Skinny On The Inside

Skinny On The Inside

By J.L. Hohler III

© 2012

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction.  All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Skinny On The Inside

© 2013 by J.L. Hohler III.  All Rights Reserved.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Bonus Chapter From The Novel

Also by J.L. Hohler III

Chapter One

My mom made me weigh myself before school.  I was barely out of bed, where it was warm and cozy, and in the bathroom, where it wasn’t, and about to get in the shower for the first day back to school after the Christmas break, when she barged in – she didn’t kick the door in like an action hero, but I wish she did, because the story would be a lot better that way – and demanded I get my ass on the scale.

Those were her exact words: Get your ass on the scale, Jenna.

Mom – I’m…I…, I started, then stopped.  "Don’t you know how to knock?"

Save your questions, she said, and just do as you’re told.

"But I’m…I’m almost naked."

And? she said. 

"And I’m naked!"

Mom laughed.

Please – it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.

Mom!

Save your complaints, dear, and just get on the scale, she said, then pointed to the brand new digital scale.  It’d been under the Christmas tree, ostensibly a gift for a family, the kind of moronic gift that made me roll my eyes and wonder exactly how it was a gift.  Half naked and with my mom breathing down my neck to stand on it was no less moronic, but at least I no longer had to wonder of the point.

Come on, Mom, I said.  Are you serious?

Don’t change the subject, she said.  "Now – scale."

I looked at her, not sure if this was really happening or if she was playing a joke, because she’d never been one of those parents to take that kind of interest in her kid’s weight before.  Usually she was one of those high-five and hand-holding parents who gave out candy by the fistful.  Now, she just looked mean.

"Scale, Jenna."

I was tempted to argue, because that’s what I do, but first thing in the morning, cold and tired and a little disoriented, I didn’t have the stomach for it.  So I climbed up, just like she wanted, just to bring the moment to an end.

The scale, said 187.

"Good, god, Jenna! Mom said, practically gagged when the number appeared. Did you see this?"

I said I did.

I’m not blind you know, I said.

She ignored that, made me get off the scale instead, let it reset and then made me get up again, just to make sure there was no mistake.  There wasn’t.

One hundred and eighty-seven pounds? she said, when nothing changed.  "At your height?  Is that real?"

I didn’t know whether it was or not and said so.  Still, I did point out the scale was new and if it said 187 I had no reason to think it wasn’t true.

"Maybe we should check the inspection sticker, just to be sure – there has to be one, I said.  Then we could call the factory and see the inspection logs and…"

Jesus, she said.  "That’s just…unbelievable!"

Calling the factory? I said.  Why would…?

"Your weight!  Jenna! she blurted.  I’m talking about your weight!"

"It’s not that bad, I said.  It’s…"

"How is that not bad?  Explain that to me."

I’m still in my pajamas – those aren’t my weight, I said.  It’d be less if I didn’t have those on.

You’re right – you’re absolutely right, mom said.  "Bare-ass is better."

What?

Yes – if we want accuracy, she said, you’ll have to strip.

But…

I’ve seen boobs and butts before – I already know what they look like, she said.  Now, don’t be shy – lose the clothes.

Mom…

Don’t argue, she said.  Just get naked and let’s get this over with.

In my wildest dreams I’d never thought the first time those words would ever be spoken to me – and in that order – would come from my mother.  I always had the idea some boy would say them, probably when I was in college and when I’d finally found one who’d grudgingly take my virginity.  Possibly it might also be said during my first lesbian experience, if I decided I wanted to have one of those.  Mom saying it first was disappointing.

I’m waiting, she said.

I wasn’t interested in arguing with her before, because it was just too early, but being 16 and naked in front of my own mother at 6:30 in the morning was not how I planned to start the day and since that was a much better reason for fighting I got ready for it.  Except, since I’m the one who made the complaint about how unfair it was to be weighed in my pajamas and gave Mom the idea, I couldn’t back down.  So, after shedding everything but my underwear – because between my two top bits and my bottom one bit I didn’t have enough hands to cover all three at the same time – I stepped up again and hoped my pajamas weighed the 25 pounds I wanted to lose.

Sadly, they did not.

One eighty-five, Mom said, reading the new weight that flashed.  Obviously, she did not think it the improvement I did, but then, Mom’s never been much for optimism.  "Do you see that?  Do you see that?"

I looked down and said I did.  It was hard to miss.

But that’s more than a 1% improvement, I said.  "That has to mean something."

It’s within the standard margin of error, Mom said, shutting that thought down, "which means it’s statistically the same."

Well, I said, maybe the scale is broken.

Check the inspection sticker, Mom said, and then we’ll call the factory.

I did not check the sticker.  I just reset the scale, said to-hell-with-modesty, dropped my drawers and stepped up again.  Mom was strangely triumphant when the same number appeared again: 185.

Maybe my hair? I said.  "That’s not really my weight – it grows no matter what I do.  If I didn’t have that, then…"

Well, cut it off then, she said.  Scissors are in the drawer and clippers are in the closet – if you’re going to cut any of it off, you might as well go all the way.

I looked at her, not sure she was serious.

Be my guest, she said, to convince me she was.

As tempting as it was to cut off my hair, just to spite her, I declined, if only because I didn’t think enough hair grew on me anywhere to make a difference.

It’s a shame, Jenna, Mom said, then shook her head when I accepted the weight as given.  A real shame.

What is?

A smart girl like you, she said, "letting yourself go."

She didn’t wait for an answer, just left before I could give it, leaving me to wallow in my own shame and humiliation.  Except, while she meant to leave me shamed by the fact I’m 5’3" and weigh 185 pounds, the real humiliation was being forced to get naked in front of my mother at 6:30 in the morning.  Even if the difference was subtle, at least I could see it and that was enough.

* * * * *

Downstairs, Mom hadn’t made breakfast.  Practically every morning of my life, ever since I was a little kid, she’s always made breakfast for the family.  My favorite was Belgian waffles with strawberries and whip cream, because she never used frozen berries and always made the whip-cream from scratch.  Second favorite was sausage gravy and biscuits, heavy on the gravy, light on the biscuit.  There was no third favorite.

After my brother and sister left for college, I thought she’d give that up but even if it was just me and Dad left at home, Mom still made breakfast.  It wasn’t big like it used to be, but it was always something and to come down and find the table completely bare, except for the two slices of toast my dad was working his way around, was the real shocker.  It was like the Twilight Zone.

Jenna, it’s time you face up to the fact you have a problem, Mom said, when I asked where everything was.  "I’ve accepted and made peace with it and now I refuse to feed it – literally and figuratively.  Now, there’s fruit and cereal if you want, otherwise there’s nothing."

I looked at her like she was joking – she hadn’t been joking yet, so I don’t know why I still thought she was – but she was dead serious.

Still, I had to ask.

Nothing? I said.  "There’s really nothing?"

"Not nothing, she said.  There’s fruit in the refrigerator and cereal in the pantry."

I told her I really couldn’t believe it, but she said if I needed any more convincing I could sit right there at the table and find out for myself.

You’ll know I’m not lying when you see no food appear in front of you, she said.  Stay alert so you don’t miss it.

She looked at me, real smug.

Don’t look at me like that – I can cook for myself, you know, I said.  I don’t need you – I took life skills.

Well, now you finally have the chance to use them, she said.  The question now is: do you have the time?

I looked at the clock but didn’t care what it said.  I was going to say I did, no matter what.

Well, if you’re so sure let’s see you do it then, she said.  I haven’t been proven wrong in a while, so this should be good for the both of us.

She still looked smug, only now she was smiling with it.  I did not like it.

I don’t know why you’re being this way, Mom, I said.  You’re not hurting me, you know.

You already said that.

Well, I mean it, I said.  You’re only making yourself look foolish.

Is that so?

That’s right.

She shook her head.

Call me foolish if you like, but you have a problem, Jenna, she said, and it’s time we did something about it.

"Well, you already said that," I said.

But I didn’t say I was through being part of the problem – and now I am, she said.  From now on, Jenna, I’m only going to be part of the solution.  You might think I’m joking, but ask your sister about the things I joke about.  She’ll tell you what kind of things I take seriously.

I had no idea what she meant by that but wasn’t about to call Polly first thing in the morning to find out.  Instead, I looked at my dad, munching his toast and quietly listening and hoped he might jump up and defend me or say something or make a noise and prove he was alive, but he didn’t.  He just sat there, trying not to make eye contact with either me or Mom.

Dad? I finally said, to get his attention.  Earth to Dad!

Did you say something? he said, completely ignorant.  Did you say my name?

I fumed.

Just wanted to make sure your ears worked, I finally grumbled, when I finished fuming.  Or you didn’t choke on your tongue.

Nope, I’m fine, he said.  Fit as a fiddle.

He gave a weak smile, then went back to his toast.  I just shook my head.

Coward, I finally whispered.

I guess being daddy’s little girl wasn’t worth what it used to be.

* * * * *

I did not make the big breakfast Mom would have – I didn’t even make a tiny breakfast.  It’s not that I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, because cooking was something I could technically do.  It was that, having never done it before without being given explicit instructions, I was basically paralyzed by all the choices in the pantry and fridge and had no clue where to start

Don’t stand there with the door open, Mom said, from wherever she disappeared to, when I just stood there staring into the refrigerator.  All that cold air you’re letting out costs money.

Not sure what to do I just gave in and choked down the only thing we had that didn’t require thought: a bowl of Wheat Chex, which looked a lot like wet cardboard and tasted about the same and made me wonder why anybody ate them in the first place. 

While I ate, dad also ate, chewing his toast in silence and trying not to make eye contact, like if he didn’t see me then I couldn’t see him and if that were the case he wouldn’t have to deal with any complaints I had.  It was pathetic.

"Aren’t you…can’t you…say something to her? I said, when I had enough of him acting like I wasn’t there.  Can’t you do something?"

Did you say something, Pumpkin?

"Dad, I know you heard me."

He sighed.

"What am I supposed to say?" he said.

What do you mean, ‘what am I supposed to say’?

I mean…

"You can say anything, I said.  That’s your job – that’s what you do."

But your mother? he said.  What…?

You were sitting here, too – you heard her, I said.  "You know what to say."

He did know, and I know he knew, and he knew I knew he knew, but he was so committed to acting like he didn’t that there was no point, and so I gave up waiting for him to stand up for me.  Instead, I went to find Mom. 

When I did find her, folding laundry in the basement, part of me wanted to gloat and tell her I didn’t need her to make my breakfast, because I made something for myself all on my own, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to gloat over something as awful as Wheat Chex.  It was just better to move on and forget it ever happened.

Come on, Mom, I said, we’re going to be late.

Late?  For what?

Come on, Mom, don’t be stupid, I said.  You know we’re going to be late for school.

"What do you mean ‘we’?  You might be late, but I won’t, she said.  My classes don’t start until ten."

Now is a good time to explain that my mother is a college professor and teaches classics.  Which means she’s made a life’s work out of trying to bore people death with Homer’s Odyssey.  Which also explains how she could be so good at making me miserable.

But I thought…

Ten, she said.  "Mine start at ten."

"Fine, whatever – I’m going to be late, I said.  Now can we go already?"

"You’re right, you are going to be late, aren’t you?  I had no idea."  She looked at her watch right then and the way she looked at it made it clear she did have an idea and was only doing it to mock me.  In that case, I guess you better get it in gear, Jenna – the first bell is in 17 minutes.  And you don’t want to start off the new year with a referral for being tardy.

It’s not a new school year, Mom, I said.  It’s January – the year is half over.

"I meant calendar year," she said.

And they haven’t given out referrals since junior high, I said.  "I’m in high school, remember?"

That’s right, you are, she said.  Still, you’ll be late if you don’t light a fire under it.

I won’t be late if you’d quit being difficult and just come on already, I said.  "Now let’s go."

There’s no ‘let’s go’ about it, she said.  "It’s ‘you go’.  As in not me."

What?

Are you having trouble understanding the words I’m using?

No.

Good, then you’ll have no trouble comprehending when I say I’m through driving you to school, she said.  Not today or any other.

"But you always drive."

Always is over, she said.  Starting now.

"But…why?"

I’m part of the solution – remember? she said.  You heard me say it once already, did you not?

You’re…, I sputtered, "you’re just being ridiculous."

"Am I?  Jenna?  Am I really?"

Yes.

She shrugged, went on with the laundry.

Well, you can think that if you like, she said.  You have my permission.

"I don’t need your permission to have my own thoughts."

As I said, I can’t stop what you think, even if it’s completely wrong, she said.  But that doesn’t change the bell being in sixteen minutes.

I looked at my watch, counted the minutes.  She was right about the time.

Tick-tock, Jenna, Mom said.  Tick-tock.

"But…but if you’re not driving me to school, I said, how am I supposed to get there?"

"I guess I hadn’t really thought about that – I didn’t think I needed to," she said, even though she obviously had thought about it.  And probably a lot.  I suppose you’ll just have to walk.

Walk? I said.  "I can’t walk."

"Of course you can walk, she said.  You’ve got two legs and two functioning feet, haven’t you?"

She stood back and looked at me.  Once up, then once down.

Yep, you look capable to me.

But…

"And no inner-ear problems that affect your balance that I know of – and I’d know, she said.  So it can’t be that."

But…

"But what, Jenna?  Spit it out."

"But it’s so…far!"

Far?  No, Mom said.  It’s barely a hop, skip and a jump from here.

"I’m not hopping five miles!"

It’s not five miles – it’s 0.8 miles, Mom said.  "I ran the map on Google yesterday.  And I drove it with the car.  And I programmed it in the GPS just to double-check and they all said the same thing.  It’s 0.8 miles."

This is unbelievable.

I promise you, Jenna, it was 0.8 miles, Mom said.  You can double-check my work, if you like.

"That’s not how it’s unfair."

When you think about it, she said, it’s so close already is like you’re practically there.

She might think so, but to me it was about as far from here to eternity.  I said so.

Well, if you cut through a couple yards, you could probably get there quicker – you can probably get it down to 0.7, Mom said, like she was actually helping me.  The GPS has to go by the roads, but you don’t.  So.

"So what?"

So I’d cut through some yards.

But if I walk, it’s going to take forever!

Actually, not, Mom said, didn’t even look up from the laundry.  Let’s see – if you walked a 15 minute mile, which is actually pretty slow, if you think about it, it should take you 12 minutes.

Twelve minutes!

You say that, like you don’t believe me.

I don’t.

"Well, I guess that’s fair – I don’t teach math.  So let’s double-check my work," she said and still didn’t look up.  "If you walk a fifteen minute mile, that means you can walk a tenth of a mile in one and a half minutes, or one every ninety seconds.  And since this isn’t a full mile, just 0.8, you get to lop of two tenths, which is three minutes from fifteen, which leaves you with twelve minutes.  Yep, twelve minutes."

She did look at me then, triumphant.  I was not impressed she could do math.