Don't Call Me Fat (COMPLETED)

Bermuda Sounds Good

I live for lunch period.  

Seriously, I do. 

It's like a mini vacation from your screwed up school day. Mags, Codie and I always sit at the same table, by the same window, and have this cyclical pattern where we take turns venting about the small stuff from the morning.  It helps with focus later on, I'm convinced.  

If I had to keep in all my Bethany stories, or Kelly looks, or the Mr Casick burns that he throws at wayward students, I would internally combust from lack of expression. And  honestly, in the lulls were when my best observations were done.  

Social hierarchy aside, you can really discern what kind of people you're dealing with if you watch them at lunch.  Who's serious? Who's kind? All types of character traits and habits float to the surface when no one thinks anybody is watching. 

Like now. How can someone so skinny eat so much freaking food? I watch as Codie devours her second chicken sandwich in less than fifteen minutes. Fries were on her plate that she hadn't even touched yet. Honestly, I was looking at the ensemble enviously, wishing that what I had on my side of the table was about half as appetizing as that.

I fiddled with the plain chicken breast, bouncing the fork against the tough outer skin. Why did chicken in a plastic container make me think of bouncy balls? Why did chewing plain chicken breasts start to taste like bouncy balls after a while? 

Piercing the layer of white meat with the pointy ends of my utensil, I contemplated skipping the whole eating healthy thing today. I mean, was I really cut out for this kind of life?

The more I played with my food, the more Mags seemed to be interested in what the heck I was doing. I hadn't told them my decision yet. 

You know, that crazy one from the other day. 

The one where I thought for almost 3 seconds I was the person with the right constitution for this kind of discipline.

My mom and sister had been on me for days. They were proud, of course, but the amount of attention from my mother alone would be enough to send a kid to the crazy house. She's packed my lunch for a week, and has made arrangements at the house with the cooks for special dinners just for me that would be inside of my calorie range. 

She's seriously gone like Jillian Michaels on me. 

Well, really more like Bob Harper, since he was the nice one. 

And when it comes to Ava, geesh, I don't think that Ava and I have ever texted this much. It's nice, but weird, since most of her questions were about what I was eating and what exercises I needed to be doing instead of just conversation. I tried to sneak some questions about her day in there every once in a while, but Ava is definitely a cut to the chase kind of person. She doesn't add frills where they aren't needed.

Turning my attention the green salad that was even more neglected than the chicken, I picked through for all the tiny pieces of cranberries that my mom had graciously allowed me to have today. Gosh. 

What I needed was motivation! Weren't there stories online somewhere that I could read about high school kids starving themselves to death for weeks, but eventually the stress was worth it because the quality of their life was forever changed? 

Or like a story where a girl like me that had never owned a bikini had dropped a ton of weight and had finally bought her first bikini and some photographer does like a charity shoot with her to help other obese kids in the neighborhood? 

Anything?

Swiping through my IG, I started searching through hashtags. What would be relevant to me... #weightloss.. #weightlossjourney.. #obesetobeauty.. #makeover.. OK, maybe not #makeover. I just get overwhelmed by the amount of steps it takes to be beautiful these days. 

I stopped. When was the last time I even bought a mascara? I blinked slowly, trying to conjure up the sensation of painted lashes. I think they made my eyelids feel heavy last time. Maybe that's why I didn't like it.

Mags craned her neck around my arm to see with what I was so entranced. "What are you looking at? Dang, she's pretty." 

I blinked at her. "Huh?" 

She pointed at a picture of tall fit blonde holding up a pair of 3x leggings. Her finger was on one of those progress pictures where they were showing you where the person started to where she had landed. There was a hashtag #workinprogress tagged at the bottom. "Oh, yeah. I'm just doing some...research." I'm going to have to tell them. Really it'd be better that I do it now so they don't think I'm a deranged psychopath when the hunger finally sets in.

Pushing my still full plate to the side, I clear my throat, feeling the need to place my arms on the table in a way that truly marks the beginning of an impressive speech. Codie looked up from her fries, eyeballing me with acute curiosity. 

Drawing in a deep breath, I began. "Ya'll. I have an announcement to make." I had their full attention now. 

"Opie, are you dying? You've been acting weird for days now. You're not eating, I'm getting worried--"

"NO!" I cut Mags off before she could run away with the dramatics. Gosh, I didn't think that this would be so hard. Groaning, and smiling, through barred teeth I told them, "I'm on a diet to...lose weight. And get healthy."

I swear there was a cricket band playing in the background for a solid minute before anybody said anything.  

Swiveling my head between them, I could feel my eyebrows wiggling up. "So? What do you guys think?" Mags was the first one to start. Codie still had about 5 fries in her mouth, the ends of 3 of them poking through her slightly agape lips. 

"Ophelia. Uhm, I guess I think that I'm proud of you," she ventured. Her voice kind of took a high note on that last word. "I'm concerned that perhaps your mom has pushed you into this."

"Ah. Well, here's the biggest surprise then. I was the one that came up with the idea." I knew this was going to throw them off. You see, I've never been one of those chubby girls that was hugely verbal about my weight. I've generally shrugged it off as something that was wildly outside the realm of my control. 

Honestly, I was more apt to ignore it, in the hopes that everybody else followed suit. I mean, it hasn't been working up to this point, with Bethany and all. But girls can dream! 

Reality would dictate that it had been my mother to force this on me. Every time my friends are over, as pleasant as my mother is, she finds ways to really highlight the differences between me and my peers.

It's nothing horrible. It's mostly just stuff like, "Wow, Codie! You're looking so trim these days. Have you ever thought of coaching? Opie, what do you think? Would you be interested in Codie coaching you and helping with a fitness routine?" I got used to those kinds of questions after a while. It wasn't that big a deal. But for people like Codie, who were put on the spot, it could be a little awkward sometimes.

"YOU decided to do it?!" Pieces of fry were spitting out of Codie's mouth. Smacking her hand on the table, she shot me a look of pure adoration. "Hot dogs, O. I'm really proud of you. What are you doing to keep up with everything?" 

I started with the conversation I had with my mom and Ava, about being so self-aware the past weeks, and how for some reason it just felt like time. Mags wrapped her arm around mine, her small hands rubbing in a circular pattern. "This is a big deal, Opie. I just want you to know that I support you. If you need me to go running with you or whatever, you know I totally will. Hey! You could come to yoga and meditation with me!"  

I grimaced at the thought. "Thanks, Mags, but I think I'll pass on the yoga for now." The thought of my extremely IN-flexible self trying to roll around on the ground in front of a group of people was just not appealing. "Running, however, that might be an interesting idea."

They chatted on for the rest of lunch with me, talking about how great this was that I had come to this decision on my own, and how cool that I was taking charge of my life. They truly amaze me as friends. I don't think they get much better than these two. And for real, their approval means everything to me. This whole journey, I can be confident because my two best friends are at my side. That's something to smile about.

The bell begins to ding through the airwaves, prompting us to get a move on. I packed up my lunch tote and grabbed my bag. Advanced History is next on my agenda. It's the class that requires two tons worth of books, and has an even heavier workload to it. 

Our teacher, Mrs Davies, was about as accommodating as Stalin. She had a way of taking the fun of learning out of everything. You thought the sixties were cool? Not anymore. Want to talk about the interesting dynamics of WWII? Not with her in the room. I've never met someone who makes history come across as the burden of humanity. Like, can't we just be glad that we are here to witness the growth of the Founding Fathers?

Claiming my usual seat, which is the 2nd row from the door, in the very back of the room, I read the headline on the board: "Class Annual Assignments assigned TODAY!!" 

Why did she feel the need to triple underline everything? Ugh.

I frowned. Didn't she already assign us the paper due at the end of the semester? Shuffling through my notes, and my syllabus, I don't see anything about the annual assignment. What the heck? Gosh could she just take a breather and let us get through this school year without the added notion of a mental breakdown?

Her Royal Highness flounced into class. Her horn-rimmed glasses perched precariously on her nose. She was a walking stereotype embodied by a 47-year-old woman, who was very obviously in the early stages of a midlife crisis. She moved like a Persian cat, sashaying like her hips would die if denied that arc of movement. 

Fluttering to the board, she cleared her throat, moving the scarf hung around her neck to a more delicate position. "Class," she started, sniffing her glasses higher upon her nose, "it has come to my attention that an assignment was missing from our school work list. I apologize for the confusion, so today the first part of our time we will spend discussing this project and all the minute details I expect from you. After all, you know my saying..." 

Rolling my eyes and head simultaneously, I bent to pick a pen out of my bag to start transcribing the tasks that were endlessly developing in front of me.

I should use my purple pen. At least if my notes are pretty I won't be so depressed. 

Slowly easing my way back into sitting position, so as to not make the chair creak, I caught myself looking for the back of Michael Morgan's head. He didn't pick the same seat every class like I did. He liked to float from seat to seat. And it was interesting, because it wasn't in the social butterfly kind of way. He truly rarely talked to anyone, much to the despondence of the entire single girl population of Kingsway High.

His dark brown wavy hair laid against his collar. He was sitting with a lean, with one hand propping his head while the other took down notes. He wrote about as fast as I did.  It was one of those things I had noticed when watching him. 

He was a curiosity to most, leaving so many unanswered questions. Girls in the locker room had tons to say about him, the rumor mill being full and alive where he was concerned. I overheard one girl say that he was here so that his dad could replace the current CEO at the chemical plant. A cheerleader on Ava's friends list had relayed that he was here because his mom thought he'd have a better chance at a sports scholarship. Another onlooker added that he was super quiet because he left a girlfriend back where he had moved from. I asked my dad about the current status of the CEO position, and he just patted my hand and told me not to worry about it.

What we all could agree on though was that Michael definitely came from money. He drove one of the nicest and newest Challengers in the parking lot. And moving vans had brought them into our neighborhood not too long after he arrived at school.

My family lived on one of the oldest streets in Kingsway. It was filled with old architecture and charm, with magnolia and dogwood trees lining the sidewalks. Most of our homes had been owned by the original political officers at the turn of the century, so most of our houses were the standard idea of mansions in the 1920's. There were gables upon gables, and huge columns on magnificent porches, and houses that were 2 and 3 stories, with ceiling to floor decorative windows, and intricate brick art that encompassed the period.

Our house was breathtaking, but Michael's house was...just wow. They moved in the one house that had a gated entrance. It's driveway wound up and around until you finally reached Rothberry Mansion. It stood impressively high in the sky, with sprawling grounds, and a semi-working estate. 

Gardeners attended to the landscape, architects and construction crews had been working in frenzy to complete a wing update on the east side, so we assumed. No one had been inside the house in ages, and now with new tenants, and one gorgeous son living inside, it was all people could do to keep from inviting themselves over. Even my mother had been affected by the changes, and had been hinting for a while that she needed Ava to get the scoop on the interiors and the residents.

I watched Michael move his broad shoulders back, pinching them before shaking his hand out. I knew the feeling, especially in this class. Mrs Davies never left anything out, and our notes from a single class would sometimes cover 5 back-to-back pages. She was one of the reasons I was determined to make short hand part of my daily life. 

I needed to get on that. 

Purple pen on paper, her voice trilled through the air. "You all know that the paper is due at the end of the semester with the list of subjects that have been approved for research. Whatever subject you chose and have turned in will also the basis for your project that will be due in May." I groaned. What? I had picked Andrew and Rachel Jackson; the state of their life was interesting, but what the heck kind of project was this turning into?

Mrs Davies continued, "Based on what you chose, you have been assigned a project partner. The list is on the wall in the back of the class." I turned around, scouring the wall for its contents. 

There was a single white sheet on the bulletin board. 

"In these handouts will be the outline for the project. You and you partner will prepare a mixed media presentation. PowerPoint is a great resource for something like this. Don't be afraid to shake things up. Make a movie. Write a skit. Paint a portrait of your figures. But also be prepared to show your research, and give a 5 minute introduction to whatever it is that you chose to do. I do not want a recap on your papers that your turning in. You should have enough information to give multiple points of view on this. I'll be grading content as well as delivery."

My eyes had to be as big as saucers at this point. I could only hope that I got one of the nicer girls in class. Surely I wouldn't be paired with Bethany. I looked around the class, making a mental lineup of who I could stomach doing this project with. 

My palms were sweating. 

What if it was a boy? 

What if it turned out to be Cole, the horrid boy bully/Bethany Cross' boyfriend? 

Oh, I think I'm going to be sick. I closed my eyes, pressing them together. Why was I so nauseous? 

"Take a minute to go look at the list and talk to your partner--" before Mrs Davies could finish the sentence twenty kids were already ahead of me, forming a mob around the bulletin board. Hi-fives were shared, some groans and shady looks were thrown. I moved forward into the throng, feeling like my knees were about to give out from underneath me. I placed my finger on the paper, trailing down the list until I saw my name. I traced the dotted line, moving across the paper to see who the holder of my future demise rested with.

I saw the name, and sucked in a sharp breath, only to hear that same breath echoed behind me. I turned around, face to face with my new project partner.

Michael Morgan stuck his hand out for me, his brown eyes shining with mischief. "Well, bud, I guess you're stuck with me again."

I think I'm going to sail to Bermuda tomorrow.