LITMIR.BIZ

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Elizabeth and I were opposites. Elizabeth was naturally bright, even though she chose not to apply herself, while I had to study very hard in order to get the As I craved. That’s because, when I was in third grade, I was diagnosed with a processing problem, meaning it took me a little longer to absorb information than most students. I remember that conversation very well.

      “Your dad and I were talking, and we think…. Well, what I am trying to say is maybe you could use some extra help.” My mom paused, fiddling with her fingers trying to find the right words. I saw they weren’t coming easily to her—maybe she could have used some extra help for that. Come on, was this really so embarrassing to talk about that she couldn’t even find the words? Apparently. “We decided to hire a tutor to help you with your reading comprehension.”

      “Why? Do you think I am stupid?”

      Of course she thinks you’re stupid.

      “Of course not, Dani. We just don’t like to see you struggling, and this could make school easier for you.”

      You are struggling because you are a complete idiot.

      From that moment on, “You’re a failure” became an internal mantra: Why couldn’t I be as smart as everyone else? Why did I have to work twice as hard to do just as well?

      My tutor was my secret, my processing issue was a taboo subject, and I made it my mission to study extra hard to camouflage what I believed to be my natural stupidity. I learned how to work around my processing problem in class by becoming a speedy and precise note-taker. Frankly, I was hardly listening, just writing everything down, knowing I’d go home and study it all slowly. My classmates noticed, and I’d get calls at home asking to copy my homework or to look at my notes. Sometimes twenty calls a night. My mom threatened to pick up and tell the kid off, but I’d secretly call back and give the answers. I knew I was being used, but I liked to be needed. I was pleased to be so good at something that people took notice. They needed me, and, if they were going to like me, hell, my inner people-pleaser would help them, their mother, and their dog too, if he would lick my face in the midst of tail wagging (you get it, I’d help anyone—animals and humans alike—if they would give me some positive reinforcement.)

      So I continued to take studying and school very seriously, while Elizabeth was off having fun, because she could. While I was busy fielding questions about the social studies homework, Elizabeth was flitting about a new kind of social event: boy/girl parties. The kind of parties where kids drank. Once, I went with her, and watched with fascination as she placed the edge of a beer bottle cap on top of a table, holding the neck of the bottle tight, and used her other hand to slam down on the bottle as the cap went flying off. How did she even know how to do that? I still slept with stuffed animals and collected antique Snoopys as a hobby.

      “Want a sip?” Elizabeth asked, after taking a long chug.

      “No, thanks,” I said, backing up so much I tripped over a multi-colored beanbag love chair behind me and fell next to a boy-and-girl duo flirting, teasing each other, and touching. The boy rubbed the girl’s back, leaning against the beanbag—that now had me on it too. I tried to gather my wits while interrupting their intense chitchatting. They started giggling as I grazed one of their Solo cups, catching it before it fell, joining in on their laughter because, in that embarrassing moment, my nerves got the best of me. Heck, what else was I supposed to do?

      I felt like Alice forgetting Tweedledee and Tweedledum were alive, because, gosh, those flirters looked like waxworks at that moment—they got so still after our awkward laughing session. Kill me now was the only thought I could muster.

      “Suit yourself,” Elizabeth whispered under her breath as she walked toward a group of older boys—eighth graders—leaving me to recover from my own clumsiness.

      “Thanks for helping me up, Lizzie!” I muttered, apologizing to the flirters while pulling myself up and planning my exit from boy/girl party hell. But, despite her rudeness, I was in awe of her. I could never have that self-confidence and ease around people. That cool way of being that seemed to come so naturally to her. That was the first and last party I ever went to with her.

      Despite our differences, I loved Elizabeth like a sister, and I envied her edginess and rebellious nature. I loved sports, while she liked theater and art. I called her my “artsy-fartsy” friend. She liked makeup and boys and, during our play dates, she would stare at herself in the mirror, applying different colored lipsticks while jabbering about which boys in our grade were hot. I did have crushes too, only I was too shy to speak to them unless I was playing sports, baseball cap backward on my head, ready to kick their asses! Elizabeth already had boyfriends. I actually spied on her first kiss; it was outside my house by a rock I would later dub the kissing rock, which was hidden at the edge of my family’s property. It was famous as a make-out spot for Lizzie as she took all her boyfriends there throughout our years as friends. In addition to her straight dark brown hair and dark blue eyes (a killer combination), she was slim and tall. Plus, she developed early, and was already a C-cup by sixth grade. That lucky bitch, I thought.

      Walking into school with Elizabeth, I felt like her furry little pet. “Woof woof,” I imagined students barking at me as I passed. “No treats, please, I’m watching my figure,” I’d say back. And as if to seal my furry-pet status, kids called me Fluffy, on account of my kinky brown hair. It was humiliating. Every time I heard it, my eyes would tear up and I’d hold my breath until it passed. Who would want to date or be friends with Fluffy? Answer: no one. I would eventually spend an hour each night before bed with a straightening iron, slowly bringing each unruly strand under control because of this awesome nickname.

      Every morning, Elizabeth would take absolutely forever getting ready for school. She would do her hair, apply makeup—all the girly activities I had no interest in. One morning, when Elizabeth’s mom was late picking me up in the carpool to school, I was more impatient than usual. It was the last day of school, so I didn’t have any last-minute notes to study and distract myself with because there were no exams and grades were already finalized. Actually, there was no point in going to school at all, except to keep up my perfect attendance record.

      It was unusual for camp to start so quickly after school ended, but we were leaving for it the next day. I wasn’t excited, I didn’t want to leave my mom and dad and the comforts of home. Except I knew I needed to work on my soccer skills and other top-secret goals. Because lately there was something else bothering me. I’d started to take notice of my changing body for the first time. Suddenly I had curvy hips and a round bottom, thighs that jiggled when once they’d been taut as trees. Fat. Fat. Fat. Disgusting.

      While I waited for Elizabeth’s mom, I glared at myself in the mirror. Why did I have such a big butt? And my thighs, ugh! My stomach was getting so big! Scowling in disgust, I vowed that summer I would lose all of my puberty weight and become even skinnier. Then I would feel better.

      “Dani, Lizzie and her mom are here, where are you?” My mom’s shout echoed through the vents in the bathroom. Dani had been my nickname ever since I was a little girl. My parents and those closest to me knew me only as that…and Fluffy. Lucky me.

      “Be right there, Mom!” I shouted, deep-breathing in. One more day…

      “Have a great day, Dani.” My mom kissed me on the cheek and handed me a brown lunch bag, which a quick glance revealed to contain a tuna fish sandwich, yogurt, and two chocolate chip cookies. Usually I’d just eat the yogurt and nibble on half a sandwich, but no longer. All I could think was more thigh fat, butt fat, stomach fat—fat, fat, fat. I kissed her back and stuffed it into my backpack. She would be so disappointed and confused if she knew I was going to toss it into the girls’ room trash.

      Dinner at my house was not a family affair, so I never had to worry about not eating there. It wasn’t like in most of my friends’ families, where I heard rumblings about togetherness and grace before meals. I imagined something out of a 1950s movie—the mother cooking and the father demanding his steak medium rare with a side of buttered mashed potatoes—and the child sitting with her legs crossed, napkin placed neatly in her lap, and talking about her day while politely declaring, “Oh, shucks” if she dropped her fork. No, that

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