I move to the door and listen; the mixer has stopped. Leah and Mom are discussing a birthday cake order.
If I open the door, Mom’s going to bombard me with questions about how the day went, and I’ll have to see Leah, too. I can’t deal with the empty sadness in her eyes right now. I look around, but not surprisingly, there are no spoons in the bathroom. I think about hiding the icing until I can come back to it later, but where? Plus…I want it now. Scratch that: I need it now.
I sit down with the measuring cup between my knees and dig in with my fingers. Once I set my hand to “shovel,” I don’t think about how messy and sticky the icing is. I don’t feel anything, and I don’t see Ryan’s bloody blue eyes watching me.
The second the measuring cup is empty, I feel two things: shame at having wolfed down four cups of cake icing, and an overwhelming need for more of it. At that moment, if I had to choose between my mother being proud of me and eating more cake icing, Mom would lose big time. The rest of those broken cookies would work, too. Any cookies will do. They don’t have to be broken.
I lean back against the toilet tank and try to breathe in deeply, let it out. My head is swimming, and I feel a numbness that is similar to what I felt from my little yellow pills. I jump a foot when somebody bangs on the bathroom door.
Mom calls, “Colby? Are you in there? I didn’t even realize that you and Drew got off the bus.”
I jump up, and the plastic measuring cup clatters on the floor. I run my hand around my mouth and look in the mirror above the sink. There’s dried icing all over my cheeks, chin, and a little on my neck. I run the water, rinsing my face again and again, but I can only use one hand, so it’s not very effective. I grab a paper towel and dry off, then realize with horror that the red icing has stained my skin. I turn back to try using soap this time, but Mom’s pounding on the door. She sounds freaked out. “Are you okay, Colby? Did you have a bad day?”
“I’m…coming…” I look down: There’s still dried red icing under my fingernails; on my forearm, shirt, and jeans. My God, I don’t remember being that sloppy with it. I don’t remember much of eating it at all.
I unlock the door and it pops open. Mom’s face practically melts off her skull when she sees me. “Oh, my God, Colby!” She runs to me and grabs my right forearm. “Did you cut yourself?” She flips my arm over and runs her finger from my wrist to my elbow. Her eyes register confusion; then she spies the empty icing cup on the floor. Her lips curl, and I see Kara’s ugly sneer.
“What are you doing in here?” She examines my hair. “What is this…?” She yanks out a wad of dried frosting, along with several strands of hair.
“Ouch!”
“What are you…?” She steps past me and snatches the icing cup off the floor. She whirls on me and shakes it accusingly, but all I can see is the revulsion on her face. “Cake icing?…What are you…Are you eating in the bathroom? That’s disgusting!”
I’ve never been caught sticky-handed before; I’d perfected the art of being sneaky. At least I thought I had. I feel two inches tall and two thousand pounds heavy.
I’ve seen those old TV shows before where a character feels like she’s falling into a spinning black-and-white hole. I always thought, “What a cheesy special effect. No one would ever really experience that.”
I was wrong.
Mom drags me out of the bathroom. She yells, “Why are you doing this to yourself? Are you trying to have a heart attack? Can’t you see how huge you are?”
“I…just—”
Mom throws up a hand. “No! No excuses! There is no excuse for eating the way you do! And”—she shakes the empty measuring cup at me—“where did you even get all that icing?” She throws the measuring cup into the sink full of suds, sending a geyser of bubbles into the air.
“From the looks of it, she took it from here.” Leah holds the icing bowl at an angle to show that half of it is gone. She sighs. “Now I have to make more, and the order’s supposed to be ready at six. Hope I can get the tint just right again.” She turns away and starts pulling ingredients off the shelf.
I drag my eyes back to my mother. Her arms are wrapped tightly across her chest like they were when I was on the ground after Ryan got hit. She’s radiating anger. Or maybe it’s just the usual disappointment, times a thousand. She yanks off her apron, grabs her purse, and growls, “Get in the car.”
On our way home, Drew does her scratched CD routine, asking a million questions. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Are you mad at Colby? What’d she do?”
Mom ignores her.
I burp loudly. I really want to throw up. I think about doing it and wonder how Tina got to the point of vomiting to lose weight. Did she start out throwing up after eating too much, and it became a habit?
Trucks line the road in front of José’s house. The crooked bleachers are filled with men of all ages. Two men inside the chain link cage are boxing, but they don’t have gloves. One of the men’s faces is covered in blood. I squeeze my eyes closed as Ryan’s death stare fills my head.
Mom sends Drew to Leah’s to feed the dogs, and she orders me to my room. She barks, “Stay!” and pulls until my door scrapes closed.
I lean against it and eavesdrop on her Skype conversation with Brenda, her old teaching partner in Northside. She tells Brenda everything that’s happened, and she’s sobbing by the time she’s finished. Mom wails, “I’m not equipped to deal with this—this shit—by myself! I knew that Colby had food issues when we were living in Northside, but it’s gotten worse! Just when I start to think she’s going to come out of this okay—I mean, she tried to stop Ryan from killing himself, so she’s not totally stuck inside herself—but then she goes off and does something like this, and I don’t know how to get her to stop!”
Brenda’s voice is soothing. “Aw, honey, you’re doing the best you can. Maybe if you call the high school, the counselor will be able to recommend someone who can help her. Have you thought about getting counseling, Sonya? You all might need it after what you’ve been through since Reese…you know…”
Mom’s not calming down. If anything, she’s ramping up the hysterics. “I don’t know how I’ll pay for a therapist! Reese won’t even help me with the medical bills I already have. He claims he’s broke, and—”
Brenda interrupts, “But don’t you remember how our school counselor would refer people to the mental health center? They didn’t have to pay, or if they did, it was very little. There is help available, Sonya. Colby’s eating like she is for a reason. I’m taking a psychology class for my master’s degree, and—”
Mom blasts, “Well, I wish she’d stop eating so much! People can’t even tell that she’s mine, and to tell you the truth, sometimes I prefer it that way. I look at her, and all I see is Reese. They used to do these baking sessions together, laughing and eating the whole time, and it always disgusted me. Food, food, food. No wonder they’re both so fat.”
Oh, my God. Why didn’t that truck run me over? Oh my God I want to die.
My eyes fill with tears and I feel as if I just slammed into the side of the road again. My mom has said awful things before, but this is a whole new kind of awful. It’s awful times a thousand. Why did I have to listen in? I’d give anything to unhear that.
Brenda is silent for a long time.
Mom asks, “Are you still there? Did our Skype session freeze up?”
Brenda’s voice is high when she finally speaks: “Can Colby hear you, Sonya? I’d hate for her to hear you talk about her that way. And, you know, maybe she misses her dad, and she’s using food like a Band-Aid. Have you thought about that?”
Mom sounds defensive. “Brenda, you know I don’t have a mean bone in my body. Anyway, Colby’s in her room. She shouldn’t be eavesdropping; I’ve made clear to her that listening to other people’s conversations is unacceptable. Let me check…”
Mom’s footsteps thud toward my room. I rock back and forth, trying to get to my knees, but I can’t. I reach up, pull my iPod off
my dresser, and slip in my ear buds. I pull The Scarlet Letter off my bed and open it to the middle, then shift so that I’m leaning against my bed. I lay the book on my lap and try to turn on my iPod, but my hands are shaking too hard. I pick up the book and pretend to read it as my mom forces my door open. I act like I don’t see her come in.
“Colby?”
That’s it; nod your head to the beat of the nonexistent music.
“Colby?” She steps in, nudges my foot with her toe.
I snap my head up and one of my ear buds falls out. “Huh?”
She gives me a close-mouthed smile that doesn’t match the look in her eyes. “Nothing. Just checking on you. Wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
My eyes fill with tears, and I hope she doesn’t notice. My voice sounds like Kermit the Frog’s when I answer. “Yeah. I’m just fine.”
She starts to pull my door closed but stops. “Did I give you back your iPod?”
I nod.
“Hmm. I guess I don’t remember doing it.”
I slide in the ear bud and pretend to start reading again. Mom pulls my door closed, and I stare at the words in the open book. My teardrops fall on the pages and I rub them in, darkening a conversation between Roger Chillingworth—who is Hester Prynne’s husband, and Arthur Dimmesdale, Hester’s minister and Pearl’s father. They’re talking about secret sin. Chillingworth says that he can’t understand why some men would rather hide their sins than confess them, and Dimmesdale says that if certain people were revealed to the world as sinful, they could no longer do God’s work. Turns out, Arthur Dimmesdale is getting sicker and sicker, trying to keep his secret about being Pearl’s dad.
I close the book and think about telling Mom the truth about Ryan. I trace the title on the cover and the red icing stains on my fingers are enough to convince me that my mom can’t handle finding out any more about me right now.
Chapter Eighteen
Mom drives us to school the next morning. She kisses Drew on the forehead and sends her on to the elementary wing, then barely says “Bye” to me before she heads toward the counselor’s office. I play dumb, like I don’t know she’s on a shrink-seeking mission. “Where are you going, Mom?”
She snaps, “Don’t worry about it.” Then she smiles, but her lips curl like they did when she spied that empty icing cup on the floor in the bathroom.
My body is in my desk during class, but all I can think about is what Mom said to Brenda. She’s relieved when people don’t realize she’s my mother?
At lunch, I slide my tray onto the Nobodies table and sit across from Anna. She looks surprised, but she doesn’t yell at me or flip me off, so I get the idea that it’s okay for me to stay.
Sean says what Anna’s probably thinking: “Oh, so you decided that we’re good enough? Yesterday you sat with Abercrombie and Bitch, and we figured you’d gone over to the Dark Side.”
I snort. “I’d burst into flames if I went there. I was just trying to find out who made the Facebook page in my honor.”
Anna asks quietly, “So, did you?”
I shake my head. “Not for sure, although I’m pretty sure that Kara did it since she had Ryan’s cell phone.” I drag a French fry through ketchup and think about what happened in the bathroom at Sugar’s yesterday. I remember sneaking the icing and Mom banging on the door, but everything in-between is fuzzy.
Maybe I’m crazy. Seems like eating four cups of cake icing in ten minutes would be a memorable thing. To tell the truth, though, I often don’t remember everything I eat when I pig out. It’s a blur, and I can’t feel myself.
Which makes me think…maybe that’s the point?
In English class, Mr. Van Horn moderates a debate on the nature of Pearl, Hester Prynne’s daughter. He assigns half the class the point of view that Pearl is a little demon seed, so she’s bad for Hester’s soul, and the other half is to argue that Hester is bad for Pearl. In other words, we’re supposed to explain Pearl’s problems—like, she runs at other kids, screaming and shouting at them—by deciding if she’s possessed by Satan or if her mom’s a crazy bitch.
I tune out the discussion of The Scarlet Letter and imagine the class debating my nature.
Colby’s a fat ugly liar!
Look at her dad. Did you expect her to turn out differently?
Her mom’s right, you know. If she’d just lose weight…
She’s genetically doomed. You know what she needs to do.
If she’s dead, then her poor mother won’t have to be ashamed of her anymore.
So, we agree, then?
Yes: Colby has to die.
I knew you’d see it my way.
I pull The Scarlet Letter out of my backpack, plop myself onto the bleachers, and settle in for P.E. class. My classmates head for the bay door and the sunlight, but I don’t exactly mind that the cast on my arm is keeping me from participating.
From the doorway, Coach Sharp blasts her whistle. I look up. “Come on, Denton! Your excuse note is only for strenuous workouts. You can walk the track and get some fresh air. Starting tomorrow, I’ll expect you to dress out.”
Shit. I shove the novel into my backpack and crab-crawl off the bleachers. Coach Sharp waits, as if I’d go sit back down or something.
I blink in the sunshine and frown: Becca is waiting just outside the doors for me. I do a double-take because she’s wearing her pearl-snap western shirt over her gym shirt and shorts.
“Get moving, ladies. Walk one, jog one; walk one, jog one. If you can jog more than one, go for it. I’m looking for cross country candidates.”
I snort; Coach Sharp snaps, “Something funny, Denton?”
My voice drips with sarcasm. “Um…I’m not exactly in shape. I doubt you’d want me on your team.”
Coach Sharp shrugs. “No time like the present to find out what you can do, is there?”
We aren’t five steps into our lap when Becca says, “So? Have you thought about it? Are you going to do the right thing and tell the truth about Ryan?”
I ignore her question and take off in as much of a burst as I’m capable of, but she must be a charter member of Drew’s Ask a Million Questions Club, because Becca’s every bit as annoying as my little sister. She catches me easily, and she won’t shut up.
By the time we reach the U in the track, I’m wheezing. “Leave [gasp] me [wheeze] alone [gasp-wheeze] about it!” I bend at the waist with my right hand on my thigh. I concentrate on long, deep breathing, but mostly I just cough and watch Becca’s feet, hoping they’ll walk away.
Instead, they step closer. She puts her hand on my back. “Are you okay? Do you have asthma?”
I straighten, shake my head, and cough some more. “No; I’m fat, in case you haven’t noticed.” The sun is beating down on my hair, and it feels like my skull is melting. I wave my hand in front of my face. “Damn, it’s hot!”
A shrill whistle blasts and Coach Sharp yells from her place in the grassy center of the track, “Move it, you two! No stopping and standing!”
“We’d better keep going,” Becca says worriedly. “She’ll have us running sprints if we piss her off.”
I wave her off. “You go on. I’ll catch up.”
“No, I’m sticking with you. Think of me as a reminder of how much time you have left to tell the truth.” She glances at her watch. “Two and a half hours.”
I roll my eyes. “Lucky me: my very own time keeper.”
Becca gives me a close-mouthed smile and tilts her head at me. “Tick-tock.”
“The only help I need from you is keeping your mouth shut. It’s not like telling on me is going to bring Ryan back from the dead!” I turn on my heel and resume my lap.
From behind me, Becca calls, “5:00 P.M., Colby!”
I flip her the bird, walk on, and try to breathe instead of wheeze.
Mom’s waiting in the Sugar’s parking lot when Drew and I get off the bus. She’s got her purse on her shoulder and her car keys in her hand. “Hey, girls. Drew, go on inside. Colby
’s got a doctor appointment, so you’re riding home with Leah today.”
“Is Colby getting her cast off? I want to go.”
Mom gives Drew a little nudge toward Sugar’s. “No, it’s not that kind of doctor. Just be a good girl and go inside so that we make the appointment on time.”
My sister digs in her heels. “What kind of doctor is it?”
“Enough!” Mom’s sharp voice seems to propel Drew toward the front door. My mother locks eyes with me and nods toward the car. I move to it and wait for her to unlock my door.
I slide in at the same time she does. “Where are we going?”
Mom sighs. “After what I saw in that bathroom yesterday, I know that you need help. I don’t know what to do, and I’m hoping that someone much smarter than me will be able to tell me.”
I blurt, “So why am I going? You’re the one who needs help.” Go ahead, Mom. Tell me how you really feel, like you told Brenda last night.
Mom’s right hand flies off the steering wheel, and she stops just short of backhanding me. “Colby!” She breathes in deeply, exhales shakily, and wraps her fingers around the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles are white. She repeats her breathing thing a couple more times, then starts the car and backs out of the parking space.
We pass the memorial that marks where Ryan died. The flowers, teddy bears, and notes are beginning to fade in the late summer heat. A few of the items have blown into the road and been run over, but the white cross bearing his name and yearbook photo stands tall above everything else. I’ll bet if I had succeeded, the only thing marking my spot would be the Coors bottle that was on the ground by my head.
Big Fat Disaster Page 21
