The Almost Murder and Other Stories

by Theresa Saldaña

  As a dieter, I’m a flop.

  I’ve even tried diets as stupid as all-salad, all-fruit, all-protein, even all–ice cream. I had no luck with those, either. Whatever I’m supposed to eat starts to sicken me, and all I can think of is whatever foods are forbidden and not on my okay list. I know it shows lack of discipline, but my love for food, my great big appetite and feelings of deprivation when I can’t eat what I want are intense.

  I asked my mom at Christmas if we could go on the Jenny Craig Diet together, since she’s always complaining about her weight, too. She’s always saying, “Mija, you look like a house, and I look like a horse.” She’s teasing, though, not being mean.

  Mom would have gone for Jenny Craig, and she even called their local weight-loss center here but the price was way too high. Mom decided that everyone in our family needs to eat the same basic foods at mealtimes. It’s not like it’s my dad’s or my brother Vic’s fault if both Mom and I overindulge.

  I kept on asking about Jenny Craig, showing Mom all the pictures of Valerie Bertinelli and how good she’s looking now, but Mom reminds me that Miss Bertinelli isn’t paying Jenny Craig; Jenny’s paying her—like a million dollars. The actress also has personal trainers to help. So, Jenny Craig is one of the few diet plans I haven’t tried.

  Papi’s short and his weight is strictly average, though he does have a jiggly mid-section. The rest of him is muscular. Vic is like a clone of him, body-wise.

  Papi says he likes his women big, but tells me that if Mom and I want to lose weight, all we have to do is “the Pushing Diet,” meaning we need to start pushing away from the table and just not eat so much. That’s not as easy as it sounds, of course.

  Many of my female neighbors and classmates are big-boned and heavyset, but, like Papi and Vic, they aren’t really overweight. A lot of kids my age were taller than me by the time we hit thirteen. Now, they tower over me, even though they’re Latino, too.

  Men and boys seem to have all the luck, except when it comes to going to war. Around this ’hood, they get way more pressure than girls to do a hitch in Iraq. Recruiters are all over the high schools.

  While some boys’ fathers tell them to say “no” to drugs, Papi coaches my brother Vic to say no to the armed forces, and I’m very glad of that. My battle of the bulge is nothing at all compared to going to war. I have enough sense to know that.

  My aunties are all kind of chubby, but Mom is the fattest of the adult women in our family, and I’m the fattest of the teenaged and young-adult cousins.

  I have never been a sneak-eater, though. I eat right in front of my family and friends. If anybody has something to say about my appetite—and they often do—I just laugh it off, which is a whole lot better than crying or arguing.

  I’ve gone online looking for diet tips plenty of times, and was shocked when Google directed me to some really gross pro-anorexia Web sites that are sick beyond belief. I never knew anything like those things existed, and they should be illegal.

  On those sites, hundreds or maybe thousands of dangerously underweight girls share tips on how to starve themselves to death. There are Web page after Web page of their idols’ pictures—terrifying, rail-thin models who look ready to keel over.

  I don’t know how these girls manage not to eat, or to eat so very little that they lose and lose weight until they don’t get periods and start growing hair on their bodies. When they do finally have a bite or two, they immediately barf it all up. One in six of them will die. I couldn’t help but notice that none of the posters have Latino names. I don’t think anorexia’s popular in our community.

  I was born at nine and a half pounds. I’m the biggest baby my mom had, but I’m medium-boned, not big, and my flesh isn’t all squishy, like some heavy girls’ flesh. I’m solid. Maybe that’s even worse, since they say muscle is harder to lose than fat.

  My prom is next month, and it was a major nightmare to get out there and find a formal dress that didn’t make me look like a whale. I went all over town—Brooklyn and Manhattan—with my best friend Zaida, who is not exactly slender either.

  Zaida found something she loved in the second shop we went into, but kept on helping me out with my search. We went on my prom-dress mission three different Saturdays before I finally found a dress that’s slimming and looks really good on me.

  I’d promised myself I wouldn’t resort to black, but this dress was so pretty I just had to have it. It has turquoise metallic thread in it—so it’s shiny.

  I tried on some dresses in pastels and brights, which fit but made me look like a truck driver. The one I chose was high-waisted, cool, shimmery and sophisticated, with long, floating sleeves. It slimmed down my look about as well as any dress could. All I needed were black pumps; those were easy to find.

  Zaida and I have appointments to get our hair done together before the prom. We both keep ours long, but mine is crazy long; it nearly hits my waist. I love my long, wavy mane. Mom calls it my crowning glory, and boys love it, even boys who like slim girls.

  We’re double-dating for the prom with the Gómez twins, José and Ernesto. Zaida and I have dated the twins for almost two years. Even though they’re identical, they have such different expressions, it’s easy to tell them apart.

  Both twins go to Xaverian High, so we’ll go to their prom, too, wearing the same outfits we bought for ours. The boys won’t mind. As a matter of fact, they may not even notice. Zaida’s daddy owns a limo, so he’s driving us for free.

  I was never one to think obsessively about my weight, and it really only got on my nerves during the summer. The heat brings me down. My thighs rub together, and I get rashes under my armpits. Sundresses aren’t easy to find in my size, either, but I’ve managed.

  I don’t look great in shorts or bathing suits, and I’m not dumb enough to subject the world to the sight of me wearing them. I’ve always made excuses on why I never go to the beach or even to the Sunset Park public swimming pool. I went there only once, and some boys, white kids from Cobble Hill, a gentrified neighborhood, started mooing at me, calling me a cow. That was awful.

  Right now, it’s spring, so I feel fine. Thankfully, our school has an open dress policy—no scratchy, plaid, wool uniforms, like the one I had to wear at St. Ann’s.

  I mostly hang out in baggy clothes to hide these jelly rolls of mine. Overalls work for me, too, so I have two pairs. Those and black or brown sweats are my daily outfits. Earrings, lip gloss and my extra-long hair are the only accessories I need.

  I start Hunter College in September, and as soon as I sent my forms in, confirmed my enrollment, all-out weight panic hit me hard, pretty much for the first time. The thought of starting college weighing in at almost a hundred and eighty pounds scared me enough to make an appointment with a nutritionist.

  Thinking about college made me start to freak that I was so fat. My family, friends, neighbors, classmates have known and loved me for seventeen years. I’m accepted despite my flab. But the thought of classrooms of strangers, classmates, professors in Manhattan staring at my blubber made me feel so embarrassed and scared, in advance, that I had to take action.

  Hearing, “She’d be so pretty if …” was okay all these years, here in our neighborhood. At Hunter College, though, those same words would be absolutely mortifying.

  If I get rid of my excess weight, most of it, all the new people I meet won’t see me as just a “fatty.” They’d get to know me for my brains, personality, even my pretty face.

  The nutritionist, Miss Wright, understands me. She was a fat girl herself back in high school.

  I explained to her how much starting college being so fat was freaking me out, even giving me nightmares. I told her everything. She told me she had an idea and set up another appointment for the following week.

  Miss Wright did some research and, when I next saw her, handed me a brochure for a summer camp in the Poconos. It’s for girls ages twelve to twenty. It’s a weight-loss camp that’s expensive, but offers financial aid for
low-income families and is eager to recruit minorities.

  I applied online and got an early-acceptance letter. Then I asked for financial aid. They gave me a half-scholarship and I’ll pay for the rest with the student loans I took out for college.

  All I have to bring to fat camp are pj’s, a robe and toiletries. My parents are happy. I know they’ll be proud of me when I come back slimmer, as I fully intend to do. My boyfriend loves me, thin or fat, but supports my going; he’s a doll.

  I feel psyched out some days, thinking how horrible I’d feel if I go all the way out to that fat-girl camp and don’t lose any weight at all—how humiliating! I’d feel like such a jerk and like a big, fat failure. I try to tell myself now not to stress out, or I’ll eat even more from nerves. I affirm again and again, “I will lose. Lose. Lose.”

  I think it’ll be better to drop weight away from everyone I’m close to. No neighbors, brothers, parents watching my every move and wondering not if, but when, I’ll break my diet. Just me and my food demons.

  The average weight loss over one two-month summer at Camp Royalton is fifteen to twenty-five pounds. I aim to lose even more.

  Time is flying by. Our senior prom is next week, and the twins will take us to theirs three weeks after that. Then, it’s graduation time and my parents’ big celebration party.

  Two days later, I leave for Camp Royalton.

  I’m determined. I know I can’t lose all my excess weight in just one summer, but I believe I can get a great head start and drop around thirty to thirty-five pounds. At that weight, I’ll feel much better about starting college and I’ll be motivated to keep on losing pounds.

  Sometimes you have to leave your safety zone and the people you love most to make real changes in your life. My nutritionist says so, and I know she’s right. I get excited just thinking about having a new physique and a fresh start.

  I hope to never again hear, “She’d be so pretty if. …”

  Dear Maureen

  September 28, 2004

  Dear Maureen,

  Hi! How are you? I’m in the library, as usual. Like I told you, this is my sanctuary, the only place I feel alive.

  Girl, I really miss you. We had an amazing summer, huh? I’m still in shock that I made it out of the Bronx for awhile and made a best friend like you.

  Since I came home, I can’t stop comparing this place to camp, no matter how hard I try. I can’t shut up about it, either. I torture myself, and everyone else, with my moaning.

  Maybe I was immune to it before, but now I see things as if I have X-ray vision. Trash, beer cans and garbage were always all over my block, but now I take notice. I see the broken windows—and broken lives, too. I wish I didn’t.

  Grown-ups complain about New York’s high taxes. I can tell you one thing: Bloomberg sure doesn’t spend those bucks in this neighborhood. It pisses me off.

  Moms says she wouldn’t have let me go to camp in the first place, if she knew I’d be so mad about everything once I got home. I can’t exactly blame her.

  Basically, I think about camp all day long, and I even dream about it. It’s like being obsessed. Sometimes camp seems more like a dream than a place I actually went to. Maybe I think about it so much to convince myself that camp, and you, really exist.

  Maureen, I know you live in Queens, in a nice neighborhood and all that, so I was wondering: Do you miss camp a lot, too? It’s kind of embarrassing to ask you that, but please write me back with your answer.

  I know that lots of kids around here have way harsher lives than I do, not to mention people in Iraq and Africa. But I still feel lousy. Actually, worse than lousy. Depressed. My chest feels tight, about to explode.

  I told my social worker, Beth, what’s going on. She says I’m “mildly depressed.” It doesn’t feel mild to me, but she’s probably right. She usually is. Beth thinks I have “separation anxiety,” too. In other words, I miss you and camp more than I’m glad to be home. Beth says kids who get out of the ’hood for awhile have trouble readjusting sometimes. Well, I’m proof of that.

  After having you for a best friend, the kids here seem more messed up, either looking for trouble, or in it already. Some kids, including girls, have already done time in Juvi. They even brag about it. Sick, huh?

  Boys here are enlisting like crazy. An army recruiter hangs out near the school, telling them the war’s a big adventure, a great way to escape from the Bronx. But what if their legs get blown off? What if they end up in body bags? Nobody talks about that. They should, shouldn’t they?

  There aren’t much good news to report from here, so I feel guilty writing all this. I hope you understand I’m saying this stuff because we’re best friends.

  I didn’t tell you at camp, but do you know what kids in my class call me? “Worm”—short for bookworm. They think reading’s for freaks. Teachers have to force them to get through even one book.

  Kids here always said I acted like I was better than they were. Since camp, they say I’m even worse. Maybe they’re right. Ha! Am I worse or am I better?

  My family’s apartment is a nuthouse. Moms yells non-stop with a voice like a police siren. My brother Pedro blasts rap with nasty lyrics my parents don’t hear or ignore. The twins are two; they fight, cry and make a mess. I can’t get mad at those two. I mean, they’re babies.

  Pops is having an affair. This time, it’s a big one. We all know about it, including Moms. She says she’s deciding what to do. Probably, she’ll just wait it out.

  Pops’ squeeze, Sonia, lives in our building, so we see her in the halls. I admit I give her dirty looks. She’s from the D.R., where her teenage daughter still lives. I wonder if that girl knows what her mother’s up to, besides being some yuppie’s nanny?

  Sonia’s so tiny, she probably weighs less than ninety pounds. Maybe her being so little makes Pops feel like a he-man. I mean, the woman’s half Moms’ size. But Sonia didn’t have twins at forty!

  Pops barks orders like he thinks he’s some general. Pedro gives him sarcastic salutes behind his back. Pops is no general. He’s a frustrated factory worker with a boss he despises. I’d feel sorry for him if he wasn’t cheating on Moms.

  So, my house is never quiet. I can only do homework in peace late at night, and by then, I’m wiped out. Thank God for this library. I’d go insane if I couldn’t come here.

  Once I get into a book, my problems evaporate. You and I talked about books being like magic or a drug. For me, books are lifesavers. I mean, literally.

  Our librarian, Mrs. Díaz, grew up here. I call her “Díaz.” It suits her. Díaz went to NYU but came back to work in what she calls “our community.” I’m glad she loves helping kids, especially me. I tell her I’m not coming back here once I escape. She says I might change my mind when I’m older. We’ll see.

  Díaz acts like my shrink or guidance counselor, and I don’t even mind. I need someone to tell stuff to, and I only see Beth once a month.

  I worry about Díaz. She’s thirty but looks way older. Her skin used to be brown like mine, and now it’s gray. Plus she has a cough although she never smoked in her life. Díaz says not to worry, but I still do.

  Maybe the Bronx is wearing Díaz out or even killing her. Maybe she should save herself and move away, even though I’d feel worse without her. Writing this is creeping me out. I’ll talk to Díaz when she’s back from break. She needs to take care of herself.

  My English teacher, Mrs. Cantor, says books and reading are going to save me. She suggests titles for Díaz to order. I’m lucky they care about me so much—I’m not their relative or anything.

  Last week, Mrs. C told me about the Manhattan Gifted Charter School. She showed me brochures and articles on it and said it was a perfect fit for me, a place smart kids from all over the city commute to. And there’s no tuition. I was desperate to go.

  I had such a strong feeling I’d get into Gifted Charter. I just knew, know what I mean?

  Mrs. C came over and asked my parents to let me take the admissio
ns test. She showed them the brochures, too. I begged them to just let me try. You know what they said, Maureen?

  “No.” Just like that: “N-O.”

  Pops said commuting by subway at my age is dangerous and a WASTE OF TIME. I mean, how can education be a waste? Parents are supposed to WANT kids to learn, aren’t they? I can’t tell you how mad I am.

  Moms said I have to finish high school here. Then, if I get a scholarship, I can go away to college. Is this nuts? If I went to Manhattan Gifted, I’d get a great education and have a better chance at scholarships. They don’t even send recruiters here!

  Mrs. C got Díaz to call my parents and give it one more try. She came for dinner and gave them her pitch in Spanish. She was so persuasive, I started to think Moms and Pops would change their minds. Instead, they got even more stubborn and even told Díaz that she finished high school here and did just fine.

  I met with my mentors, and Díaz told Mrs. C she couldn’t convince Moms and Pops to even let me test. Mrs. C was so upset, she called my parents “ignorant” right in front of me. Instead of being insulted or defending them, I wanted to agree but just kept quiet.

  So, for three more years, I’m stuck in a school with kids so lazy they don’t even try. They smoke cigarettes, reefer and anything else they get their hands on. It’s pathetic. I hear they even do crack in the bathroom. I wouldn’t know, since I don’t use the facilities there. I value my life too much!

  I see most kids in my school as people with no future. They see me as a freak. So, my social life is nonexistant. I wish I had kids to really talk to and study with. Kids like you. At Manhattan Gifted, I’d have met kids like us. Instead, I’m with gangbangers and wannabes who put me down for trying to get ahead.

  Anyway, I really wanted to ask you a question, or, actually, a favor. Do you think I could come visit you and your family in Queens some weekend?

  I’d invite you to my house, but, like I said, it’s a zoo. You wouldn’t be comfortable. I live there and it’s uncomfortable for me.