Footsteps echoed through the hall, as I hastily stored my illicit snack in the bottom drawer of my desk.  "Catherine," O goody, Mum was home, "What have I told you about eating rubber cement?!" Busted.
               The leaves had turned, threatening to fall any day now, and I bustled around getting ready for the second quarter of my fifth grade year to start.  Giving up rubber cement was one of the many issues that clouded my mind.  My "friends" at school had, if anything, become more unbearable than the years preceding this one, causing first quarter to be nothing short of slow torture.  Having never been one of the most popular people at Aldert Root Elementary, (I guess being the only person over 150 pounds doesn't help), I was used to the snide comments and practical jokes.  This year, however, came complete with the competition for boys (which I never won), and a stronger need for popularity, meaning the friends Mum met for me in play group six years ago weren't passing the test of time.
Pushing my bulky, plastic-framed glasses back up my nose, as was my habit, I waddled up to my mother and reached my pudgy, paste covered hands up for a hug. It was received with a sigh before the well-thought, perfectly-put-together woman exited the room.  I was not to see her again till that evening at dinner, where I learned that I would be purchasing a friend, in the form of a hamster, the very next day.
My fuzzy little companion, deemed Milkshake, was taken home with love, and a pair of gloves (to avoid the biting).  I finally had someone to play with, filling my afternoons with games of building forts and mazes, and hours of just cuddling and talking with her.
Things began to improve, having a friend helped me keep upbeat, and the more time I spent with Milkshake, the less time I spent eating; meaning that slivers of bulk were being erased slowly but surely from my pudgy form.  Second quarter passed with very little excitement, and before I knew it, December had arrived, and with it an array of Christmas parties for my parents to attend, leaving me home with the ever-enjoyable Mrs. Beats.  An old family friend, emphasis on the old, Mrs. Beats had been my baby sitter since I was a toddler, and her visits always came complete with Gin Rummy, chocolate chip cookies, and the smell of overcooked cabbage.  On one of her more memorable stays, after finishing a batch of cookies and a rousing game of Gin, in which she profusely kicked my butt, I headed upstairs to check on Milkshake.  Wiggling her small pink nose in excitement, I raised her out of her house and placed her in the newest maze I had been working on.  Dodging in and out of plastic caves, and racing around the turns, Milkshake was having a jolly good time, until, out of nowhere, Mrs. Beats entered the room and tripped over the far edge of the maze, causing it to creak and a portion to fall off.  Milkshake took her chance and made a run for it, making it out the door of my room and into the hallway before I could even blink.  Chaos. Frantically, I ran after the rapidly moving, gray and white ball of fluff, screaming and crying all the way.  Mrs. Beats was on my heels muttering about what my parents were going to say when they came home.  An hour passed in this manner, until the front door swung open, revealing my parents, flushed, and looking as though they had had the time of their life.  Their cheery demeanor was quickly dashed as they learned what had happened and joined the hunt. 
Days passed, and no matter what kinds of traps we set or how hard we looked, Milkshake refused to be found.  After a few weeks of seeing nothing but small reminders of Milkshake's existence littering the floors in the basement, some horrifying, concrete evidence of Milkshake's fate was found.  I was about to plop myself down for an afternoon of watching cartoons, and munching on a bad or two of chips, when I heard the strangest noise coming from the laundry room, "Squeak, squeak, squeak, thump. Squeak, squeak, squeak, thump."  I managed to ignore it for a while, and eventually it ceased, the silence revealing a sickening thought that sprung from the back of my mind… Milkshake!  Leaping from my seat, I dashed to the laundry room and looked around; everything seemed ok, until I opened the lint trap.  There I found several small tuffs of gray and white fur, and the end of my best friend.
Life after Milkshake was extremely hard, my lack of friends exaggerated by her absence. I receded back into my previous ways of eating and crying most of the time, gaining back the precious pounds I had managed to shed, and with Christmas only weeks away, I received even more bad news.  My grandparents were coming.  As I understand it, most peoples' grandparents are sweet old people who enjoy giving presents and hugs and generally spoil their grandkids.  My grandparents, on the other hand, come complete with a vocabulary of insults, a keen eye for the unclean and wasteful, and not a single gift.  Ever since I could talk back, I was on my grandparents' bad side.  I enjoyed things like television, shooting stuff, and free time; thought small animals were cute rather than a menace to society; and, unlike my perfect sister, dared to be overweight.   I suspect the only reason my parents put off telling me was so that I wouldn't have time to run away, and soon enough they were here.
              "Ding Dong!" They had arrived earlier than expected, the dreaded moment was upon me.  All week I had tried my best to clean every inch of my room, In hopes of escaping ridicule, but it was to no avail.
             "Catherine," the aging woman's wrinkled mouth opened and shrilly greeted me, "This place is a pigsty! We did tell you we were coming, did we not?"  Not replying, (how could I have?), I took their coats and exited the room with as much haste as my stubbly little legs could muster.  During these all too frequent visits, my parents and I would rotate avoiding and entertaining the unwelcome guests, while my sister would do everything in her power to stay in their presence, soaking up every word of praise they offered, and they offered a lot.
            "Catherine," hunkering into the kitchen for the evening meal, my hopes of going unnoticed were smashed by my adoring grandfather, "Is it possible that you've gotten even chunkier since last Christmas?! Look at that Nancy," addressing my grandmother now, "what on earth do