Figures by Sophie Grossman

Raw almonds, ¼ cup

Raw cantaloupe, 1 cup

Steamed broccoli, 1/2 cup

Cheetos, 1 bag

Turned to internet last night, despite better judgment. Didn’t know what else to do, have been trying to get less fat for months now and feel that, despite best efforts, am actually getting fatter. Scrolled past 10 Tips for Burning Belly Fat FAST FAST FAST, for am aware that clicking such a thing would inflict virus upon enormous, blocky fossil of laptop solemnly bequeathed by Lyle, now in college in Massachusetts and in possession of Macbook Air. Asked Mother for Macbook Air, was told no, Lyle needs Macbook Air because good at math and consequently at very prestigious college in Massachusetts, meanwhile you? Currently failing math. Was not interested, either, in learning why Doctors Hate Him for This One Simple Trick, because would not like much to be hated by doctors. Don’t want to be hated by anyone, kind of whole point of this endeavor.

So internet recommends keeping diary, which is funny, because squat, beige child-and-family therapist am forced to visit biweekly at squat, beige office block at end of blustery cul-de-sac also recommends keeping diary. Therefore am suspicious of internet recommendation. Additionally, in order for journal to be really effective, article prescribes, in order for it to Burn Belly Fat FAST FAST FAST, must note how many calories in everything and do some “quick math.” Suspicion deepens at sight of this phrase. Convinced, after forced to repeat pre-calc this year, there is no such thing. But am desperate. Will try anything.

Raw almonds, ¼ cup

Chicken breast, cooked, cut into small pieces, mostly slipped to Daisy, who is

waiting under table with head in lap, drooling on knee, 1

Goldfish, 1 smallish handful

Have informed Mother of endeavor to become smaller. She approves. Tells me about time she did Weight Watchers after having Lyle and lost thirty-five pounds. Gained it all back, of course, thanks to someone, she says, with wink that one can only assume intended to be funny. She pulls up Weight Watchers website. In big pink letters: It’s scientifically proven! Tracking is the biggest predictor of weight loss, because it takes you from eating on autopilot to eating with awareness.

Bummer, she says, yelling over violent drone of vacuum, which she has switched on during conversation for some reason, because apparently vacuuming cannot wait for two minutes from now when conversation has ended, that Weight Watchers does not allow under-eighteens. You will, she shouts, just have to be your own Weight Watcher for the time being. 

Raw almonds, ¼ cup

Apple, 1

Ham and cheese sandwich, 3 bites

Mint gum, 1 stick

Eating with “awareness”? Hard to say. Still feel “autopilot” more fitting description, generally speaking. Open locker, take books out. Pick at sandwich in cafeteria, pick at face and at cuticles and at eyebrows and at eyelashes, pick pick pick, try not to pick, pick pick pick while laughing absently at unlistened-to joke. It’s on account of the picking that am forced to see squat and beige child-and-family therapist. Well, there’s the other thing, too, but therapist has bright idea that picking has to do with other thing. Therapists are always trying to say something is really about something else, when really, sometimes, it’s just about itself. And picking thing started way before other thing, anyway. Was picking thing that made Mother put foot down and decree biweekly visits to child-and-family therapist, however. She’d say it’s because of other thing, because a child needs help understanding feelings at a time like this, but no. It’s due to picking thing making me ugly, thinning out eyelashes and eyebrows, making cuticles swell up like blisters in need of lancing, and Mother felt intervention necessary before conventional attractiveness utterly beyond repair. So, anyways, pick at lunch and pick at lunch. Put books in, close locker. Take bus home. Ignore man sitting across aisle muttering about stupid sluts. Don’t make eye contact. See his fingernails are bloody, while getting off bus. Maybe he has the picking thing, too. 

Raw almonds, ¼ cup

Salmon, ¼ cup 

Rice, ¼ cup

M&Ms, red, 10 

Have not written past few days because have been busy pretending to study for precalc test. Finals coming up, and have feeling will give encore of last year’s performance and fail precalc in spectacular fashion. Don’t care. Dad was the one who cared about grades, anyway.

Therapist has bright new idea. Squat little body seems too small to bear weight of so many bright ideas, but good to know there is still wonder in this world, that some walk among us capable of miracles. Bright new idea is peer support group. So now required to go, once a week, to old house that smells of soup cans and dog hair, and sit on bean bag or Crazy Creek or other alternative to normal chair that indicates, hey, we’re casual and laid back here, we know what kind of stuff you kids like to sit on, make yourselves right at home. Christ. 

They always have food at these things, at least, boy slumped resignedly on bean bag next to me says. Offers me bag of M&Ms. Sort them by color in lap to avoid eating while everyone goes around circle, talks about how much it sucks that our dads are dead, etc. My sister does the same thing, boy next to me says. She only likes the red ones. I eat the red ones.

Raw spinach, 1 cup

Hard boiled egg, 1

Peanut butter, smooth, spread thin on unsalted rice cake, 1 tablespoon 

Marshmallows, 1 bag

Beer, quantity unknown

Mother out of town, said ok to have friends over while she’s gone, in uncharacteristically cool move. Gone to see new boyfriend, guilty conscience possibly explains coolness. Thinks she’s kept him secret, but not secret for literally most horrible reason ever. About a month ago, went up to Mother’s bathroom to look for floss, and found on floor, get this, used condom.

First of all, why does Mother even need condom, definitely postmenopausal? Thought she could be having casual sex too terrible to contemplate, and also she has always been clear on point that women who have casual sex get what’s coming to them, though what, exactly, is coming to them? STDs? Less clear. Secondly, why in middle of bathroom floor like wet shed snakeskin, why, god? Daisy must have enterprisingly fished out of garbage. Vile. So, anyways, new boyfriend not a secret. 

Paige and Hazel come over. Paige doesn’t keep food diary, instead prefers to eat whatever she wants and throw it up later. Very Catholic of her. Seems a little extreme, in my opinion, but can respect sincere devotion to the cause. Hazel plugs ears and goes la-la-la, talk about melodramatic, whenever calories discussed, because her mother is a wiccan who wears shawls and has taught her to have “loving” relationship to body. Paige does masturbation joke whenever “loving” relationship to body is mentioned, Hazel’s neck grows red and splotchy. Paige brought three beers and Kaluha, of great note because “hard” alcohol uncharted territory. Discuss whether sugar in Kaluha fair trade-off for drunkenness. Hazel says worrying so much about a little sugar unhealthier than just eating it. Paige tells Hazel she’s lucky, can have it all to herself, but in, like, a mean way, and Hazel says no thanks. Drink beers on back porch in silence, Kaluha sits on white granite countertop like bowling pin.

Some boys Paige knows from wakeboarding camp (must scrounge up boys through creative means, such as pretending to enjoy watersports, due to attending all-girls Catholic school) want to meet at pool. Gated community have moved to with Mother has pool, one of only good things about leaving old house, which perched on edge of ravine among swaying cheatgrass and pine trees, thirty minutes outside town. This new situation safer for two women living alone, Mother says, two women alone cannot live on edge of ravine, and besides, old house was heated with wood stove. And who has time to split own firewood, this day and age? Are you going to split firewood, now that Dad and Lyle not around to do it? No, she didn’t think so, so better stop complaining. Her voice turns high and thin, then, broken glass voice, and she doesn’t come out of room rest of night except to fetch chardonnay from fridge. 

Hazel, predictable, does not want to go to pool. Did not bring bathing suit. She can borrow one of yours, Paige says. Paige brought two, but extra will be too small for Hazel. Me and Hazel look at each other like hm, Paige sure is being a bitch tonight, isn’t she, but let’s cut her some slack on account of parents’ recent divorce, and it’s agreed. We go to pool, have to climb over fence onto roof of shed, shimmy down drainpipe , because pool is closed after 9PM. Hazel, predictable again, bangs knee on drainpipe, probably would cry if boys not already here. But boys are here, and have brought additional beer, a thirty rack, someone says, which phrase brings to mind, mournfully, bra size, 30B. One of boys, surprise, is boy from peer support group. Name is Miles, apparently, didn’t remember. Remembers my name, though, and remembers M&M thing, too. Paige looks at me like that’s cheating, you got a head start by already knowing one of them and I was supposed to be one with the head start. Give her a look like Paige, considering Miles only known due to dead dad thing, perhaps you can cut some slack, here, especially in light of slack cut earlier re bathing suit remark, and she relents, hands me beer in gesture of peace.

Everyone else wants to go in pool, slices into green water like seals. Not me. Too cold, always too cold, and chlorine makes picked cuticles sting. Miles sits too. Doesn’t want to swim, he says, on account of dad dying by drowning. Really? No, he says, but whenever I don’t want to do something I say on account of dad dying. Figure I have a couple more years of mileage on this one, heck, maybe longer. 

He’s smart, not like most people, but still, something soft and bewildered about him, reminds me of look Daisy gives when I crank arm back and pretend to throw sopping tennis ball into field behind house and she turns to gold streak but eventually slows, swings head around, gives me expression like look, I don’t know what just happened, but I don’t think I approve. He grew up believing in god, doesn’t anymore, but still says things like heck. Start feeling pretty soft and bewildered myself, on account of beer, and also general lack of anything in stomach besides beer.

Paige is gone, one of the boys is gone. You do the math. Hazel says she wants to go home. Apparently not interested in being gone with third boy, and don’t blame her. Boy in question making unfortunate noises with armpit now, to own hilarity only, and Hazel shivers, hair clinging to shoulders in ratty ringlets. We all leave, climb up drainpipe onto shed to get to other side of fence. Am last one on roof, suddenly look down and feel like plug has been pulled in brain and am being sucked down and out in dirty wash water swirl. Realize have exceeded own expectations, where drunkenness concerned. Miles has to climb back up to help. Wonder what it would feel like to step off edge of roof. But not in suicidal way. Just in that hmm, what if? kind of way. Sometimes feel this way on the bus, like hmm, wonder what would happen if pulled stranger’s pants down right now, even though don’t want to pull stranger’s pants down right now at all! Must just be brain trying to shock me awake, though from what? Don’t know.

Boys wave goodbye from edge of lawn. We floss, laugh, sit on couch and rub our faces with smooth green stone Hazel’s mother says good for inflammation. Daisy wedges self between us on couch, paws twitch with dreams of running through cheatgrass and pine trees. Feel, deep in heart, something solid curl up and settle, like cat in patch of sunlight. 

Woken in blackest part of night by Paige banging on front window. Daisy growls. Hazel screams. We have intention of being annoyed at Paige, maybe a little mean, but ill intent gone once clear there’s vomit on shirt and has been crying. Hard to be mad at someone with vomit on shirt. 

Raw almonds, ¼ cup 

Orange, peeled, 1

Medium-rare steak, quantity unknown

Snails, broiled in butter, 3

One thing still struggling with, in terms of food diary, is numbers thing. Not sure how to know how much of something is there just by looking. One time when young, local library held jelly bean guessing competition. Big jar of jelly beans sat on circulation desk for two weeks next to grouchy librarian whose wrist always in fleshy brace on account of carpal tunnel, and kids wrote guesses for how many jelly beans in jar on little jelly bean-shaped notecards and dropped them in basket. At end of week, kid with closest guess got to take home jar. Not me, goes without saying. Was born without part of brain responsible for looking at jar and knowing how many jelly beans in it, am convinced. Could be two jelly beans, could be two hundred, same difference. Except more difference than same, when it comes to actually eating jelly beans. Very big difference in terms of outcome for thighs. Maybe problem with getting fatter related to problems with math. Maybe, if could only figure better, figure would be better. Or maybe not. Suddenly remember Lyle was the one who won that contest, who took home jar, and Mother threw it away because she hates having candy in the house, and Lyle cried, Lyle who is good at math and is so far away.

Mother is home, takes us out to dinner at French place she likes downtown, by the river. Time for big reveal, can sense it in way she taps foot against ground in anticipation, whips glasses on and off nose while glancing down at menu even though she will order caesar salad, dressing on side, preordained as change of seasons. Finally, tells me about new boyfriend, says it in weird sideways manner people have when talking about these things, says I’ve met someone, instead of just saying, for example, have new boyfriend, am having safe sexual intercourse with him, that’s all. She says name is Brett and though she likes Brett very much, Brett will never be replacement for Dad in your life and I say well duh, thank you, Mother, for clarifying that Brett, who have not even met yet, will never be replacement for Dad in my life, would have been confused otherwise, so thanks for that. You’re being awfully snarly, she says, are you menstruating? Except when she says word menstruating, voice stretches so low and thin practically disappears, on account of people around us forking snails and pinching bits of bread, and impolite to force neighbors to contemplate menstruation whilst forking snails. 

Pick pick pick. Study plate. Pick pick pick. Study plate the way people study stars, flight paths of birds, entrails of small mammals, as if will yield some sign of future, as if will take away from now. Mother asks how diet is coming, if food diary helping. Asks how therapy is coming, if peer support group in soup-can-smelling house helping. I saw you, she says, talking to that boy when I picked you up yesterday. He seems nice. His father died by drowning, I say.

We get home, I take Daisy on walk around gated community. Nowhere to throw ball for her here, nowhere for her to turn to gold streak in this narrow place. Could take her out to cheatgrass fields, thirty minutes outside town near old house. But would have to borrow car, meaning would have to petition Mother, who has already retreated to bedroom with chardonnay. Sometimes feel Daisy is only real family. Ugh. Annoyed at self, having written such cliché thing, such teen thing. Annoyed whenever write thing so obviously out of can, so to speak, that saw on tv or read in book and am now trying to force life into shape of, like too-fat thigh into too-small jean. Why do I want life to fit into can, anyway? Why do I want thigh to fit into jean? Wish I could say things like they really are.

Raw almonds, ¼ cup

Celery, 5 sticks , plus peanut butter, plus raisins on top, prepared by Mother 

Diet Pepsi (cherry) with ice, 1

Mother has read article online about surge in teen eating disorders due to climate change, or maybe that was two different articles, but either way would like me to know she is concerned about my eating, or lack thereof, actually. Well which is it, Mother, because you used to say you were concerned about my eating, not lack thereof, used to stand with me in Burger King parking lot on road trip to Death Valley and tell me you should really order salad, dressing on the side, preordained as change of seasons. Lyle is different, anything he eats will become his height, his fuel, his power, anything you eat, I eat, well, it’s different for us girls. You used to say you’re built like me, wide-hipped big-boned, you have to be careful. So am being careful. Am writing it all down. Mother doesn’t remember trip to Death Valley, surprise surprise, or rather, remembers trip to Death Valley but does not recall Burger King parking lot incident. I would never, she says, take you kids to Burger King. 

She makes ants on a log, disgusting invention of sadistic mind. If trying to cure teen of alleged eating disorder, let it be known, ants on a log not way to go about it. Manage to slip ants to Daisy, am forced to eat celery plus peanut butter under watchful gaze of Mother. It is good, she says, to keep an eye on these things. It is responsible to eat with awareness. But it’s possible, she says, to take things too far, you know? Awareness can eat you, if not careful. 

Paige calls, wants to see movie. Hazel not invited, on account of mother does not allow her to quote passively consume anesthetizing media unquote. Miles and friend from other night, minus armpit virtuoso, meet us at theater. Boys are seventeen, will be emissaries to ticket counter because film is Rated R. Stand at soda fountain sipping diet Pepsi, watch boys buy tickets, while Paige thumbs boxes of candy. I thought Miles’ friend was a jerk, I say, I thought he, well he didn’t, she says, we both just got too drunk. Ok, I say, and we enter darkness. Miles brought snacks in backpack, including little baggie of, what else, M&Ms. Hard to tell in dark, but I know. All red. I eat them, smiling.

Halfway through, phone starts buzzing in pocket. Buzz buzz buzz. Ignore at first. Buzz buzz buzz. Won’t stop. Think about turning off, Miles has put hand on my knee, seems promising, but see that it is Mother. She never calls more than once. Except that one time. Have feeling, suddenly, of limb falling asleep, but spreading through whole body. Emerge into brightness and world, for moment, shimmers like hot blacktop. Answer. Mother needs me to bring car home now. Daisy won’t stop throwing up, needs to go to vet. Run four red lights on way home. Feel am dragging balloon self along ten feet behind body on long shiny ribbon, amazed do not snag and pop on passing tree branches. 

Daisy looks pretty bad. Panting, drooling, whining. Never seen a dog get dizzy before. Thought only people could get dizzy, like dizziness something exclusive to animals who shoot each other into space and make oil paintings, but turns out all it takes is sloshy brain in hard skull full of complicated tubing, and dogs have all that too. Mother in old flannel robe, hair in wild knot. Gray at roots, thinning around temples, she hasn’t been to salon in months. Carry Daisy out to car, hard elbows with leathery patches like a professor’s sweater poking at my chest, my belly, as we settle into backseat. Mother drives in old flannel robe, I stay in back with Daisy, stroking feathery ears. She hangs head in lap meekly, like baby bird, just like night we brought her home.

Was eight, Lyle twelve, both covered in mud from playing with puppies in paddock behind breeder’s ranch house. Night falling in purple hush over plains, cicadas drone. It is August. We both want to carry her in lap on ride home. Jostling, pinching, poking, in awe of trembling lump in Dad’s arms. Bundles us into car, puts puppy on seat between us. Can choose lap for herself, he says. Headlights slice through twilight air, carving path home, and puppy lays small head on my small knee, huddles close. I know then that this, being chosen, all that I will ever want.

24-hour emergency vet’s office smells like urine, milk-bones, inside of latex glove. At reception desk, man wearing leather vest, no shirt, hovers anxiously over thickly muscled rottweiler, muzzle drooping with porcupine quills. Woman in ranch boots, jeans so old they’re colorless, behind him holding cattle dog, gray and speckled like robin’s egg, jaw hanging off skull at sickening angle. Think he got kicked by bull, ranch woman tells receptionist. But when receptionist asks what’s the matter with Daisy, and we tell her about dizziness and throwing up and panting, and she asks what has Daisy eaten today, and Mother lists off usual kibble and treats and additionally a cube of cheese that was fed earlier in moment of weakness, but surely cube of cheese could not be behind all this. And I must confess. Just have to, because it’s Daisy, and this is all my fault.

I confess to slipping Daisy “ants” from “log,” and receptionist nods curtly, says she’s sending Daisy in to vet immediately, and man in leather vest and ranch woman look at us not with the hostility of people who have just been cut in line but sympathy of people who smell sour tang of misfortune and are grateful it’s not clinging to them.

A vet tech in faded pink scrubs lifts Daisy out of my arms. You’re a very brave girl, she says. I almost say thanks, awkwardly, because have heard it so many times from aunts, teachers, from my squat, beige child-and-family therapist, over past nine months, that I am expecting it, but I realize, sudden relief, she is talking to Daisy, brave Daisy. Mom and I sit in sticky plastic chairs under laminated poster of kitten in a teacup. I expect Mom to yell at me for feeding Daisy “ants.” Instead she holds my hand. Wedding band cold against my palm. The vet comes out, tells us they have to keep Daisy overnight. Probably, he says, she will be ok. Probably. Mom and I emerge into strip mall parking lot. Skies swirling with dust kicked up by distant tractors, sunset bloody red against curtain of dust. We go home. 

I’ve decided something. If Daisy ok, I won’t keep food diary anymore. This resolution feels silly, feels like superstitious promises I used to make to god when I still spelled it God. For example: If you make Lyle want to play instead of chasing me off whenever I creep into his room like stray cat, I will never be late turning in my math homework again. As another example: God, if you’d just nudge Mom in the direction of letting us get frozen yogurt after tennis practice today, maybe even topping it with some sprinkles instead of fruit(!), I will never yell at Dad again and throw my pencil across room when he tries to get me to do my math homework. Final example: God, if Dad gets better then I will finally pass precalc, God, I swear, etc. But food diary is what caused this in first place, and I want Daisy to be ok more than I want my thighs to fit into jeans, more than I want to pass precalc, more than anything. If Daisy ok, I’ll take her out to cheatgrass fields every day and I’ll stand outside under the sky while she runs.

Sophie Grossman is a journalist and emerging fiction writer. Her reporting on art, food, culture and labor issues has appeared in The Seattle Times, Eater Seattle, and Seattle Met magazine. She lives in a drafty Seattle craftsman that’s probably haunted.

26 September 2025