Fat Girl On A Plane. Kelly deVos

smoothed with a flat iron. If Mattel made a suburban mom doll, they’d use Amanda to make the mold.

      Because fat people must be God’s inside joke, the NutriNation is sandwiched in between a Starbucks and a Fosters Freeze. “You’ll never see anyone from here over there,” Amanda says. “All my NutriNation people go to the Starbucks around the corner. I guess they think they’re invisible over there.”

      Joining is easy. It occurs to me, midway through the process, that these people deal with weight issues for a living. And they know what they’re doing. They don’t weigh you in public, ask you for your size, measurements or age.

      The scale display is behind the counter, so no one can see my weight. No one except me. Amanda discreetly passes me a weight-tracking booklet. And there it is. In neat numbers written with a cheap ballpoint pen. Three hundred and thirty-seven pounds.

      It’s my first meeting, and I don’t talk to anyone. Before it starts, I don’t even look at anyone. After Amanda introduces herself, she points out a few people in the group. Kimberly is celebrating the loss of one hundred pounds. Rickelle sits next to me. She tells us how she dropped one-fifty and now runs marathons. Dave lost two hundred pounds while stubbornly refusing to stop drinking beer.

      They’re talking about emotional eating. I don’t pay too much attention. I’ve spent a long time thinking that I’m fat because Grandma keeps too many cookies in the house.

      But, man, it’s like Amanda’s got telepathy or something because she immediately says, “Now, we’ve talked a lot about how we can’t assume that people are overweight solely because they overeat. Likewise, we can’t make assumptions about why people overeat. Sometimes people eat because they’re stressed or bored or upset.”

      In the seat next to me, Rickelle murmurs, “Or their mother came to visit and won’t go back to Cleveland.”

      I can’t help but think of my mother. There’s no way I’d let her drive me to eat. When I was seven, she didn’t show up to my birthday party and sent her assistant with a cake. I tossed it in the trash. I’m not an emotional eater. But there are other memories. Of Grandma taking me for ice cream every time my mom forgot to call. Of my favorite grilled cheese when Mom took off with Chad Tate. I don’t want to think about these things, and I spend the rest of the meeting studying the posters on the wall that show frolicking thin people.

      New people have to stay after the meeting. Amanda explains the program. Tells us how, for all of eternity, we’re going to be food accountants. Reading labels. Calculating how many points we’ll need to deduct from our daily food budget for our diet dinners. Entering stuff into the app or in our food logs.

      There’s one big rule. You bite it, you write it.

      If you eat twelve almonds, it’s two points. If you eat fifteen almonds, it’s three. So only eat twelve almonds. Otherwise, you’re screwed.