin models who look ready to keel over.

I don't know how these girls manage not to eat, or to eat so very little that they lose and lose weight until they don't get periods and start growing hair on their bodies. When they do finally have a bite or two, they immediately barf it all up. One in six of them will die. I couldn't help but notice that none of the posters have Latino names. I don't think anorexia's popular in our community.

I was born at nine and a half pounds. I'm the biggest baby my mom had, but I'm medium-boned, not big, and my flesh isn't all squishy, like some heavy girls' flesh. I'm solid. Maybe that's even worse, since they say muscle is harder to lose than fat.

My prom is next month, and it was a major nightmare to get out there and find a formal dress that didn't make me look like a whale. I went all over town—Brooklyn and Manhattan—with my best friend Zaida, who is not exactly slender either.

Zaida found something she loved in the second shop we went into, but kept on helping me out with my search. We went on my prom-dress mission three different Saturdays before I finally found a dress that's slimming and looks really good on me.

I'd promised myself I wouldn't resort to black, but this dress was so pretty I just had to have it. It has turquoise metallic thread in it—so it's shiny.

I tried on some dresses in pastels and brights, which fit but made me look like a truck driver. The one I chose was high-waisted, cool, shimmery and sophisticated, with long, floating sleeves. It slimmed down my look about as well as any dress could. All I needed were black pumps; those were easy to find.

Zaida and I have appointments to get our hair done together before the prom. We both keep ours long, but mine is crazy long; it nearly hits my waist. I love my long,
wavy mane. Mom calls it my crowning glory, and boys love it, even boys who like slim girls.

We're double-dating for the prom with the Gómez twins, José and Ernesto. Zaida and I have dated the twins for almost two years. Even though they're identical, they have such different expressions, it's easy to tell them apart.

Both twins go to Xaverian High, so we'll go to their prom, too, wearing the same outfits we bought for ours. The boys won't mind. As a matter of fact, they may not even notice. Zaida's daddy owns a limo, so he's driving us for free.

I was never one to think obsessively about my weight, and it really only got on my nerves during the summer. The heat brings me down. My thighs rub together, and I get rashes under my armpits. Sundresses aren't easy to find in my size, either, but I've managed.

I don't look great in shorts or bathing suits, and I'm not dumb enough to subject the world to the sight of me wearing them. I've always made excuses on why I never go to the beach or even to the Sunset Park public swimming pool. I went there only once, and some boys, white kids from Cobble Hill, a gentrified neighborhood, started mooing at me, calling me a cow. That was awful.

Right now, it's spring, so I feel fine. Thankfully, our school has an open dress policy—no scratchy, plaid, wool uniforms, like the one I had to wear at St. Ann's.

I mostly hang out in baggy clothes to hide these jelly rolls of mine. Overalls work for me, too, so I have two pairs. Those and black or brown sweats are my daily outfits. Earrings, lip gloss and my extra-long hair are the only accessories I need.

I start Hunter College in September, and as soon as I sent my forms in, confirmed my enrollment, all-out weight panic hit me hard, pretty much for the first time.
The thought of starting college weighing in at almost a hundred and eighty pounds scared me enough to make an appointment with a nutritionist.

Thinking about college made me start to freak that I was so fat. My family, friends, neighbors, classmates have known and loved me for seventeen years. I'm accepted despite my flab. But the thought of classrooms of strangers, classmates, professors in Manhattan staring at my blubber made me feel so embarrassed and scared, in advance, that I had to take action.

Hearing, “She'd be so pretty if …” was okay all these years, here in our neighborhood. At Hunter College, though, those same words would be absolutely mortifying.

If I get rid of my excess weight, most of it, all the new people I meet won't see me as just a “fatty.” They'd get to know me for my brains, personality, even my pretty face.

The nutritionist, Miss Wright, understands me. She was a fat girl herself back in high school.

I explained to her how much starting college being so fat was freaking me out, even giving me nightmares. I told her everything. She told me she had an idea and set up another appointment for the following week.

Miss Wright did some research and, when I next saw her, handed me a brochure for a summer camp in the Poconos. It's for girls ages twelve to twenty. It's a weight-loss camp that's expensive, but offers financial aid for low-income families and is eager to recruit minorities.

I applied online and got an early-acceptance letter. Then I asked for financial aid. They gave me a half-scholarship and I'll pay for the rest with the student loans I took out for college.

All I have to bring to fat camp are pj's, a robe and toiletries. My parents are happy. I know they'll be proud of me when I come back slimmer, as I fully intend to do. My
boyfriend loves me, thin or fat, but supports my going; he's a doll.

I feel psyched out some days, thinking how horrible I'd feel if I go all the way out to that fat-girl camp and don't lose any weight at all—how humiliating! I'd feel like such a jerk and like a big, fat failure. I try to tell myself now not to stress out, or I'll eat even more from nerves. I affirm again and again, “I will lose. Lose. Lose.”

I think it'll be better to drop weight away from everyone I'm close to. No neighbors, brothers, parents watching my every move and wondering not if, but when, I'll break my diet. Just me and my food demons.

The average weight loss over one two-month summer at Camp Royalton is fifteen to twenty-five pounds. I aim to lose even more.

Time is flying by. Our senior prom is next week, and the twins will take us to theirs three weeks after that. Then, it's graduation time and my parents' big celebration party.

Two days later, I leave for Camp Royalton.

I'm determined. I know I can't lose all my excess weight in just one summer, but I believe I can get a great head start and drop around thirty to thirty-five pounds. At that weight, I'll feel much better about starting college and I'll be motivated to keep on losing pounds.

Sometimes you have to leave your safety zone and the people you love most to make real changes in your life. My nutritionist says so, and I know she's right. I get excited just thinking about having a new physique and a fresh start.

I hope to never again hear, “She'd be so pretty if. …”

September 28, 2004

Dear Maureen,

Hi! How are you? I'm in the library, as usual. Like I told you, this is my sanctuary, the only place I feel alive.

Girl, I really miss you. We had an amazing summer, huh? I'm still in shock that I made it out of the Bronx for awhile and made a best friend like you.