Girl Walks Out of a Bar by Lisa F. Smith Page B

were ready to flip it over. “Three!” And “sploosh!” we were in the water. It was colder than I expected, but the rush of excitement was bigger than the cold. We each made our way under the canoe, and, just as we’d practiced over and over again, we lifted it straight up in unison. Gently, carefully, we placed it back on the surface of the water. Then we set our oars in the boat and climbed back in. I felt my face break out in a huge, genuine smile. I thought, this must be what it’s like to hit a home run.
    Tim and I smiled at each other in acknowledgement of a job well done, and then I turned to look at the shore and enjoy the applause. But wait. What was that? I didn’t hear applause. I heard laughing. And I saw pointing, kids pointing and rolling in the sand in an exaggerated way. Oh my God, I thought . . .they’re laughing at us! Oh my God ! Those idiots thought we had accidentally capsized our canoe in front of the entire camp. And I was wearing that stupid headdress!
    I hated the morons. I hated them all. I could see that the camp leaders were trying to help, explaining that we had just performed a difficult trick, but it was no use. The joke was already on us.
    That night, my mother watched from the couch as I dramatically reenacted the catastrophe. In the middle of our den, I swept my arms back and forth to show our canoe paddling and then I rolled on the floor to demonstrate the reaction of the crowd. I looked like someone playing charades where the answer was, “Successful Canoe Maneuver Leads To Abject Humiliation.”
    â€œOh, Lisa. That’s terrible,” she said. “What can I do to make you feel better?” She scratched my back as I climbed on the couch and put my head in her lap.
    I looked up at her with hopeful eyes, “Can I have two bowls of ice cream tonight?” Normally, I was allotted one standard size bowl of my favorite, vanilla fudge.
    My mother looked a little disappointed. “You haven’t even had dinner yet. How do you know you’re even going to want a second bowl?” she asked.
    â€œI know,” I said. “I just know.”

    Even at that age, I understood that my compulsion to eat wasn’t shared by other people I knew. I licked spatulas covered in Duncan Hines Brownie mix and then licked the bowl. I sneaked from cookie jars and hid candy that I could eat later when no one else was around. It was never enough and it was never too sweet. Food, and desserts in particular, just plain made me feelbetter. Other kids would eat a cookie at recess and run out onto the playground, excited to have the freedom to jump around. I would eat a cookie, sit in the grass, stare at the sky, and wish I had a dozen more cookies.
    At my annual visit to the pediatrician that autumn, Dr. Birnbaum ran through all the checks he performed on me year after year: heart, lungs, teeth, height, weight, immunizations, and so forth, and then began scribbling on my chart. Sitting on the exam table, I amused myself by swinging my legs back and forth and twisting my ankles left and right, pointing and flexing my toes the way I saw gymnasts do it. Without looking up from his clipboard, Dr. Birnbaum said, “If you don’t stop eating, you’re going to be as big as a house.” My extended legs and pointed toes froze in place. His words sent a rush of acid shame into my stomach. I felt a flash of heat up my neck and into my face, and I remained silent with my head held down. The only sound was the crinkling of the paper on the exam table.
    During the drive home was the first time I ever heard my mother use the word “asshole.” “You never have to go back to that asshole doctor again,” she said, as she sneaked glances at the tears streaming down my cheeks.
    I couldn’t look at her, but I nodded. “Can we have Burger King for dinner?”
    â€œSure,” she said.
    Lou and I were hunched over our Whopper