Perfectly Thin, page 6
One-hundred and twenty pounds makes my BMI nineteen-point-four. Which would put me in the normal weight range. I can’t go too far below that, because it means I’ll fall into the underweight category. Ugh, underweight. I’d hate to be looked at like I have an eating disorder or something. I’m already heavily judged for being fat, and have been all my life. As young as five. Who judges a kid at five for being overweight? Apparently, the ballet teacher.
Now that I know my perfect weight, I have to figure out the quickest route to get there. Obviously, cutting my calorie intake is the biggest thing. But I need to figure out which exercises I can do to burn this flab off, and fast. Let me research. Hmmm, I type in the search engine, how many calories does exercise burn.
I look down the page, and find something interesting. It shows three different weights, and how much they burn depending on a range of exercise. Third column shows someone who’s one-hundred and eighty-five pounds. Well that’s only three pounds more than me, I’ll use that column as my guide. Okay, if I can walk a mile in seventeen minutes, then I should burn one-hundred and seventy-five calories. But hang on, if I can jog for ten minutes, then that’ll burn about two-hundred and sixty-five calories. What if I walk for an hour, and do two ten minute jogs, one at the beginning and one at the end. That’s...hang on, I need my calculator. I bring up the calculator on my phone, and work it out. Alright, so, I can burn off seven hundred and five calories if I do that.
I scribble it on the notepad beside me.
And if I eat two apples a day, three cucumbers, and some lettuce, that should be enough to make the weight drop off me. Wait, how many calories is lettuce worth? I don’t want to put more in my mouth, than I’m burning. Yes, two cups of lettuce is under twenty calories. Perfect! I can do this. I’ll get a smoking hot body, and then no one will be able to say anything about me being fat anymore.
Holding my chin high, I pull my shoulders back and feel myself grinning. I’m so proud of me. I’m making a plan, and I’m going to stick to it.
I jump up out of bed with a new spring in my step, and head over to the mirror behind my door. I strip off my pajamas so I’m in my crop top and panties, grab my phone and take a picture of myself.
Yuck. Look at yourself, Jane. You’re horrible.
Your thighs touch, you have a pocket around your lower belly, you even have a shelf on your ass. Man, you could balance a vase on that ass. With flowers! My God, look how horrible I am.
The more I stare at myself, the quicker my mood falls into disgust. Why did I do this to myself? Why did I let myself get so revolting? My shoulders roll forward, and my chin lowers as I can’t even face my repulsive reflection any longer.
I won’t look at myself again, I refuse too. All I see is a gross, pudgy, ball of cellulite. I’ll wait until people start noticing, then maybe take an after picture. I don’t know. I doubt it.
I get changed into sweats and a t-shirt, and sit on my bed again. I write out my plan for food. Two apples, three cucumbers and two cups of lettuce for a total of two hundred and sixty-five calories. Exercise: one hour of walking, and two ten-minute bursts of jogging, that’ll burn a little over seven hundred calories.
I can do this.
I just need to be super disciplined. I’ll do it, because I’m sick and tired of being this fat and gross.
Well, Jane, no time like the present to start.
I start jogging on the spot. I’m keeping my knees high, and I’m focused on getting to ten minutes without stopping. Oh, you know what you should do, Jane? Get that picture of yourself printed, and keep on you at all times, then when you think about cheating, look at the picture. Yes, I’ll do that. I should put it on the fridge too, but if I do that, then everyone can see it. I don’t want Yiayia and Papou seeing me in my underwear. Ugh. A shiver runs over my spine at the thought. They’d probably vomit looking at their vulgar granddaughter. How are they not gagging now when they see me?
I look over to my alarm clock, damn it, only two minutes have lapsed. Keep it up, Jane. Legs should be higher. The more I do, the more calories I’ll burn. Oh, what if I take a longer route to school? The walk to school is about twenty minutes, so what if I make it at least half an hour in the morning, and half an hour in the afternoon? That’s more calories burned. Then, I can come home, have an apple, and go for a walk in the afternoon, along with the jogging. Yes, that can work. I can definitely do this.
I wonder how long it’ll take for the weight to come off. I should be looking really good for my eighteenth in three months. I want to rock a skin-tight dress. Ugh, I’ll still probably look like a heifer. A fat, ugly, cow. I can’t do anything about being ugly, but I can work on the being fat part. Maybe once I lose this weight, I won’t be ugly anymore either. Oh my God. I’ll be pretty, and skinny.
Six minutes down, with four minutes to go. I’m going to increase my water intake, too. I’ll drink at least ten cups a day. That should flush out the apples, cucumbers, and lettuce. It’ll keep my skin looking good, and it will help me feel full. Such a good idea.
I wonder what everyone will say when I have a smoking hot body? Carson will be falling over himself to date me, and I’ll show him the same respect he showed me. Maybe I’ll lead him on, tell him I’ll call him, and never do it. He’ll be throwing himself at me so he can date me. I’ll toy with his emotions, make him want me so bad, then humiliate him.
Nah, I couldn’t embarrass him. That’s not in my nature.
But I do want him to want me. I want him to want me so bad, he’d do nearly anything for it. And the only way I can do that, is by making myself skinny, and beautiful. And skinny will make me so damn beautiful.
Yes, ten minutes is over.
Jogging sprint one, over and done with. Now I’m sweating and dehydrated, and need a drink. I head out of my room into the kitchen to grab some water. I down two big glasses, and find myself quite full from that. I don’t even feel like having an apple. I’ll have one after I take a shower. Or maybe I’ll go back to bed, save the calories for later. Leaving the kitchen, I go to my bedroom, get a change of clothes, and go have a shower.
I know Mom and Yiayia will yell at me if I don’t eat dinner. And I don’t want them going off on me, so I come up with a feasible game plan. “Hey, Mom, what’s for dinner?”
“You’re better? Good to see. I’m making pasta with red sauce tonight, and garlic bread.”
“Yeah? How long will it be?”
“Maybe forty minutes.” She stirs the pot on the range.
“I’m a bit hungry, I might have an apple now.”
“Don’t eat too much, because you won’t have your dinner.” She gives me the Greek mother stink-eye. She’s fantastic at guilting me into things she wants done. She has a harsh ‘don’t mess with a Greek woman’ glare, that scares the crap out of me and usually forces me to do what she wants. But I have to stay strong.
“Nah, I won’t. It’s just an apple,” I say as I devour the apple. She’s going to start questioning why I’m not eating dinner. What can I say? I’m on a diet and the only thing I can have is two apples, three cucumbers, and two cups of lettuce a day? She’d be horrified. My mother is Greek! Honestly. Food is one of the most important things in Greek culture. Everyone comes together at the dinner table. We all talk about our day, and we air any problems or issues we have while consuming copious amounts of food. It’s just what we do.
Mom’s still glaring at me. “It’s just an apple.” I hold up the half-eaten apple, indicating that’s the only thing I’m going to eat.
“As long as that’s it.”
“It is.” I cross my hand over my heart. “I promise I’ll still have dinner.”
Mom lifts her brows and tsks at me. Great, now I’m going to have to eat something. That ruins my plans. Actually, maybe not. I eat my apple really fast, and run back to my room. Grabbing my phone, I sit on the side of my bed, and open the calorie app. Right, let’s see how much pasta and red sauce is worth in calories.
Jesus, one cup of pasta is over three hundred and thirty calories. One cup! Obviously, I can’t have a cup.
What have I eaten today?
I’ve had one apple that’s seventy calories. And I’ve had two cucumbers, that’s another seventy calories. Mom makes her own pasta sauce, so if I have no more than two tablespoons, that would probably be about eighty calories.
Okay, I’ll have one quarter of a cup of pasta, and two tablespoons of sauce and that should equate to about one hundred and eighty calories. I just won’t eat anything else, and have one cucumber less tomorrow, and I’ll be fine.
Should I do some sit-ups? Yes! I’ll do twenty sit-ups now. I sit on the floor, hook my feet under my bed for stability, and start doing sit-ups. I do the first one and my back is not happy with me, it’s twinging with an ache deep inside my muscles. “Suck it up,” I say to myself.
Two is a struggle.
Three is harder.
Four and I’m grunting as I come up.
Five and I’m done.
My mind screams at me to stop. And I scream back at it and tell it to shut the hell up. Beauty is pain. And I’m not going to be beautiful and skinny if I quit.
I push past the pain, and my stupid brain telling me I can’t do any more. My mind is killing me. It’s yelling and degrading me. You’re so fat, Jane, you can’t even do any more sit ups.
Why don’t you just go eat?
No one will ever want something like you.
Carson’s voice is taunting me, Jakayla’s is echoing. That horrible teacher is standing over me, laughing at me. Feeding your fat little body.
Fat little body.
Fat. Little. Body.
I burst into tears when I reach twenty, but through sheer determination, I push on and get to twenty-five.
“Fuck you!” I say when I reach the last sit-up. “Fuck you all.”
I lift my shaky hands and cover my sweaty face. Crying into them, I want to show them all. I’m going to be turning heads. They laugh at me because I’m fat? Well, watch out, because I’ll be the last one laughing.
“Hey, girl. You okay? You didn’t reply to any of my messages yesterday,” Emma says when I see her at school.
“Or mine.” Presley lifts her brows, unimpressed by my lack of communication.
“Yeah I’m good actually. I had a rotten headache yesterday, I felt like crap. So I stayed home.”
Presley crosses her arms in front of her chest and juts out her hip. She then uncrosses her arms and makes a circular motion with her finger signaling my face. “Something’s going on. You look really happy.”
Biting on the inside of my cheek, I pull my shoulders back proudly. “That’s because something’s changed in me.”
“Oh yeah, what? Spill,” Emma presses.
“She got laid.”
“No! I didn’t. And I’m not going to either. Not until I get to my goal. But I need help from both of you. It’s important to me that I have your support.”
Presley and Emma look at each other, their suspicious silence screaming loudly. “Yeah? What? We can help you hide the body, and we swear neither will ever give you up to authorities. We see nothing, we hear nothing,” Emma says.
They make me laugh. “I’m not killing anyone!”
“Oh, so Carson is still walking around then?” Presley asks with a dip in her tone.
“I don’t care about him anymore. He can say whatever to whomever he wants. What I need help with is this: I want to drop sixty-two pounds by my birthday in three months.”
“Sixty-two pounds? That’s massive.” Both Presley’s and Emma’s eyes bulge with excitement. “But if anyone can do it, you can,” Emma says. “What do you need us to do?”
“I need you to be supportive. If you see me eating something I shouldn’t, I need you to smack it out of my hands, and tell me to pull my head out of my ass.”
Presley and Emma laugh. “We will. But remember, it’s my birthday in three weeks, and you have to have a bit of my cake. Just a tiny bit. Pinky promise,” Emma says.
“I have to be strict with myself. So I’ll have a tiny bit, but please, don’t be offended if I don’t have a lot.”
Emma leans in and gives me a hug. “You’re gonna smash this. And I’m so happy to help you.”
She steps back, and Presley then gives me a hug. “I’m proud of you, Jane.” She steps back. “Are you exercising too, or just watching what you eat?”
“Both.”
“Yeah, what exercises will you be doing?”
“I’m walking to and from school. And I’ll go on an hour walk in the afternoon, with two bursts of jogging for ten minutes each. Last night I did sit-ups, so I might add those into my regimen too. Well, I will after my stomach recovers. My lower stomach is hurting like hell.”
“I’ll walk with you from your house to school if you want,” Presley offers. “I need to get my butt looking good, too.” She turns and waggles her bottom at us.
“You don’t have a butt, it’s flat,” Emma says and lightly smacks her on the bottom.
“Exactly! You see my problem. It’s flat. It needs some roundness.”
“I’ll be happy to give you some of my butt!” I offer and laugh.
“If only that’s how it really worked,” Presley says. “Then we’d all have the perfect shape we want. I just need a rounder butt, and I totally love my body. So does Mark,” Presley smiles sheepishly.
The bell rings, and we head off to class.
My mind is solely focused on the end goal of my diet and how good I’m going to look.
Walking over to our usual table in the cafeteria, I catch the conversation between two girls walking ahead of me. “Do you know who it is?” the blonde says to the brunette.
“No, I have no idea. But apparently, she had sex with him, and when he was finished, he took her panties as a trophy, then left her in the field before taking off back to his truck.”
What a horrible asshole, whoever he is. But then again, this could be a severe case of the game I used to play in elementary school, telephone.
“Yeah, apparently she’s some fat chick who actually thought he was into her.”
My heartbeat skips, and I feel my face burning. They can’t be talking about me, are they? We didn’t have sex.
“What an idiot. Why would someone fat think Carson Baker would be into her? Doesn’t she know he can have anyone he wants? Wouldn’t it be funny if it was a bet?”
I feel myself walking closer to the girls, wanting to know more.
“Would you go out with him if he asked?” the blonde asks.
“Hell yeah. I know what I’d have to do if he asked me, but I’d be okay with that. I’d be the envy of everyone at school. Even some of the guys would be so jealous that I’d hooked up with Carson.”
I break away from them, unable to stand how they think the sun shines out of Carson Baker’s ass. What a pig. If he’s telling everyone he had sex with me, and left me there, I swear, I’ll...I’ll... I don’t know what I’ll do.
I take my apple out of my bag, and look at it like it’s shit. I want to eat. I want to eat something more than a fucking apple. I need candy, and pizza, and popcorn, and cake. I want it all. The tears stinging my eyes are threatening to break through, but I concentrate hard to hold them back. I can’t have anyone thinking they’ve broken me.
“Hey, are you okay?” Presley asks as she sits beside me. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head, as I purse my lips together. A stupid tear escapes, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand. Sighing loudly, I take in a shaky breath while trying to contain the stupid tears.
“What the hell? Who do I have to beat up?” Emma says as she throws a punch into her hand. “You with me?” she asks Presley.
I stare down at my apple, as my shoulders sink forward. I open my mouth to speak, but I can feel my chin trembling. There’s a tightness in my chest as I try to compose myself enough to let Emma and Presley know what I heard. “Carson,” I whisper through a dry, scratchy throat.
“What did he do?” Presley asks, her tone eerie.
“I think...” I take another deep breath. “I think he told people he had sex with me, then left me in a field.” I shake my head again. “Why would he say that?”
“What? I haven’t heard anything about what happened to you,” Emma says. “Cross my heart. But I’m down to serve him a good ole’ fashion ass-whooping.”
“No, don’t. I just want to put all this behind me.” I look at my apple, suddenly turned off any kind of food. Two minutes ago, I wanted to binge eat, now I feel sick to my very core. My stomach is churning in knots, and I can barely focus on anything more than what the two girls were saying.
“Okay, no ass-whooping. Can I give him a few more laxatives though?” Emma asks.
“No, no more laxatives.”
“Trip him so he falls flat on his face and breaks his nose?”
“Nope.”
“Shaving cream his car?”
“No.” I shake my head.
“Steal his phone, and upload a totally embarrassing post on all his social media?”
Presley laughs. I shake my head.
Emma huffs in frustration. “Can I order one hundred pizzas and send them to his house?”
“No!” Her persistence has made me smile. “You can’t do any of that stuff.”
“Last one.” She holds her finger up as she smiles to herself. “The good old dog shit in a brown paper bag on fire?”
“I’ve never heard of this actually happening, only in eighties movies. And even then, those were bad eighties movies.”
“There’s always a call to revive the greats,” Emma comments sagely.
“I think Jane is saying a hard no to everything you’re offering, Emma.” Presley takes a huge bite of her sandwich.
“No fun,” Emma mumbles. “Can I at least let the air out of his tires?” she says in a smaller voice.
“And that would be a no, too. But at least you’ve made me smile.”
Emma looks over to the apple sitting on the table. “Lunch?” I nod. Picking it up, I start to nibble on it. I’m so hung up over what I heard; it’s controlling my every thought. It takes me back to every moment I’ve ever been shamed for my body.
