| 完形填空。 | ||||
| I wouldn't ask for a dressing room. My mom always asked for me. The evening before I had 1 risen from my seat and piled on excess (过量) noodles. Then I licked (舔) my bowl with the buttered garlic bread, 2 no evidence of the four servings I had eaten greedily. In the morning I would be forced to lie on my bed and suck in my 3 just to button my jeans. I feared school 4 . The sale rack, with its slender size markers, knew my number continued to grow. I learned 5 to eat from my dad: fast and without thinking. In our house, the dinner table involved 6 with the children on defense. One 7 move and our dinner would be snatched off our plates without warning and eaten up by our father 8 than we could blink. We soon learned to keep a hand up while 9 our chicken, and if mom decided to cook that night we needed to hurry and get 10 before it was gone. Only one pair of jeans I tried on fit. I 11 and told my mother I could button every pair but only needed the jeans that lay 12 in my hands. We walked to the checkout. I kept my head down as we passed a group of girls. They 13 . I glanced up only long enough to know my place. Their 14 cut at me, hands cupped over their mouths in secrecy. The shop was about to close and I 15 two girls in my third grade class out. "I like your pants. Where did you get them?" Marcy asked Alicia. I nodded in agreement, 16 they had removed their cupped hands and I could hear the 17 . "Really? I like yours better," Alicia replied. "We should trade. What 18 are you?" Marcy asked. "I don't know..." Alicia said, finding the tag in the back of her pants. "Seven." "Me too," Marcy said. I 19 in line as I held the jeans, tag folded in so 20 could see the number on it was 12. I am not a size seven. | ||||
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