Good Enough

by Jen Petro-Roy

  Am I like the Incredible Hulk, too? What’s my flaw?

  My body, obviously. I’m not small enough. I’m not fast enough, either.

  Plus, I’m not a good artist.

  That’s not just my opinion, either. It’s a fact. We learned about facts in science class. A fact is something you can prove, something that can be backed up by evidence.

  My evidence that I’m not a good artist is that I didn’t make the school art show last year. I worked really hard on my drawing, too. First I was going to draw the monument on the town common. Mom loves stuff like that. Drawing statues is boring, though, and it kept raining every time I sat out with my sketch pad.

  Then I decided to draw a mermaid. I’m awesome at mermaids. But that was boring, too. (Probably because I’ve drawn seven billion trillion of them already.)

  So I challenged myself. I tried something different and did a self-portrait. I drew and redrew it until it was perfect. I shaded and shadowed and colored until even the nose looked right. Then I submitted it to the school art show. I knew I was going to get in. Maybe I’d even be the featured display. That’s the piece they prop up on the table in front of the door, the one under the banner that says WELCOME, FUTURE ARTISTS!

  Mom and Dad would go to the show and exclaim over my drawing. They would brag that their daughter was the superstar of the show. Talia would apologize for always being so mean.

  But I wasn’t the featured display.

  I didn’t even make it into the show.

  That’s why I have to be my worst critic.

  I have to beat everyone else to it.

  * * *

  I tried to call Mom before breakfast, but she didn’t answer. Then I realized she’s at work. Julia’s at school. The rest of the world hasn’t stopped because I’m in here. People are going on with their lives without me. Right now, Emerson’s in Language Arts. Josie’s in gym, where I should be, too.

  Usually, Josie and I laugh and talk through gym class. So much that Mrs. Klick always yells at us. We haven’t been laughing lately, though. Josie’s too mad at me for skipping her birthday party. I wonder if she’ll ever forgive me. Because I didn’t mean to hurt her. She doesn’t understand.

  No one understands.

  “You care about your stupid diet more than you care about me! I thought we were best friends!”

  We are best friends. And this isn’t a diet. People can stop diets. They stop when they’re hungry, before their stomach twists and their head becomes as light as a balloon. I can’t stop, though. Sometimes I think I might want to. Sometimes before I go to bed, I tell myself I’ll eat more the next day. That I don’t want to feel so sick anymore. That I don’t want to hurt.

  Then I wake up and do the same stuff all over again.

  If I don’t, I’ll fall apart.

  * * *

  We have a half hour to eat breakfast. A half hour to eat an entire feast. A Thanksgiving Day–worthy feast.

  I can’t believe I ate it all.

  A bunch of the other girls complained that they were full, too. “We just ate dinner, like, five minutes ago.” Ali said it quietly, so the counselor couldn’t hear.

  “Seriously. My stomach should have its own zip code.” That was Aisha. Rebecca was the only one who didn’t complain, but she never says much outside of group. She’s on a different meal plan than most of us, too. She eats less, which made me jealous at first, but I can tell it’s still hard for her.

  She’s bigger than most of us, but not huge. Brenna’s the biggest. Not that that’s a bad thing. (Is it mean that I wrote that about her? Is it mean that I notice Brenna’s body? Am I judging her?)

  In our Relaxation Group last night, Rebecca said that bingeing makes her feel way better than deep breathing. Then she cringed, like we were all going to make fun of her. I would never laugh at Rebecca, though. Because part of me understands what she meant. Food is relaxing. Counting calories makes me forget, like someone stuck me in an isolation chamber and left my problems outside the door.

  Maybe eating a lot of food is like that, too.

  “This place is a joke.” Laura flipped her hair over her shoulder. As usual, Laura’s hair is straight and non-frizzy and perfect, like she smuggled a blow-dryer in here. An illegal blow- dryer.

  They don’t let us have a lot of things on the unit: Electronics. Scissors. Knitting needles (people have to sign them out from the nurses’ station). Food, so people don’t binge and purge or fill up on something not in their meal plan. There’s no food allowed anywhere except the dining room. But there’s a lot of food there.

  I ate everything again. I didn’t want to, but I did. If we don’t finish our meal in thirty minutes, we have to have a Boost drink. Those things are disgusting. Great-Grandma Logan drank Boosts all the time before she died, after she lost all her teeth and couldn’t chew. She gave me a sip once. It tasted like someone mixed up chalk, oatmeal, and strawberries in a blender.

  Mom said they’re good for old people because they have all the calories of a full meal, but what was good for Great-Grandma is a punishment worse than death (probably not an exaggeration) here. Even if you eat everything except for one bite, you still have to have a Boost. That’s basically like eating two whole meals at the same time.

  I hope everyone doesn’t think I’m gross because I ate everything. Part of me wanted to rebel and throw my food on the floor, but part of me was hungry. Not too hungry, though. Just a little bit. That little bit still freaks me out, though. I shouldn’t be hungry. I’m already eating too much.

  I wonder if I should have left some of my meal on my plate. Or yelled at a nurse or something. Isn’t that what sick people are supposed to do?

  They may have told me the official rules here, but no one told me the unofficial ones. The ones girls with eating disorders know by heart. The ones we absorb at the same time we reject or inhale food. The ones that say that competition is normal and that the skinniest girl is queen.

  The ones I disobeyed by eating my meal so quickly.

  For eating my meal at all.

  * * *

  Ali asked me if she’s as skinny as Laura.

  “I’m not sure.” I think Ali is skinnier, but I can’t tell for sure. The dress code here is super strict. Stricter than if I went to one of those Catholic schools with the plaid uniforms. Because even if they have to wear collared shirts and sweaters, they can still wear skirts.

  Skirts aren’t allowed here. Tank tops or shorts, either. We can’t expose our legs or our shoulders. Apparently the dress code is so we don’t compare our bodies with everyone else’s. Like an extra layer of fabric is going to help with that. I started comparing the second I walked in the door. I’ve been comparing my entire life.

  My cousin Ava has an awesome voice. Grandma says she “sings like an angel.” I sing like a strangled frog.

  Julia’s Julia. She’s the “great hope” of our town, cooed over since she started doing cartwheels at age two and a half. Julia’s future is full of ribbons and trophies, sparkly leotards and cheering crowds. Mine is full of B (now C) grades, fourth-place finishes, and a guarantee that no boy will ever like me.

  Mom and Dad tell me they don’t love either of us more. But Julia has more ribbons than dust mites in her room. Julia wins everything.

  Or she did until two months ago. Two months ago, I looked at us side by side in the mirror. I saw my brown hair and green eyes, her blond hair and green eyes. I saw my freckles and her mole, our pierced ears.

  I saw that I was skinnier than Julia. For once in my life, I, Roly-Poly Riley, was skinnier than Julia the Gymnast.

  I’d finally won. I was Runner Riley. Skinny Riley.

  I had to stay that way.

  So I get why Ali was looking for reassurance. She wanted to know that she was still the best at something. To feel that small bit of relief before she starts comparing again.

  We always start comparing again.

  I told her she was definitely skinnier than Laura. I made my voice
all confident and self-assured, like Coach Jackson sounds during a track meet.

  Great form! Give it a kick! You can do this!

  I told Ali her legs look like twigs.

  I told Ali her arms look like matchsticks.

  I told Ali she looks skinnier than she did when I got here.

  I told her everything I’d want to hear. Then I asked her how I looked. I held my breath while I waited for the answer. I felt like I was on trial and Ali was delivering the verdict.

  “You’re as skinny as ever.”

  Not guilty.

  * * *

  The one good thing about seeing a therapist is that I’m allowed to complain about stuff. There’s no Dad telling me to “Look on the bright side!” or Mom sighing that she doesn’t have time for my nonsense. Willow said to tell her about my problems.

  So I am.

  I told her how my meeting with Caroline the nutritionist was the most boring thing ever. That she told me about food groups like I was in school, then demonstrated with a bunch of measuring cups and plastic play food like I used to have in my toy kitchen when I was a kid.

  “Caroline said I’m on the weight-gain meal plan!” I widened my eyes and stuck out my lower lip. I needed to look as sad as possible so Willow would talk to Caroline. So she’d help me get my meal plan changed.

  “Of course you are, Riley.” Willow arched her eyebrow. “You’re in the hospital to gain weight.”

  “Only a little bit of weight, though.” (I think I was whining.)

  “No, not a little bit.”

  “Then how much?” (I was totally whining.)

  “As much as we decide is necessary.”

  “But I’m fine the way I am! Lots of kids at school are this skinny.”

  “It doesn’t matter what everyone else looks like, it matters what you look like.” Then Willow corrected herself. “Actually, it doesn’t matter what you look like. It matters that you’re healthy.”

  “I am healthy!”

  Willow steepled her fingers together. Under her top lip, her tongue ran along her teeth. I wonder if she got anything stuck there during her lunch. I wonder what Willow ate for lunch. I bet her meals are perfectly balanced, but always with a treat at the end. A piece of candy, maybe, or a cookie. I wonder if adults give each other judgy looks when they eat cookies.

  I wonder what it would be like to eat a cookie and not hate myself. To never be starving between “meals” or worry about how to hide food. That would be nice.

  Skinny would be nicer, though.

  Willow does these long-silence things a lot. She says she does it to make me think.

  It works, too.

  “I’ve been eating all my food,” I said finally. “Doesn’t that mean I can go home now? That I’m all better?” But even as I asked Willow, I knew she’d say no.

  She did. “It’s a nice thought, Riley, and I’m glad you’re working so hard. But we still have more work to do.”

  “I have to go home.” I articulated every word, like I was an actress trying out for a play. This was my line. Now it was Willow’s turn to speak, to tell me that of course I’m better! Of course I have permission to leave and do whatever I want now.

  Willow didn’t remember her lines, though. “Why do you ‘have to go home’?” More finger steepling. Willow’s fingers are really long, and she has a sparkly ruby ring on her left hand. On her ring finger, too. I wondered if that means she’s married, even though it’s not a diamond.

  So I asked her. “Are you married?”

  “We’re here to talk about you, not me,” Willow said.

  Arggh! Willow is super annoying. I take back what I said about her being nice.

  “But what if I want to talk about you?”

  “Then we can do that outside of session,” Willow said. “As long as it’s appropriate.” She babbled something about therapist-patient boundaries or whatever. Like boundaries are so important when everyone is basically WATCHING ME GO TO THE BATHROOM.

  “I need to go home,” I said. “Tryouts for regionals are in less than a month. If I miss more track, I’ll get slower. I’m already the worst runner on the team. I can’t lose speed.”

  “What would be so bad about getting slower?”

  I gaped at her. “That means I’d be bad at track.”

  Why are adults so clueless?

  “But if running so much has put you in the hospital, don’t you think taking a break might actually be healthy? Maybe you don’t want to make regionals.”

  “Of course I want to make regionals! And I’m not sick!” I exclaimed. (Okay, I yelled. I bet they could hear me three floors up.)

  Willow didn’t believe me. She told me that protesting this much is a “sign of my illness.”

  Willow is the worst.

  * * *

  Mom called tonight.

  Mom didn’t visit.

  She said she had car trouble. She said I shouldn’t be angry.

  “I’m not mad,” I said. “You’re right.”

  It’s not Mom’s fault her car decided to fall apart the very night I need her the most.

  It is her fault she took a late meeting in the first place, though. If she hadn’t, maybe she could have gotten her car fixed sooner. She could have made other plans:

  Mom could have taken an Uber.

  Dad could have visited in her place.

  Then again, I could have stopped myself from getting sick.

  So sick that my parents don’t want to visit me.

  So sick that my best friend hates me.

  Willow asked me earlier if being thin was worth all this.

  “Yes,” I said right away. “Of course it is.” I like being skinny. I like not being made fun of for how I look. I like being faster. I like the feeling of pants slipping over my hips.

  I don’t like feeling this lonely, though. I don’t like never being skinny enough.

  I’m not sure there is a “skinny enough” now. “Skinny enough” is the tide going out to sea, the horizon always reaching farther back.

  It was there once. Not anymore.

  DAY FOUR: THURSDAY

  Ali cried last night.

  Ali did more crunches, too. So many that I stopped counting. The bed creaked every time she moved, and she kept gasping, like each movement hurt her. I wonder if she was pulling at her IV. I wonder if she cared.

  I wonder what would happen if I did crunches, too.

  Willow would be disappointed.

  Mom would get mad.

  I can’t get the idea out of my head, though.

  It’s like someone drew on my brain with permanent marker, the kind you can never scrub off the sofa, no matter how hard you try.

  After Ali finished her crunches, I sneezed. Ali turned over and looked at me. I squeezed my eyes closed, but I think she saw that I was awake.

  I think she knows that I know.

  * * *

  I was right. Ali does know I heard her. She pulled me aside before breakfast, right after getting weighed. I moved away from her. I was still in that doctor’s robe they make us wear, and I didn’t want it to fly open in front of Ali. I don’t want anyone to see my body. Not now. Not ever.

  “You’re not going to tell on me, right.” Ali didn’t say it like a question. She said it like a threat.

  “What do you mean?” I stammered the words, like I used to when Talia and Camille pushed into the lunch line behind me. When they asked me questions about what I was getting, like they couldn’t see right in front of their faces. When I didn’t know what the right answer would ever be.

  I never wanted to answer them: not until I started getting skinny.

  I’m skinny now, but Ali still makes me nervous. I don’t like people staring at me. I don’t like people not liking me. And Ali definitely doesn’t like me. Her eyes were narrowed and her hands were on her hips. Even her IV pole looked like it was going to attack me.

  “What do I mean?” Ali asked. A counselor peeked out at us. Ali coughed. I smiled. Nothing
going on here, la-di-da. “You know what I mean.”

  I looked anywhere but at Ali. At the picture of the Boston skyline on the wall. At my running shoes, which hadn’t actually run in almost a whole week. At the rain out the window, coming down so hard I couldn’t see across the courtyard.

  “Last night.” Ali patted her stomach and gave me a pointed look. “I know you saw me.”

  I started to come up with an excuse but stopped. Why bother? Ali knew I’d seen her. And maybe we could help each other.

  “Fine, I saw you.”

  “Don’t tell.”

  In music class last month, Mr. Chase taught us about staccato notes. Those are the ones that are short and sudden. They don’t touch the notes around them. They stand apart, alone. Ali’s words were like that. Ali and I are like that.

  “I wouldn’t tell! I’m not a tattletale!” Ali narrowed her eyes even more. “I promise!”

  “You better not.” Ali looked satisfied, like she was about to walk away. I jumped in before she could leave.

  “How many did you do?” I asked. “I bet I used to do way more at home.” Ali didn’t look impressed. I wasn’t going to let her beat me, though.

  “Maybe I’ll start doing crunches, too,” I said. “If it’s so easy to hide.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “Just don’t get me in trouble. I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine. And if you get caught, don’t bring me into it. I can cry on cue. They’ll never believe a thing you say.”

  “Fine,” I said. It was fine, too. For the first time since I got here, my chest relaxed. It felt like someone had loosened the knots I’d been tied up in.

  “We’ll keep each other skinny. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  * * *

  I could almost see the gears moving in Willow’s head at the beginning of our session, could almost hear her therapist motor turning on. Sometimes it feels like she’s asking questions right out of the textbook she had in psychology school.

  “How are you feeling today?”