Duh, I’m a different person. I’m twelve now. Things change when you get to middle school. Mom is definitely not my best friend anymore, especially when she does sneaky stuff to fatten me up.
Being skinny doesn’t change, though. It’s constant. It’s safe.
At one point, everyone was talking about the scariest thing they’d ever done. One girl, Laura, talked about how her plane had to do an emergency landing. Another girl, Aisha, talked about giving a speech in front of the whole school. Brenna talked about coming out as bi to her friends.
Ali isn’t saying anything. She keeps looking at me, then looking away again, back at her food or at another girl or even at the ceiling. Every time I catch her eye, she presses her lips together. She’s not mad, but she’s not happy. Is she suspicious? Does she know I saw her last night? Does she hate me?
Everyone’s my age, but they seem so much older. They know what’s going on around here. They’re funny and silly. They talk to one another and have inside jokes. They might be scared of planes and talking in front of crowds, but they don’t seem to be falling apart.
I’m already in pieces. I’m scared of my food and not running and gaining weight. I’m scared at home and I’m scared at school. I’m scared of what will happen when I get out of here. I’m scared of having to stay in here forever.
When it was my turn, I didn’t say anything. I stared at my plate, at the stack of turkey and lettuce and mayonnaise in front of me. I hate mayonnaise. It looks like milky snot.
This is the scariest thing I’ve ever done.
* * *
I’m sick of writing, but there’s nothing else to do during this free time. So I’m keeping my head down and my hands busy. That way, no one will come over and talk about the Red Sox or climate change or how awesome it is that I’m here. I’m writing and trying to draw the television across the room. That’s the kind of picture Mom displays in her gallery, paintings of fax machines and printers done by fancy-schmancy artists wearing horn-rimmed glasses and skinny jeans. Artists who talk about stuff like “the dangers of technology” and how “the color gray symbolizes the downfall of society.”
Drawing electronics isn’t fun, though. Plus, I’m still awful at that whole “perspective” thing Mom tried to teach me. The window behind the TV looks too small.
This is exactly why I took a drawing break. Because nothing I draw is good enough.
I keep getting distracted, too. I don’t think my stomach is working right. Aren’t stomachs supposed to digest food? The food is sitting like a boulder in mine. Like a mountain. Mount Fuji is in my stomach.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Think about anything but food. Think about the walls. They’re pink. Salmon pink.
Salmon is food.
This is not working.
I didn’t know where to sit for group, so I sat in a blue armchair. I feel like it’s my first day at a new school and I have no friends.
I feel like I did that day in the lunchroom, when Talia convinced everyone they shouldn’t sit with me because of my tuna fish sandwich. When the other kids held their noses when I walked by and sniffed around me before they sat down in class.
When they called me Rancid Riley. Roly-Poly Riley.
I’m not that girl anymore, though. I never will be again.
There are five other girls here besides Ali: Brenna, Meredith, Laura, Rebecca, and Aisha. That’s a lot of new people to keep track of, so I’m keeping a cheat sheet in here, even though I won’t be tested on this. (I hope.)
Brenna is sitting next to me. She’s white, kind of big, and has brown hair, a pixie cut, and bright yellow sneakers. She’s wearing the coolest outfit, too: an orange Camp Half-Blood T-shirt, a pair of blue Ravenclaw socks, and a My Little Pony button. (Emerson says we’re too old for My Little Pony, but she’s totally wrong. There’s no age limit on sparkle.)
Aisha is short and skinny. She’s black, with super-short, curly hair and glasses. Her shirt is this bright turquoise color with pink and orange threads woven all through it that makes her look like a human rainbow. A smiley rainbow.
Meredith is on the couch across from me. Meredith is black, too, with long hair and pretty brown eyes. She’s also sitting up so straight my back hurts just looking at her. That’s because Meredith is a ballerina. It’s totally obvious, and not just because of the ballet slippers on her shirt. Meredith’s skin is pimple-free and her hair is in a bun. Ballerina is a costume she can never slip out of.
Laura’s sitting next to me. She’s white, with these really piercing blue eyes. Her long blond hair is perfectly straight and her cheeks are bright, like she just put on blush. We’re not allowed to wear makeup in here, though, so maybe she’s just naturally rosy. The rest of her isn’t rosy, though. Laura’s eyes are narrowed and her bottom lip is stuck out. If she was a dwarf, she’d be Scary. Or maybe Skinny. I wonder if I’m that skinny.
I hope I’m not.
I kind of hope I am.
Laura keeps trying to look at what I’m writing, which is why my handwriting is super jerky. I have to keep shifting and angling my body. I stopped myself from giving her a dirty look, because the last thing I want is an enemy in here. (Another one, I mean.)
Rebecca’s hiding in her sweatshirt, her head swallowed by the hood like a turtle withdrawing into its shell. All I can see are her pale, freckled cheeks and the outline of an athlete’s body. She looks strong. Muscular. Dad used to call me strong. That was back when I was fat, though, before I started running.
Ali and Aisha are laughing about something they saw on TV last night. That’s what everyone does at night here. After visiting hours, we can watch TV or movies or read or play board games. No internet. No magazines. Just talking and “appropriate” media. We can also go to our rooms. That’s what I did last night. Now I feel left out, though.
Ali laughs a lot. She doesn’t seem to notice her IV much, either. She’s waving her arms around and making funny faces. (I think Ali actually has more freckles than Rebecca.) Maybe she’s used to the IV. She said she’s been here a week already. I doubt a week will be enough for me to feel comfortable with anything here.
Ali’s still super skinny, too. Is that because she’s doing all those crunches? Will I stay skinny if I do crunches, too? But what if they catch me and keep me here even longer?
I don’t think Ali’s worried about that, though. Right now, she’s swishing her long brown hair around and laughing, even though there’s nothing funny about this place at all.
* * *
Assertiveness Group was boring. We talked about … wait for it … ways we can be more assertive in real life. Are you shocked? I know I am.
We got homework, too. Booooo.
Now it’s free time. I’m supposed to meet with my therapist, but not for another fifteen minutes. The other girls have appointments, too. Or they’re doing art projects. Or talking. Or in their rooms napping. People are big on naps here.
I don’t want to do any of that. I don’t want to have fun or make something cute or find a new friend. I want to pout like a little kid.
* * *
It happened last year, halfway through sixth grade. I was sitting in homeroom when everything started. Mr. Lin passed out a handout, like the teachers always do at the beginning of the day. I usually stuff them in my backpack until Mom fishes them out and yells at me for being disorganized.
I couldn’t forget about this one, though:
Dear Parents,
This letter is to inform you of the Body Mass Index (BMI) Screening Program that will be happening soon at Hawthorne Middle School. In compliance with the state of Massachusetts’s BMI reporting and recording requirements, the Body Mass Index of all sixth graders will be calculated on Thursday of next week.
Students will be called down to the nurse’s office by class on their assigned day, and your child’s privacy will be respected at all times. After results are calculated, our health staff will follow up with your child’s weight status and gi
ve recommendations so your child can have the best and healthiest school year possible.
Please indicate whether or not you give permission and return this form to your child’s teacher by Friday.
Sincerely,
Katherine Hunt, Principal
I didn’t think Mom would give permission. Mom hates weighing herself in front of other people, so why would she let me do it? Just in case, though, I threw the form away.
Of course, Principal Hunt e-mailed the information to all our parents. So when I got home from school that afternoon, the printed-out and signed permission slip was waiting on the kitchen counter.
Miranda Logan DOES give permission for Riley to participate in BMI testing.
Mom told me it was important to learn healthy habits early. That I’d been eating too many Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop-Tarts and not enough vegetables. She even asked Julia’s coach for the Proper Nutrition handout she gives to the older kids.
I should have told Mom that I could eat whatever I wanted, that Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop-Tarts were a present to the world with frosting on top. I should have told her that I wasn’t a gymnast and that my body was different from Julia’s. I should have “lost” the permission slip. Asked for a new one and forged her name.
Because then Talia wouldn’t have heard the number.
No one was supposed to hear my number. They even mentioned “privacy” in the letter. Nurse Shaw closed her door between each student as we stood in a line outside her office.
Talia was behind me. She’s always behind me. Riley Logan. Talia London. I can never get away from her perfect hair and perfect skin and perfect cheekbones. I wish Nurse Shaw was perfect. Then she wouldn’t have left the door open a crack while I was in there. She wouldn’t have spoken so loudly after I got off the scale.
“Overweight.” She said it like she was a judge sentencing me to death. In sixth grade, being big is worse than death.
No, being big and having the snottiest girl in school find out is worse than death.
“Riley’s overweight!” Talia started laughing. Behind her, Camille did, too.
I wanted to rip the calculator out of Nurse Shaw’s hands.
I wanted to smash her scale on the floor.
I wanted to disappear.
Of course Talia was laughing. She didn’t eat stuff like Pop-Tarts and mayonnaise. She never ate cupcakes during class parties. When we were in fifth grade, she was the first kid to wear a bikini.
At lunch that day, Talia stared at my pizza slice like it was a bomb about to explode on my thighs. She giggled with her friends. I knew they were talking about me.
I ate my pizza that day because I was hungry. But I didn’t eat my dessert. I kept hearing the word overweight. I kept seeing the scale.
Talia kept teasing me, too. Not all the time, but enough so that I never forgot I was overweight. She laughed at my lunch, even when I started bringing a salad like her. Even when I started bringing nothing.
I should have told her to be quiet. I should have told her that my weight was none of her business. I should have told her lots of things. I didn’t, though. I didn’t want Talia to make fun of me any more than she already did.
Emerson and Josie told me to ignore her, but Talia was already in my head. I kept bringing salads to school. I kept bringing nothing.
The number on the scale started going down.
Lower.
Lower.
Lower.
I started running more.
Longer.
Longer.
Longer.
I wasn’t overweight anymore. The numbers told me that.
But I didn’t listen.
* * *
My therapist’s name is Willow. Of course. I knew she was going to be all earthy-crunchy. I bet her middle name is Dandelion. Or Moonfairy. I bet she has long hair and a crown of flowers, that she wears tie-dyed shirts and long beaded skirts.
I bet Willow will try to analyze my dreams to “uncover the great trauma in my past.” But what if she tries to hypnotize me and discovers that my big trauma is nothing more than a few silly comments made by a silly girl in my class? Shouldn’t I have been strong enough to not let that break me? Shouldn’t there be a bigger reason that I’m like this? Because if there isn’t, then why am I like this? Why am I sick and Julia isn’t?
I should make up something to tell Willow. I’ll say something about how Mom always tells me I’m fat and that’s why I don’t eat. Chloe’s mom is like that. That’s why Mrs. Fitzgerald makes her run track: so she can lose weight. Chloe hates track, too. She complains about it all the time and says she has her period like three times a month.
I don’t know if I could keep track of a big lie, though. And part of me actually wants to be honest with Willow. Part of me is tired of lying. Part of me is sad that my best friend and my mom hate me. Maybe Willow can help me. Maybe life without starving and running and worrying is possible.
As long as I don’t get really huge.
I checked my e-mail before my appointment with Willow. There’s a shared computer in the hallway we can sign up for during afternoon free time. Ten-minute sessions, no extensions. Brenna was looking at some book blog, but she let me use her last five minutes.
All I had was an e-mail from Principal Hunt saying corny stuff like “We believe in you!” and “The staff is excited to have you back and healthy again!” She’d added five smiley faces at the end.
I guess that’s the one good thing about being in here: I get a break from schoolwork. Not that I’ve been learning much at school. I’ve barely been able to concentrate the past few months. That was Mom and Dad’s first clue: my Bs dropped to Cs. I went from an above-average to an average student.
And for Mom and Dad, average sets off alarm bells.
I’m hearing alarm bells now, too. Because I didn’t have any mail from my friends. There was nothing from Josie. Nothing even from Emerson. I wish I could text them, but that’s against the rules. They took my phone away the second I walked through the unit door, like it was covered in contaminated slime. Jean said they want to “remove technology’s hold on me,” to “separate me from the world of my disease.” I feel like they’ve cut off a limb.
I’d almost rather they cut off one of my fingers. I could survive without a pinkie. Maybe even a thumb, although that might make things tricky. It’d be hard to hold a marker to draw. It’d even be hard to do something simple, like opening up a plastic baggie. But I could give up plastic baggies if it meant being able to text with Emerson and Josie.
If they’d even text back.
* * *
There are no crystals in Willow’s office. No rainbows or moonbeams, either. She seems normal, actually, which is annoying. I want there to be something to hate about her, a reason to be rude and stick my tongue out at her. A reason to not talk, even though part of me is dying to let everything out.
Willow’s nice, at least. She’s thin, but the healthy kind of thin. The kind with muscles on her arms and thighs and a little pouch on her stomach. She wears normal clothes: jeans and a plain blue button-down shirt. Her curly blond hair is half falling out of her ponytail. She’s pretty, but not so pretty that I’m jealous. When Willow smiles, her eyes crinkle at the edges.
That’s how you know someone’s giving you a real smile, that they’re not a faking faker like Talia London. Talia fakes nice all the time. The corners of her mouth turn up, but her eyes are ice-cold. She fake sneezes, too, then wrinkles her nose and tries to look all cute. Like a sneeze could ever be cute.
Jacob Sullivan thinks so, though. That’s probably why he asked Talia to be his girlfriend. Either that or because she’s way prettier than me. Skinnier than me, too. I bet she wears a size 0000000. If that was a size, I bet Talia would wear it.
I hate Talia. I hate her sneeze and her smile and her laugh. I even hate her teeth. They’re too white. Teeth should not be that white and perfect.
I told Willow about Talia. I don’t know how it happened. I
was trying so hard not to talk about food that when she asked me what was on my mind, I blurted it out really fast: “I hate Talia London.”
Then I clamped my mouth shut. Why did I say anything? Now Willow won’t think I’m fine. She won’t think I’m perfect.
At least Willow didn’t lecture me like Mom would have, about how hate isn’t a nice way to feel and how I should always choose kindness. Instead, Willow said that it’s totally normal to not like people. That even she hates people.
That was nice of her.
Except then Willow babbled on about how important it is to feel my emotions and not stuff them down. She gave me a handout with twenty cartoon faces on it, each labeled with an emotion:
Guilty.
Sad.
Anxious.
Ecstatic.
Scared.
Frustrated.
Cautious.
“What’s your emotion right now?” Willow asked.
All of the above? None of the above? Sometimes I don’t know whether I feel too much or nothing at all. I closed my eyes and waved my hand over the handout, like I used to do with Julia when we played the “Where Are You Going on Vacation?” game. We’d drag Dad’s dusty old globe off the bookshelf in his office, close our eyes, and spin the world around. Wherever our finger landed was where we’d supposedly be going on vacation that year.
France. Kazakhstan. Easter Island. Mozambique.
It was fun to imagine an exotic trip, especially when most of our vacations are tacked on to Julia’s gymnastics meets all over New England. We stay in a hotel room on the same floor as the rest of her teammates. I sit in a stuffy gym for hours, then pretend to be excited about dinner at a chain restaurant and the hotel pool.
An imaginary vacation to France would be way better than all of that.
I could tell that Willow was stifling a sigh when my finger wiggled in the air and then landed on jealous. I bet she’s already sick of me. Mom and Dad shipped me off, and now Ms. Therapist Who’s Supposed to Change My Life is ready to kick me out of her office. No wonder Talia made fun of me. No wonder Josie hates me. I’m toxic.
Good Enough Page 3
