Everyone turns to look at me.
There are a whole load of people from Newton that look vaguely familiar and then I notice Mr Ding, the owner of the Lucky Lantern Takeaway Van, which sits in the middle of Willingdon Green. He smiles at me and wobbles on his tiny Year 4 chair.
I’d never thought of Mr Ding as needing to lose weight. I mean, you’d be suspicious of someone in the Chinese-takeaway business being skinny, right?
A couple of places along from him sits Allen, the reporter from the Newton News who I found in our back garden a while back.
‘Are you lost?’ asks the microphone guy.
‘No…’ I begin.
I know what they’re thinking: what’s a scrawny kid doing at weight-loss meeting?
Be brave, I tell myself. If you’re going to take this resolution seriously, if you’re going to have everything in place for when Mum wakes up, you have to be proactive.
I take a breath. ‘No, I’m not lost.’
A door bangs somewhere in the corridor. A few seconds later, Jake rushes in. He smells of fresh air and Amy’s perfume.
‘Sorry… got caught up,’ Jake says, breathless.
Which means that Amy wouldn’t let him go.
Jake and I go and sign the register at the back of the room and then we sit down. I can feel people looking at me and I know it’s because they’ve heard about Mum. The day after she got taken to the hospital, there was an article in the Newton News with a fuzzy picture someone must have taken on their phone: it looks a polar bear under a green sheet is being stuffed into the back of the ambulance. I bet Allen took that photo.
Anyway, Jake does the paper round so he nicked all the copies he could get his hands on and we made a bonfire in the back garden.
‘You bearing up?’ Jake asks.
‘I’m fine.’ I squeeze his hand. ‘Now you’re here.’
The guy at the front clears his throat. ‘As I was saying.’ He smiles out at the room. ‘I’m Mitch Banks, your Slim Skills Counsellor. And I’ll be with you every step of the way.’
What if she can’t take steps yet? I think.
He walks away from the microphone, grabs a pair of scales off the floor and holds them above his head.
‘At the heart of every meeting is the weigh-in.’ He bangs the scales. ‘They’re our nemesis, right?’ He pauses for dramatic effect and then leans forward and eyeballs us. ‘Our truth teller?’
Half of the people in the room nod. The other half look like they’ve been asked to take their clothes off and run around Newton naked.
‘Well, these scales are about to become your best friend.’
‘Mum won’t fit on those in a million years,’ I whisper to Jake. Even if she did manage to get both feet on the standing bit, the digital numbers would go berserk. Mum’s in a whole other league.
‘We’ll work it out,’ Jake says.
That’s another reason I love Jake: he’s fixes stuff.
Mitch goes on. ‘So we start from where we are.’ He thumps the scales with his left hand. The numbers flash. ‘We’ll make a note of our weight in our personal journals. Charting our progress is a key part of the Slim Skills method.’
I’ve already made a weight chart: it’s on my bedroom wall. I’m aiming for Mum to lose twenty pounds a month. The point isn’t to get her all gaunt looking – I still want her to look like Mum. I just have to make sure she gets better. Once she wakes up, that is. Which she will.
The room’s so silent you can hear the Year 4 chairs creaking under all those grown-up bums.
‘So, who’s going first?’ Mitch scans the room.
Everyone stares at their feet, like we do at school when we don’t want to answer a question. I’m no expert but this guy doesn’t seem to be going about things quite the right way. I mean, if it took guts for me to come here, and I’m not here for me, think about how all the overweight people are feeling.
‘I’ll go,’ Mr Ding says, which I think is really brave.
‘I hope this doesn’t mean he’ll stop making those amazing spring rolls,’ Jake whispers.
People come all the way from Newton for Mr Ding’s spring rolls. Dad gets them for us as a treat when he’s had a long day and is too busy to cook.
Mitch stands up and walks to the front and, one by one, Mr Ding and the other people from Newton heave themselves out of their Year 4 chairs and go and queue for their weigh-in.
‘So, what are your names?’ Mitch Banks stands over me and Jake, holding up a Sharpie and a white sticker.
‘Feather,’ I say, ‘Feather Grace Tucker.’
Mitch writes FEATHER in big capitals. ‘That’s a nice name.’
I shrug.
He turns to Jake.
‘And you?’
‘Jake.’
Mitch hands us our name stickers.
‘So, why are you here?’
‘You know why I’m here,’ I say.
‘I do?’
‘You helped Mum – on New Year’s.’ My cheeks are burning up.
‘Oh… yes.’
‘You live next door to us.’
‘Right.’ He scrunches up his brow. ‘Forgive me, but I still don’t understand.’
‘We need to get help for Feather’s mum,’ Jake says. ‘We thought you could help.’
‘She’s in a diabetic coma,’ I add.
It’s better to say things straight, that’s what Mum’s taught me. What she means is – it’s better not to be like Dad. Dad thinks that dodging things or joking about them will make them go away. Like Mum being overweight – and look how that worked out.
‘Oh… I’m sorry,’ Mitch says.
‘That’s why she went to the hospital. She had a fit. But it’s okay, she’s going to wake up,’ I add. ‘Isn’t she, Jake?’
Jake nods. ‘Of course she is. Mrs Tucker is the toughest woman I know.’
Mum and Jake get on really well. She sees him as the son she never had.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Mitch scratches his forehead. I guess his Slim Skills manual didn’t prepare him for this kind of situation.
‘And when she does, I’m going to help her lose weight. That’s why I’m here,’ I say.
‘That’s a kind thing to do, Feather,’ Mitch says. I can hear the but sitting on his lips. ‘A very kind thing indeed.’ He smiles. ‘Do you think she might need a bit more help… I mean, medical help?’
‘You get people to lose weight, right?’ Jake blurts out.
Jake feels just as strongly as I do about Mum getting better.
‘We help people help themselves, but Feather’s mum…’ Mitch says.
‘You’re discriminating against Mum because she’s too big?’ I ask.
‘No… not at all…’
‘She