Dietland by Sarai Walker Read Free Book Online Page B

there’s nothing you can do about it.
”
    No matter how much I had pleaded, she would never let me diet. My friend Nicolette’s mother was a member of Waist Watchers, and I photocopied her materials, keeping them hidden. I tried to follow the diet on my own, but I didn’t know how many calories were in the dishes that Delia brought home from the restaurant, whether it was lasagna or chicken potpie. There were too many ingredients to count. I took smaller portions and sometimes skipped lunch at school, but I didn’t like being hungry. There were girls at school who starved themselves, but I didn’t know how they did it. When I was hungry I couldn’t concentrate, and I needed to concentrate so I could get good grades.
    The ads on television said:
A Baptist is never hungry!
That was part of the appeal. I didn’t know how I would pay for the Baptist Plan, but I would find a way. I was high on my secret plan. On the night of the junior prom my mother took me out for dinner. When we arrived home, we found a man kneeling in the front yard, paying homage to Myrna Jade. When he saw me he snapped a photo. “
Preeeetty
girl,” he said. No one except my parents and Delia had ever called me pretty. I was pleased. Since I had decided to become a Baptist there was a change in me. Just the thought of it had made me lighter.
    I didn’t care that I wasn’t at the prom that night. I didn’t need proms or the boys at my school. Summer vacation was approaching and then my senior year, at the end of which I would go to college in Vermont. Thanks to the Baptist Plan I would be thin when I arrived at college. No one would know that fat Plum had existed. I wouldn’t even call myself Plum. I would be Alicia, since that was my real name.
    If people asked about Plum, I’d say, “Plum who? Plum doesn’t exist.”
    Burst!
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    IN THE HOURS AFTER SCHOOL , I didn’t see friends or attend clubs. I did my homework. I was always diligent about it, never needing to be prodded. In the afternoons, alone in the house on Harper Lane, I sat at the dining table with the curtains drawn and worked by lamplight. Sometimes people knocked on the door and threw rocks at the windows. They’d jiggle the door handles. I did my best not to be seen.
    When my mother arrived home from work she’d fling open the drapes, allowing in the light. “The weather is beautiful,” she’d say, but I’d escape to the darkness of my bedroom. One day Delia suggested that I come to the restaurant in the afternoons to do my homework. I assumed she had discussed the plan with my mother, but she made it seem spontaneous.
    Between lunch and dinner the restaurant was practically empty. Delia and I sat in a red vinyl booth in the back, she with her paperwork, me with my schoolwork, both of us sipping Diet Coke in tall glasses packed with lemon and ice. I would sit for hours doing geometry and reading thick Russian novels for my advanced literature class. Sometimes Nicolette would join us and she and I would work together on chemistry or French.
    I’d been going to the restaurant every day for a couple weeks when I had an idea. I’d been secretly thinking of ways to pay for the Baptist Plan and wondered if I could use the restaurant to my advantage. I began to go into the kitchen and watch Chef Elsa prep for dinner, expressing interest, asking questions. As I’d hoped, she allowed me to help out, teaching me to chop and sauté. When I asked Delia for a job she agreed, and so for a couple hours a night I worked in the kitchen, where opera played on the radio.
    After nearly a month on the job, with school about to let out for the summer, I had enough money to become a Baptist. When I told my mother, we argued. “It’s too radical,” she said. Behind closed doors, I heard her and Delia discussing it. “Be reasonable,