I grab my daily Chobani from the fridge, a plastic spoon from the pantry, swatting the door shut behind me, snatch the granola from the other door, grab a handful and crumble it on my yogurt,
That chunk of granola is too big. I pick it out and split it in half, then drop it back in. Ooh. And that piece hasn’t touched yogurt yet; it’s innocent. I pick it out and put it back in the bag. Innocent.

I come home from school, walk down the hall, drop my bag, which is slowly starting to gain weight,

This granola is 210 calories per the half-cup. I think I only put in an eighth of a cup so what: that’s 50…52.5 calories? I’ll round up. 53.
slumping my back a little more each year. I grab the new bowl of grapes from the fridge, glossy, untouched, and bring it to the ratty old couch in the playroom, the basket weave legs snapping and wheezing as I plop down. The bowl is next to me and I open my math homework, textbook to the right, notebook to the left, as always (I’m a proud leftie). My right hand reaches mindlessly to my right to grab a grape. Looking up from my last problem,
Problem. I don’t have a problem, do I? No. I’m just maintaining my figure. When you don’t run, you don’t need to eat as much. That’s how it works. Right?

I look to my right. All that remains is one little clump of grapes and the stragglers on the bottom, just begging for attention. I laugh quietly to myself and bring the lightened

The bathroom lights hit my winter skin as I stand in front of the mirror, shirt lifted. My eyes don’t meet my own. They stare, eyebrows furrowed, at my stomach. I turn to the side. Inspect.

Hands grasp for fat

Damn. This yogurt is 2% fat. Another 30 calories. More fat.
I look at my stomach.

I roll whatever I can grasp between my small fingers

Rhianna your hands are grey. She’s looking at me, head slightly c***ed. My eyes look away. I fidget with my hands, twirling them in circles, circles. Yea wait they are. Circles circles circles they twirl.

Rolling rolling rolling. My small fingers grasp whatever they can, as if rolling it enough will make it roll away into the air, like fog on the sea,

I want that beach body. Everyone at camp had such flat stomachs. My stomach doesn’t look like that. Mine sticks out. Everyday at Lake

leaving a flat, smooth surface for the mouth to smile on.
I smiled as my girls wobbled into canoes and kayaks but kept my lips together looking at those flat stomachs, and feeling my own bowl

bowl to the fridge. My mom raises her eyebrows at me later that night at dinner, smirking. Rhianna it’s been one day.

Rhianna the family garbage can. Rhianna you can have more, it’s ok. There’s more in the bowl.

of a stomach stick out. Look, even my camper has abs. Hey and that one too. Wow she has a six-pack. I want a six-pack. I know thinking about it would always make me smile.

But my stomach is not a flat smooth sea to smile on. Oh no. I squeeze whatever I can grasp in my hands. No, this can not last.
Those grapes need to last the week, Rhianna. I flush, look down, smile.

Rhianna the family garbage can.

Can. Can I do it? Reach my goal? Yes. I think. With focus. To start, no more snacks.

But grapes are my favorite snack! Gentle laughter. We should start buying two bags a week. See if that gets her through. I smile, red cheeks.

I’m sweating a lot by now. It’s been 45 minutes. Only 15 minutes to go. I look at the clock. Ok. 11:55. Done by 12:10.

I’m at 1210. I should eat a lighter dinner. Or maybe I’ll bike tonight. Good idea. Hill intervals again. More effective. Better training, I mean.

Right. Better training. You need food to train and run well. Don’t hold back. Good food. But as much as you want, as long as you’re hungry. We’re furnaces, he told us. We’ll burn it all eventually.
But only if you’re running. Or at least exercising regularly.
Ok. I look at the monitor. I see the hill coming. I see my time. I see my pace. I see calories burned.

450

So close…So close to 500. That’s my goal.

So no more snacks. Ok what else. Bike more. Walk more.
How many calories does walking burn?

I wouldn’t have to walk more if I could run. Damn foot. I just want to run. Or walk without a squishhh and a crackkle or refusing to wait for the elevator to beep

Beep. I feel my muscles sigh and my feet speed up, faster, faster, almost as if they were running, rather, sprinting, cheeks red,
Red cheeks. You’re ok, my dad says. You’re just fine. You’re thin. Eat as much as you need. Here, want the rest of my pasta? I smile, look down, red cheeks.

I hope my cheeks don’t turn red at this meeting. I know he said we’re all furnaces. But we is everyone exercising regularly. I’m not the we. I just hope I don’t get red cheeks.

Red, from laughing, hair billowing back––like muffled copper chimes––behind me, arms churning by my sides like two windmill blades, chest puffed into the wind like a kite…

My stomach will puff out like a kite if I don’t burn those calories. What was it today? 200, 350, 500…

My eyes refocus on the monitor. 504. Success. I straggle off the bike, look at myself in the mirror. Red cheeks.

Grey hands. Dusky grey hands, like color of the sky just after the run has set, after the fire the red has faded…

Red cheeks. I feel them starting to flush as I dash around my kitchen, desperately clinging to the dream of being on time. I half-seal the bag of granola, chuck it in the pantry, give my yogurt several speedy stirs, and scurry out the door. It’s a good yogurt flavor: my favorite, actually: key lime. We have good granola, too: peanut butter. How did I not eat peanut butter for several months. I love peanut butter. Together the yogurt and granola taste kinda like key lime pie, to me at least. Anyways, it’s a good breakfast. And the only numbers I have on my mind are those for the calculus quiz I have today. I hope it goes well.