Where'd Half of You Go?

197.

That’s what the scale reads. He tries to look at it for as little time as possible, taking one more quick glance to make out the numbers for sure. He has three pounds before his weight starts with a two, and that makes him feel ill. Sitting down and directing an unseeing stare out the window, he remembers all of the times he’d promised himself, lying awake at night, that he’d do better tomorrow – and then done nothing in the harsh light of morning. But he’s out of time now, and so he tells his mom that he wants to get a gym membership, chaining himself to a commitment through money spent and another knowing. The next day he drags himself from his mom’s car and into the gym, hoodie on in the heat of summer, instructions and workout regiments from YouTube echoing in his head. He fumbles with and eventually figures out alien contraptions, driven by determination and that number he saw on the scale. The next day he goes again, and skips breakfast because he’s heard it helps. He does the same the next day, and over and over again. 

​

186

is the number her son excitedly tells her about on their car ride to the gym. They’ve made this trip every day for the past month, and she’s glad to do it – not because she was worried about too much baby fat in his cheeks, but because his world lights up whenever he shows her a belt that needs to be fastened one hole tighter, or talks about muscles that ache like mad. She smiles as his ramblings (about the workout he has planned and the cute girl he saw at the gym the other day) are cut short by their arrival into the parking lot, and wishes him luck as he jumps out of the car.

​

174

reads the scale on the first day of school. On the bus that morning his stomach cries out for food, but he forgets about it when he sees his friends and they have to take two looks (to make sure it’s really him). He forgets about it the next day too, because someone tells him a girl was wondering if he had Snapchat – he doesn’t… he’s never needed it. That night he stands in front of a mirror, shirtless, and giddy at what he sees: a flat stomach, the beginnings of muscle tone, a thinner face. Later, out of curiosity he decides to look at old pictures of himself. A part of him marvels, realizing just how far he’s come, but another part of him shudders, vowing to never see his weight so near two hundred ever again.

“161!”

her son announces proudly as he nearly skips out of the bathroom. She’s not so certain that’s something to be so proud of. He never eats breakfast anymore, even though she sometimes hears his stomach complain as they sit in the car together, waiting for the bus to whisk him off. She has no idea what he eats while he’s off at school, and hopes it’s at least something. She thought about asking one of his friends about it, but smothered that idea just as quickly as it appeared. She knows he eats dinner at least, devours it really, but now it’s only his sisters that clamor for dessert the minute their plates are clean. The fact that he’s still so happy is the only thing pushing down her instinct to sit him down and make him eat. 

​

157

writes down the nurse on a paper with a clipboard. When the doctor comes in later for his physical, the first thing he does is joke about where the other half of him went. Later, waiting outside for his mom (she told him she was staying behind to talk to the doctor about his vaccination records) he revels in how he’s never before left an appointment without instructions to exercise more, or eat healthier. Walking to their car the wind bites at him in ways it never has before, but he just bundles his jacket tighter. 

​

–––

No, she doesn’t know where the scale is, she tells her son. She does. It’s in the darkest, deepest, dustiest part of their hallway closet, and it’s there to stay. He says it’d be cool if they could get a new one, and she shrugs, saying she’ll keep a (blind) eye out for one. When he wanders into the kitchen the next day she spontaneously mentions the newly purchased protein bars in the pantry, and how they’d make a good snack before a workout. Then, in the car that Monday she presses a breakfast sandwich wrapped in tinfoil into his hands, still warm from when she’d woken up half an hour early to make it. She tells him about an article she saw that said diet makes up more than half of building muscle, but worries that he’s only half-listening. When he does eventually get out of the car to start walking towards the bus, she sees him swing his backpack around, as if to stuff the sandwich inside and doom it to be forgotten. But he pauses, hand on zipper, and slowly moves his bag back. She feels tears well in her eyes as she watches him take the steps onto the bus, unwrapping the sandwich and taking a bite of it as he goes. 

​

–––

He hasn’t looked at one in ages. It’s the first thing that comes to mind when he sees a scale in a friend’s bathroom.

161

is its terrible, terrible judgement. His mind screams at him in rounded cheeks, swim shirts, gaze cast away from bathroom mirrors, and he freezes, eyes petrified downwards. Seconds drift by as he stands there, and what finally unglues his eyes, thaws his limbs is a mantra, a lifeline his mind gives itself: building muscle, building muscle, building muscle. He steps backwards off the scale and flees the bathroom, snakebitten. Later he sits in his room, alone, staring at old pictures of himself once more. That kid, that former version of himself who hated how he looked in every single picture he’s now studying, is familiar, yet not. They resemble each other like brothers, not twins – he’s long since assured himself of that. But he can’t tear himself away. He’s thinking about that kid, who saw a number close to two hundred and panicked. He would have killed to be even a fraction of where he is now, and he’d then feel inexpressible, unquantifiable joy every single day. 

So why doesn’t he? 

He can’t think of an answer to that question, and he doesn’t know why.