It was one of those spring days that reintroduced recess as pleasant. Throughout the winter months, the thirty-five minute block extended opportunities constrained to swaddling ourselves in billowy parkas, cowering from the caustic wind, and attempting to fashion snow balls from polluted banks that were predominantly gravel. But on that late April day, the sun melted the bitter world with its refined rays. Sixty degrees was frigid by my summer standards, but five months spent in sub-zero temperatures had lowered my bar by a considerable amount. I had abandoned my jacket and opted for the tank top underneath. For a seventh grader, refusing to layer was the epitome of rebellion against my mother’s nagging. A breeze scented of mud and wood shavings wafted through my tousled curls. From my perch on top of the playground, I could observe a squirrel's’ nest in a nearby birch tree. My surroundings were momentarily abandoned as I tipped my face upwards to embrace the delicate sunlight. Chris’s shrill whisper shattered my bliss.

“Oh my god did you see Jamie’s shirt today?” she exclaimed, twirling the fuchsia streak in her hair around her pinky finger.

“Ehmagawd yeah,” Emily mirrored her tone. She seemed to mirror everything Chris did.

“My mom would never let me wear that,” Chris droned, tugging at her velour sweatpants. I fidgeted uneasily. In my opinion, Jamie’s scarlett tube top was cute.

“You could literally see her fat rolls,” Emily tittered.

“I know. It’s nasty. I mean I know I’m fat but at least I’m not gargantuan,” Chris marveled; she  often masked her insecurities with malicious jabs.

“I bet Syd would look so good in that,” Emily’s amber eyes fixated on me. “Oh my god! I wish I was as skinny as you.” I glanced down at my body. I had never considered myself as skinny. I had never considered myself at all. Weren’t all bodies the same? I giggled nervously, praying for the spotlight to settle on someone else. My friends’ scrutinous gazes were blistering.

“True,” Chris agreed, “Sydney, I wish I could look like you.”

***

That night, I examined myself in my toothpaste spattered bathroom mirror, hair damp and stringy from the shower, evaluating my anatomy for the first time in thirteen years. I guess I am pretty skinny, I resolved. I had hit a growth spurt that year, abandoning my baby fat for a more gangly figure. But does it matter what I look like? I enveloped myself in a fleecy towel, padded down the hall to my room, and flopped onto my pink quilt. After considering the ceiling broodingly for some time, I rolled over restlessly and flipped open a nearby teen magazine. I typically engaged solely in its quizzes, but today my gaze settled instead on its models. They were identical: tan, tall, and skinny. I traced my fingertips over the glossy pages. I want to look like them. Their faces were painted with smiles conveying utter fulfillment. I need to look like them.

“Time for dessert,” my mother called. I skipped down the stairs two at a time, the images of the models tattooed on my eyelids.

“How much ice cream do you want, Syd?” my mom asked, a scooper hovered over a carton of peppermint stick. The perfect girls floated across my stream of consciousness. Do models eat ice cream? I don’t think so. No, definitely not.

“No ice cream for me; I’m all full!”

***

I fidgeted in the unyielding plastic chair. I could barely remain collected for all my excitement. Our drama teacher cleared her throat, gripping in her hand the list of roles in our winter musical: You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. I had been anticipating this moment for weeks. Please let me be Snoopy. Oh, please, let me be Snoopy, I prayed. Mrs. Brackett droned on, appointing our parts in alphabetical order.

“Sydney: Snoopy,” she finally declared. I squealed with excitement. Chris leaned over to whisper in my ear.

“Oh my god. The ending is gonna be so cute,” she drawled.

“Why?” I inquired bemusedly. I hadn’t finished reading the script.

“When Charlie Brown carries you across the stage,” Chris giggled. My stomach plummeted. The boy playing Charlie Brown had been my crush since second grade.

“Does he have to pick me up?” I choked.

“Of course he does, silly,” she laughed dismissively, “Don’t worry, it’ll be fun.” An iron fist clenched around my heart, its grip tightening with every passing second. What if he thinks I’m heavy? Am I heavy? Will he tell everyone I’m fat?

***

A few hours later, I stood on my scale, observing the number emblazoned before me in disgust. We were starting rehearsals the next week. I needed to lose at least five pounds.

***

The following week comprised of new degrees of intolerance. I substituted my milk with water. I consumed only fruits and vegetables. I initailly attempted to keep my daily calorie intake below five-hundred, then three-hundred. No sugar. No carbs. No fat. I mounted the stainless steel scale several times a day, and as it reported every ounce I lost, I craved to shed even more. I had spiraled out of control. The play came and went, but I could still be skinnier. Every pound lost was validation. Every ounce gained was heart wrenching. The disease was self-inflicted, yet it was no longer under my regulation. I wanted to see my ribs. God forbid my thighs ever touched. I discarded the goal to resemble the models and replaced it with aspirations to appear even skinnier than them. My parents were not concerned; they chalked it up to puberty. My friends assured me that my slender figure was my best quality. Their compliments merely challenged me to lose more. My best trait was my worst enemy. My older sister was the single person who noticed. She posed pointed questions hinting that she understood my inner turmoil. I ignored her; this was battle best fought on my own. The war between my mind and my body progressed for over a year.

My sister died in October of eighth grade. For forty eight hours, I was in shock. I couldn’t chew, I couldn’t swallow, and even speaking was torturous. My parents were distressed, and took me to my pediatrician. I was reffered to therapist. I sat in my psychologist's office numbly for hours, until she taught me to feel again. After a week of searing emotional pain, I slowly began to heal. I learned to live without my sister. I gradually developed a healthy relationship with food. When my sister died, part of me died with her, but as I healed, part of me awakened. It was the part of me that baked cookies at midnight. It was the part of me that asked for extra butter on my movie-popcorn. It was the part of me that stuffed myself full of mashed potatoes at thanksgiving. I had despised that part of me since that day on the playground, but when my sister left this world, she gifted me a hunger to love it once more.