CHAPTER 1

The Four Chicas

"Hey, Vista." Vernon greeted me over the phone in a playful toneas I sat at my desk, expecting a call from a business client. Mybrother knew I hated anyone calling me that.

I responded with a tinge of irritation. "What do you want?"And as he should have expected, the conversation was brief.

"Just saying hi. You sound really busy," Vernon commented,the playfulness in his voice now tempered.

"Yes, Vernon, I'm waiting on a call," I said, not letting up onmy irritation.

"Oh come on, Rory, you know I love that name." He soundedas if he were feigning sincerity.

"And you know I don't. Good-bye Vernon; I'll call you later,"I said as I hung up without allowing for any rebuttal or findingout exactly the purpose of his call.

Vista Aurora Glazer is what's written on my birth certificate.Vista? I was convinced that my name was inspired by my mother'sdrug-induced spells at the hospital. She said she wanted to nameme only after meeting me, so go figure—she met me when comingoff her epidural and Demerol high. I hated my name, and so Iwent by Rory Carter.

"Carter" is thanks to my adorable husband, Michael Carter.He has that "get along with everyone" personality in a subtle,charming way. They say there is no real Prince Charming, but tothe naysayers: you haven't met Mr. Michael Carter. I really couldgo on and on about him, and his butt cheeks get their own ravereviews!

I stand about five feet six inches, and currently my weightfluctuates between 150 and 155 pounds. I am thirty-one yearsold, with a twin brother who is seven minutes older than me. Hehas to live with the name Vernon Golin Glazer! You have to reallywonder what my parents were thinking with our names.

It would be different if we were stinking rich, and then ournames would be distinguished by default. Instead we were middleclass, and our names, as our middle-school classmates put it,were "stupid!" Vernon's was okay, but of me they would ask,"Why did your parents name you Vista? What the hell does thateven mean?" The great thing about some of those loudmouthedclassmates was that they weren't particularly the smartest, sothey really couldn't come up with any rhymes to make the nameworse. They just hated my name, and that's where it started andended—with the name.

My size was a different story. Those were my extremely heavy,awkward, and self-deprecatingly insecure days. Where I got myheavy build from is still a mystery. My mother was model perfect,and the pictures prove that she has been, at every age. My dadhad a solid athletic build and has never been heavy. Vernon wasa spitting image of my father in every sense, so with his naturalathletic build and ability, he has been on one athletic team oranother right from elementary school—and along with that cameswooning from the opposite sex.

I was a spitting image of me.

I never knew I was "fat pig," "big chunk," or "Michelin tire,"until I got to middle school. At home, I wasn't fat. I was justRory with a healthy appetite. Regardless of a seemingly healthyhome life, the name calling, teasing, and pranks eventually tooktheir toll on me emotionally. Once before gym class, someonetook my gym shorts and poured honey in the pockets. Not longafter I got them on, while I was still in the girls' locker room, itstarted oozing out. A handful of classmates exclaimed that fat wasliterally evaporating from my body. I didn't cry on the outsidebecause I couldn't give them the satisfaction, but I was wailingon the inside. The teacher stood by the door and yelled, "You cansit out of class and clean yourself up."

I grew to like nothing about how I looked except for my faceand my hair. My dark, full hair hung perfectly, never a strand outof place. But all the beautiful hair in the world didn't make anyof my classmates see me as beautiful. Seeing that the only girlsVernon and the other jocks hung out with were about half mysize, only made it worse. The solution seemed obvious to me: to beconsidered attractive by anyone, I had to lose weight. I buried myfeelings deep inside, pasted a smile on my face, and determinedto become one of the pretty, thin girls.

The plan was simple: less food, more physical activities byjoining sports and dance teams, aerobics with exercise tapes,weekly check on the scale, and I should reach my goal of beingthis beautiful, skinny girl. The monkey wrench in my plan was mymother, who wasn't having any of it. "You can't skimp on meals,"she'd say. At the dinner table, she glared at me as I pushed thefood around my plate.

"If you don't want that," Vernon said, reaching over andspooning mashed potatoes off my plate, "I'll take it."

It took two weeks, but finally my mom had had enough."Rory, I don't know what's going on with you, but if you're goingto just play with your food, then just don't eat," she said in a sterntone. And so it began. I flirted with starvation and skipped somemeals altogether. But since she hadn't linked my eating habits tomy poor body image, she also started cooking different meals forme to accommodate what she thought was my changing palette.

Thanks to Mom, in less than a month of embarking on phaseone of my master plan to become beautifully thin, it crashedbefore it even started. Her savory dishes made only for me, werenear impossible to resist without intense scrutiny. Phase two wasalso a failure, thanks again to Mom. The ever-involved motherthat she was, this time she questioned my involvement in theadded extracurricular activities which now included being partof two dance teams.

"Why are you trying to kill yourself?" she asked.

"I really like all of them and couldn't choose," I lied.

"That's not true," she pressed, the suspicion audible in hervoice.

How do you tell your mom that you just want to be asbeautiful as she is? That no matter how much you tried to explainit, she wouldn't understand? How do you tell your mom all thenames you get called in school, when you know that hearing themwould hurt her? Everyone talks about how gorgeous my mom is,and she has never been my size, so in my head there was no wayshe could relate.

I was careful in my approach of the subject with her; I knewit was important to her that I never saw myself as different. Forexample, whenever we went shopping, she bought me the samechic styles that she wore, only my size was bigger. Whatever didn'tquite fit right, my mom made sure a seamstress fit it to my size. Iremember how bad it felt to have one of those conversations withmy mom when I had barely hit my teenage years.

"I really don't know how to talk to you about it, Mom," Isaid.

"About what?" she asked.

"Well ... I just need to be skinny," I said with bluntresignation.

"You need to be skinny?" she asked, in a confused tone.

"Yes, Mom. Look around. People like you are the attractiveones," I responded quietly.

I know she didn't really know what to say, and as I continuedto share some of my experiences in school with her, I felt bad thatI was making my mom go through listening to this. I knew therewas nothing she could do, but with the tears that were wellingup in the corners of her eyes, I also knew she would spend plentyof time worrying about it all. I now felt selfish for telling her anyof it.

"You know there's nothing wrong with you, right?" sheeventually said. I didn't respond, but nodded, knowing she wasright but feeling she was so wrong. She hugged me. It was tightand I felt...