I bite my lip and pay for the food. Then I wait off to the side until it’s ready. I can’t help but look around at everyone else. People who seem so much different than me. Two girls a little younger than me throw their wrappers away and walk past me toward the exit. Both are super skinny and wearing fitted jeans. They each have a cookie in their hand. One of them stops and tops off her drink before leaving. She gets lemonade, too.
Across from me, a little boy is eating lunch with his grandma. He’s holding a turkey he made from tracing his hand and holds it proudly. He crams Doritos into his mouth as if calories don’t exist.
But I’m not them. It will stick to me. These arms are going to keep getting bigger and bigger. If I eat all this, I’ll need to get rid of it.
My phone vibrates. Parker is calling. We talk every day as soon as we’re both out of school. But I press ignore. I’m running out of time, and he’ll be upset if he knows I’m struggling so much. Or worse, he’ll tell my parents. I grab my bag of food and head out to my car. I’m not even fully inside when I start crying again.
I wish it would all just stop. I wish I could be normal and not have these thoughts. I wish it didn’t matter what anyone said about me. I wish I’d never tried throwing up two years ago.
When I get home, I only have thirty minutes left to eat before Mom arrives, and I figure I should eat as far