“And your parents? Do they, say, come to your competitions?”
This evokes an actual laugh. “Ohmigod, yes, and it’s sooooo embarrassing! My mom and dad sit in the front row. They make banners and everything! They cheer louder than anyone. I sort of wish I had a sibling so they could spread out their enthusiasm and not just concentrate it all on me.”
“Ever wish they wouldn’t come?”
She shakes her head, which showcases her glorious mane. “No, totally not. I feel...safe with them there. Like, if I mess up, it doesn’t matter, they love me regardless.”
I keep my face neutral when I say, “You’re lucky to have that.” I don’t explain how my situation differs, because this session is not about me.
Uh-oh, we’re back to staring at feet again.
“I know and I feel kinda bad. I have friends on the team and their folks can’t even be bothered to show up.”
Been there.
I tab through my mental checklist—academics aren’t a problem, nor is involvement/friends, and she has a supportive family. I have a feeling about where this is going, but I need her to tell me so that I can help her. If I bring it up, she’ll feel attacked.
“Sounds like you have a lot going for you,” I say.
She nods, but doesn’t seem convinced. Time to switch tactics.
“Okay,” I say, “I have to know something and this is totally off script and I’m sure Mr. Gorton would be mad, so please don’t tell him I asked.” I can see Farrah’s shoulders tense. I’m about to lob a softball directly into her waiting glove, but she doesn’t realize it. “Your hair is freaking gorge—what do you use on it?”
Again, another genuine smile. “Moroccan oil and Frederic Fekkai products. It’s dumb, but I started buying his stuff because I’m Farrah Fakhoury and I liked the double Fs.”
“Um, no, that’s the opposite of dumb. That’s a perfectly legit reason and look at your results! I’d die for your hair, I really would. Like, I just want to pet it, you know? You’ve got the whole My Pretty Pony thing going on and those? Favorite toy ever. I would brush their hair for hours. They were the best.”
She presses her lips together and seems to be struggling over what she’s about to say. After a pause, she tells me, “You could have my hair, if that meant I could wear your jeans.”
Bingo. Problem, meet solution.
Totally conversationally, I say, “You know, when I was in seventh grade, I had to shop in the women’s section with my mom, because none of the teen sizes fit me.”
Farrah glances up at me through a lush fringe of bangs. “Really? You didn’t always look like this?”
“Nope. I was a skinny kid, but I didn’t realize that my metabolism had changed from when I was a little kid and I was eating too much. In fact,” I say, “in junior high, my mom used to call me ‘Calorie Mallory.’”
She gasps. “That’s awful!”
I wave her off. “She meant well.”
No, she didn’t.
I continue, “I realized I didn’t like having to buy mom-jeans, you know? I wanted to wear what everyone else had on. So I made changes. Took up field hockey, which is a ton of running. Also, I recorded everything I ate on an app so I’d be more accountable to myself. I could not believe how much hidden fat was in my favorite stuff. For example, I used to get mochas all the time and then I learned they’re five hundred calories apiece! That’s, like, a third of my daily allowance.”
Two thirds.
Farrah glances at her cup in horror. “Holy crap, I drink three of those a day. What did you do?”
I shrug. “I decided to make them a treat instead, a once-in-a-while thing so they’re more special now.”
I don’t mention that I eventually became obsessive, and, let’s be honest, a tad exercise bulimic as I’m not in the Pro-ana business. I wouldn’t wish how I feel on anyone. No one should be thin-spired by me. I preach moderation, even if I can’t seem to practice it.
“Here’s the thing,” I say, offering up advice I wish I could take myself. “What you weigh is not who you are. Listen, you’ve got so much going for you—you’re smart, you have phenomenal hair, you have nice friends, your parents rock. You are already awesome, just as you are. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. If they do, you tell me, okay? However, if your pants size bugs you, if you feel like that’s a burden you can’t bear, make small changes, if you feel like it and only if you feel like it. I want you to go out into the world feeling like you’re your best you, whatever size that entails.”
Farrah is now sitting upright in her beanbag, looking me in the eye, with her shoulders squared. “It’s that easy?”
“At first, maybe it won’t feel like it, but the truth is, it can be simple if you want it to be.”
“Should I pick a different track in gym class?”
Illinois has a mandatory physical education element, so no one’s exempt from taking gym. However, NSHS tracks the levels of classes, so some people go super easy and pick sports like golf or Concepts in Fitness, which is basically for kids who would rather study about exercise than participate in it.
“Are you in Concepts of Fitness?” I ask.
She nods.
“I bet you’d adore the strength training class.”
“A couple of my friends take that and they kind of love it,” she admits.
“If you were to sign up for that, you’d get in more activity and you’d get to be with your squad more. Hashtag workoutbuddies. Plus, you’d feel great from all the endorphins. That’s what’s called a positive fulfillment loop. The more you do it, the better you feel and the more you want to do it.”
I believe my job here, especially with the underclassmen, is to make other kids as resilient and confident as possible because once their junior and senior years roll around, the pressure is going to be almost unbearable. If they don’t go in strong, well, we’ve seen what can happen.
“Would you be into helping me figure out a way to be healthier? Like, go over my choices with me? Guide me in the right direction?”
“Totally. Figuring it all out with a friend makes it more fun.”
“The buddy system, I like that.” She sits there for a minute and finally shrugs. “I don’t really have a lot more to tell you right now.”
“We can always hang out again in another session. Let me give you my number so you can text me with a question between appointments.” I hand her a card with my deets and digits on it.
“That would be great.” Farrah takes the card and tucks it in her shirt pocket and then extricates herself from the beanbag. I rise, too, to walk her to the door. She scoops up her half-full cup and deposits it in the trashcan next to the door.
“Um, Mallory?”
“Yeah?”
She begins to fidget with her cuff. “I... I might owe you an apology. I thought you were one thing coming in here today, but it turns out, you’re totally another. I think I heart you.”