Page 45 of Bewitch

“Have to be careful if she were on top of you. She just might smother you to death,” yet another guy says.

They all laugh cruelly.

“Nice to meet you, Willie Stroker,” I say to the jock.

“Whatever, Charity Case.”

I curl my fingers into a fist. Not that I would ever swing at anyone, but I’m desperate to stand up for myself. I’m tired of being the butt of jokes.

“You need to let me through,” I say, and I start to go forward.

But a girl steps between me and the jock before I can even step to the side around him. “You need to learn that the world won’t stop for you to eat more than your fair share,” she says.

“I could chew you up and spit it out,” I say.

“Right. Sure.” She rolls her eyes.

I try to go around her, but she sticks out her foot, tripping me, and I’m knocked down again.

The crowd all laughs.

“Stay down, dog,” a guy says, shoving a hand on my backpack. Probably right on my bananas too.

Tears burn my eyes, and I just stay there on all fours until they finally leave. Only then do I stand, and I hesitate, turning back the way I came. I could return to the dorm room and cry and wallow in self-pity and binge. I’m not going to lie. The thought has a certain appeal to it. Chocolate especially. Maybe ice cream. I haven’t had ice cream in a long time.

Lucas calling me Fattie doesn’t bother me, not like it used to. Being called Pig, Kenya Swallow, and Charity Case all sting so much worse. Why should I binge, though? That would ultimately be putting lemon juice on a paper cut. Bingeing might taste good, but the way I would feel after…

Even though I’m late for class, I go. My eyes are probably red, but I don’t cry, and the teacher takes one look at me, nods, and continues teaching. My concentration is shot for the first half of class, but finally, I get my head out of my class, and I open my bookbag. Somehow, only one of the bananas was smashed, and I shift it over to take out a backup copybook. Thank God I forgot my laptop. My bookbag hadn’t hit the ground, but still, I’m glad it hadn’t been jarred.

I write notes by hand, and it almost feels good not to type. It’s back to being hard to concentrate again as I try to come up with new ideas for foods that will be good to eat. Yes, food is ruling my life in a way, but at least, I’m making an effort to get in my protein. I won’t let this set me back. If anything, I’ll try to use this as motivation to do better, to lose weight, to become stronger.

Yes. Strong over skinny.

Strong in mind and body.

And spirit.

I got this. I have to believe that. If not, I risk losing all of the hard work I’ve been putting in for how long now? Weeks. Not all that long in the grand scheme of things, but this is a process. It’s my now and my future. I won’t go backward. I won’t sabotage myself.

But when I leave the classroom, down the hall, I see that jock asshole. Our gazes meet, and I look away. He won’t recognize me. It’ll be fine.

“Charity Case!” he calls, his voice booming.

I grit my teeth and turn away.

“Look at that coward go! She can barely walk. Do you think she hurt herself when she fell?”

“Maybe she needs to be put down like a lame horse,” someone else says.

Tears burn my eyes, and I swallow hard past a lump in my throat. What the hell? I hadn’t been bullied all that much in high school. I know kids can be assholes, but we’re in college now. Grow the fuck up.

A part of me wants to turn around and face them and say exactly what I’m thinking, but why bother? They would just see the tears in my eyes and mock me to my face. Best to ignore them. Ignore and avoid.

And change out of my clothes. Maybe if I do that, they won’t recognize me by sight.

So I hurry back to my dorm, but I can only go so fast because I hadn’t realized it before, but one of my ankles is hurting me, and by the time I reach my dorm room, I’m limping.

Fuck my life.

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