DISCLAIMER:
If the names sound familiar, Ann M. Martin/Scholastic owns them. If they don't...I do.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Set four years after Graduation Day, shortly after the oldest members' high school graduation.
CHAPTER ONE
NEW YORK. HORMONES. CURVACEOUS. EUPHEMISMS.
(STACEY)
Fat.
There. I said it.
(Wrote it. Whatever.)
Wait...hold that thought. There's got to be a better way to start this.
Okay. Last year, during the summer between my junior and senior years of high school, I came to terms with the fact that I was no longer skinny in a fitting room at Bloomingdale's...my favorite store in New York City.
So, I did what any normal seventeen-year-old girl would do. Well, maybe not exactly...I didn't go off the deep end and start starving myself or anything. (I couldn't, even if I wanted to.) I opted for the alternative...wearing my most flattering loose-fitting clothing and praying no one would notice.
But Dr. Werner did, at my appointment a few days later. (Dr. Werner and I see a lot of each other, and not exactly by choice.) At first, she didn't seem too concerned.
"Diabetic weight gain is fairly common for girls your age, Stacey," she assured me. Something about hormones and increased insulin resistance. I don't know. I guess I stopped listening. Or maybe her just words stopped registering. One of the two.
Okay...this is probably the place where I'm supposed to launch into some long, drawn-out textbook description of diabetes. But to be honest, I get pretty sick of explaining it all the time. (Besides, isn't that what Google's for?) Anyway, all that really matters is that she adjusted my insulin dosage, which was supposed to help.
So I waited. I armed myself with an arsenal of flattering words to complement my newly-expanded waistline. At the time, it seemed like a major step.
Fifteen pounds later, I crossed "curvaceous" off the list and made another appointment with Dr. Werner. She put me on something called Fortamet, which was also supposed to help.
The demise of "full-figured" coincided with the abrupt realization that absolutely everything in the Juniors department of Macy's was too tight.
More insulin. Less insulin. Up and down. Hit and miss. I hate diabetes.
Right. I think this is about where we left off. With our reluctant heroine struggling to button a pair of plus-sized capris. (Okay...so they weren't quite plus-sized, but they may as well have been. The other pair I tried on had an elastic waistband. I will absolutely die if I ever get to that point.)
"Well, so much for 'chubby'," I muttered as the button flew across the room.
And then, I started...giggling. Uncontrollably. I wondered if this was an early symptom of some sort of inevitable mental breakdown.
Trรจs suave, Stace. I wonder if straitjackets come in plus-sizes.
I've been hiding behind euphemisms.
There's no other way around it. I, Anastasia Elizabeth McGill, am fat.
I just re-read what I've written so far. I am also incredibly conceited.
Thirty pounds. I've gained thirty pounds this year. I'm acting like I've gained three hundred.
My blood sugar has been almost perfect for over a week. Dr. Werner doesn't think I'll gain any more weight.
Hmm. I wonder how quickly I can lose it...