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year.”
    â€œIt’s okay. I know I’m fat, but I’m going to lose the weight. Why do you want to mentor?”
    â€œIt might be fun to help someone. I could tell the girl I mentor how I overcame hating my ugly nose.”
    â€œYour nose is not ugly,” I say.
    â€œAre you kidding?” says Denise. “Look at this hideous bump.” Denise touches a tiny bump in the middle of her nose.
    â€œIt’s hardly noticeable, and it’s not hideous,” I tell her.
    â€œYou’re just saying that to be nice. I’ve wanted plastic surgery since I was five, but the doctor won’t touch my nose till it’s fully formed. He said I have to wait a few years. Meanwhile I’m stuck with it. So I’ve decided to ignore it, but you can’t imagine how hard it is to live with a nose like mine. I see it every time I look in the mirror.”
    â€œOh,” I say. I really can’t see the problem with Denise’s nose.
    The mentoring program sounds interesting. Only how can I help someone when I can’t help myself? No matter how much I try to convince myself not to care about how fat I look or about Zoe’s comments, I care.
    And I hate dieting. I can’t stand another vegetable. I’m seriously considering buying a chocolate bar after school. How can I be a mentor when I have no self-control?
    Before I head home, I check out the bulletin board and scan the announcement about the mentoring program.
    â€œAre you planning to help another fat girl?” someone says. It’s Zoe.
    I glare at her. She’s standing with one hand on her hip and smirking at me. Her long hair is so straight, it looks ironed. There’s not an ounce of blobbiness about her. Even her arms are skinny.
    â€œWhy are you being so obnoxious?” I say.
    â€œI’m not being obnoxious. I’m being helpful. I’m calling a spade a spade, or in your case a blob a blob. Get used to it. I’m not the only one in school who’s noticed that you’re obese.”
    Zoe turns around and prances off. She walks down the hall like a model on a runway.
    I hurry toward home. Tears gush out of my eyes like I’ve sprung a leak.
    When I get to the convenience store two blocks from my house, I wipe my eyes. Then I head inside and buy a chocolate bar.
    For one block, I hold the chocolate bar in my hands. Then I stop and begin to unwrap it. But I don’t eat it. I walk another half block and unwrap it some more. I still don’t eat it. A few steps from home, I take a small bite. The chocolate tastes rich, dark, creamy. I’d forgotten how good chocolate tastes. I take another small bite. Mmmm . “I’ve missed you,” I say out loud.
    It takes all my willpower to stuff the rest of the chocolate bar into my backpack.

“The only way to lose weight is to check it as airline baggage.”
    â€”Peggy Ryan
    chapter eight
    There’s a note on the kitchen table. I’m out shopping for my book club meeting. It’s at our house tonight. I thought I might bake cookies, but I won’t if it bothers you. I’ll get store-bought just in case. Love, Mom.
    I chug down a tall glass of veg juice and head to my room. No new articles about food addiction litter my bed. I sit down and pull the chocolate bar out of my backpack. I nibble a tiny bit. Then I stuff it into my desk drawer and start on my homework.
    A half hour later, I hear the front door open. “I’m home!” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Would it bother you if I baked cookies?”
    I head out of my room. “No. I’ll even help.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œPositive. I’ll enjoy the smell of chocolate and get the buzz without the calories.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œWatch me.”
    Mom and I gather all the ingredients. We sift the flour, add salt and baking soda. We cream the sugar and butter and mix everything together. Then I drop chocolate chips into