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through the charts.
    At the same time that Doctor T was perusingPaula’s chart, Paula was standing in front of her dresser mirror in her loft bedroom, staring at her reflection with clinical detachment. She slipped off her flannel nightgown and shivered slightly as it fell to the floor. Her eyes darted to the various posters that adorned her walls. Where other girls her age hid the floral wallpaper of childhood with posters of rock stars or school artwork, Paula’s choice leaned towards photos of ballerinas, Calvin Klein models, and figure skaters.
    There was one framed painting that seemed somehow out of place, propped up on the back of Paula’s dresser. It was the oil done by Gramma Pauline. Paula loved that painting. When she looked at it, it was as if she could feel the warmth of her grandmother’s love envelop her.
    Paula’s eyes lifted from the painting and back to her own reflection in the dresser mirror. She turned towards the full-length mirror on the opposite wall to get a better look, then let out a tiny gasp of pride at the tall sleek figure that was her own. She looked back at her posters of models and dancers and smiled. Paula had no reason to feel out of place in this room of well-toned women. Another day had arrived and yet she had still managed to banish more fat and more of the awkward Paula of old.
    Reassured by the mirror, Paula stepped on the scale that she kept beside it and watched as theindicator stopped at 126. “Yippee!” she trilled. “Down another pound.”
    She pulled on a bra and underwear. Zipping up a pair of baggy jeans and pulling a teal-coloured baby T over her head, and her Doc Martens onto her feet, she stood again in front of the mirror and smiled with pride.
    Her favourite poster was one of Calista Flockhart, sitting gamine-like on a park bench in a T-shirt and jeans. Paula figured she looked almost as good as Calista.
    The heady aroma of bacon reached out and clutched her stomach before she even rounded the corner to the kitchen. In the past year, as her weight dropped from 150 to 126, Paula’s sense of smell had become sharper. She walked into the kitchen and saw her mother and father who were already sitting at the table eating breakfast. Erik was no longer there, although his cereal bowl containing a few stray bloated Cocoa Puffs, indicated his recent departure. She knew that Erik was probably sitting on the front steps, playing his Game Gear in solitude—away from the wrath of his father’s eyes and waiting until the last possible moment before heading off to school.
    Paula’s father was savouring his bacon and eggs, while her mother nibbled on a piece of dry toast. Paula poured herself a bowl of toasted oats and sat down at the table with her parents.

    Mrs. Romaniuk set down her toast and frowned at her daughter, “Is that all that you’re having for breakfast? You’ll be starving by mid-morning.”
    “Leave the girl alone, Em, she’s old enough to know what she’s doing.” Mr. Romaniuk said.
    Paula swirled her spoon around the bowl and watched as the little rings of oats bobbed in and out of the milk. She concentrated on the look of her cereal and the smell of her cereal, though she was almost afraid to eat it. By the time her parents had finished their breakfasts and kissed their daughter good-bye, Paula still hadn’t eaten. Once both of her parents had left the house, Paula ate one spoonful of what was now mush, then pushed away her bowl.
    Paula ran upstairs again and stripped down to her bra and underwear. She stepped back on the scales. Still 126. Thank God, breathed Paula with relief. She threw her clothes back on and left for school.
    Paula’s daily walk to school always managed to fill her with a quiet sense of joy—even more so since she had embarked on her eating regimen. It seemed that since then, her senses had become sharper. What used to be a simple walk from point A to point B now could be experienced as a feast for the senses. On this fine