Good Enough

by Jen Petro-Roy

  “What thoughts ran through your head during breakfast?”

  “Are you having any problems with the other girls?”

  I wanted to answer yes to her last question. I wanted to confess how scared I am of Ali. How I’m aching to do crunches tonight, but I’m also scared of getting caught. I’m scared of how guilty I’ll feel afterward.

  Because I know what that guilt feels like. It’s how I felt every time I snuck in a run and was afraid Mom and Dad would catch me. It’s the tension in my chest when I waited for Mom to find my sweaty running shorts. The sweaty palms when Dad asked me what I had for dinner at Emerson’s.

  I hate feeling like that. I don’t want to feel like that anymore.

  I can’t help imagining myself doing crunches, though. I can’t help how good I know it will feel.

  I don’t know if I can trust Willow to tell her everything that goes through my head. Willow with her awesome hair and her happy smile and her reassuring answers. Willow who knows all the lessons from her textbooks but doesn’t know anything about how I feel.

  I wanted to tell her about Ali, but I didn’t.

  “My parents hate me.” That’s what I said instead. Because even though I’m worried that Ali and Josie and Julia all hate me, I’m also worried about Mom and Dad. Maybe I could talk about that one thing with her.

  One thing would be okay.

  “Why do you think they hate you?” Willow starts a lot of her questions that way, like what I think is automatically wrong. Maybe she’s right. Because a lot of my thoughts don’t make sense. I know I’m not going to gain seven bajillion pounds if I eat a peanut butter sandwich.

  But it still feels that way.

  I know it’s okay to have a bigger body.

  But I’m still scared of changing.

  I know my parents don’t hate me.

  But Mom sure looked like she did when she caught me on the treadmill that day.

  When I got home that afternoon, the house was empty. Mom had left a note that she had a late meeting, and that Julia was down the street. Track practice had been canceled and I was freaking out. I’m usually okay with running in the rain, but that day was super windy, with lightning flashing every few minutes. I wanted to run, but I didn’t want to die.

  I got on the treadmill instead. There was a sweatshirt hanging on the side, and I made a note of exactly where it was so I could replace it when I was done. Mom was starting to catch on to my exercise schedule, and she’d made me promise to only run at practice. I promised, of course.

  (I lied.)

  I ran hard and fast. I upped the speed until sweat dripped off me. I thought about the project we’d done in art class that day, the one I shielded with my body so Talia wouldn’t laugh at it. I thought about how upset Emerson looked when I wouldn’t go over to her house that afternoon. I thought running more would make me forget. Each footfall was a word.

  Too fat, too fat, too fat.

  Not enough, not enough, not enough.

  They’re going to find out, find out, find out.

  I sprinted until I gasped for breath. I wasn’t bored by the hamster wheel spinning beneath me. I didn’t need distractions or motivation to run. I ran because it’s what I had to do.

  Then Mom came down the stairs. Before I saw her, I thought I could run forever. But when I saw Mom, I pressed the big red button, the one I only press when I’m done with my miles. I never stop in the middle of a workout, not when I have to pee and not when I’m tired. Not for any reason. I have to finish my workouts.

  I stopped for the look in Mom’s eyes, though. It was anger and grief and worry and fear all wrapped up in a blue-green package.

  “You. Had. A. Meeting.” Each word was a gasp.

  “It was canceled.”

  “So was track practice.” I stepped onto the floor. I swayed. I caught myself. All of a sudden I wanted to curl up in a ball on the floor and have Mom give me a hug, sweat-soaked clothes and all. I wanted her to tell me that it was okay to stop, that it was okay to rest. That she’d help me, so I wouldn’t have to do all this stuff anymore.

  Instead, Mom got mad. “You lied.” Her face was wooden, her words steel.

  “I…” For a second I thought of telling her I’d bumped my head and gotten temporary amnesia. I didn’t have the energy to lie, though. Not anymore. Maybe now that things were in the open, Mom could fix me.

  She’d fix us.

  Instead, Mom yelled about how selfish I was. How it was someone else’s turn to fix me now. How she didn’t “have time for this.”

  I’m a “this.”

  I don’t want to be a “this.” I want to be Riley.

  That’s the problem, though: I don’t know who Riley is anymore.

  What if everyone hates the real me, too?

  * * *

  Aisha didn’t eat all her dessert at lunch. She had two cookies on her plate and only ate one, so they made her drink a Boost. We get to choose between chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry. Aisha chose chocolate. (It looked like sludge.) Heather cracked open the can and poured it into a tall glass, then brought Aisha into the hallway to drink it. She was still drinking when we filed past her on the way to group.

  When Aisha came back she said it was “barftastic.” (Heather yelled at her for talking about barf. It’s a four-letter word around here, as bad as diet. Two of the girls here purge: Brenna and Laura. They did purge, I mean. Obviously you’re not allowed to in the hospital.)

  “Disgusting” is another bad word. That’s what Laura called the cream sauce on her pasta last night. Jean pulled Laura out of the room, then popped back in and started blabbing about how “cream sauce tastes so much like ice cream and cheese. Yum!” She said it like we were a group of two-year-olds learning how to eat. That’s what Aunt Tricia used to do with my cousin Miles when he was a baby: “Oooh, who’s the little baby with the yummy-yummy corn? You are! Yes, you are!”

  Baby talk is almost as gross as cream sauce. And who would ever believe that cream sauce tastes like ice cream? Ice cream is delicious! I can write that here because no one’s going to read this. No one’s going to ask me why I don’t eat ice cream if I really like it.

  Because I don’t want to, that’s why. Isn’t that enough?

  I used to eat ice cream all the time. When I was six, I asked for it for Christmas. It was the top item on my list to Santa. I dictated it to Mom and everything. She brings up the list sometimes when she’s telling her “my kids are sooooo cute” stories.

  I got a carton of vanilla ice cream that year. Mom probably bought herself fat-free frozen yogurt.

  In Ed Group today, I learned that Ed is the one telling me I’m fat. The counselors describe Ed as a little guy living inside my head and telling me bad things about myself. A demon drawing graffiti all over my brain. A way to see my eating disorder as completely separate from me.

  It sounds weird, but it kind of makes sense. That when I physically can’t make myself go through the lunch line to even buy an apple, it’s not me acting so weird. That deep down, there’s a part of me that’s still good, that still wants to do the right thing.

  I like thinking that the good parts of me still exist. The counselors say that even if we don’t buy the whole “Ed” thing, it’s important to realize that we’re not to blame. That our eating disorders didn’t pop up because we’re awful people, whether we starve or binge or purge.

  It’s in my genes, like how I have brown hair and can curl my tongue. That I was born like this, with my brain chemicals out of balance to make me more worried and anxious than other people. It’s how I am.

  Maybe there’s no Ed, no parasite living off my insecurities and fears. Maybe this disease is just part of me, part of me that I need to triumph over and work through. Part of me that I can triumph over. Maybe. If I want to.

  “Pretend Ed is your boyfriend,” today’s counselor, Gabi, told us.

  We giggled when Gabi talked about boyfriends. Except for Laura, none of us have one. I can’t imagine
having the time for a boyfriend. Or the energy. It’s already hard enough fitting in running and seeing my friends and doing homework and figuring out how to keep my food stuff a secret.

  Plus, you’re supposed to be honest with boyfriends.

  Brenna got angry when Gabi started talking about boyfriends. “We could have girlfriends, too,” she said. “People can like people of any gender. Have you lived in the world lately?” Brenna sat on the edge of her seat. She kept shifting in her chair.

  I smiled at her. Meredith gave Brenna a fist bump. I know Meredith is bi, too.

  Gabi told Brenna to stop moving around (“That’ll burn calories!”), but then she apologized! She said she was sorry for assuming we were all straight and that she was proud of Brenna for speaking up for herself.

  I’m not used to hearing adults admit that they’re wrong. I’m not used to adults treating kids like our opinion matters.

  It’s nice. I like it.

  “Okay, back to work,” Gabi finally said. “Think about a person you might like.” She peeked at Brenna, who gave her a thumbs-up. “Now pretend that person is mean. Cruel, even.” Gabi’s voice got all serious, like Ms. Moore’s, my health teacher, does when she’s talking about stuff like diseases and bullying. “Pretend they don’t want you to hang out with your best friends anymore. They tell you what to wear and what to eat and where to go.”

  “That’s not fair!” Rebecca exclaimed. We all jumped like someone had dropped a tray in the cafeteria. Rebecca’s fists were clenched around the strings of her hoodie. A tear dripped down her cheek. “He shouldn’t do that. He can’t do that.”

  “He shouldn’t,” Gabi said. “But does he? And why?” Rebecca really started crying then. “Hold on a second, girls.” Gabi pulled Rebecca aside, and they left the room for an emergency check-in. That’s when the counselors do a quick one-on-one mini–therapy session with us. I haven’t had one yet. I’m afraid to. It’s bad enough that Willow is starting to understand how much of a mess I am. I don’t want everyone else to.

  I hope the check-in helped Rebecca. I’ll probably never know, though. That’s what happens here. We’re crammed together like clowns in a minuscule car, living on top of each other and listening to each other count while we pee. We see everyone’s breakdowns. We cry and have nightmares.

  But the second something dramatic happens, we’re told it’s none of our business. We’re ordered to concentrate on our own recovery. We’re left in the dark.

  When Gabi returned, she went right back to work, with no mention of Rebecca at all. “Pretend Ed calls you names. Names like fatso and loser. He or she tells you you’re weak. That you’ll never amount to anything if you don’t do what he or she says. That you’ll never, ever be enough.”

  I imagined myself with a boyfriend like that. I heard insults spewing from his mouth, attaching to me like ticks. “Ed’s a jerk,” I said. Gabi gave me a surprised look. I haven’t talked much during group so far. I don’t want to say something someone will laugh at. But this time I couldn’t help myself. “I’d dump him. Or her.”

  Gabi looked around the room. “Does everyone agree?”

  Everyone else nodded.

  “Of course you would. Because you don’t deserve to be treated like that. Not by a boy or a girl. Not by a friend. Not by anyone.” Gabi paused, probably for dramatic effect. I imagined that dun dun DUN! movie music in the background, the kind that plays whenever there’s something important coming: A villain lurking in the shadows. A steep cliff around the corner.

  A life-changing revelation.

  “Then why would you let your eating disorder treat you like that? Why do you treat yourself like that?”

  * * *

  There was an alarm during dinner. The sound of running feet. Willow’s voice, louder than usual. The unit door buzzed. A man who looked just like Rebecca power walked past the dining room. We had to stay in the dining room for an extra ten minutes. Gabi made us play a trivia game. I’m usually great at trivia, but I got all the answers wrong. Brenna did, too, even a super-easy one about X-Men.

  I stared at Brenna. She stared at me. My stomach churned, but not with food this time. With fear. What was happening?

  Five minutes before Gabi let us leave, Rebecca walked by. She didn’t look at us. The man did, though. His face was painted with grief. He sleepwalked to the door, pulling Rebecca’s suitcase behind him.

  What happened to Rebecca? Was she hurt? Where is she going?

  * * *

  Everything we talk about in group makes sense. I probably will feel better when I gain weight. I probably won’t hurt as much if I eat more.

  It took so long to lose all this weight, though. It took so much work to make the track team. What happens if I gain it all back? I won’t make regionals. I won’t have my body. I don’t even have art anymore.

  I’ll just have … me.

  Ed might be a liar, but he makes me feel better. He makes me forget about everything else that’s going on. He makes me believe, if only for a little while, that my body will be okay, even if everything else might not.

  I need that. I want that.

  * * *

  We still haven’t heard anything about Rebecca.

  Ali thinks she had an allergic reaction to something she ate. “Everything’s so gross here, I’m surprised someone doesn’t get sick every day.”

  Brenna thinks Rebecca has family stuff going on. “Her dad looked worried. Maybe her grandmother died.”

  I keep wondering if it was something worse. Rebecca was so upset during group. What if there’s something even more serious in her life? Maybe Rebecca is sick in other ways and needs more help than she can get here.

  I hope she gets better. I hope all these girls get better. Except for Ali (who whispered “friends don’t tell” at me as we were filing out of the dining room), everyone is really nice. I wish they didn’t hate themselves so much. They’re all pretty. Their bodies don’t matter to me.

  Their bodies don’t matter. Mine does, though.

  DAY FIVE: FRIDAY

  Ali did crunches again last night. I was hoping she wouldn’t, so I wouldn’t have to decide whether to join her. I could already feel Ed coming to life inside my head. He was setting up camp, like we used to do when we were little, before Julia and I started complaining about how boring camping is.

  For a second, I tried to think of what my healthy voice would say. They call that “positive self-talk” here. It’s when you don’t yell at yourself. When you encourage yourself like teammates do at track meets.

  I told myself that Ali could do what she wanted and I should do what’s healthy for me. I tried to believe all that mental cheerleading. Go, Riley, go!

  It only lasted a second, though. Gabi made separating Ed’s voice from my healthy voice sound so easy. But in real life it’s impossible, because Ed sounds exactly like me. It’s like how Josie’s voice sounds just like her mom’s. Which made it super awkward that time Mrs. Friedman answered the phone and I started blabbing about how cute we both thought Dillon Davis was. Josie didn’t forgive me for like three weeks.

  That was for a little phone mix-up, though. I don’t think Josie will ever forgive me for missing her birthday party.

  If I’d ignored Ed, I never would have missed her party.

  I couldn’t ignore him last night, either. I couldn’t lie in bed while Ali was getting skinnier next to me. So I crunched. I crunched until I heard footsteps coming down the hall. I stopped, my heart pounding faster than it does when someone offers me a snack and I can’t think of an excuse to say no. Ali and I locked eyes. She was smiling this weird congratulatory smile, like she was proud of me.

  Ali looked like I always wanted Talia to look at me. Like I finally belonged. Like I wasn’t Roly-Poly Riley anymore and never would be again.

  Except Ali was smiling from a hospital bed. Ali was smiling while attached to an IV. Do I really want Ali’s approval? Why is it so important to me?

  I kept crunching until Ali s
topped, though. It was a contest I couldn’t lose. But now I feel so guilty. I urged Ali on, even though I know she shouldn’t be doing crunches. Ali’s sick. Exercise will hurt her.

  So won’t it hurt me, too? I’m so confused.

  This is the stuff that happens all the time, the part of the eating disorder I hate. I feel good when I restrict. I feel good when I exercise. I feel great when I listen to that sneaky voice inside me. Only for a while, though. Then the regret comes, because I know I’m hurting myself.

  I’m hurting other people, too.

  * * *

  It surprises me every time someone in here thinks like me. I’m so used to feeling like “the only one.”

  The only one who let a diet spiral into an illness.

  The only one who thinks one bite of cookie will glom a zillion pounds onto my stomach.

  The only one who’s messed up beyond repair.

  Today we had art therapy. Apparently it’s a way for us to “relax and feel our emotions through art.” I don’t know what I think about that. I do agree that drawing makes me relax, that when I create an entire new world on paper I can forget about my own.

  Except I don’t want to feel my emotions. Not in regular therapy and not in art therapy. I don’t want to talk about what scares me.

  We didn’t have to talk today, though. We just drew.

  “Today I want you to draw someone you love,” Zelda, the art therapist, said. “Picture them in your mind and put them on paper.”

  Meredith started to protest that she was the “worst artist ever,” but Zelda cut her off. “I don’t care if you’re not good at this. You can draw something abstract if you want. You can scribble like a little kid. But I do want you to do the work. I want you to think about that person and what they look like. Then, around your drawing, I want you to write words you associate with them. What do you love about that person? What makes them special?”

  Everyone else got to work right away. I finally decided to draw Josie, probably because I can’t stop thinking about her. I drew her wavy hair and her brown eyes. I drew her short legs and her favorite jeans, the ones with the rips in the knees.