Letting Ana Go

Weight:
133

Breakfast:
Bagel (toasted), light cream cheese, orange juice (fresh squeezed! Thanks, Mom!).

A.M. snack:
(Who has time for this?) Jill gave me a Life Saver in English. (Does that even count?) It was green.

Lunch:
Turkey wrap with Swiss cheese, SunChips, Fresca,
¹
/
₂
bag of gummy fruit snacks.

P.M. snack:
Other
¹
/
₂
of the gummy fruit snacks.

Dinner:
Lasagna (1 square), Caesar salad with croutons. Dad made brownies. Ate two.

Now I’m supposed to “write a few sentences about how I feel.” I feel this food diary is strange, and sort of funny. When Coach Perkins handed them out brouhaha ensued. (“Brouhaha” was a word on my final vocab quiz of sophomore year today. As was the word “ensued.”)

Coach Perkins passed out pamphlets at practice. Not really pamphlets but I like all those
p
’s. Journals, actually.

Coach: It’s a “food diary.”

Vanessa: What is this
for
?

Geoff: Why don’t I get one?

Coach: Only the ladies.

Coach said girls on other cross-country teams have been
using our sport to hide their eating disorders. They run until they collapse from not eating enough, not drinking enough, not knowing enough. Hello? Dingbat? Running four to eight miles per day? You’re going to need some calories. (At least two brownies after dinner.)

Naturally, the adults are only now catching on. They thought that’s just what runners look like. Parents: sometimes clueless.

As a result of not eating, these girls get sick, and we girls get to write everything down.

Our food.

Our feelings.

I still feel it’s funny, somehow . . . or maybe absurd. (Also on the vocab quiz.)

Not Vanessa: This is unfair! What about the guys?

Or Geoff: Yeah! This is cool! I wanna do it too!

Ugh. Lovebirds. Too cute = puke.

(COACH PERKINS: If you’re actually reading this, that was a figurative “puke” not a
literal
“puke.”)

Coach says she’ll be checking the diary every practice, and then over the summer when we meet up to check in once a month before school starts. Coach Perkins is pretty.

Ponytail, push-up bra, probably pushing forty. Not one to be trifled with. Tough as nails.

Jill was painting her nails in my room after practice during
our weekly Friday-night hang out. I told her about the food diary, and how I found it preposterous.

Jill: Please. I’ve been keeping one for six weeks.

Me (laughing): WHY?

Jill: So I can lose ten pounds.

Me: You’ll disappear.

Jill: Shut up.

Me: Seriously. You already look like a Q-tip on toe shoes.

Jill: The Nutcracker Nemesis must be vanquished.

Me: You’re losing ten pounds for
Misty Jenkins
?

Jill: I’m losing ten pounds for
me
. I will be Clara this Christmas or you have seen my last pirouette.

She blew on her nails and looked at me with the same wide-eyed stare she has presented each Friday night past when making pronouncements of epic proportions over popcorn. These are not to be pooh-poohed, and I made the mistake of laughing.

She pounced with a pillow.

A brouhaha ensued.

Weight:
132

Breakfast:
Dad’s omelets—eggs, cheddar cheese, tomatoes, bacon.

Vanessa and Geoff came over this morning and we ran before breakfast. Dad cooked us all omelets afterward. Mom was still in bed because she gets off so late at the hospital. I don’t know how she stays awake enough to give people medicine in the middle of the night, but she says you get used to it. I turn into a pumpkin at about 11 p.m. every night.

Dad was doing his cooking tricks because Geoff and Vanessa were watching. He can toss eggs over his shoulder and catch them and break them into the bowl with one hand. He was spinning the whisk around his fingers and juggling tomatoes. He was a short-order cook before he started selling cars and he loves an audience. I’ve seen all his moves before, but Geoff and Vanessa were cracking up. It made me feel good—proud of my dad. He never went to college or anything, but we have a really nice house and great cars and everything because he’s so smart and worked his way up until he was able to buy his own dealership.

I texted Jill and she walked over while we were eating. Dad tried to get her to have an omelet but she would only eat a bite of mine, then immediately pulled out her phone. Vanessa and I had just been saying we didn’t know how we were going to remember every single thing we ate every single day without carrying these food diaries around with us all the time, and Jill smiled and waved her phone at us.

She was using this app called CalorTrack, which helps you keep track of what you eat. Everyone who uses the app can go online and enter the nutritional information and serving size of the foods they are eating. In the app, you can search for the food you have just eaten or are about to eat and it records the calories. You can set goals to lose weight or gain weight, and it charts your progress online. You can even print out a report of what your calories are over a week, or a month. This was a revelation. Vanessa and I immediately downloaded this app. Naturally, Geoff did too. Dad watched us all being absorbed into our phones and started doing the funky chicken dance in the kitchen using oven mitts as wings to see if he could distract us. We all started laughing at how ridiculous he looked. Jill and I had tears running down our faces.

I like Dad so much when he’s in a good mood. I can’t even be mad at him for behaving in a way that is completely and utterly mortifying because he’s so funny.

Mom wandered into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, in her sleep pants and T-shirt. She saw Dad and started laughing with us. She kissed my head, and Jill and Vanessa said good morning, but when Dad saw her it was like somebody threw ice water all over him. He stopped dancing and started doing dishes. I don’t think anyone else noticed.

Except Mom.

I don’t know why Dad won’t let her be part of the fun. He handed her a plate with an omelet without smiling, and turned back to the sink. Mom sat and talked to us while she cleaned her plate, but I couldn’t take another bite. I just wanted Dad to come sit down with us.

Mom: These are so good! Dale, come sit down and have one with us.

Dad: (grunt from sink)

Geoff: His cooking is almost as good as his dancing.

Vanessa: Do the funky chicken again.

Mom: I always miss the good stuff!

Dad (under his breath): Not much of it . . .

No one heard Dad but me because I was sitting closest to the sink, and because Geoff was trying to demonstrate the funky chicken dance. Mom laughed at Geoff’s attempt, then asked me if I was going to finish my omelet. Dad turned around and shot daggers at her. He opened his mouth to say something, but then glanced at Geoff and Vanessa and Jill, and turned around again.

Me: It’s all yours, Mom. I’m stuffed.

Dad didn’t think I saw him roll his eyes, but I did. How can he go from somebody I love to somebody I hate in the span of four minutes?

A.M. snack:
Nothing. (Still full from breakfast. Dad’s omelets are huge.)

Lunch:
Tuna fish sandwich with tomato, carrot sticks, BBQ potato chips.

P.M. snack:
YouGoYum yogurt—chocolate swirl, small, with bananas, pecans, chocolate chips, and hot fudge.

After her rehearsal at City Youth Ballet, Jill texted me and asked me if I wanted to get yogurt. She drove by my place and picked me up, her hair in the signature bun of ballerinas everywhere. YouGoYum is one of those “pump it yourself” places that seems to be sweeping the nation. There’s even one in my grandma’s town, a wee town with a single stoplight where the Starbucks recently closed. I chose a small cup and took pride in my perfect loops of classic vanilla-and-chocolate swirl. Making a picture-perfect soft-serve cup topped by a tiny twist like the ones in TV commercials requires both patience and precision. When I’m successful it pleases me beyond words.

I placed my yogurt on the scale at the register and turned around to see what Jill was having. Her fingers held only her phone, upon which she was typing out a text message.

Me: Where’s your yogurt?

Jill (pointing at mine): Right there.

Me: You aren’t getting anything?

Jill: Just a bite of yours, thanks.

Me: But . . . you texted and asked if I wanted to come get yogurt with you.

Jill (wide-eyed pronouncement face): No, I asked if
you
wanted to get yogurt.

Me: That bun is restricting blood flow to your brain.

Dinner:
Buster’s Burgers—junior double cheeseburger with ketchup, tomato, lettuce, mayo, crinkle-cut french fries, Diet Coke, half a chocolate shake. (Split it with Dad.)

I get the family-tradition aspect, but I’m not sure why Dad still insists on Buster’s Burgers every Saturday night. Lately, every time we go, he gets all hot and bothered if Mom orders a burger that isn’t “protein-style” (no bun), or we’ll be standing in line and he’ll start saying things like, “Wow! That new Garden Chicken Salad looks great! You want to try that, Linda?” He says it in this voice like he’s never
seen
a Garden Chicken Salad before, as if he can’t
imagine
such a thing, full of wonder and awe and a tempered excitement as if at any moment, he may simply
explode
with the rapturous joy of grilled chicken and tomatoes on a bed of mixed greens. It’s the voice I suspect scientists used when
they first saw satellite photos of the rings around Saturn.

It is the most annoying thing in the world.

News flash: if you are so concerned that Mom eat a salad with lo-cal dressing on the side, maybe Buster’s Burgers isn’t the place to come for dinner every Saturday night. Just a thought. I’m almost sixteen years old. Our family unit will undoubtedly survive if we take a weekend off.

Mom sat there across the booth from me picking at her wilted greens, watching Dad munch his BBQ Bacon Double Trouble and drink his thick, dark beer while he plugged quarters into the tiny jukebox they have mounted on the wall over every table. When he got up to order another one at the counter, Mom snuck a couple of his fries and scrunched up her eyes at him like a little kid who was going to do something she shouldn’t just for spite. That made me laugh, and I was still giggling when Dad walked back to the table and wanted to know what I thought was so funny.