She smiled. Gerry was an FBI man? Amazing. She'd always imagined him going into business. Who'd have ever thought? And now the former major heartthrob of Washington-Lee High wanted to take her out. Who'd ever believe that?

She just hoped they didn't wind up at a pasta place. That wouldn't be funny.

Pasta . . . when had she picked up that name? Freshman year?

Somewhere around the time her hormones had begun to flow. Overnight she'd seemed to balloon. It was horrible.

She couldn't squeeze into her clothes. Her breasts were growing, which was fine, but so were her thighs and hips and waistline. She hadn't changed her eating habits but her body seemed to have stopped burning off the calories she'd once been able to pack away. She'd gone from slightly above average to obese in less than a year. She'd wanted to die.

Her father couldn't see a problem, "There's more of you to love! " was definitely not a solution to her misery. Mama understood, and together they started a diet, but already it was too late. The school comedians couldn't resist "Pasta" Panzella.

She changed internally as well, becoming moody and reclusive. Looking back now, from the far side of a medical education, Gin realized Pasta had sunk into a clinical depression. She'd tell people she didn't care about her weight or what anybody called her, and to prove it, she'd b inge. Especially on lonely weekend nights. Primarily on chocolate.

Pasta loved chocolate. Chocolate cake, chocolate donuts, Hershey's with almonds, and Snickers. God, she loved Snickers. And bingeing only made her fatter, which made her even more depressed.

Pasta missed the junior and senior proms, and lots of other high-school activities in her self-imposed exile. The only bright spots in those dark days had been her novels and her part-time job in Dr. Lathram's office. Her grades began to slip but not enough to keep her out of the Ivy League.