All of my tank tops are striped the wrong way for a girl of my size. They are also too short. My belly bulges out from beneath the bottom like, “Hey, wanna play with me?” My corduroy pants are also striped, but in the fabric. That is how they are made. My hair hangs like greasy blanket fringe. I feel like a stripe. I am a stripe. A big bulging stripe painted down the middle of a highway by a drunk highway stripe painting guy—probably my dad.
My mom won’t buy me new tank tops because she thinks forcing me to wear tops that are way too small for me is motivation for losing weight. I don’t tell her that the only motivation it is giving me is to put on my shortest tank top, go out in the backyard to my old playhouse and kill myself with her sewing scissors.
"We can go shopping for some new clothes when your belly fits back inside, Tinker." She says this in a voice that I would like to punch. Also, it is hard to judge an infant, I know, but there should be laws against naming your baby daughter Tinkerbell if the baby’s father’s family has a history of obesity. Seven pounds, two ounces at birth turning into 160 at age thirteen on a 5’2" frame is a recipe for misery. "Bertha" would’ve been kinder.
The tank tops belong to last summer. My belly belongs to this summer. My mom won’t buy me new tank tops because she is cheap and also poor so she is blaming it on me and my belly. I wear my cords because I won’t wear shorts because of my thighs. They are too wide for the style of shorts they sell now. My thigh flab bulges out from the too tight leg holes. I tried on a pair of light brown ones once and my thighs looked like upside down ice cream cones. The flavor they looked like was a sort of watery peach strawberry swirl, like how if those two flavors melted out on a white kitchen floor in long thick strips that looked exactly like my legs.