Thin

By Ann K. Morris

The things 17-year-old Erin Post wants are drastically different from the things she needs. A junior in high school, Erin wants nothing more than to be thin.

In reality, she's a depressed girl with a serious eating disorder who needs to stop starving herself. When Erin’s mother insists that she see a psychiatrist, Erin runs away to Chicago. There, she meets Lin and Ari, two homeless teens who show her that’s there’s a lot more to the world than being thin and fitting in.

Soon after making her new friends, Erin is given a choice. She can either help her new friends and risk having to face psychiatric treatment, or continue her path toward thinness.

A 2017 Golden Pen Award Nominee, THIN is a poignant story of self-esteem, courage and redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Mar 11, 2022

Book preview

Part I

I am perching

---

on the end

of a swivel chair,

perching so my thighs

won’t swell,

smiling smugly.

Lunch for me was a hamburger,

thin as a cell phone,

with half a smooth brown bun,

a pickle or two,

a splat of mustard.

That and a diet soda.

Just two hundred and twenty

calories.

---

I look at Kat’s double cheeseburger,

greasy fries,

regular soda,

and I suck in my stomach.

Hundreds of extra calories

to add

to my fleshy body

if I were to eat that.

Two pounds, easy.

What if those calories,

that fat,

clung

to her long, bony thighs

like they would my short and fat ones,

made them soft and jiggly?

---

School

---

"I hate going

back to school

after lunch," says MK.

Can’t we just ditch?

Her hair,

the color of beer,

swings as she walks,

and I admire its

straightness, its

shine.

---

Forget it!

Kat leads the way

to the parking lot.

"Tommy’s in my next class.

I’m dying to see him

and those green eyes."

---

I’ve seen those eyes.

Unbelievable.

Almost shimmery.

Why don’t they ever look

in my direction?

---

We climb

into Kat’s SUV,

MK in front,

me in back,

as always.

I sit awkwardly,

silently,

wishing I were

at home

alone, lying

under my down comforter.

---

Anticipation

---

"I’m so excited

for tonight,"

oozes Kat’s velvety voice.

The engine purrs

to life,

powers the car back

to school.

---

"I’m ordering a pizza

from the place

with that gorgeous delivery guy

from Venezuela," coos MK.

Sin anchoas porque son repugnantes,

Kat and MK practically squeal

in unison,

some stupid Spanish joke

I don’t get,

because I take French.

---

Are you coming, Erin? MK asks.

The question makes me feel

like an outsider,

like a guest,

or worse,

like an unwanted guest,

someone MK invited

because it was the right thing

to do.

Sure, I say,

like I give a shit,

but I don’t.

---

Mine, not yours

---

Kat swerves

into the school parking lot,

grabs the last place,

laughs at the kid

who flips her the bird.

Kat and MK hug

before we head

to fifth hour.

---

I used to hug them too,

way back when,

when I was like them,

you know, cool.

---

Who knew coolness was

so elusive,

so slippery,

and my grasp on it

so tenuous?

But do I care?

Yes.

And I hate myself for that.

---

I walk to history class,

slide effortlessly

into my seat

next to Juliet, a quiet girl

who hates her name.

But it’s so pretty,

I told her once.

"You’d hate it too

if everyone made

Romeo jokes about you," she said.

---

Get out a number two pencil,

the teacher barks.

"I hope you studied chapter eight

thoroughly,

because this test is

a toughie."

What a stupid word.

Toughie.

Who says words like that?

Meaty soccer coaches

like Ms. Pulk,

who everyone calls

the Incredible Hulk,

I guess.

I sharpen my pencil,

blow

on the tip.

Chapter eight.

World War II.

Maybe I would

care more about it

if last night

hadn’t been

mac and cheese night.

---

Last night

---

I think back to

dinner,

watching Mom drop

giant globs

of warm pasta and creamy cheese

onto my plate,

inviting me to indulge,

challenging me,

taunting me,

and all I could taste was anger.

---

"I made

macaroni

and

cheese

just

for

you,"

Mom said.

---

I’m not hungry, I mumbled.

I had a big lunch.

---

"You’ve said that

nearly every day

for the past month,"

Mom accused.

Hasn’t she, Tom?

Dad shrugged his shoulders,

said nothing, as usual.

---

"Why don’t you try eating

smaller lunches?"

Mom said.

"Then you might

save room for dinner."

---

I rolled my eyes,

turned,

left the kitchen.

Mom called me back.

---

A fight ensued,

World War III

with just two sides,

Mom versus me,

but no blood was shed.

---

I spent the night

in my room

so Mom thought she won,

but I didn’t eat dinner,

did I?

---

I like to think of it

as the

Battle of the Bulge.

No mac and cheese =

no bulging butt,

no rounded belly,

no saddlebags.

That’s what Dad calls

those hips

with pockets of lard

on either side.

I pictured saddlebags

filled with mac and cheese

and wanted to hurl.

---

I stood naked

in front

of my full-length mirror.

My concave stomach

pleased me,

but my thighs were rounded

like sausages.

In just the right light,

if I squeezed my thigh skin,

I could see miniscule folds,

spots where flab had

accumulated.

---

The hope

I sometimes feel

that I will ever be thin

dissolved

like artificial sweetener

in iced tea,

only the taste

in my mouth

was anything but sweet.

---

Test

---

Forget last night,

I think,

and will myself back

to the here and now.

I am sitting

in history class,

imagining my butt and thighs

covered in cellulite, and

all I want to do

is run

or bike

or swim,

anything to stretch my skin

taut,

rid it of the hideous deposits

of fat.

---

The test questions look foreign

to me.

What event brought

the United States

into the war?

Who fought the

Battle of Iwo Jima?

What was a U-boat?

My shoulders slump,

and I look

out the window.

---

I know I should care,

but I don’t,

so I just pencil in the bubbles

in an organized pattern.

A B C B A B C B A B C….

It may not be right,

but at least it’s rhythmic,

symmetrical,

artistic,

controlled.

---

After school

---

I walk home,

change

into a loose tee,

shorts,

running shoes.

I leash up Gus,

my sweet black mutt,

sprint to the park,

what the school counselor

would call my happy place.

Toddlers climb and swing,

babies sleep,

moms chat,

and no one,

not a soul,

knows me.

Pure anonymity.

Gus and I jog twelve times

around the track,

three miles,

and then home to shower.

I feel high,

my butt tight,

my stomach flat,

my body under control.

My heart smiles,

if only for a moment.

---

Imperfection

---

The shower washes

my high away,

and I remember that I am

so far from perfect.

I stand naked

in front of my mirror,

stare

at my silhouette

in the foggy glass,

droop

with despair.

I don’t see

thin,

toned,

perfect.

I see

plump,

saggy,

pathetic,

and I want to tear

the mirror

off my door,

hurl it

out the window,

pulverize it.

---

I think of the sign

Dad says he made

in college

for his room in the frat –

No fat chicks –

and I know I

wouldn’t have been allowed in.

---

Misery

---

I dress

for MK’s party,

dreading the pizza,

the soda,

the nacho chips

MK always sets out

in giant bowls,

fat cheesy triangles of misery.

I slip on my skinny jeans

and laugh.

What a joke!

Skinny jeans

on a body

that refuses to be skinny.

---

Just for fun,

I calculate my BMI.

I plug in my height,

my weight,

and hit Enter.

My heart sinks.

My body mass index is still 16.9,

underweight.

I’m aiming

for 16.5 or below,

because I know the BMI scores

are totally screwed up.

I know 16.9 is not underweight,

no one would think

someone my size

was underweight,

it’s actually overweight.

I am actually overweight,

and I make myself sick.

---

Friends

---

I finally make it

to MK’s house

and find a huddle

of girls

in her family room.

Okay, you guys,

MK breathes,

practically in a whisper,

"who wants to pitch in?

I bought Kat a cookie bouquet

to cheer her up."

---

Why? I ask,

and I’m met

with accusing eyes.

---

You haven’t heard?

MK gasps.

"Kat’s Yorkie Belle died

this afternoon."

---

Hit by a car, comes one whisper.

---

So sad, drifts another,

so tragic.

---

All the girls –

Stephanie, Lucy, Julianne,

Kara, Macy, Camille, Hailey –

tearfully place dollar bills

in MK’s outstretched palm.

I follow suit.

---

Belle bit ankles,

yapped incessantly,

peed on the carpet.

Kat always called her

Belle from Hell and said,

I hate that wiry hairball!

Everyone knows Kat’s

not sad to lose Belle,

so why the cookie bouquet?

Because she’s Kat,

that’s why.

---

Kat appears

at the top

of MK’s stairs,

shoulders slumped,

long dark hair framing

her tragic face.

Kat! MK cries.

Kat trots

down the stairs,

into MK’s waiting arms,

their tears pooling together

on rouged cheeks,

black rivulets

of mascara

coursing

down their faces.

After fifteen more minutes

of drama,

the party starts.

---

Kat is the sun,

the rest of us

mere satellites.

What if I want to be

the sun

and not lie

in someone’s else’s shadow?

Impossible.

Our solar system

just has one sun.

Everybody knows that.

---

Ding dong

---

The doorbell announces

the arrival

of the pizza guy.

Steaming, gooey cheese

stretches luxuriously

before disappearing

into watering mouths.

Soda fizzles and

nacho chips crunch

between teeth littered

with braces.

Kat’s cookie bouquet begins

to lose

its blossoms as

chocolate chip,

oatmeal raisin,

white chocolate chunk

are devoured

in a frenzy.

---

I am not tempted.

I sip ice water

from a plastic cup

and pick

at my slice

of pepperoni pizza.

Virtual eating

protects me