“Size zero? Don’t you know guys don’t like girls who are sticks?” Laughter echoed around me as various pieces of people’s lunch were hurled at me.

It was just my nature to be tiny and slightly underweight. But no one in my freshman class at my new high school cared about that in the slightest. I was a freak to them, the tiny homeschooled girl who knew no one. For the mean-spirited, I was easy picking. Luckily, I ended up making a few friends, who constantly reassured me that I was beautiful, though I never really believed them. I hoped that one day I might hit a growth spurt and become an amazing Amazon-like model.

I did have a growth spurt. I did not become a goddess. I gained an extra inch and thirty pounds of weight. There’s no way that anyone can call me tiny now, I thought.

I was right; no one called me tiny again.

“Hey, this isn’t a beach,” I heard someone snicker behind me my first day of junior year. “No whales allowed.” A group of giggles passed me as the smile I had walked in with fell faster than my self-confidence. I ducked into a bathroom after my lunch was tossed into the trash by some girl who said I didn’t need it. I cried and had to walk into third period with puffy eyes, as my classmates followed me with curious eyes and hushed voices, trying to place my identity.

I couldn’t please them, and in turn, I couldn’t please myself. My self-image was completely destroyed, and I couldn’t bear it anymore. I wore baggy shirts to hide my hourglass shape; I began working out after school and missing play rehearsals. Skipping meals was the next step.

I dropped ten pounds. No one noticed. No one said, “Wow! You look great!”

No one told me, “You look so much better now.”

No one said a word.

I realized then that no matter what I did, the people telling me these horrible things for the past four years would never tell me anything good. I had tuned out everything positive and focused on the voices of negativity.

Then came prom night. I had chosen a blue sleeveless gown, and for the first time in a very long time, I felt pretty. I loved how I looked, and I didn’t care what anyone could say.

As I cautiously walked into my junior prom, exuding confidence as a defense mechanism, a voice from behind me said, “Amia, you look amazing in that dress!” I politely returned the compliment.

On my last day of junior year, I passed a freshman girl in the hall. She kept her head down and her arms drawn in close, buried by her baggy gray sweatshirt. As I approached her she looked up, and I recognized the look in her eyes. I wore that same look four years ago.

I gave her a warm smile and told her she was beautiful.