The Year I Didn't Eat

by Pollen

  I worry until I exhaust myself, until my brain literally can’t wrap itself around anything else for me to worry about it. And then I pass out.

  Anyone could find it, you know. Your tragic little diary: all those pathetic thoughts and feelings you were stupid enough to write down. Someone’s probably reading it right now and laughing their head off, and texting the funniest lines to their friends. It wouldn’t be hard for them to figure out who you are. You weren’t exactly subtle. Once they’ve pieced it together, your humiliation will be complete. But you won’t know a thing about it until September, when you go into school and realize everyone’s laughing at you. Even Stu and Ram and Evie, because—well, they’ve done their best, but it’ll be way too embarrassing to stay friends with you after this.

  I swear I jump six feet out of my bed. I’m sweating, and my breath is ragged, like I’ve just sprinted a hundred meters. I can’t remember what I was dreaming about. All that’s left is one thought looping through my head:

  You’ve got to get rid of the diary.

  I look at my phone: 5:23 a.m. I’d go now, but Dad sleeps like a field mouse; he’d hear. Better to wait until after we’ve done the stupid inventory. Then I’ll have an hour or so to myself.

  What was I thinking? Why did I leave all my sad, lame boy-with-a-girl’s-disease thoughts in my cache, where anyone can find them and read them? Including, y’know,

  My brother, who’s already left home because he finds me too difficult to live with.

  My best friends, who I’ve spent six months hiding it from.

  Evie, aka the only girl who’s ever shown any interest in me whatsoever.

  Literally every other human being on earth.

  We’re leaving in an hour.

  I walk across the Common on autopilot. I only clock where I am once I reach the oak tree; I must be really tired today. I’m holding the slice of toast Mum thrust into my hand when I said I needed to skip breakfast. She made me promise I’d eat it, and I don’t want to let her down. Not this time.

  I take a look around for muggles—I’ve started being a bit more careful since Evie—then boost myself up, grab the cache, and slide it open.

  “You’re kidding,” I say to no one. Or to my cache or to the tree, I’m not sure. I take out the logbook and leaf through it, to double-check.

  Meanwhile, Ana starts up.

  Told you, you daft prick. Someone’s taken it. Soon, everyone will be reading all that stupid shit you wrote.

  Maybe I didn’t even leave anything in my cache. Maybe I dreamed the whole thing. I was in kind of a crazy mood, after all.

  Sure, keep telling yourself that.

  I open the logbook again, and turn to the most recent page, just to see if anyone’s written, What’s with the dumb diary? There are five new entries. Most of them are the same old thing: TFTC—Sarah, Handforth. But one leaps out at me.

  It says, I’ll check back on Tuesday. And I recognize the username: Stallone05. The first person who visited my cache.

  Check back for what?

  I look into the cache again to check I haven’t missed anything. Then I see them. The diary pages were there all along; they were wedged into the join of the wood.

  But when I pull them out, I realize the paper is different—blue instead of white. And the handwriting is a lot, lot neater than mine.

  Because it’s not my diary.

  It’s a reply.

  18

  Surprise, surprise, we’re at the airport four hours early. We always are. Usually, Dad leaves enough time that even if all the trains are cancelled, and our car breaks down, and all the taxis in England suddenly vaporize, we’ll still have enough time to walk to the airport and make our flight.

  Dad also thinks airport cafés are totally overpriced and refuses to go to them. So today, as usual, we end up sitting on the hard plastic seats next to our gate for two hours. I have to keep getting up and walk around because it hurts my bony ass so much.

  The flight is fine, except my ears go crazy with the pressure changes. I used to have a piece of candy to help sort it out, but that’s definitely off the cards now. And I’m too shy to ask the flight attendant for water. So I just swallow air, over and over. It hurts like hell.

  We land at the Milan airport, collect our bags, pick up the rental car, then drive east. We’re staying at a campsite right next to Lake Garda, two hours away. Dad, naturally, refuses to pay for a GPS. Instead, we have a Northern Italy road map that folds out to roughly the size of a swimming pool, which Mum spends most of the journey wrestling with.

  Mum and Dad have the same conversation about twenty times in four hours (yes, it ends up taking four hours):

  Dad: We’re coming up to a junction. Can you check whether we want to stay on E64?

  Mum: Hold on, let me find it.

  Dad: Okay.

  [Rustling noises]

  Dad: We’re nearly at the junction.

  Mum: Did we pass Stezzano already?

  Dad: I’m not sure.

  [Long silence]

  Dad: Any idea?

  Mum: I think we should stay on the highway.

  [More rustling noises]

  Mum, two minutes later, sheepishly: I think we should have turned off back there.

  I’ve been dreading this holiday for months, but now that it’s here, I’m kind of excited. Maybe it’s partly because I have two whole weeks where I don’t have to worry about making excuses not to see people or do stuff. But I’m also wondering whether maybe, just maybe, this is my chance to change things. Maybe I’ll figure out why I got ill last summer—and maybe, if I do that, I can make myself better.

  It kind of makes sense, right?

  I have the note with me. Right after I found it, I got a text from Mum. Taxi leaving in 15 minutes! I sprinted home, and by the time I got there, Mum, Dad, and all of our bags were already in the taxi. I didn’t get a chance to go inside the house. I just slipped the note into my pocket.

  I didn’t want to read it until I was on my own. I knew Mum and Dad would’ve worried about it, and I already give them plenty to worry about. We checked in and went through security; I could feel it in my pocket, weighing me down, like the ring in The Lord of the Rings. Then, as soon as we were on the other side of security, I went and found a bathroom to read it.

  Wow. I mean, like, wow. I don’t know what to say.

  I’m sorry for all the crap you’ve gone through.

  I don’t really know what to say, except YOU’RE NOT ALONE. I guess it can be hard to feel that way sometimes. But even from the stuff you wrote … Just because people don’t always get exactly how you’re feeling, doesn’t mean they don’t care.

  I know it’s not the same, but my family’s pretty screwed up, too. And for a long time, I felt like it was all my fault. I didn’t even have any brothers or sisters to blame it on.

  But I was wrong. And guess what? You’re wrong, too. Because NONE OF THIS IS YOUR FAULT!!!

  You’ve just got to deal with your crap and keep putting one foot in front of the other.

  When things are crap, my dad always says the same thing to me: Tomorrow will be different. He doesn’t literally mean tomorrow. It’s more like, things always change eventually. Even if they feel like they never will.

  I’ve got to go now. But if you leave another note, I’ll write back. I’ll keep checking.

  Remember: TOMORROW WILL BE DIFFERENT!

  E

  It’s got to be Evie. It can’t be Robin, because of all the family stuff, and Evie’s the only other person I know who’s ever even heard of a geocache. Plus, it’s signed with an E. But there’s one bit that doesn’t make sense. The other day at lunch, she was definitely talking about her siblings—but now, apparently, she’s an only child?

  Maybe she was an only child, but she isn’t anymore.

  Or maybe she’s just being weird again.

  And then another thought hits me: I wrote about her in my diary. Oh God oh God oh God. All that stuff about her holdin
g my hand … OH GOD. Even worse, I don’t have any kind of record, so I can’t find out exactly what I did write. I just get to stew about it.

  And for the next two weeks, I can’t even reply.

  The first surprise of the holiday comes when we finally arrive at the campsite.

  The man at the gate hands Dad a key. “Numero trentadue, signore.”

  “Grazie,” Dad replies.

  “What’s that for?” I ask Dad as we drive on into the site.

  Dad shrugs. “Maybe the showers are locked,” he says.

  Which makes zero sense. “Then don’t we need one each?” I ask. I’m not exactly keen on the idea of checking in with Mum and Dad every time I want to go to the loo.

  Dad smiles into the rearview mirror. “We’ll be there in a minute. Why don’t we wait and see?” As if the showers were the Magic Kingdom or something.

  To be fair, the campsite’s actually pretty cool. There’s a pool with waterslides, about a hundred Ping-Pong tables, and a beach. It’s set in this huge forest, and there are loads of nature trails leading up into the hills. There aren’t any geocaches, though: I’ve already checked.

  Dad pulls up in front of this big log cabin, like the ones they have in ski resorts.

  “We’re here,” he says.

  I say, “Where’s the field?” There are trees all around us. I laugh. “Did you park on it again, Dad?”

  Mum and Dad look at each other, grinning.

  “What?” I ask. “What’s going on?”

  “We decided to do something different this year, love,” Mum says. “Since Liberace decided to sit this one out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Suddenly, my heart is doing death-metal beating. Anxiety is one part of anorexia no one really talks about, probably because it’s not the part that kills you. But it feels like a wind blowing inside you twenty-four hours a day. Sometimes, it’s so strong it can knock you over; sometimes, it’s a rippling breeze you barely notice. But it’s always there.

  Dad turns around, sees my expression, and laughs right in my face. “We got a cabin.”

  “So you can have a room all to yourself,” says Mum.

  “And a proper kitchen!” Dad adds.

  Oh.

  Wow.

  This might not sound like much, but the Howarths always—always—go for the cheapest possible option in every situation. Always 100 percent guaranteed. It’s like a family policy. When we got the Eurostar to France two years ago, business-class seats were a whole two pounds more expensive, and we still went economy. Now Mum and Dad are telling me they’ve spent probably two or three times what they normally do for accommodation, so I can have my own room and cook the things I want to cook.

  WOW.

  It’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.

  I look from Mum to Dad, and back again. They both have the same expression on their faces: excited, but also kind of scared about how I’m going to react. I can tell they weighed everything up, discussed all the options, probably even asked Lindsay, who probably told them I needed my space, and that having a kitchen would allow me to stick as closely as possible to my home routine.

  It’s all for me.

  I’m so happy I can barely speak. “Thank you,” is about all I can manage.

  “You’re welcome,” Dad says. “Now, why don’t you two have a look around, and I’ll bring the bags in?” He hands me the key.

  Mum and me go inside. And it’s … amazing. There’s a massive kitchen, with an oven, a microwave, four burners, a giant fridge-freezer. There’s every kind of pan you could think of. Chef’s knives. Wooden spoons. There’s even a set of scales, though I brought mine anyway.

  The cabin is decorated like a chalet. The walls are made of wood, and there’s a wood-burning stove, wooden shutters, a wooden dining table with wooden chairs. The whole downstairs area—kitchen, dining room, and lounge—is one big open space. And upstairs, there are two big bedrooms—I have a double bed!—and a bathroom.

  Oh, and for some reason, there’s a cuckoo clock in every single room. Seriously.

  I guess it’s a little cheesy. But I don’t care. For a good ten minutes, I’m over the moon. I forget about everything I’ve been worrying about during the three-hour flight, the four-hour drive. And, you know, the last nine months.

  And then, there it comes again. Maybe the wind isn’t the best analogy. The anxiety’s more like a river: It has to flow somewhere. If you try to block it off, it finds another route to the sea. As soon as one thing seems okay, Ana finds something else for me to worry about.

  This place must’ve been expensive. A lot more expensive than a field. Is that why Robin isn’t here? Because Mum and Dad couldn’t afford for him to come?

  Or was it because he hates you? Or was it a bit of both?

  Dad totters through the door, loaded up with bags. He drops them with a satisfied sigh, like someone who’s just drunk a Coca-Cola in an ad. “So, what do you think?” he says.

  I think a lot of things. But each good thought has a nasty sidekick, courtesy of Ana.

  I can cook whatever I like.

  … but your mum and dad will worry if you don’t eat it all.

  Wow, my room’s big.

  … and you’re mostly going to lie awake in it, crying like a baby.

  It’s like having a debate with the smartest person in the world. Every time I think I’ve made a good point—wham—she demolishes my argument, and makes me feel like a total idiot.

  “It’s great,” I reply. “Thanks, Dad.”

  Dad nods enthusiastically. I turn to look at Mum. She’s beaming so hard I want to cry.

  I pick up my bag and take it up to my room. I shut the door and lean against it. I close my eyes. My Zen period lasted all of five minutes. Now, I’m a bag of nerves—and on top of that, I feel super-guilty. Why can’t I be happy when my parents have done all this for me?

  “Want a drink, Max?” Mum shouts from the kitchen. “We’re having hot chocolate!”

  I slump down on my huge, soft double bed. “I’m fine,” I shout back.

  19

  Here are my top five tips for going on holiday with an anorexic:

  Get ready to spend a lot of time in museums. People with eating disorders are kind of obsessive. We want to see and do everything—and I mean everything. If you take me to the Louvre, I’ll look at every single picture and read every single sign (which apparently takes three months) because I hate the idea of missing out on stuff. This is true even when every sign is in a language I don’t actually speak.

  Don’t ask us about it afterward. The only problem is, I won’t actually take much of the stuff on those signs in. I’m too tired. Don’t ask me if I read the bit about Da Vinci’s childhood, because if I missed it or can’t remember it, I’ll be upset.

  Eating out is tricky. When you order at a restaurant, you never know quite what you’re going to get, unless you’re at McDonald’s or something. (Anorexics like McDonald’s a lot more than you’d think.) Counter service is great, because we get to see the food before we order it. Even better if it’s already in portions. Buffets are harder, because it’s way too easy to lose control and overeat. The worst possible option is sharing food with other people on the table. Never, ever, ever take an anorexic for tapas.

  Don’t go to the beach. Trust me. You don’t want to see an anorexic with their top off—and they want you to see them about a million times less. If you have to go to a beach, make sure there’s somewhere they can sit in the shade with a book, or find them a private cove, or whatever.

  Watch how much water we drink. Some anorexics don’t drink enough water, because when you’re stick-thin, even a glass of water makes you feel bloated. Others drink loads, to fill their stomachs with something that isn’t food. Both of these can be pretty dangerous, especially on holiday.

  Oh, and here’s a bonus one: Please don’t play Billy Joel’s greatest hits on every single car journey. That’s not an anorexia thing
. It’s a my-parents thing.

  The fourth night of the trip, July 23, is Mum and Dad’s wedding anniversary. Most couples would go out for a romantic meal or whatever, and leave their kids in peace. But we aren’t most families. Mum has this cringey line: Our children are the most important part of our marriage. Which means me and Robin get to go to their romantic dinners, too.

  Tonight, we go to this posh restaurant right by the lake. We sit outside. There are little tea lights all around the garden, and a big white canopy overhead.

  “It’s very romantic,” says Dad as our waiter leads us to our table.

  I make my I-want-to-spew face. Mum doesn’t exactly look convinced, either.

  When they come to take our drinks order, Mum chooses some wine—a carafe, because Dad’s driving, so it’s basically just for her. But then she asks for three glasses.

  I look at her.

  “You can have a glass if you want, Max.”

  Dad nods in agreement.

  Wow. Wow. My parents are nuts about alcohol, drugs, and anything else that’s even a little bit bad for you. When Robin was thirteen, they banned him from eating Pop-Tarts. They may as well have just offered me my first hit of heroin.

  How do I say no?

  “Are you sure?” I ask, hoping they’ll change their mind.

  “It’s a special occasion,” Mum says.

  “Our anniversary,” Dad adds. It’s weird: He looks at Mum when he says it, as if she maybe needs reminding of this fact. I want to say: I reckon she knows, Dad.

  Then the waiter comes back, carrying the carafe of wine, and says, “Who will taste-a the wine?” He’s got this really strong accent, like he’s playing an Italian waiter in a cheesy movie, except it’s for real.