Status: Please read, I think that this is probably one of the best things I've started so far.
A Lot on My Plate
One
Chapter One
One Hundred Seventy Four Point Three
This couldn’t be right, I thought to myself as I stared at display in disbelief.
I picked up the silver and black one-hundred fifty dollar IKEA scale and shook it. I put it back on the ground and stepped back on.
There it was, looking back up at me. 174.3 lbs.
I was up point two pounds from yesterday.
I realized that I still had my socks on and pulled those off so I was completely free of any clothing and stepped back on the scale for a third time.
174.3 lbs.
Fuck.
The scale display shut off and I turned and looked at my naked body in the bathroom mirror.
God, I was disgusting.
Angry red stretch marks adorned my sides and breasts, throwing my weight gain in my face. My stomach pudged out no matter what angle I turned and my arms had layers of fat hanging off them that jiggled when I moved.
I went back into my room and grabbed my cell phone off the bed. I pressed one and it speed dialed the only person who understood my pain.
“What’s up Riley?” Megan answered, her voice sounding muffled.
“Let me guess, peanut butter party?” I asked.
“Totally. I’m drowning my sorrows in honor of the people who are allergic to this stuff.”
I laughed. Megan was a senior like me, and from the outside, we were completely different people. She was co-captain of the varsity cheerleading squad at our school, and I was a loner. My only extracurricular was the creative writing club, which was a complete joke—but more on that later. Megan was beautiful, tall, and thin. I was short and fat. Everyone knew Megan, and nobody knew me.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“174.3.” I said. Of course she knew what I was talking about.
“Have you…?”
“Yes, twice a day.”
“Oh, Riley.” she sighed, “It’ll get better I swear.”
“How’s the PB?”
“Outstanding. I’m so fat.” Megan groaned.
“Me too.” I knew better than to do the whole ‘Oh my god, you’re so skinny’ card with Megan. She would never believe me.
“My uniform had gotten tight on me.”
“Get a new one.” I suggested.
“You’re missing the point. What if I get kicked off the squad?”
“Join creative writing club?” I laughed.
“Riley, we have problems.” Megan giggled, “Okay, well I have to go feed dinner to the dog. See you tomorrow.”
“Bye.”
Megan’s mother made very fancy dinners every night. Once Tammy got distracted after her fourth or fifth glass of wine, Megan would casually toss the rest of her Filet Mignon to their golden retriever, Muffin. He was one pampered pup.
I grabbed a lip liner pencil, looked into my full length bedroom mirror and began to circle my problem spots.
“Riley, come down for dinner!” my mom called from downstairs.
I put down the pencil and looked at myself one last time. My whole body was covered with red circles, big and small.
I slipped on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and walked downstairs to the kitchen to join mom and my little sister, Monica.
“I made your favorite. Chicken tacos.” mom said from the counter as I sat down at our small kitchen table. We never used the dining room anymore.
Why did she bother ‘making my favorite’ if she hated whenever I ate?
Mom put a platter of tacos and rice in the center of the table and took a seat. The forth chair remained empty. Dad’s chair.
Monica grabbed four tacos for herself. Mom took two. I took one.
“Aren’t you gonna have more than that?” Monica asked, shoveling some rice on to her place, which was overflowing. Monica was eleven and the littlest kid in her class, which meant she could eat taco after taco.
“I’m okay.”
“She doesn’t need more than one.” My mom added. See what I mean? I can’t eat here without being judged by my own family.
Mom never used to be like this. She is Mexican, and she had a lovely curvy figure for as long as I could remember. When dad died six months ago, mom lost so much weight, while I gained it. I guess we all cope in different ways.
Dad was the best person I knew. Our relatives always said I took after him with both my personality and my looks—he was white. In April, he went on a business trip for the energy drink company he worked for and his plane went down on his way back. I didn’t get to say goodbye.
Monica got angry. She hated dad for leaving for that trip and took her anger out on mom and I for months. Mom started cleaning. She rid the townhouse of anything Dad-ish and started cooking fancier meals but not eating them. I started eating. I stayed up until mom and Monica were asleep and would sneak down to the pantry and grab cans of Pringles and bags of cookies, and would eat them in my bed. I’d eat more dinner than usual. My mom didn’t say anything about it for about two months, but then she started noticing my weight gain. I went from 125 pounds to 174.3 in less than six months. Now I had to do my overeating in secret.
After dad passed, I started going to a grief therapist, where I saw Megan. She was seeing a therapist too, for cyclothymic disorder, which is a mild form of bipolar disorder. We had appointment slots with our therapists at the same time and one day we started talking in the waiting room. She made me swear not to tell anyone at school about her seeing a therapist, and I promised. Who would I tell anyway?
One day after we both got out of our sessions, she asked me if I wanted to grab lunch. We went to this wrap place, where she tore up her Caesar wrap into tiny little pieces while I demolished my ham and cheese one. Then, we were inseparable.
One Hundred Seventy Four Point Three
This couldn’t be right, I thought to myself as I stared at display in disbelief.
I picked up the silver and black one-hundred fifty dollar IKEA scale and shook it. I put it back on the ground and stepped back on.
There it was, looking back up at me. 174.3 lbs.
I was up point two pounds from yesterday.
I realized that I still had my socks on and pulled those off so I was completely free of any clothing and stepped back on the scale for a third time.
174.3 lbs.
Fuck.
The scale display shut off and I turned and looked at my naked body in the bathroom mirror.
God, I was disgusting.
Angry red stretch marks adorned my sides and breasts, throwing my weight gain in my face. My stomach pudged out no matter what angle I turned and my arms had layers of fat hanging off them that jiggled when I moved.
I went back into my room and grabbed my cell phone off the bed. I pressed one and it speed dialed the only person who understood my pain.
“What’s up Riley?” Megan answered, her voice sounding muffled.
“Let me guess, peanut butter party?” I asked.
“Totally. I’m drowning my sorrows in honor of the people who are allergic to this stuff.”
I laughed. Megan was a senior like me, and from the outside, we were completely different people. She was co-captain of the varsity cheerleading squad at our school, and I was a loner. My only extracurricular was the creative writing club, which was a complete joke—but more on that later. Megan was beautiful, tall, and thin. I was short and fat. Everyone knew Megan, and nobody knew me.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“174.3.” I said. Of course she knew what I was talking about.
“Have you…?”
“Yes, twice a day.”
“Oh, Riley.” she sighed, “It’ll get better I swear.”
“How’s the PB?”
“Outstanding. I’m so fat.” Megan groaned.
“Me too.” I knew better than to do the whole ‘Oh my god, you’re so skinny’ card with Megan. She would never believe me.
“My uniform had gotten tight on me.”
“Get a new one.” I suggested.
“You’re missing the point. What if I get kicked off the squad?”
“Join creative writing club?” I laughed.
“Riley, we have problems.” Megan giggled, “Okay, well I have to go feed dinner to the dog. See you tomorrow.”
“Bye.”
Megan’s mother made very fancy dinners every night. Once Tammy got distracted after her fourth or fifth glass of wine, Megan would casually toss the rest of her Filet Mignon to their golden retriever, Muffin. He was one pampered pup.
I grabbed a lip liner pencil, looked into my full length bedroom mirror and began to circle my problem spots.
“Riley, come down for dinner!” my mom called from downstairs.
I put down the pencil and looked at myself one last time. My whole body was covered with red circles, big and small.
I slipped on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and walked downstairs to the kitchen to join mom and my little sister, Monica.
“I made your favorite. Chicken tacos.” mom said from the counter as I sat down at our small kitchen table. We never used the dining room anymore.
Why did she bother ‘making my favorite’ if she hated whenever I ate?
Mom put a platter of tacos and rice in the center of the table and took a seat. The forth chair remained empty. Dad’s chair.
Monica grabbed four tacos for herself. Mom took two. I took one.
“Aren’t you gonna have more than that?” Monica asked, shoveling some rice on to her place, which was overflowing. Monica was eleven and the littlest kid in her class, which meant she could eat taco after taco.
“I’m okay.”
“She doesn’t need more than one.” My mom added. See what I mean? I can’t eat here without being judged by my own family.
Mom never used to be like this. She is Mexican, and she had a lovely curvy figure for as long as I could remember. When dad died six months ago, mom lost so much weight, while I gained it. I guess we all cope in different ways.
Dad was the best person I knew. Our relatives always said I took after him with both my personality and my looks—he was white. In April, he went on a business trip for the energy drink company he worked for and his plane went down on his way back. I didn’t get to say goodbye.
Monica got angry. She hated dad for leaving for that trip and took her anger out on mom and I for months. Mom started cleaning. She rid the townhouse of anything Dad-ish and started cooking fancier meals but not eating them. I started eating. I stayed up until mom and Monica were asleep and would sneak down to the pantry and grab cans of Pringles and bags of cookies, and would eat them in my bed. I’d eat more dinner than usual. My mom didn’t say anything about it for about two months, but then she started noticing my weight gain. I went from 125 pounds to 174.3 in less than six months. Now I had to do my overeating in secret.
After dad passed, I started going to a grief therapist, where I saw Megan. She was seeing a therapist too, for cyclothymic disorder, which is a mild form of bipolar disorder. We had appointment slots with our therapists at the same time and one day we started talking in the waiting room. She made me swear not to tell anyone at school about her seeing a therapist, and I promised. Who would I tell anyway?
One day after we both got out of our sessions, she asked me if I wanted to grab lunch. We went to this wrap place, where she tore up her Caesar wrap into tiny little pieces while I demolished my ham and cheese one. Then, we were inseparable.