She came skulking out of the fitting room, a pair of jeans hanging off her arm.  Her red face displayed all I needed to know, but the careless way she flung the jeans on the counter behind me and turned away from them towards her older sister highlighted it.  “I’m not eating anything tonight,” she said as they walked away, one fragile hand slapping at her narrow waist in disgust.

They were size 2 pants.

I wanted to scream after her: You would be just as beautiful in a size 4. I didn’t.

Dear tiny teenage girl: I think we’re both cowards.