The inner thighs of my bike shorts swish past each other and my jelly sandals – purple of course, like everything else I’m allowed to choose – squeak a little, my feet slipping around in them as I trot down the hill, trying to keep up with Andrew. The pavement is already hot, burning the soles of my feet even through my shoes, and the Southern California sun is beating sparkles into the ocean that stretches out in front of us. I squint against the glare and try not to think about all the girls down on the beach in their bikinis, flirting and laughing and not wearing huge T-shirts over their swimsuits to protect them from sunburn and shame.

I’ve always loved living in Manhattan Beach. Our house is three blocks from the water, and my best friend lives a couple of streets over, just through the top of Sand Dune Park. We spend our weekends on the beach, making sand castles and trying to ignore Andrew, and pretending we don’t think his best friend, Scott, is super-hot. I love where I live. But lately, since I started the third grade and turned eight, things have started to feel . . . different. I have these new classmates – they’re twins, and everyone remembers which one is which because one is chubby, like me. I never realised or cared before that all my friends are skinnier than I am, but now the thought of sitting on the beach with them in nothing but our swimsuits makes me feel squirmy.

Andrew crosses the street without looking, and I swallow a cry of protest and launch myself after him. His long legs glide easily over the pavement – he got my mom’s body type, slim and leggy, while I’m stuck with my dad’s long torso and heavy frame, and have to move my legs twice as fast as he does to keep pace. He barely looks at me as I catch up; he’s probably embarrassed to be seen with his fat little sister, but he needs a partner in crime. We both do.

When we reach Manhattan Avenue and turn left, the sign comes into view: Moon’s Market. Right next door to the pizza place with the surfer on the logo, which is next door to the deli where our older sister, Catie, sometimes works when she comes home from college in the summers. As we pass the deli, I start planning how I’m going to spend my allowance; we each have a ten-dollar bill, which goes pretty far at Moon’s.

We duck into the heavy cool of the store and pause, relishing the shade, letting our eyes adjust after the brightness outside. I hover in front of the candy stand, running my tongue over the inside of my mouth to try to figure out what kind of candy I’m craving. Fruity? Chocolatey? Crunchy? Sour? I reach for the bright yellow pack of Starburst, then pull my hand back – too crinkly, Mom might hear. I choose the milder, slightly waxy Mambas instead. Starburst Lite. Less flavour, less packaging, just as much sugar and satisfying chew. Still fat-free, at least.

I can feel Mr Moon watching me. I wonder if he’s thinking we might steal something or if he just thinks I’m too fat to be eating all this candy. I try to ignore him, focusing as hard as I can on the chocolate-toffee Heath bar in my left hand, but the hot, prickly blush invades my face anyway. I wish he would do something, move around, but he always stays behind the counter, watching.

Now I have two candy choices in my collection, one fruity and one chocolate, but I want more. Who knows when I’ll get the chance to come back? Mom doesn’t leave us alone often, and never for long. I scan the racks, thinking not only of flavour but of longevity too; I can’t very well hide a pint of Cookies ’n’ Cream ice cream under my bed or in my Barbie shoebox. I grab M&Ms, plain, and red liquorice Twizzlers, then pull back again for one last look. I hear the door to the refrigerated case close and turn to see Andrew standing over my shoulder. He reaches over me to grab a KitKat bar – he already has a big bottle of Pepsi under his arm.

‘That’s it?’ I’m desperate for him to buy more, to even us out and make me less a glutton than a deprived child of a health nut. He looks at the pile of brightly coloured wrappers in my arms, and the burn spreads across my cheeks again. Andrew sees, and looks away.

‘Let’s just pay and get out of here. Mom’ll be home soon.’

I lay my plunder on the counter and unfurl the bill I’ve been clutching in my palm; it’s hot and limp, and a little damp. Mr Moon takes it slowly, but instead of getting my change he just stares at me. I shift my weight to my other foot and look at the counter. My purple feet. The cold, blue-grey cement floor.

‘Does your mother know you’re here?’ His voice is deeper than I expected, more masculine than his slight, bent frame would suggest. His eyes are narrowed at me; I feel like I’ve been busted for shoplifting, or worse, like I’ve been caught buying candy behind my mother’s back. Which, of course, I have been.

‘Of course she does.’ Andrew speaks up with a voice steadier than my whole body. ‘Don’t you think our parents would find out if we were sneaking out of the house all the time?’

I’m not sure his bluff has worked, but Mr Moon pushes a button on the register and hands me my change without another word, and we flee into the sun’s harsh glare.

‘Jeez, that was close! Do you think he’ll tell on us?’ I’m panting – the way back home is all uphill. I try to swallow my heavy breaths and ignore the stinging in my calves.

Andrew barely looks at me, just shrugs and grunts. His stride is almost double the length of mine, and he takes the hill easily.

‘Whatever. That old dude probably doesn’t even know who Mom is. When was the last time you saw her go into Moon’s? Or even the pizza place?’

I exhale in relief. He’s right. Mom only shops at the grocery store, and she would never go into the pizza place. Only Dad takes us there, although Mom might order a delivery from them on special occasions.

‘Yeah, OK.’

We walk in silence, the only sounds my huffing and puffing and the squeak of my rubber shoes on the asphalt. Andrew drinks half his Pepsi on the way home, but I’ve got all my candy stuffed carefully into my waistband under my big T-shirt. I never eat it until I can really savour it, alone in my room.

By the time we reach our street, I’m trailing a good twenty feet behind Andrew, and he’s getting fed up. When he gets to our front gate he stops and turns, placing his fists on his hips with exasperation.

‘Come on. Mom’s gonna get home soon and want to know where we were!’

I glare at him, but I don’t quite have the breath to say anything in response without embarrassing myself further.

‘Come on, Annie,’ Andrew puts his hands on his thighs like he’s calling a dog, ‘snap, crackle, pop, burn that fat!’

I feel like I’ve been slapped. My face, already hot from the weather and the hill, burns until it stings, and tears gather at the corners of my eyes. I will them to go away – nothing entices further torture like the sight of tears.

As I reach my brother, I glance up at him, just to show him I’m not afraid, and to hiss ‘Asshole’ in his direction. The bad word feels less powerful than I thought it would, but for a second I think Andrew might feel kind of bad for saying what he did. Then he spots the tears, and the possibility of having to show real remorse stops his pity cold.

‘Oh, what, now you’re gonna cry?’

‘No!’

Yes.

Andrew scoffs at my tears and pushes through the front door. I give myself a minute to calm down, kick at the gate as if it might be on his side, and then follow him in.

The house is cool, quiet. I know it won’t be empty for long, so I head straight to my room to stash my candy. The chocolates have become a bit squidgy from being so close to my warm belly, but they’ll firm up eventually. I hide the treats in different parts of my room, so that if one is found the others will be safe, and nobody will ever figure out just how much I hoard at one time. I wedge the Twizzlers inside one of my shoes, the white patent Mary Janes that are too stiff to wear. The Heath bar is flat, so it fits in between the pages of Teen Bop, in my nightstand. The M&Ms I stuff into my underwear drawer, careful to cover them with plenty of Disney Princess panties.

The Mambas, though, I hang onto for a minute. I really want to eat one or two before my mom comes home and smells the artificial fruit flavours on my breath. I open the package and take out two of the raspberry ones, tiny rectangles wrapped individually with a waxy paper. I tuck the rest of the Mambas in between the mattress and the headboard, and sit down on my bed to slowly unwrap the first of the two allotted candies.

I pop the Mamba in my mouth and fold up the wrapper into smaller and smaller squares, until it’s barely visible. The candy on my tongue is soft, and warm from the trip. It doesn’t have much flavour besides sweet, with a hint of berriness. I hold it there in my mouth without chewing for a minute, savouring the taste of refined sugar and the texture of taffy, then I let myself bite it. Once. Twice. And then I swallow. It’s all over too fast, and I’m glad I’ve grabbed another. The second piece is gone almost as quickly as the first, although this time I pause to let the partially chewed candy squish between my two front teeth, where there’s a big gap that gets bigger every year. The sound is hideous, but it feels delicious.

Just as I’ve swallowed the candy, and am allowing myself to consider grabbing another, I hear the front door open and my mom calls out a greeting. I leap off the...