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From the beginning, if you were a child of many chins, you learned right off to set a goofy smile on your face when boys yelled "Fat-so." tits You learned not to cry one tear when they sang, straight to your heart, "I don't want her, you can have her, she's too fat for me." Those boys screamed "Pig Face, Pig Face, Oink oink oink." When you trundled past them tits on the asphalt playground, these same boys reached out and pinched doughy flab on your arm. While they pinched, they squealed tits "Fatty, Fatty." If a grownup asked, "How did you get that red place on your arm?" I said, "Bump'd into sump'in.'" How can you confide, how can you tell, about pinches and oinks and "I don't want her"? Somebody should, I told myself. Which is also why I wrote Fat Girl. Another reason I wrote Fat Girl is that few writers about fatties write that even thin girls (and women and men) can, behind their bony walls, remain fat.
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