Megan was on a kick. she was inviting everyone that crossed our path to church; most of them disgruntled social rejects. and despite their excuses, she would show up to their houses on Sunday mornings and sweetly persuade them to join us. we would pile in her five-seater 1987 Nissan, me on top of the three boys that lined the back seat, Megan's boyfriend in the front seat, smoking one last cigarette before we reached the church parking lot. we would pull out our concocted recipe of lotion, body wash and perfume and cover ourselves in it before we entered the sanctuary. after church, Megan and i would help our mom make a number of lasagnas, garlic bread and salads, while our friends entertained themselves on our trampoline. my mom's belly was swelling with her 10th child, but for some reason she let us bring more kids into the house. i had just finished pouring the garlic butter mixture over the bread and was putting it in the oven, when one of the guys, Travis, came in to keep us company. he was one of the more sullen kids we solicited to come to church. clearly smart, but definitely trapped by wounds that penetrated so deep and had been there so long that he didn’t even seem to notice them. i began cutting the onions for the salad. he corrected my technique. i was glad for the company, but always felt nervous when criticized. if he paid too much attention, he might see that there wasn’t much to me. the smell of baked bread began to fill the air. when i pulled it out and cut it, i began to take a sample. Megan took over the salad. Travis watched me. “you know, you wouldn’t be so fat if you didn’t eat so much,” his comment heavy with contempt. my throat swelled with embarrassment and panic swept through every part of me. Megan stopped cutting. somehow he had transplanted the wounds he carried into me. hot tears closed like a curtain over my eyes and i ran to my moms room and locked myself in the bathroom. deep humiliation poured over me. i didn’t want to live. he was right., i thought. i was 5”5 and 140 lbs. when i was bored, i ate. when i was nervous i, ate. when i was sad, i ate. still, as a dancer, my over eating didn’t do that much damage. or so i thought.  
       in the bathroom, i thought about killing myself. then i wouldn’t have to face anyone else. and the thought of Travis's regret comforted me. Megan knocked on the door. “Ashlee, come out. he’s an asshole. don’t listen to him. you’re beautiful. you’re perfect.” i sobbed. i wasn’t. i knew i wasn’t. no one would ever take interest in me if i was fat. it was disgusting. i was disgusting. how could i be such a gluttonous pig? it was repulsive. i'm never going to eat again, i thought. i will get so thin i’ll die. slowly.