The major blow happened early in seventh grade, at lunch. I asked Hillary if she wanted to hang out after school. She stared at me as if I not only had three heads, but three enormously fat heads. The girl she sat with looked like she tried to swallow her laughter with a glug of diet soda. I started to walk away and heard Hillary whisper, “She’s fat redneck trash. I don’t know why she’s talking to me.” After that, the laughter flowed—and hasn’t stopped.

  Hillary’s dad, Walter Prescott, was friends with Mama growing up, but he left town and went to college. Then, he earned a business degree and took over the family box-making business, pretty much the only source of employment in our town. Walter and Mama probably haven’t set eyes on each other in over ten years, but he’s always friendly enough when I see him around, though I can tell he’s just pity-nice.

  The Prescotts aren’t rich—no one here is—but they have more money than anyone else does. When they bought Hillary a car instead of throwing her a sweet sixteen, she had an enormous fit. Everyone at school talked about how they were robbed of what was sure to be the one and only notable party during sophomore year. I imagine her parents caved, hence the “sweet seventeen.”

  I click on my phone and read the rest of Brittany’s message: OMG. I was invited to Hillary’s birthday party.

  Me, too, I think suspiciously. Brittany doesn’t think she’s an outcast like me, but that’s because she isn’t fat. In fact, she’s super skinny, I daresay too skinny. I’ve hardly ever seen her eat, but we only really hang out at school, and I wouldn’t eat lunch there either, except that I get it free because Mama’s on state-subsidized income. I can sorta see Brittany being invited, but why me? Maybe Hillary and her friends want to humiliate me by throwing candy and marshmallows at me like on the bus. I text back: Me, too.

  I pause before I hit send. If this is a joke, I don’t want to seem enthusiastic and unwitting, like a pig going to slaughter. I add: What’s the catch?

  I lazily grip the remote control and flick through the channels, not really seeing anything distinct until I land on a show called Cake Battles. Just when it cuts to commercial, my cell phone rings.

  “I totally can’t believe it. I knew Hillary would eventually see how cool I am. I don’t understand what took her so long,” Brittany says breathlessly, naively.

  Brittany doesn’t realize she’s a freak. At least I see myself for what I am.

  “Yeah, but where’s the fine print? Do you think her parents just invited everyone to make up for failing royally last year?” I ask.

  “I’d kill my mom if she did that. So would Hillary,” says Brittany. “No, maybe the summer changed her or something.”

  Brittany’s mom is long gone. The one thing we have in common is our mothers would never throw us a party, period.

  “I’ve known her my whole life. Doubt it,” I say.

  Brittany lives in the next town over, but because our high school is regional, we all converged when the lines between cool, jock, geek, freak, and fringe were drawn. We found each other when the PE teacher paired us up, probably doing the yearbook committee a favor, and named us the least likely to participate. The unit was flag football. Brittany is uncoordinated and doesn’t give a care, and me, well, it’s obvious.

  “It’s going to be so awesome. You’re coming, right?” Brit asks.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Come on, Sugar,” she pleads. “This is, like, our chance, y’know?”

  I know an invitation to a party will not change how everyone sees me. I’m Sugar. The fat girl. End of story.

  “What are you doing this weekend anyway?” Brittany asks. She frequently poses this question from the safety of the phone or in a text; it rarely results in an offer to do anything, from either one of us. I have to stay close to home in case Mama needs me, and I have chores. Brittany came over a couple of times, but I get the sense she thinks she might catch fat from the Legowski-Gracia residence, or that the house itself might just fall in and crush her bony little body. I don’t bother answering her question about this weekend because I know it doesn’t matter. We say our goodbyes with me promising to think about going to the party. As if.

  My grandparents’ house, now doing its thankless job of sheltering the third generation of Legowskis, is in desperate need of repair. The roof leaks, half the front porch collapsed last winter, and whenever it rains, Fat Henry says, “This might be the time we wash into the river.” He doesn’t care; he’s rarely around anymore since he found a girlfriend and got a full-time job at the box factory. He mostly stays at her apartment unless they fight. At least he does his own laundry now.

  I watch the finale of Cake Battles, which results in a confection inspired by the ocean winning. The first tier looks like the scales of a mermaid, almost luminescent in a green-blue hue. The second tier displays swirly tendrils kind of like an octopus, and the third is artistically dotted with edible pearls. A sugared seashell triumphantly adorns the top of the cake. Scenes of the baker’s home by the sea flash on the screen. I think dimly about how I’ve never seen the ocean or ever really left this forgotten corner of New Hampshire.

  The winning baker has tears in her eyes as she joyfully jumps up and down. I long for something sweet. Something to help me forget that the pink invitation on the cushion beside me isn’t a genuine request for friendship. To dull the reality that I’m merely collateral in Brittany’s life so she can make use of the texting feature on her phone, and that I’m a big, fat mess with chocolate frosting under my nails and a streak of orange cheese on my shirt.

  I dig into my pocket for another package of chocolate, but can’t squeeze my hand in. After I wriggle lower on the couch, I discover it’s empty anyway. I look through the debris my brother left on the coffee table for scraps, but he’s hoovered it all, as usual. Above the beaming congratulations coming from the TV, Mama shouts my name. I slouch deeper into the couch. Never, in all my life, have I felt anything close to pride, like the winning contestant cheering on TV. Mostly, I just know shame.

  Chapter Two

  On Sunday morning, the sky is veiled by clouds. It looks like rain. I roll myself out of bed and then down the remains of a box of Lucky Charms. I hurry up to get myself ready for church. Mama has long stopped going, but I head to the steepled building with peeling white paint week after week, hanging on to a thread of something like hope.

  Skunk no longer attends Mass either, but that’s OK—the less attention my giant family draws to themselves, the better. Occasionally I see Fat Henry, but he doesn’t come every week. I take a seat toward the back and observe how the Prescotts neatly take up a single pew, their shoulders back and their chins lifted. I sink into myself, suddenly hungry. I stupidly wonder if I should try to catch Hillary’s eye and get a sense of whether she meant to invite me to her party or if it was just an embarrassing accident that my name ended up on one of the pink envelopes. When she tosses her hair, I’m reminded that her repenting is about as likely as Mother Mary’s tear actually dropping from her ceramic eye and landing softly on her robin’s-egg blue robe.

  After the homily, we rise for Communion. I have to stand on my tippy-toes to wedge myself out of the narrow pew and into the aisle. I catch a glimpse of some kids from school and worry they’re all watching me.

  As the wafer melts on my tongue, I suddenly crave bread. A long aisle of imagined white, potato, and cinnamon-raisin sliced bread stretches in front of me. Then, thinking about the cake on the television the day before makes my mouth water. A waterfall of chocolate cascades through my mind in a smooth wave ending in frothy bubbles. I almost crack a smile when I consider suggesting they replace the tasteless wafers with little round candy disks.

  After Mass, I remain seated and fold down the little cushion to kneel. First, I offer a prayer in memory of my grandmother Busia, who I called Boo, and Granddad. Then I pray for my mother and my family, including my father, and finally myself. I’m not sure what to say, exactly. I mull over this not knowing, week after week, but then silence my thoughts when I feel like I skirt the dangerous edge of wishing for a change.

  As I exit, the Prescotts stand in the doorway chatting with Father Caplin. Beyond them, the sun finally appears, spreading itself generously behind the clouds, glowing brilliantly in the sky and creating a backlight to the Prescotts’ Anglo perfection. Hillary stands off to the side, her honey-blond hair flawlessly styled. On her slender frame, she wears a teal skirt with a black blouse. A gold cross dangles from her neck. I never realized how much she looks like her mother. This would be my opportunity to say something about the party, but I clam up. Instead, I offer a meager smile.

  Hillary’s lips form a flat line in response.

  As I edge my way out the door, Mrs. Prescott calls, “Will we see you at the party, Mercy?”

  I look back over my shoulder.

  Hillary’s glare is unmistakable. She gives a slight shake of her head to indicate not on her life.

  I trip on the last stone step, but catch myself before hitting the ground.

  “Oh, um, I’m not sure yet,” I say over my shoulder, eager to escape the uncomfortable situation.

  “You let us know. We haven’t seen you in ages. It would be so lovely for you to celebrate with us,” says Mrs. Prescott. She smiles at Hillary encouragingly.

  Not likely, I think before giving a feeble wave, wishing it would wipe Hillary’s glower off her face.

  I trudge to the parking lot and get into the Honda. Now that I know that Mrs. Prescott, and not Hillary, invited me, I definitely won’t be going to the sweet seventeen. I’m slightly ashamed that I’d even considered that there was a chance Hillary genuinely wanted me at her party. I scold myself for having the moment of delusion as I polish off a chocolate-chip-and-marshmallow granola bar in two bites.

  I drive across Main Street to the grocery store, Od Town. The red letters used to spell Food Town, before the graduating class—a couple years ago—smashed the plastic and the lightbulbs in the first two letters as their senior prank. I wonder what prank the seniors will pull off this year. Skunk’s in twelfth grade, so it’s bound to be something horrible.

  There’s an actual supermarket about twenty miles away. But with the high price of gas, I stick to Od Town. Most of the items they carry are markdowns; some stuff is expired, though still mostly edible. Fortunately, their dairy, produce, and meats are passable because the prices are right. Though apparently not profitable enough to fund replacements for the broken letters on the sign.

  Brandon cruises by on his bike. I turn my head in the opposite direction, hoping he doesn’t see me. I wait until he’s out of sight and then get out of the car. My arms, sticky with sweat, peel off the back of the vinyl seat. Doing the grocery shopping on Sunday is my routine, but I don’t run into anyone else who is eager to remind me of how big I am by making me feel small—easier said than done in a small town. Od Town. Odd town. I snicker inwardly at how accurate the name is as I pass a metal fan at the entrance. Weare, New Hampshire—just north of here—is pronounced where, and it’s an actual town. This is just nowhere.

  From behind me, I hear snorting sounds and realize the fan blew the bottom of my dress—or more accurately, sack—up slightly. Brandon and another kid named Zeke laugh and make pig noises. My face grows hot and my jaw trembles.

  “Hey, porker, can you spare some sausage? I know I can,” Brandon says as he squeezes his crotch. More laughter.

  I pull a cart from along the wall. With each turn of the wheels, it makes a terrible scraping noise and lurches, refusing to glide smoothly across the worn linoleum tiles.

  Brandon and Zeke come closer, their squealing noises louder.

  I try to ignore them. I hold back the tears that blur my eyes. I force the cart forward and down the nearest aisle. I want to get away from them, but almost more than that, I want to get away from myself.

  The laughter fades as the boys, with the attention span of a couple of gnats, become disinterested and walk to the soda cooler.

  My arms feel weak. I want to sit down. I lean against the handle of the cart and a sniffle escapes. I watch as one wet tear falls to my sandaled foot, and then another, followed by about a hundred more. My blurry ankles are swollen and pink. No wonder they laughed. In the locker room at gym, Alexis, one of Hillary’s friends, called them “cankles,” whatever that means. I just know it sounds ugly.

  Alone in the aisle, tears blur my eyes as I stare, vacantly, at a wall of boxed meals that require just a boil and butter. I toss in a couple of packages that advertise New Look, More Cheese. Anticipation dries my eyes.

  As I round the corner, an employee with a long thin braid running down the center of his back stocks a shelf. He catches my eye and holds up a plastic package.

  “Twinkies, get ’em while you can,” he says. “I guess they went out of business or something. I dunno. These things would survive a nuclear attack. Good thing to stock up on. You know, just in case.”

  I offer a half smile, hoping I look normal and not like I just cried like a baby.

  “Yeah sure,” I say. “I’ve never had one.” The nametag on his shirt says Dale. And there is a little neon-green alien-head sticker on it.

  He looks me up and down.

  “You’ve never had a Twinkie?”

  I nod.

  “You hear that, Stubby?” he calls to another worker organizing the endcap. “This girl here has never had a Twinkie.” They both look me up and down.

  I shake my head no and offer a genuine smile.

  “Come on, that can’t be right,” he says incredulously. “Sponge cake with creamy filling. Never?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Nope.”

  “Take two then,” he says, handing them to me with an odd smile, eyeing Stubby.

  I continue down the aisle, filling the cart with sandwich cookies and ranch-flavored corn chips, when his intention hits me. He didn’t believe that I’d never had a Twinkie because the assumption is that fat girls love Twinkies. I let go of the cart and open the package, stuffing the first one in my mouth. My nerves instantly settle as I chew the soft cake and the sweet center lights up my tongue. It carries me away to a place where size doesn’t matter, boys don’t taunt me, and Twinkies are healthy, plentiful—they grow like lettuce—and everyone loves them and me. I inhale the second and toss the wrapper in the cart. Just then, Dale appears with a grin on his face, slamming me back to planet Earth.

  “You’re going to pay for those, right?” he asks.

  I pick up the wrapper and shove it into his hand, banishing the tears of embarrassment that hang on to the tail end of Brandon and Zeke’s comments. “I thought it was a free sample for big girls like me,” I reply. With great effort, I manage to get the cart rolling again to continue shopping. Over my shoulder I hiss, “Watch out, I’m hungry.”

  Dale stands there in silence.

  I spend the next fifteen minutes forcing myself to keep from crying or eating the rest of the Twinkies in my cart. Just before I check out, with Dale nowhere in sight, I grab a few more packages, partly because they were delicious, but also to make up for the ones I ate.

  Back home, everything is the same except it looks like Skunk prepared a four-course meal given all the cookware and dishes in and around the sink. I put the groceries away and clean up. I check on Mama and bring her lunch. I plow through my Twinkie stash and, before I know it, I hardly remember what they tasted like. All that remains are my full belly and very empty heart. Preservative-filled tubes of sponge cake are a poor substitute for decency.

  In the living room, Twinkie wrappers litter the coffee table. Although Dale claimed they’d survive a nuclear explosion, they didn’t make it past me. Never mind having a sweet tooth; I have sweet teeth. Next time I’m at Od Town, I’ll buy more, I promise myself. Or not. The sweet syrup running through my body makes me fuzzy, like I want to eat and not eat, cry and scream, go to sleep and run far away.

  Hillary’s invitation catches my eye. I rip it in half. Forget the RSVP. I turn on the TV and doze off to a cooking show as a kindly lady describes how to prepare something called bulgur.

  “Sugar! Sugar! Sugar!” Someone shouts my name, waking me with a start. Mama. I hurry to my feet, rubbing my eyes awake.

  “Coming!” I yell. You’d think I’m her maid as I try to shimmy past the piles of clutter in the hall. I smell smoke and not the kind from her cigarettes. When I push Mama’s door open, a yellow-orange flame flickers on the floor next to the bed. Wearing an expression of angry terror, Mama feebly tries to jerk herself away to the other side of the mattress.

  I grab a blanket to smother the small flames while I hustle to the kitchen to get water. It takes forever to fill the pitcher. I wonder if it’s bad enough to call the fire department. I worry that if I did, they’d condemn the place. Then where would we go?

  “I’m coming, Mama. Don’t worry, I’m coming,” I call to allay her frantic shouts. The noises she makes remind me of the squealing sounds Brandon and Zeke made at Od Town. I dump the water on the blanket and run back to the sink. I completely douse the fire after the third container of water.

  Skunk thunders in through the back sliding door. “What the hell is going on in here?” he says, panting, struggling to catch his breath. His shirt, with the arms ripped off, rides up to reveal his ample belly. “I could hear you over by the woods above the dirt bikes. What the fuck?”

  I look to Mama. For a rare moment, she looks embarrassed, but then says, “I don’t know, something wrong with this lighter Sugar bought me. It’s broke or something.”

  “That’s what you get for shopping at Od Town. Idiot,” he says, glaring at me as he grabs it from her hand.

  I want to protest, but know it’s no use. Not even being bedridden can stop Mama’s utter refusal to be responsible for herself. She’s stubborn beyond . . . I can’t think beyond what, when my betrayal catches in an audible gasp. I quickly wipe the insult from my mind, stuffed with guilt. My job is to protect Mama, not ridicule her.