Sugar

by Deirdre Riordan Hall

I lean against the doorframe, heavy with the truth. I am always in the way. I’ve known this for as long as I can remember. I’m the fat Puerto Rican–Polish girl who doesn’t feel like she belongs in her skin, or anywhere else for that matter. I’ve always been too much and yet not enough.

For some reason, my size made me unwanted, a nuisance, and, specifically, about as desirable as accidentally touching a wad of chewed gum on the underside of a desk.

I know an invitation to a party will not change how everyone sees me. I’m Sugar. The fat girl. End of story.

My nerves instantly settle as I chew the soft cake and the sweet center lights up my tongue. It carries me away to a place where size doesn’t matter, boys don’t taunt me, and Twinkies are healthy, plentiful—they grow like lettuce—and everyone loves them and me.

I can barely see my hands as I wring them, wondering why no one, in either of those places—or anywhere really—likes me. What’s wrong with me? What’s missing inside of me?

I turn to him and smile, unable to help myself. “I’m sure it will be. Where are you going once it’s ready?” I ask. Even doesn’t answer right away. He gazes at me, and for a second I worry he looks through me, but no, it’s almost as if he’s looking into me, perhaps wondering if he should risk the answer. He stutters as he starts to speak again. “Everywhere. Anywhere.” He takes a breath. “You have some smile, Sugar,” he says sweetly. “And your hair . . .” He reaches out, his fingers trembling slightly as he glides them through to the ends. The hint of a rosy glow rises to his cheeks.

“Why are we always bumping into each other?” I ask, absently. “I don’t mind bumping into you,

I drive home elated, like I’m riding a magic carpet. I imagine this is the way normal girls feel when they have a crush and it’s mutual. But no, wait, that’s moving too fast. Way too fast. Even is maybe just becoming a friend. An actual friend. Nothing more.

“There it is again. I like to see that,” he says. “What?” I ask. “Your smile.”

I think about how all my life it’s felt like something is missing or broken inside me, too.

“You and I, we go together just like peanut butter and jelly, huh?” Even says,

“It’s for you. A shell like this one, beautiful to begin with, can get cracked and slivered, and then time, the tides, maybe even the wind, tumble and toss it, and it becomes something new, a perfect version of itself.”

“You’ve got it. From that smile, to your careful listening, to your courage.” He smirks and gathers my hair, whipping in the wind, out of my face, letting his fingers loop it by my shoulder. “You’re a beautiful person, Shoog. Don’t let anyone, not even the people you think you’re supposed to trust, tell you different.”

we’re all so bored with our lives that when something comes along that’s different from the usual, we battle against it, just to be contrary.

“Sugar, I see a beautiful, creative, and intelligent girl. Yes, I see what you look like on the outside, and it isn’t what little girls growing up see in magazines or movies or what girls like Hillary and Allie look like either, but if we all looked just alike or worse, acted alike, this world would be a boring place. You’ve got curves. But all of you makes you who you are, and I like that girl. In fact, you’re my favorite person in the world. You have confidence in there, but sometimes I think you just misplace it.”

my fat does not make me who I am. This layer of extra flesh hides the real me, even from myself. It conceals emotion and truth.

I turn to leave, but he takes my wrist and pulls me into a hug. I return with a tight I-never-want-to-let-you-go kind of hug.

“I feel sorry for all of you if your idea of humor is insulting the way someone looks.

Yeah, I may be different, but in addition to my pity, you also deserve my gratitude. Going on four years, you have all done a solid job of teaching me who I am, but it’s not who you think. I’m a good person, and I am going to do great things.”

there was nothing I could do to change myself that would change the way they treated me.

When I look up, the girl in the reflection is radiant. That girl is me. There’s a discarded tube of lipstick lying on the sink against the wall. I open it. It’s bright pink. I ignore the germ factor and apply it, rubbing my lips together. I lean into the mirror and kiss it. “You are beautiful,” I say. Next to my lip stain, I write, “Love, Sugar.”

I’ve decided that size does and does not matter. I didn’t have to lose weight to grow as a person