Starfish

by Lisa Fipps

To every kid who’s ever been told, “You’d be so pretty or handsome, if . . .” You ARE beautiful. Now. Just as you are. You deserve to be seen, to be heard, to take up room, to be noticed. So when the world tries to make you feel small, starfish!

every time I try to stand up for myself, the words get stuck in my throat like a giant glob of peanut butter. Besides, if they even listened, they’d just snap back, “If you don’t like being teased, lose weight.”

Some girls my age fill diaries with dreams and private thoughts. Mine has a list of Fat Girl Rules. You find out what these unspoken rules are when you break them— and suffer the consequences.

You don’t deserve to be seen or heard, to take up room, to be noticed. Make yourself small.

Fatdar is a lot like Spider-Man’s Spidey sense, a sixth sense. Somehow we just know when someone’s about to say something hurtful or do something mean. Even in a crowd, I can spot a fatphobe, someone who’s grossed out by overweight people. Fatphobes give off this vibe. Part discomfort. Part shock. Part fear. Part anger. And all hatred.

Fat Girl Rule: Move slowly so your fat doesn’t jiggle, drawing attention to your body.

Her tummy full, she circles three times before lying down and resting her chin on my feet under the breakfast table. Curled up and cozy, she soon starts snoring. She’s happy with her round body. Content. Comfortable. And no one bullies her because of it. Lucky dog.

A new article dangles from a refrigerator magnet: “Dairy Products Might Aid Weight Loss.” It slightly covers the other articles, including my fave: “Tips to Be a Real Loser.” Mom just loves hanging these articles on the fridge for me.

Dad looks at Anaïs and Liam. Both are wearing new clothes. I tug on the hem of my old button-down shirt, trying to make it longer. “No new clothes for Ellie?” Dad asks Mom. “She gained more weight this summer. I’m afraid if we keep buying her bigger clothes, she’ll just let herself get bigger.”

Dealing with my parents is like riding a teeter-totter nonstop. Dad promises me a shopping spree. Up I go. “Good luck finding anything she can wear.” Down I go. “We’ll do just fine without you.” Up I go.

It’s unknown how many students’ lives librarians have saved by welcoming loners at lunch.

Why aren’t kids allowed to tell grown-ups when they’re wrong?

At my size, shopping for clothes isn’t fun. I just want what everyone else my age wears, to blend in, since I already stand out. But it’s hardly ever in my size.

Mom always says, “You’d be so pretty” —and all the big girls in the world can finish this sentence in unison— “if you lost weight.”

Describe yourself without talking about your size.” I hug the pillow up higher, near my heart. “I can’t.”

“Mom’s always had all of these rules. Carbs are bad. Fat is bad. Snacks are bad. So I’ve always felt like food is bad and I’m bad for eating or wanting or enjoying or needing it.”

Say you’re ashamed of me, I think. Say you’re disgusted by me. Say you’ll never love me until I’m thin.

“So you hate looking at me so much you’re willing to chance me dying on an operating table or later from complications?”

“You’re out of control with your eating, with that little episode back there.” “And you’re a control freak. Inventorying food. Refusing to buy me clothes. Trying to bribe me. Or are we only allowed to talk about my flaws?”

“I’m trying to help!” “Yeah. By so-called ‘fixing me.’ Well, guess what? I’m not broken! And if I am, it’s because of you, not my weight.”

With the third appointment, the doctor just stares at my stomach. An octopus could be wrapped around my face and he wouldn’t see it. I almost moon him, to see if he’ll notice that, but my butt deserves better. I slam the door as I leave.

Doctors are like clothes. One size does not fit all. Not even close. So I try on yet another one.

“Want to know the number?” the nurse asks as she weighs me. I have a choice. Power. Rights. Finally. I shake my head. “Okay, then, step on backward.”

She talks all during the exam. “Let me just tell ya, I have sick patients of all sizes. I have healthy patients of all sizes.

I want to believe her, but I can’t trust her. She tries to hug me, but I jerk away. The hurt’s still too deep.

“I don’t feel like you love me, Mom.” Mom leans forward, starts to say something. I stop her. “No. You’ve said enough. This is my time to talk.”

“I have people in my life who love me, so I’ll be okay.” I smile at Dad. He reaches for his bandanna and dabs his eyes. I clear my throat to make sure Mom hears my final words. “And I’m learning to love me. The fat on my body never felt as heavy as your words on my heart.” I walk over to her and place in her hands a notebook full of all the ugly words she’s ever said to me. “It’s time for you to carry the weight.”

I deserve to be seen. To be noticed. To be heard. To be treated like a human. I starfish. There’s plenty of room for each and every one of us in the world.