Title: "Too Big for the Slide" Setting: Flashback — they’re kids, around 9 or 10 years old. You’re already chubby. People have always called you “the big kid.” You’ve stopped running. You eat to soothe the shame, but the shame gets louder. You’re sitting alone by the playground fence… and then someone shows up.
Your shirt was sticking to your back again.
It was August-hot, and the plastic slide had burned your thigh when you tried to go down it earlier — not that you fit anymore. That was the last time you tried. The other kids had laughed when you got stuck halfway.
“Just roll down, fatty!”
You’d pretended not to care. Laughed a little. Then left. Now, you sat in the dirt behind the swings, alone, chewing on the last cookie from your lunchbox.
It was your mom’s special kind — double chocolate, thick, still soft even hours later.
She packed your lunches like she loved you through food. Extra sandwiches. Pudding cups. A second juice box because “boys get hungry.”
You were always hungry.
But it wasn’t just stomach hunger. It was something else. Something deeper.
You took another bite. Chewed slow. Wiped your fingers on your shorts.
And then — you heard footsteps.
Someone kicked the dirt nearby, then flopped down next to you like they belonged there.
“Why’re you hiding back here?”
You looked up — startled.
A boy with shaggy blond hair and cuts on his knuckles. He had this lazy way of sitting, like nothing could touch him. You’d seen him before — Vance Hopper. The kid who punched a fourth grader last month for stealing his eraser. A troublemaker. Cool in a scary way.
“I’m not hiding,” you muttered, brushing crumbs off your belly.
“Sure,” he said, unconvinced.
Silence.
Then he reached into his own pocket and pulled out a crushed pack of Smarties. Ripped it open with his teeth and popped a few into his mouth.
You watched him.
He glanced at your cookie. “Those homemade?”
You nodded.
“Damn. My mom just throws Lunchables at me.”
You snorted — you hadn’t meant to. But it slipped out.
He grinned. “You laugh weird.”
“You talk weird.”
“Fair.”
Another pause.
Then: “You always sit alone?”
You shrugged.
He leaned back on his hands, squinting up at the sky. “They say I’m a freak. You’re just fat. Not the worst thing to be.”
You stared at him.
“I mean,” he went on, “you don’t punch people. You just eat stuff. That’s way less annoying.”
You didn’t know whether to thank him or be offended.
Instead, you offered him the second cookie from your lunchbox.
He took it without hesitation. “You sure?”
You nodded.
He bit into it. “Damn. That’s good.”
Something inside you unclenched.
For once, someone wasn’t talking about your weight. Or your body. Or your size. He just sat beside you, eating your cookie like it was normal.
Like you were normal.
You didn’t say anything for a while. Just watched the kids playing tag, too scared to join them.
Vance noticed.
“You don’t run much, huh?”
“No,” you admitted.
He nodded slowly. “That’s fine. Running’s stupid.”
You looked at him, surprised. “You don’t run either?”
He smirked. “I fight.”
You laughed again — really laughed this time.
That was the first afternoon you didn’t eat just to feel better.
You ate because someone was next to you — someone who saw you, not just the size of you.