The Year I Didn't Eat

by Pollen

  I never told Mum about the other diary. The thoughts-and-feelings diary. The one where I tell Ana exactly how much I hate her and my family and myself. The one that doesn’t contain any sums, because there’s no sum you can do to make yourself happy (believe me, I’ve tried).

  It was in the bottom of my sock drawer. It’s not like I wasn’t allowed to keep it or anything. I just didn’t want anyone else to see it. The stuff I wrote there was between me and Ana, you know?

  Come to think of it, why was she looking in my sock drawer?

  “Max,” Mum says, in the same voice as before. This is your chance to fess up.

  “Where did you find it?”

  “It doesn’t matter where I found it—”

  “Were you going through my stuff?”

  “No, love, I wasn’t—”

  “You don’t have any right to go through my stuff,” I tell her.

  The more I think about it, the angrier I get. It’s like my blood is suddenly on fire.

  She’s spying on you.

  She’s going to try and get you hospitalized.

  She wants to get rid of you.

  “Max, listen to me.”

  “Did you read it?”

  “Max, listen—”

  “DID YOU READ IT?” I scream, flinging myself toward Mum. I grab for the diary and rip it out of Mum’s hand, somehow, with all my puny strength. Or maybe she let go, I’m not sure. My hand pings back and hits … something. There’s a beat of nothing, where all I can hear is the roar inside my head.

  That’s when I leave my body. Now I’m in a first-person film, and everything that’s happening is happening to someone else. I don’t feel myself turn. I don’t feel myself run toward the door. Even the pain in my finger—What did I hit it on?—feels distant. It doesn’t hurt, exactly. It’s just a sensation I’m aware of, like white noise. There’s a moment of clarity, when I look at myself, or this person who used to be me, and think, Who is he? Why is he running away, again, when there’s nothing really wrong? Why is he so mad at his mum?

  And then it’s me again. I can tell because it suddenly feels like someone is trying to shove wires down the blood vessels in my finger. The pain makes me want to scream.

  I turn to look at Mum. She’s kneeling on the floor, head bent over, shoulders shaking. And she’s clutching at her face.

  “It’s not what you think,” I tell her again.

  Then I’m gone.

  These days, I seem to spend most of my life running away from things. These days, the people I fight with are the ones I love most. Lindsay says it’s normal. Lindsay says that we all hurt people we love, sometimes. We shouldn’t blame ourselves for it. We should just do our best to show them how sorry we are.

  But when I felt that sting in my finger, my first thought was Have I broken it? Am I now so weak that my bones snap like little twigs? And it must have taken me ten seconds, maybe more, to even think about Mum. To turn and look and try to figure out if she was okay.

  Did I just hit my mum in the face?

  Writing down everything I eat doesn’t work. And apparently, writing down my feelings doesn’t work, either. I’m still selfish. I’m still scared. This is still happening to me. And the people around me have to bend, like branches in a storm, if they want to avoid being broken. They have to accept me being stupid and scary and angry all the time.

  Even then, they might not be safe.

  Maybe that’s why Robin left.

  Ana picks this moment to chip in.

  One by one, you’re driving your whole family away.

  When I ran out on that meal with Robin, Louise, and James, I didn’t know where I was going. But this time I do. Across the heath, around the lake. I’ve been here so many times, I can count the distances between every little landmark. It used to take me thirteen seconds and thirty-four steps to run from the bench with the cache, to the next one along (IN MEMORY OF RACHEL DOBIN, WHO LOVED THIS PLACE). Today, it’s thirty-eight steps, and probably more like fifteen seconds. Ugh. When you’ve lost all the fat you can lose, you start digesting your muscles. You get out of breath more easily, and you don’t move as quickly.

  I’m slowing down. That’s what old people say, isn’t it? It’s what they say on TV anyway. I remember this line from something or other: We only get one body, and eventually it gives up on us. It can happen slowly, or it can happen fast. It’s all down to how you treat it. And how lucky you are.

  Turn left at the fourth bench along going clockwise and into the birch trees. I watch my feet carefully: I’ve tripped over these roots more times than I can remember and fallen flat on my face. If I fall like that now, my bones would shatter. I read this post on a forum once, where a girl was explaining how she trained herself to stop putting her hands out when she fell over. Wrists break easily and take ages to heal. If your bones are weak, you’re better off twisting and landing on your side. You may crack a rib, but probably not—and even then, you’ll be better off.

  I reach the oak tree, spring up onto the low branch, and grab the cache. One by one, I tear the pages out of my diary and stuff them inside.

  Dear Ana, I can’t talk to you anymore.

  Maybe no one will read them. Maybe everyone will. I don’t care. I just don’t want to choose. I don’t want to be in control anymore.

  I tiptoe into the house with a lump the size of Jupiter in my throat.

  Maybe they’ve already called the police.

  Maybe they’re finally going to send me to a mental ward.

  But it’s like any other evening. Dad looks up from his crossword and says, Hi, buddy. I wave at him, without saying anything, and run up the stairs. I can’t face seeing Mum, not yet. My only objective is to get to my room as quickly as possible.

  But she comes out of the office as I’m going past the door.

  “Oh, hi, love. I didn’t hear you come in,” she says in this really cheery voice and beams at me.

  What the hell is going on?

  I can’t even process what she’s saying. I kind of nod at her and stumble past like a zombie. I get to my room, close the door, and slump down on my bed.

  Did I imagine the last half hour of my life? Am I in a nightmare? Did I hit her so hard she lost her memory?

  My finger doesn’t hurt at all anymore.

  Luckily, Ana’s there to fill in the blanks.

  Don’t be an idiot. Didn’t you see the way she flinched before she put that smile on? She’s terrified of you. She thinks you’re about to lose it completely. By the way, take a look at your desk.

  What?

  Your pen’s out.

  So what?

  So your mum wasn’t going through your stuff, you idiot. You left your stupid little diary on your stupid little desk.

  16

  Ram looks like he’s going to faint.

  “That was the worst ninety minutes of my life.”

  “The worst ninety minutes of your life so far,” Stu says cheerily, squeezing between us and throwing an arm around both our shoulders. I flinch, but I don’t think he clocks it.

  Practice exams: tests that have no purpose except to make teenagers anxious and miserable. Even more anxious and miserable. The good news is, I’m nearly through. I have two left—German and physics—both tomorrow. After that, there are three completely pointless days back in normal lessons, then it’s summer. And I won’t have to pretend to be normal anymore.

  “Don’t worry,” I reassure Ram. “They don’t count for anything.” This is approximately the 257th time I’ve told him this.

  He ignores me. “What did you put for the last question?”

  “Don’t answer him,” Stu warns. This week, we’ve learned that his no-spoilers philosophy extends to exams.

  “Why not?” Ram asks, shrugging Stu’s arm off and turning to face us. “I want to know.”

  Stu massages his temples. “How many times do we have to go through this? Because it’s done now. Knowing what we put won’t change anything. It’ll just mak
e you worry more.” Stu Swindells: the philosopher of Deanwater High. Maybe he’ll end up becoming a psychologist like Lindsay. I reckon he’d be good at it.

  Evie bursts into the hall, looking mad, and comes and joins us. “What did you idiots put for question seven? The one with the picture?”

  Stu holds up his palm, ready to drop some knowledge. He’s probably going to tell us to drink green tea and meditate or something. But before he can, Ram blurts out, “Xylem.”

  “Oh God, I put phloem.”

  They turn to Stu and me.

  “Who’s right?” Evie says.

  “Me, when I said you shouldn’t talk about it,” Stu says with a shake of his head.

  And I just shrug. Before they said anything, I was pretty sure the labeled bit of the diagram was actually the cortex. Now I feel like maybe I made a mistake. Ana is machine-gunning anxious thoughts through my brain.

  You sure screwed that one up.

  Why do you even care? It’s a one-mark question on a test that doesn’t even matter.

  Pretty embarrassing, though.

  “Anyway, do you want to go get lunch in town?” Ram says, rubbing his stomach. “I could eat an elephant.”

  He seems to be over the practice exam. I’m kind of annoyed at how he immediately forgets about it—whereas I’m still fizzing with anxiety and will be for days. Not to mention the usual lurching feeling when someone starts talking about food.

  I glance at Evie, who still looks twitchy. For a moment, I’m glad. Then I realize this makes me the worst friend in the entire world.

  She’s probably not even twitchy about the exam. She’s probably twitchy about being around you.

  This triggers the thought loop I’ve been running through for the past couple of weeks, since the zoo.

  Is she into me?

  Yeah, right. She grabbed your hand because she was scared, Max. Because you took her to a bat cave.

  But then she held on to it.

  For like thirty seconds, until she saw someone else and remembered what the hell she was doing. It’s not exactly Romeo and Juliet, Max.

  Maybe I should ask her out.

  Oh, good idea! Maybe you could take her to a restaurant and watch her eat for two hours?

  “Sure,” she says vaguely.

  And Stu nods.

  Ram looks at me. “Max?”

  I want to say yes. A lot. But I know it will be horrible. I know they’ll pick some sandwich shop where you don’t know what you get until it arrives, so I’ll have no idea how many calories are inside. Maybe they’ll have bags of chips or something—but then, Ram will ask me for a chip, maybe offer to swap one, and they won’t be the same size. Or even worse, Evie will ask for one.

  They already think you’re a freak. Don’t make it worse.

  All of this runs through my head before I answer.

  “I’ve got stuff to do at home,” I mumble.

  I watch their faces drop into expressions that say, You’re a rubbish friend.

  Wow, they must really hate you. They’ll probably cut you loose soon. Over the summer, maybe. Next year, you’ll come back, and they’ll just blank you.

  I quickly add, “I’ll walk into town with you, though.”

  We head toward town. Evie and Ram keep asking each other questions about the exam. Mainly to shut them up, Stu starts telling us about his summer holiday: The Swindells are going walking in the Scottish Highlands.

  “Snore,” says Evie. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and starts scrolling.

  “For how long?” Ram asks.

  “All summer. We’re renting a campervan.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Mum and Dad want to get away from the hustle and bustle, so we can reconnect with each other.”

  “Stu, your house is like Zen garden,” Ram says. “And I’m pretty sure your parents are surgically joined.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir,” Stu says. “Anyway, what are you doing?”

  “Mum’s taking me to France. Again. Last time, we stayed in this little cottage in the middle of nowhere. There was nothing to do except read a book.”

  Stu and I both make that-sounds-all-right faces. Ram catches us.

  “Oh, shut up. It’s boring. But the day after I get back, I’m going to Portugal with my dad. Mad, right?”

  “Divorce has its advantages,” Stu says with a shrug.

  Ram nods enthusiastically, like one of those dogs you put on the dashboard of your car. “We went to the same place a couple of years ago. It’s all-inclusive, and they have this amazing unlimited breakfast buffet. Plus, all the girls walk around in bikinis the entire time.”

  “Sounds idyllic.”

  “What about you, Max?” Ram asks.

  Long story. Mum and Dad finally announced the plan on Sunday. I’ve been asking for weeks because I want to start sorting out my food plan. Well, it turns out that this year—I can’t believe I’m actually saying this—we’re going back to Italy. Aka, the place that turned me into an anorexic.

  The conversation went like this:

  Mum: We’re going to Italy again this year, love.

  Dad: We’re going to stay near Lake Garda for ten days. Does that sound all right to you?

  Me: Is Robin coming?

  Mum: Not this year, I’m afraid, love.

  Me: Okay.

  Dad: We’re going to have a great time.

  Mum: A really great time.

  That was it. Notice how I never responded to the last bit. Because I didn’t have a clue what to say.

  We’re going back to Italy. I’m going back to Italy.

  I’m terrified.

  You’re going to lose it completely.

  Italy’s a big country. Lake Garda isn’t the same as Venice. And maybe what happened last time would have happened wherever I was. There are plenty of anorexics in France and Germany and America, after all.

  But it doesn’t have to be rational. I’m living proof of that. You can know something makes zero sense and still let it control your whole world. Like when people get mugged and end up moving cities, because they’re scared to walk down their own street.

  “Max?”

  It’s Ram. From five yards in front. Because I stopped walking in the street. It’s like I’m going out of my way to look like as big a weirdo as possible.

  “Uh, sorry,” I mumble, scooting to catch up. “We’re going to Italy.”

  “Pizza,” says Ram, with moony eyes. “Pasta. Ice cream. Niiice.”

  “Yeah,” I say, though I feel sick thinking about it.

  Evie, as usual, joins the conversation without looking up from her phone. “Aren’t you going to ask where I’m going?”

  “You seemed busy,” Stu replies icily. He still gets mad about the phone thing.

  “Where are you going?” Ram asks.

  She actually looks up at us when she answers. “I’m going to France with Ben and Jacob, and the other girls aren’t coming!”

  She smiles like the Cheshire Cat. Evie never smiles. I swear her eyes change color—from green to luminous turquoise. You can’t help but stare.

  “Who are Ben and Jacob?” I ask.

  “Who are the other girls?” Ram asks.

  Stu’s still trying not to look interested, but you can tell he’s dying to know, too.

  “Ben and Jacob are my parents,” Evie says. “Obviously.”

  Ram, Stu, and I all give one another the same what-the-hell? look. There’s a really long pause.

  “What?” Evie says eventually.

  “You call your parents by their first names?” says Stu.

  Evie’s eyes flick to the side. If you weren’t looking for it, you definitely wouldn’t have noticed. But I was looking for it. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her look the tiniest bit unsure of herself.

  “Yep,” she chirps. She starts stuffing her things into her rucksack. “Anyway, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got places to be.”

  “But I thought we
we’re going to—” Ram begins.

  “Can’t,” Evie says abruptly. “Sorry. I’ll see you losers tomorrow.”

  Then she marches off in the direction of Redlands, which I’m pretty sure is the opposite direction to her house.

  “Weird,” says Ram, as he watches her walk away. He shrugs, then turns to Stu. “Nando’s?”

  17

  We haven’t heard from Robin for two weeks. When he first moved out, he came over for dinner pretty much every other night. Then suddenly, he stopped. Mum reckons he’s got a girlfriend—probably that Ffion he mentioned. Either that, or he’s learned how to cook.

  Last week, I really wanted to text him and complain about the practice exams, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to bug him. I’m pretty sure my neediness was what made him move out in the first place. I didn’t want to make things worse.

  But the night before we go to Italy, he texts me.

  All set for camping? :D

  I reply within a minute. So much for not being needy.

  Me: We’re leaving in 12 hours. Take a guess.

  Robin: I’m guessing Dad’s already put the stuff in the car, and set … 5 alarms?

  Me: 6. And we’re leaving at 11 a.m. for a 5 p.m. flight.

  Robin: A new record!

  Me: He’s also turned the central heating off already, in case we forget. It’s FREEZING.

  Robin: Textbook Dad. Has Mum had a go at him yet?

  Me: She went to bed an hour ago. She said she had a headache.

  Robin: I don’t blame her.

  Me: I can’t believe you’re not coming.

  I know I shouldn’t say it, because it makes me sound pathetic, and probably makes Robin feel bad. But I can’t help it.

  Pfft. You’ll have much more fun without me. Now get some sleep! You know Dad’s going to make you do an inventory of all the stuff you’re taking at 8 a.m.

  I lie awake for ages. Hours, probably, but I don’t look at my phone because I don’t want to know how long because that will just stress me out more. Worries whir around my head like the blades of a ceiling fan. I worry about forgetting the food I need for tomorrow—the food I’m taking to eat at the airport, so I know exactly what I’ve got. I worry about whether the stuff in the camp shop will all have calorie numbers on it, and what I’ll do if it doesn’t. Most of all, I worry about eating out. About staring at a menu that’s just pizza and pasta, carbs on carbs on carbs, and not knowing what to do.