stuff than I could type in one night.”
“Two little brothers, pains in my ass.” He sends a smiley with crazy, rolling eyes. “They have obnoxious BlahFest profiles, too. One of them calls himself
Hercules
. Yeah, right.” Then: “You don’t really have an eating disorder, do you?”
“No.” I almost laugh out loud, but hold it back. “But I suck at getting in shape.”
“Your coach a hard-ass like my pops?”
“Absolutely. The Bear bites.”
“Had a wrestling coach like that.” Paul cues a blue frowny-face. “He was a bastard about us making weight early in the week instead of just at match time. I had to learn a lot about fitness and strength and weight training.”
I fidget, not sure what to type, but Paul adds: “Maybe I can help you with the training stuff? I don’t mind.”
My jaw goes loose, and my stomach flutters.
That’s … sweet.
And all of a sudden, I want to tell him about Mom and Devin and the whole skinny-people-think-it’s-easy problem. Somehow, I think Paul would get it. In fact, I know he would, but I don’t really want to go there. I mean, what if he starts seeing me as all fat and freckled and just … not good enough?
But he’s asking my height, and how much weight I want to lose—jeez. At least he’s not asking me what I do weigh, because if he does, I’m not answering.
“Don’t bother,” I tell him. “It’s hopeless. I gain weight eating lettuce.”
“Only if you overtrain,” he types back.
My eyebrows shoot up. “What do you mean?”
“It’s when you exercise too hard and don’t take inenough calories. It puts your body into storage—you know, slows down your metabolism so you don’t lose anything. Sometimes you even gain at first.” The icon for
Paul is typing
blinks, so I know he’s not finished.
Overtraining?
That’s why I gain weight on lettuce?
I’m exercising
too much
?
“It’s a balancing act,” Paul writes. “You have to take in fewer calories than you burn up, but more exercise isn’t necessarily better—and you have to rest in between hard training sessions, or you’ll just get hurt and stuff.”
I tell him how much I exercise every day with the Bear’s practices, but he says my body’s probably used to that level of exertion.
Before midnight, he’s laid out a training schedule for me, and helped me figure out a calorie count, and given me some Web sites to help me pick foods to get what I need without going over. He sends the training schedule in a file that I save to my desktop.
“I’ll send you some free weights, okay?” The words fly across the screen and I imagine him telling me those words in that laid-back, low musician’s voice he probably has. “Just the basics for now, 2s, 5s, and 8s. It’ll be enough for a start.”
“Those cost money,” I hack back, doing my best to keep my spelling straight even though my stomach’s roaring and my eyelids are drooping.
“I’ve got money,” Paul answers immediately. “My dad is loaded. It’s no sweat. Should I send them to your house?”
“God, no, my mother and father would have a total stroke!” I hesitate, then glance back over the training program he gave me. I really need those weights, but I’m flat busted. And Mom getting me weights when she just knows I’ll use them to be anorexic or bulimic some-how—that so isn’t going to happen.
Dad might get them for me, but who knows when he’ll have time—and if he could get it past Mom?
Devin.
I could have him send the weights to Devin’s—but no, no. Wait. Her folks’ll stroke just as fast as Mom and Dad.
“Why don’t you get a P.O. box?” Paul types back. “Well, a personal mailbox, I mean. At one of those mailbox places?”
I grin. “Don’t you have to be eighteen? I’m still underage, remember?”
Paul punches up a wicked winking smiley face. “You could get an I.D.”
He explains how easy that is, setting up a fake I.D. He says all I need is a headshot to pull it off.
I click
“Two little brothers, pains in my ass.” He sends a smiley with crazy, rolling eyes. “They have obnoxious BlahFest profiles, too. One of them calls himself
Hercules
. Yeah, right.” Then: “You don’t really have an eating disorder, do you?”
“No.” I almost laugh out loud, but hold it back. “But I suck at getting in shape.”
“Your coach a hard-ass like my pops?”
“Absolutely. The Bear bites.”
“Had a wrestling coach like that.” Paul cues a blue frowny-face. “He was a bastard about us making weight early in the week instead of just at match time. I had to learn a lot about fitness and strength and weight training.”
I fidget, not sure what to type, but Paul adds: “Maybe I can help you with the training stuff? I don’t mind.”
My jaw goes loose, and my stomach flutters.
That’s … sweet.
And all of a sudden, I want to tell him about Mom and Devin and the whole skinny-people-think-it’s-easy problem. Somehow, I think Paul would get it. In fact, I know he would, but I don’t really want to go there. I mean, what if he starts seeing me as all fat and freckled and just … not good enough?
But he’s asking my height, and how much weight I want to lose—jeez. At least he’s not asking me what I do weigh, because if he does, I’m not answering.
“Don’t bother,” I tell him. “It’s hopeless. I gain weight eating lettuce.”
“Only if you overtrain,” he types back.
My eyebrows shoot up. “What do you mean?”
“It’s when you exercise too hard and don’t take inenough calories. It puts your body into storage—you know, slows down your metabolism so you don’t lose anything. Sometimes you even gain at first.” The icon for
Paul is typing
blinks, so I know he’s not finished.
Overtraining?
That’s why I gain weight on lettuce?
I’m exercising
too much
?
“It’s a balancing act,” Paul writes. “You have to take in fewer calories than you burn up, but more exercise isn’t necessarily better—and you have to rest in between hard training sessions, or you’ll just get hurt and stuff.”
I tell him how much I exercise every day with the Bear’s practices, but he says my body’s probably used to that level of exertion.
Before midnight, he’s laid out a training schedule for me, and helped me figure out a calorie count, and given me some Web sites to help me pick foods to get what I need without going over. He sends the training schedule in a file that I save to my desktop.
“I’ll send you some free weights, okay?” The words fly across the screen and I imagine him telling me those words in that laid-back, low musician’s voice he probably has. “Just the basics for now, 2s, 5s, and 8s. It’ll be enough for a start.”
“Those cost money,” I hack back, doing my best to keep my spelling straight even though my stomach’s roaring and my eyelids are drooping.
“I’ve got money,” Paul answers immediately. “My dad is loaded. It’s no sweat. Should I send them to your house?”
“God, no, my mother and father would have a total stroke!” I hesitate, then glance back over the training program he gave me. I really need those weights, but I’m flat busted. And Mom getting me weights when she just knows I’ll use them to be anorexic or bulimic some-how—that so isn’t going to happen.
Dad might get them for me, but who knows when he’ll have time—and if he could get it past Mom?
Devin.
I could have him send the weights to Devin’s—but no, no. Wait. Her folks’ll stroke just as fast as Mom and Dad.
“Why don’t you get a P.O. box?” Paul types back. “Well, a personal mailbox, I mean. At one of those mailbox places?”
I grin. “Don’t you have to be eighteen? I’m still underage, remember?”
Paul punches up a wicked winking smiley face. “You could get an I.D.”
He explains how easy that is, setting up a fake I.D. He says all I need is a headshot to pull it off.
I click
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