by JoAnna Novak
RoHo1984: u help me w sumthinnnnnn
RoHo1984: 8 pizza 4 lunch but no cheese bahhahahhaha
RoHo1984: pepporon = proteeeeen?
RoHo1984: … why???? Mr. Kasparek wrote MOM = WOW on the whiteboard
RoHo1984: ELLIOT!!! u have time 2day? i can pay
I’d sent my phone number and address, and asked to be picked-up; RoHo1984 obliged.
Park’s bell would toll in fifteen minutes. Right now, the unfortunate heifers were hurting, the skin caliper clamping their thighs. Maybe Rocyo had anticipated her despair. I’d started swearing in fifth grade, when I last got tested: if your body fat percentage were 29, you’d say fuck, too.
I sat up. The heroin was on the comforter, patient as a rock. You’re not going back—don’t look that way, I’d read on a Zen tire shop’s sign. I liked that. Rocyo would be here. I needed to get my Real Talk binder, my diet kit, my black mini backpack.
I stood, stretched, bent left and right. Did fifty jumping jacks to defog my head. My mouth tasted dry, fumbled, disgusting. I went to my desk.
I moved the mouse and my computer awoke. Thank God: no more chats from Roho. Instead, a pop-up window blinked. I’d never seen this one:
GROUPS
XX JUST AS BORED X AS ME
NO FRIENDS IN COMMON
MALSUVIALMOLLOY IS ASKING YOU TO JOIN A GROUP
Join No Thanks
I stared at the choice. The day had swallowed me, and I felt like I was reading the invitation from inside a distended sac.
Join?
I wanted to click and click and click.
I bit my lower lip, a petal of dry skin. Tasted iron and blood. Around boys they liked, my clients worried about every blink. They couldn’t raise their hands in class, for fear of pit stains and armpit stragglies. I watched the box, expecting it to Poof! Disappear. Could Ethan hit “Undo” in Chat?
I had to stall. I opened my closet. In his red and whites, Michael Jordan was grinning. A basketball hugged to his hip, an armband wrapping his wrist, clean socks, fat-tongued sneakers, his muscles were so defined, he looked stuffed with tubers. What would he do with my life—what lay-ups, what dunks? Beside him a yellow ruler measured six inches. But in the poster, inches equaled feet. I had a long way to go. I only came up to MJ’s chest, his jersey, the letter B.
I grabbed my backpack and shut the door. The last thing I needed was another adult looking down on me.
Ethan’s message was waiting. I stood at my desk, the screen in my peripheral. My computer felt like a camera or something with a conscious, a heart, a brain, recording, capturing. This was new: a boy—a friend—messaging me.
“What the hell,” I whispered. I clicked Join.
A bigger whiter page appeared. I’d never been in a chat room. How to begin? ElleGirl80: I’m drunk? Oops—forgot you’re XXX straight-edge? I typed. I held down “Delete.”
A car horn squawked at the same instant that the phone rang. I scurried to the window. Stalled at the foot of my driveway, a yellow convertible had its top down, like a school bus for pimps. I couldn’t make out the music, but the bass shuddered up to my glass. I dashed for my parents’ room, to the closest phone.
“You see us? I saw you,” Rocyo said. “Ready?”
“Yeah, grabbing my stuff.”
Back in my room, I hovered over the computer. I would check the chat, without peeking. I shut my eyes, let the heat build, opened.
MalSuvialMolloy: What’s up, Ghouliet?
MalSuvialMolloy: You weren’t playing Texas Chainsaw Massacre by yourself today, were you?
The horn honked again. I X’d out of the chat. My heart thumped. What did I need? All I could think of was how badly I wanted to be wanted. By Ethan, by Lisa, even by my Mom, even by Rocyo. I looked around. The drugs: I shoved them back in my coat pocket. From my underwear drawer, I took the envelope of my client cash. It was fat, fives and singles, jingly—Marissa’d paid with quarters. I might need options. Who knew how late my mom would be today.
··
Rocyo’s sister was one of those girls whose hands look good in gloves. Feather-fingered, graceful, not tumefied into Minnie Mouse mitts. Hands like Anna’s—that’s what I saw from the backseat. Static crinkled Power 92 “Number One in the Streets.” The extended remix of “California Love” had been in heavy rotation ever since December, when Tupac’s Greatest Hits dropped.
“You sick?” Rocyo craned from the front seat. Her feet splayed on the dash, windshield-wipering to the music. Grubby pink fuzzies dotted her white socks. “Or you, what? Skip a test?”
“Nah, I’m fine. My mom’s cool with me home. Taking a mental health day.”
“That’s so bitchin’, I’m jelly. Cool you still help with our project!” She winked at me. “What we do today? Shoulda been a four-day weekend. We listen to Harper talk about World War. Kasparek was so wasted! Mom? Wow? Dios—”
“How is that even educational?”
“You guys need to stop criticizing everyone and be students,” Rocyo’s sister said. Her hair was like Selena’s, on the cover of “Dreaming of You.” I still had the single, from pre-flaca days, before I discovered radio beyond pop. “I loved Park. I’d go back in a minute. You got stand-up people looking out for you. Trust your teachers. They’re there for a reason.”
“This one,” Rocyo said. “She think she’s Mommy Number Two. Like, what I gotta be there every day?”
“Yah do,” said her sister.
I was waiting to be introduced. Rocyo’s sister hurried through yellow lights, revving past Park. Already, the parking lot was almost empty, nearly vacated for the long weekend. I felt invisible.
“Otherwise, you’ll be talkin’ to some net scrub. Or conversating with Anthony.”
“As if,” said Rocyo. She gave me a crazy look.
“Girl. I wouldn’t put it past you to bird flirt—with a lil’ sum-sum on the side.”
Rocyo buzzed her lips. “How ’bout you, Elliot? Who you like? Anthony?”
I paused, flattered. Rocyo was interested—or good at faking. I searched for an answer. A fleet of black shopping bags from Express shared the backseat with me. The car smelled like evergreen air freshener. A green cardboard pine tree dangled from the rearview mirror. Snowflakes stuck to the floor mats. Oh yeah, I remembered. The top was down. I held up a hand and touched the sky.
Only Lisa knew about my crush. The second you told girls anything, Park caught fire like a popsicle stick project. But the Scotch had lowered my inhibitions. Why not, I thought. What the hell. “Actually, I do—”
“Oh my god! Turn her up! I love this!” Rocyo screamed. “Brit!”
The way she said Brit sounded like Breit. I shoved my hands in my pockets and hugged the drugs. I could never truly confide in a girl like Rocyo. She and her sister swerved their heads to the beat. During the chorus, they rallied off each other’s lines and swung their ponytails, chanting along to “(Hit Me Baby) One More Time” like it wasn’t about sex.
··
“You wanna snack?” Rocyo said. We were inside the red-roofed house. Her sister—still nameless—had vanished. “We got juice box.”
The car ride had sobered me. I was hungry. No breakfast, no lunch, and last night’s dinner: a shred of Lean Cuisine cheese? I wanted to eat, but I couldn’t do that with Rocyo. I only ate when I outlined that in the client’s plan: Elliot will model diet-paced consumption. Then, I’d place my Casio on the table, set the timer for twenty minutes, and show a girl how slowly to deconstruct a clementine.
I conked my head and rolled my eyes. “Do you want a snack?”
“I don’t know. I’m hungry.”
“Did you follow the meal plan?”
(Half a bun, no butter. Carrot, meat from whatever Lunchable. Gulps of H2O from the good fountain by the upstairs boys’ bathroom during passing periods.)
“Mr. Rhodes ordered pizza at lunch—for Martin Luther King’s actual birthday. You know he have an affair?”
“King or Rhodes? You a
te that?”
“No cheese. Three squares.”
“Did you blot for grease?”
“Whuh?”
“Never mind. No, no snack. What’s the dilly?”
Rocyo put her hand on my back and guided me toward the stairs. I was nervous. Her touch radiated through my coat, up my spine, a hot poker stabbing my skeleton. Or maybe that was the Scotch. I lingered at the cursive railing, the metal cold beneath my palms. I leaned.
“Puta, puta! ” Anthony squawked, suddenly behind us.
“Chode! ” Rocyo said. “C’mon, Eel-ot. Sorry.”
Her room was warmer than yesterday. Heat made me feel fat. I unzipped my coat and scratched my ribs through my black sweater. Rocyo and I sat on the Grover rug, facing each other, knees up. My backpack slouched like the IV bag Lisa had gotten during her first hospitalization, creepy clear calories hanging from a pole. Lisa had worn it like a Miss America sash.
The room was soundless, except for a distant thudding.
“My sister, she doing Simmons. Sweat to the Oldies. Nerd.”
“You ever join her?” I said, tensing my abs. I would’ve loved a work-out bud.
“As if!”
“Hm. Maybe think about that. But anywho! What’s going on?”
Rocyo reached into a pocket of her cargo pants. She unfolded something pink on my calf.
The Post-It was heart-shaped; on it, her handwriting was Tetris-blocky: Miss Troubaugh knows.
I pushed up the sleeve of my coat and held out my arm. “Dork. No kidding! She saw yesterday. She’s, like, the pinnacle of overreacting.”
“Saw what?” Rocyo said.
I glanced at my wrist. The scars had calmed into nothing.
“The—”
Rocyo’s mouth gaped. “She see Real Talk.”
Somewhere in the house, hands clapped. I envisioned the pretty, nameless sister doing jumping jacks or knee lifts or hammy curls. Her hair going wavy with damp. Why wasn’t I with her instead of the grossera? I took a breath. Rocyo was dim. She’d probably gotten this wrong.
“What do you mean, babe?”
“I go for body fat. So, Troubaugh say, leg up. She clips my thigh. Okay. And she does my arm. And then, boom, okay, 24 percent. Good, not bad. Except …”
“What?”
“Except you write in Real Talk. ‘Over twenty is …’ No good. What did you write?”
“‘Bogus,’ is, I think, the word you’re looking for.”
“Well I start crying y Miss Troubaugh asks what’s wrong? And I say, I can’t be over twenty. It’s pizza. And she says, why can’t you be twenty? And I say, Elliot says.”
I raked my fingers through the rug’s blue tufts. “Elliot says what?”
“Says … says in Real Talk. I show Miss Troubaugh.”
My hand was all fist. “You what?!”
“The one you gave me yesterday.”
“No. Why? ¿Por qué? W-H-Y? Comprende, dummy?”
Rocyo stood. “Don’t talk like that in my house. You got me in trouble. Now I meet with everyone, the nurse y counselor, principal. You, too. Tuesday.”
“What are you talking about, me, too?”
“Miss Troubaugh says. You’re outta line.”
“And what did you say, stupid?”
“Perdida. I said, no, she help. Elliot weighs eighty pounds. She’s good at skinny.”
My stomach hung over my head, like I’d plummeted on Giant Drop at Six Flags. Soon, I’d be tunneling, strapped into a molded seat, plunging through crust, mantle, inner and outer core, the hot pit of death that was the nucleus of teen shame, absolute mortification, sayonara, cowabunga, dudette. I was screwed.
Rocyo knelt. Tears glazed her sausage-colored eyes. She put her palm on my knee. Her thumbs were chubby. I imagined those fingers mining my vagina. Barf.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I fuck up.”
She stuck out her lower lip, like a ledge she was saving for my apology.
“You sure did.” I jerked my knee away from her touch. “We’re done.”
“But I pay!”
“As if I care!” I was furious. I groped in my backpack for the envelope of cash. I slipped out a five and threw the bill at her. “Take your money.”
Rocyo blinked. “Elliot, I don’t want it. Please. Let me help.” She stretched out one arm, like she was spanning a lunch table. Then, she threw her body at me.
The dizziness that came whenever I stood hurled me into blackness except now I was falling. I toppled. My brain was space junk, orbiting out of our solar system as Rocyo pinned my wrists. She smelled like Gap Om, Pepsi, Fritos. She pressed her cheek to my chest.
“What are you doing? Get off me, molester!”
Rocyo was straddling me, her weight a steady pressure, heavy on my hips. I twisted and twisted but I was stuck.
“You help me. You gonna make me beautiful. I need the rules. I don’t wanna go fat to high school. Please!” She brought her face up to mine, an Eskimo kiss away. Then she tackled me with her lips.
“Ugh!” I donkey-kicked into her stomach. I scrambled to my feet. I grabbed my backpack. “Leave me alone! Gay rod!”
“Wait! Please, Elliot! I need—”
I ran. The iron railing looked like a cage, melted down and twisted into bars of music. I didn’t need to fling myself over any edge. People like Rocyo were everywhere, ready to do the flinging for me. I pounded down the stairs.
“¡No me molesta!” screamed Anthony. “¡No me molesta!”
I struggled with the deadlock. I needed to get out.
“Whatcha do, Ro-Ro?” said a voice behind me.
I turned. The pretty sister was standing there in bike shorts and an oversized T-shirt knotted with a white scrunchie.
“Elliot!” Rocyo called, running, her cargo pants unzipped. “Don’t go!”
The sister laughed. “You gettin’ after cooch again, Chiqui?”
“Cerdita! ” Rocyo spat.
With a yank, the door heaved. There was the world, gusting snow and wilted tinsel onto the front porch. A shriek of wind lurched me into the streets.
7 ·· LISA
EVEN PRE-ANOREXIA, THE STUPIDEST RULES controlled me: Hop over cracks in the sidewalk. Let Eucharist dissolve (no teeth) on your tongue. Finish every book you start—even The Babysitters Club: Kristy’s Big Idea. I used to think microwaving ice cream was cheating. Before my Year of Sadness (seventh grade, the realization that starvation turned real life into your very own epic drama), I was a bowl-a-night girl. From my grandmother, I learned a pantry makes vanilla exciting. Marshmallow Fluff. Honey-roasted peanuts. Strawberry jam. Hot fudge. (I wonder what her last flavor will be.)
But after talking to Georgette, I realized doing what you want means disregarding rules. My first change when I got home, between seventh and eighth grade? I started microwaving pints. Fifteen seconds right-side up, fifteen seconds upside down. I stopped believing in right or wrong. No one could define my standards for me. My food, my stomach. If I wanted to zap my Cherry Garcia, big whup.
We’re on Munchies of Menace: MoM according to the schedule. We’re back in the room where we listened to “Tubthumper.” Today’s frightening food … drumroll please … ice cream.
Marjorie posts up in the corner with a clipboard. Skank is taking princess steps around the circle of patients, like this is all whatever, like it’s snack day, like she’s leading a pony or playing Duck Duck Goose. Everyone is tapped on the head with a choice.
Ice cream sandwich or Drumstick.
My other times at Carousel Gardens, MoM coincided with AM or PM snack. Today, scheduling it on the kitten heels of lunch is cruel. Okay, not for me—I’ll do ice cream as my meal (like those dorky shirts my dad wears, NO FEAR). But some patients straight-up panic at MoM. It’s gotten ugly: Johnny Depp trashing the hotel. The male nurses with canvas restraints are on-call. I feel bad for girls who are scared of Twinkies or Sun Chips. I remember their terror from last summer: touching the crunchy skin of a fried chicken breast;
the gagged feeling of crying over a mouthful of dry white meat.
“Drumsticks?” Phoebe says. “Are you shitting me?”
I snicker. At lunch, I sat next to her, too. Why hadn’t Elliot been cool about writing? Fun fact: Phoebe’s revising a novel. Her hospitalization—aside from being research for the book that necessitates she escalate all possible confrontations—is, she said, a mistake. Me too, I said, trying to ignore Skank and Marjorie twirling their sundried tomato linguini. Mistake, not novel.
“Language,” says Skank. “What is that: violation number two?”
“Ew, you violate your number two?” Phoebe says.
Skank thrusts a Drumstick in its white plastic at her. Phoebe pincers it, thumb and pointer, like it’s wet toilet paper, a dead rat.
“Can I have two?” I ask. “Or, like, one of each? Decisions make me ralph.”
Skank narrows her eyes. She probably thinks because we walked down the unit together, because she gave me a message from J.C., we’re best friends. She probably thinks my sass is a betrayal, like I’m breaking some Patient-Staff Code. As if.
“That would be a behavior. We haven’t portioned for seconds.”
“Yeah you have,” Phoebe says. I know exactly who’d she be in school: that girl who doesn’t shut up. The girl who teachers pull aside, pleading: give other kids a chance. Well, why should she? Her answers are always right. “You’ve clearly portioned for seconds—each of those boxes have eight. There are nine of us. Two more if you and Marj are modeling. So. Why can’t baby girl have two? Miss Thang? Miss Sun-In?”
Skank’s nostrils flare. “Um, that’s a second violation. You can call me Bethany.”
Marjorie pads over. The more I watch, the more I see she could lose weight. Her hips, her haunches: she waddles. Her expression is ruffled; her forehead, ruched.
“What’s happening, lassies?”
“Woof. Woof, woof,” says Phoebe. “Timmy. Get out. The well. Oh no. He’s drowning. Drowning. I’m melting. He’s dead.”
