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“I don't know if I can.”

“Try another diet. There are thousands out there,” she says. “My mother tries a new one every month.”

I nod. “I might have to. This one is killing me.”

Carolyn pats me on the back. “I could never stick to your diet for even one day unless I was forced to at gunpoint. You have amazing self-control.”

I laugh. If Carolyn knew that I ate an entire chocolate bar and a bunch of chocolate chips, she might not be amazed at my willpower. But then again, I did stick to about 95 percent of the diet. “Are you still thinking of being a mentor?” I ask her.

“I'm going to the meeting tomorrow after school. They'll tell us more about the program and pair us with the girl we're mentoring. I hope her problem isn't anything too weird, like having eleven toes. Why don't you come to the meeting too?”

“I don't know. I've never done anything like this before. I don't know how to help someone with something I've never had.”

“Like eleven toes?” says Carolyn.

“Yes, I can't imagine what that would be like.”

“Well, they'll probably give us suggestions on how to deal with the girl we're mentoring. It should be fine.”

As we trek up the stairs into school, Carolyn groans, “I have to run. I need help from Ms. Murray with math.”

“Did you have trouble with questions nine to twelve?” I ask as she turns down the hall.

“I had trouble with questions one to twelve. I'm hopeless in math. But luckily I'm a whiz at hot dogs!”

We wave and I hurry to homeroom. I slide into my seat beside Sarah. She doesn't lift her head from her book.

“What are you reading?” I ask.

Sarah raises her eyes. “
Vampire Dreams
.”

“Is it good?”

Sarah nods, and a less-than-quarter smile crosses her face. Her smiles have shrunk to almost nothing now. Her eyes shoot back to her book.

“What's going on, Sarah?” I blurt out.

Sarah looks up. “Nothing,” she says. Her eyes are cold and distant.

“It's not nothing. I thought we were friends. Are you angry at me? Did I say something?”

Sarah rolls her eyes. “Don't be so sensitive, Eve. Things change. We're in high school. We're all meeting new people.”

Her eyes return to her book. I feel like she's slammed a door in my face.

I know she's dropped me. But why? Is it because I'm fat? Is it because Zoe is skinny and perfect? Is it because Zoe is friends with Mia—who knows everybody at school?

I feel a lump in my throat. I try to swallow it before it turns into tears. I can't let Sarah see how much this hurts.

I'm sorry I said anything to her. I wish I could grab my words back, but they're gone. And so is our friendship.

I pass the bulletin board on the way to my next class. I read the information on the mentoring program again.

GIRLS HELPING GIRLS

Help girls struggling with difficult times.
Discover how helping others become
stronger and more confident will make
you stronger and more confident too.

Trained counselors will guide and assist you
with any issues you may encounter.

Why not? I think. Maybe I'll be teamed up with another fat girl and together we can get skinny. Maybe helping someone else with their problems will make me feel better.

I can't stand the way I feel now. At least Carolyn and Denise are around. And they'll be in the mentoring program. As long as Zoe and Sarah don't show up, it might be fun.

And if I don't like it, I'll leave.

“The leading cause of death among fashion models is falling through street grates.”

—Dave Barry

chapter ten

As soon as the last bell rings, I head for room twelve, where the mentoring program is being held. I look for Carolyn, but I don't see her. I haven't seen her since lunch. She said she was feeling hot and dizzy. I wonder if she caught Denise's flu.

There are ten girls and two women in the room. I don't know anyone, although two of the girls look familiar. I've probably seen them in the hall. Most look like they're in grade eleven or twelve. There's no sign of Zoe or Sarah. Today is the tryout for cheerleaders, so they're probably there.

One of the women walks to the center of the room. She's short with straight brown hair, red glasses and large green eyes.

When we're all seated, she begins. “My name is Joan Hawkins and I'm delighted to see you all. Let me tell you about our program. We team girls in high school up with girls in middle school who are having a tough time. It helps the middle school girls to know that there's someone they can talk to and feel comfortable with no matter what they're going through. And I know that by supporting someone else, each of you will feel good too.”

Joan smiles. Then she continues. “When I was in middle school, my parents split up. My mom, my brother and I moved six times. It was difficult starting a new school and trying to make new friends. I threw up every morning before I went to school. But I was lucky. When I felt low, I talked to my cousin Mary, who was in high school. Mary's understanding and support made all the difference. Not everyone has a Mary in her life. But each of you can be like my cousin and make a difference for the girl you mentor.”

I glance around the room. Many of the girls are nodding. Some are smiling.

The other woman walks to the front of the room. She has long gray hair tied back in a ponytail. She's wearing dangling earrings and an armful of silver bracelets. “I'm Linda Day,” she says. “Joan and I will be here to support you whenever you need us. If you run into a tricky situation, you can always speak to us. You're not alone either.”

Linda looks around the room and smiles. “The mentoring program was started a few years ago, and we've already had great success. Tonight Joan and I will chat with each of you individually to see how we can best match you with a middle-school girl. Next week we'll team you up with the girls you'll be mentoring. I'll start with the front row and Joan will start at the back. Please feel free to have drinks and cookies while you wait. I baked the cinnamon cookies myself.”

As Joan and Linda begin to speak to the girls in the room, other girls rush to the front to grab drinks and cookies.

I eye the two plates piled high with cookies. I love homemade cinnamon cookies. After nothing but vegetables and fruit all day, I'm starving. Those cookies look delicious. But I'm the second girl waiting in the back row, so Joan will be speaking to me soon. I'd better not get up.

I pull out my history textbook and try to read ahead, but my eyes boomerang back to the plate of cookies.

One cookie won't make me fat. I stand up to get one. Then I quickly sit down. What am I thinking? That's how it starts— one cookie, then another. Pretty soon I'll eat ten. Forget about the cookies, I tell myself. Read your history book.

Joan and the girl beside me talk on and on. I read a paragraph, but my eyes are drawn back to the cookies. I need a cookie. I need to eat something.

I stand up again. But before I can leave the back row, it's my turn to speak to Joan. Saved by the mentoring program already!

“So tell me a little about why you want to mentor a middle-school girl,” Joan asks me.

“I hope that by helping someone else I can deal with my own problems better,” I tell her.

“Good. You just have to be careful to focus on the middle-school girl and her problems, not on your own. But people who help others often help themselves.”

“Will the girl have a problem like mine? You know, a weight issue.”

“We try to match girls we feel can help each other,” Joan explains. “The particular issue isn't what's important. Sometimes it's better to mentor someone who has a totally different problem than yours. So what do you think? Do you want to mentor, Eve?”

“Yes. I'd like to try.”

Joan nods and I sign her list. She hands me a brochure. I need to get permission from my parents, but that won't be a problem. They'll like the idea that I'm helping someone.

I walk out of the meeting glad that I signed up for the program.

And even more glad that I didn't eat a cookie.

“The first thing you lose in a diet is your sense of humor.”

—Author Unknown

chapter eleven

Mom and Dad love the mentoring idea. They sign the permission papers over their supper of roast chicken, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes and salad.

I watch them sign it over my supper of boiled potatoes, corn (no butter), salad (no dressing) and melon. Tonight's supper isn't bad. Tomorrow will be terrible. Bananas and milk. I groan at the thought. Mom asks what's wrong. “Nothing,” I say. I don't want them to know how much I hate my diet.

I feel like I've been dieting for months, not just three days. I think about food all the time. I never used to think about food. I just ate it.

The next morning I create a banana and milk smoothie for breakfast. It's not great but it's drinkable.

“Are you sure you want to continue with this diet?” Mom asks as I grab two bananas for lunch.

“I have to,” I tell Mom. “I need to get back to my old weight.”

“But fad diets don't work, and they're unhealthy.”

“This isn't really a fad diet. Fad diets make you eat only one food or really weird food like cabbage or blueberries all day. This one doesn't. Well, except for today. Today is weird. But the weekend will be normal. I can eat beef, chicken or fish with vegetables. And I'm pretty sure the diet is working already. My pants feel looser.”

“Where did you find this diet?”

“I saw it on the Internet. Gotta go.”

Before Mom can give me more reasons my diet is stupid, I'm out the door.

As I hurry down the street, I check my pants. They're not really looser, but I had to say something to get Mom off my case.

In homeroom Sarah talks to me for a few minutes, but it's like she's talking to someone she's met on a bus for the first time.

In art, I hear that Carolyn and Denise are both sick with the flu. I'm on my own at lunch.

As soon as I walk into the lunchroom, I see Sarah with Zoe. I hurry toward a bench at the other end of the lunchroom. I slip in beside a bunch of grade-eleven girls.

I eat my two bananas quickly. I consider buying milk, but the thought of drinking plain milk makes me ill. Maybe day four of this diet is to test your willpower. If you can survive a day of bananas and milk, you can survive anything.

What now? I can't just sit here. I have to go somewhere till my next class. But where? Not the bathroom. There are too many gross possibilities there. How about the library? It smells better than the bathroom, and I can read till the bell rings. I dump my banana peels in the garbage and head for the library.

I find a quiet corner and grab a mystery from a rack. For fifteen minutes I forget about food, Zoe or Sarah.

I try listening to every word the teachers say in my next two classes, but all I can think about is how hungry I am. By the end of the day, I know I can't stand another bite of a banana or a sip of white milk.

On the way home from my school, I buy chocolate milk. I know I'm cheating, but chocolate milk
is
milk. It just has a little sugar, and it won't make me barf.

But what about supper? I cannot eat another banana. I decide to skip the rest of day four on the diet and zip to day five. I have no choice. I need real food. When I tell Mom, she doesn't make a crack about crazy fad diets. She just says, “Dinner will be ready at seven.”

For dinner I feast on leftover roast chicken and vegetables. I never realized before how delicious leftover chicken could taste. When I finish my chicken and vegetables, I reach for a chocolate-chip cookie, but at the last minute I resist. I decide to save my calories for tomorrow. It's my grandmother's birthday and there will be cake. Grandma would be insulted if I didn't eat a piece of her birthday cake. It will be double-fudge chocolate—Grandma's favorite and mine.

Grandma's party is at our house. Mom and I spend the morning making little sandwiches and dicing fruit for salad.

When Mom pulls the cake out of the oven, the kitchen smells wonderful. I can't wait to taste the cake.

By the time I have to set the table, the double-fudge cake is iced and waiting on the counter. It is impossible for me to ignore. I want to plunge my finger into the center of it and lick the rich icing off my fingers like I did when I was a kid. I've never wanted a piece of cake so much in my life.

At noon Grandma and Aunt Betty arrive at our house.

As we nibble on the sandwiches, I stare at the cake. It looks luscious. I want it now! We eat the little sandwiches, and Grandma opens her presents. All I can think about the whole time is eating the double-fudge cake.

Finally Grandma opens her presents and says, “Let's have cake!” She blows out the seven candles—one for each decade of her life. Then she cuts a slice for Mom, Dad and Aunt Betty.

She's about to cut one for me. It's going to be a huge piece. Grandma always gives me a huge helping of our favorite cake. I have to stop her. If a giant slab of cake lands on my plate, I'll eat it all—every scrumptious crumb and gooey bite.

“Wait, Grandma!” I say. “I can only have a small piece. I'm on a diet.”

“Diet! You? Nonsense,” says Grandma. She puts her arm around my shoulder. “You don't need to diet, Eve.” Grandma pulls me over to the front hall. “Look in the mirror, Eve. You are gorgeous just the way you are. A few extra pounds actually suit you. You have a wonderful smile and lovely eyes.”

Mom walks over. “Grandma's right. You are beautiful just the way you are. If you want to lose a few pounds, go ahead, but one piece of cake won't make a difference. You've been good all week.”

“And dieting is torture,” says Grandma. “You don't have to eat like crazy, but you don't have to torture yourself either. You only live once. You might as well enjoy every minute.”