Teenage Waistland Read Free

nickname arising from “Far East” and my crazy Polish grandmother, who lived in our sunroom from the time I was a baby until she died six years ago. Grandma’s entire life orbited around her pills and me, her “little China doll”—yet another term of endearment that irritated my
Japanese
father. Though he’d grimace silently in Grandma’s presence, he always voiced his disdain when she wasn’t around.
    “ ‘Far East’ is an expression used to imply
foreignness
or
exoticness
in a derogatory way. Tell her again, write it on her hand if necessary. Annie is not Chinese, and she’s not from the Far East.” One time, Mom tried to gently explain that while her mother might be uninformed, she wasn’t racist. “Uninformed and racist? They’re the same thing!” Dad had said in the loudest voice I’d ever heard him use. “I won’t tolerate racism under my roof.” Then, in an even louder voice, Mom shouted, “The woman is in
diapers
, for heaven’s sake. How do you expect her to understand anything I explain to her?”
    Luckily, Dad’s moral objections were no match for Grandma’s Alzheimer’s, and “East” stuck. Had Grandma picked up on “Pacific Rim,” the politically correct term for East Asia, she might have nicknamed me Pacific and then the joke in school would be that I swallowed an entire ocean—or that my rear end is as wide as one. You don’t ever get used to being called names like “Beast” or “Feast,” but after a while, you learn to bear it. Maybe I just don’t care about being a reject. That’s why I’m not exactly jumping on my best friend Char’s latest harebrained scheme.
    Char’s had us on a zillion different diets and starvation plans over the past few years. Now she’s absolutely positive that our solution to weight loss is Lap-Band surgery. She was reading about it online when she saw the advertisement for this clinical trial in the city.
    “Totally meant to be,” she texted yesterday, along with the hyperlink. “We are so doing this!” Last night, Char called me with more of her latest research. “Asians have a significantly lower rate of obesity than the general population.”
    “Great. Not only am I an outcast at school,” I said, “I’m an outlier among my people. Thanks for the breaking news.”
    She snorted and probably rolled her amazing blue eyes like she usually does when I exasperate her. Char’s fat like me, except she’s beautiful.
    “You’re so negative! I’m gonna have to smack you,” Char replied. She’s not serious in general, but she’s very serious about this. (For the record, I’m negative about this and negative in general.)
    Char calls me the Black Shroud. “Hey, Your Shroudness,” she’ll call, “wanna go shrouding?” That’s going clothes shopping with me. She teases me that I could start my ownfashion line—Grim Reaper for Girls. Char’s always all out there with her big self in her bold colors, and I don’t understand how she does it. If it’s not black and baggy, I don’t feel comfortable.
    Looking back, I’m not sure if I grew into East or out of Annie—I just know I’ll never be an Annie again. “Annie” sounds too happy and optimistic. Not that I’m always miserable. A shroud is made of fabric, not cement. Sometimes I can completely de-focus on my body, like when Char and I delve into our favorite pig-out—Boylan’s black cherry soda and zeppoles from Mario’s. The fried dough and flavored soda tangoing on my tongue spins off a warm, happy
all’s right with the world
feeling. I exist for this feeling. Or maybe I should say, except for this feeling, I might not feel anything.
    Lap-Band surgery would mean no more zeppoles and no more Mickey D’s fries washed down with a Friendly’s mocha chip Fribble—although there’s only a handful of golden sticks left by the time we reach Friendly’s, three blocks down. No more cookie dough. No Nacho Cheese or Cool Ranch Doritos—we can inhale a party-sized bag