Big Summer

by Jennifer Weiner

Fat women attracted a special kind of trolling. There were people who were revolted by your body and took every opportunity to tell you so, and the people whose disgust came disguised as concern: Don’t you worry about your health? Don’t you care?

a little victory over the voice that had lived in my head since I was six years old, telling me I was fat, disgusting, unworthy of love, unworthy of friendship, unworthy of existing in public, even of walking outside; that a girl who looked like me did not deserve to have fun.

In space, nobody could hear you scream; on the Internet, nobody could tell if you were lying.

“Hey,” he said, very softly. “Hey,” I whispered back.

A nondescript Toyota stopped in front of the garage. The front door opened, and Darshini Shah emerged.

“The girl from last night. The one talking with Mr. Cavanaugh. That was her.”