Oops. “Maybe?” I smiled apologetically. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t apologize,” she said, putting her arm around my shoulders. “It’s as good a theme song as any for this place.” And then, with that, we went off to history.
48
Before I knew it, the bell was ringing for lunch. The sound of the cafeteria at lunchtime was terrifying, loud voices pouring out like club music. The air was humid with the smells of school lunch—something with bacon—and I could practically see molecules of liquid fat floating through the air and sticking to my skin. Thank God I didn’t have to eat in there.
When Mom called the school on Friday to let them know I was coming back, she’d asked—no, demanded—that someone supervise me eating. I’d gotten mad, told Mom it wasn’t necessary, but she’d insisted. “You are going to be under a lot of stress the first few days you go back. I want you to have support.” So I’d promised my parents I’d eat lunch in Nurse Keller’s office. That way she could sit with me and check off what I ate. At the time I was pissed. Now I said a silent thank-you to Mom under my breath.
Nurse Keller wasn’t there when I arrived. In the quiet of her office, I took a deep breath for what felt like the first time all day. The morning had gone by fast. English and math hadn’t changed a bit, but Katrina was right about Tom. He was cute, sure—tall, with a face that looked a little like Ryan Gosling’s. But he spent the entire period lecturing us on the War of 1812. He never even asked questions—he just talked the entire time.
After five minutes, Nurse Keller still wasn’t there. “Excuse me?” I said, opening the door to the front office. Ms. Linda, one of the secretaries, saw me and sighed.
“Hello, Elizabeth,” she said. “I assume you’re here for your lunch.” She looked annoyed. “Nurse Keller called in sick today, and I’m in the middle of some business in the office. Can you handle this by yourself, or do you need me with you?”
Sick? Today? That wasn’t part of the plan.
“No problem,” I lied. “I’ll be okay.”
She looked at me, her eyes narrowing. “Are you sure?”
“Yup. I’ll be great,” I lied again. “I have homework to keep me company.” Not exactly a lie, since I did have homework, but I could never focus on it when food was in front of me.
“Okay,” she said. “Keep the door open. If you need anything, I’ll be in the next room. Let me know when you’re done.”
“I will.” I sat down and pulled the lunch box from the bottom of my backpack. It was new and covered with flowers in pink, yellow, orange, red, and green, like something you’d send to school with a first grader. A note from Mom was inside.
Thought you might like a new lunch box for your fresh start. You can do this! Take one bite at a time. Call me if you have trouble. Love, Mom. And, hurriedly scribbled below it, and Dad too!
Beneath the note were a number of small Tupperware boxes, clear with green plastic lids. Too many, it seemed. I looked at the included lunch list: turkey sandwich on wheat bread w/ 1 slice American cheese, lettuce, 2 tsp. mayonnaise, ½ avocado, and tomato slice (1), apple (1), Greek yogurt (1), granola bar (1), and milk (1).
For the first time since checking into Wallingfield, I was alone at mealtime. No one would see if I wrapped that turkey sandwich up in a napkin, put it in my backpack, and threw it away in one of the trash cans around school. Same with the apple, Greek yogurt, and granola bar. So much of my brain was telling me to do it, to toss the food. I stared at the sandwich. In my head I heard Mom. You are stronger than you think.
I bit my nails. I shook my foot. I got up and paced. The sandwich just sat there on the table, refusing to eat itself. The secretary’s face popped up at the window. She didn’t bother to open the door. “Good?” she mouthed. I gave her a shaky thumbs-up. She turned back to her paperwork, which seemed to consist of eating a doughnut and looking at Facebook on her computer. I had ten minutes left. Ten minutes. I thought of the jeans in my closet. I thought of the tiny-size clothes in my drawers, the teeny T-shirts, skirts, and yoga pants. I thought of what they would look like if I put them on now. I thought of Wallingfield, of the girls who were on their second or even third trips into residential treatment. I thought of how, over time, the ones who refused to get better seemed proud of their illness, like they thought they were tougher than the rest of us, better even, because they’d mastered the whole eating disorder thing. I thought of Lexi. Did I want to spend my life bouncing in and out of treatment centers, having bone scans and waiting for the bad one? I thought of Margot, who didn’t have what I had—parents who loved and supported me.
If I skipped lunch I’d find a way to skip dinner. Then breakfast, and lunch, and dinner again. It wasn’t a slippery slope. It was a straight free fall, and I knew it.
I picked up my sandwich and took a bite. Mom had bought my favorite French bread from the bakery downtown. It was soft and delicious. I chewed each bite to paste, but I ate it. Same with the yogurt, the apple, the granola bar, and the milk. I finished, exhausted, just as the bell rang.
When the secretary came in, she glanced at my containers, said, “Good work! You’re free to go,” and opened the door. I wanted to shout at her, Do you know what I just did? and for her to at least give me a high five, or a fist bump or something, like they would have at Wallingfield. But she wouldn’t get it, so I kept my excitement and pride to myself.
She held the door with her hip and picked at her fingernails.
After the quiet of the office, the hallway was overwhelming, a rush of kids moving and dodging and making their way to their next class. I hesitated. I was so tired. I didn’t think I could fight my way into that chaotic flow of traffic. It was too much. I wanted to go home.
And then, there he was. Tristan. He stopped and smiled, the only kid wearing a messenger bag instead of a backpack. “Hey, superstar, ready to go?”
He made it sound so easy, like it was a no-brainer. I lingered in the doorway.
And then Mom was with me again. Her voice ran like cough syrup through me, coating my nerves. You have been through a war, and you’ve won. I took a deep breath. The war wasn’t over. I had so much more work to do. But Mom wasn’t totally wrong. I’d won a few big battles, and that counted for something.
“Okay, so we’ll see you tomorrow,” the secretary said.
I put the straps of my backpack on one shoulder at a time. Yes, you will, I thought. Yes, you will.
Acknowledgments
Back in 2012, when I sat down to write for real for the first time, I had no words. Then I joined a writing group and they started flowing. Thank you, Mary Hill, Janine Kovac, Jill Dempster, and Joanne Hartman, for sharing your worlds with me, inspiring me, and believing in me before I did.
Kent D. Wolf, thank you for plucking me out of the crowd and caring about Elizabeth’s story as much as I do. You are the best agent a writer could have, and I am grateful.
Joy Peskin, from the minute I met you, I knew that we were a match (Camby Hall 4-eva!). Your editorial vision, kindness, and all-around smarts made my book come alive and make every phone call and meeting a treat.
I super appreciate the teamwork over at FSG. Elizabeth H. Clark, Maya Packard, Nicholas Henderson, and Nancy Elgin, many, many thanks for everything.
Lisa Staton, thank you for listening and allowing me to be the fourth triplet for all these years. Abby Smith and Jacqueline Caruth, you fill my bucket when I need it the most. Jean and Raleigh Ellisen, someone in the universe was looking out for me when we moved next door to you. Thank you for the e-cards, the lemon curd, the daily hugs, and the love. Rachel Sarah, you read every single page of this book multiple times and probably know Elizabeth better than I do. Thank you for your friendship and your wisdom. I couldn’t have done this without you.
So much gratitude also goes to: Authoress, whose name I will never know, but to whom I owe so much; the Renfrew Center, for its expertise; Alison McCabe, for keeping me together; Write On Mamas, for companionship and insp
iration; Kate Chynoweth and Keely Parrack, for their CP skills; SCBWI, for the inspirational workshops; Litcamp, for making me feel legit; Michele DeMarco, for writing advice and lifelong friendship; Kimberley Gregg, for her enthusiasm and positivity; my twelfth-grade English teacher, Liz Moon, who looked into my eyes and told me that I was a good writer and who, with those few words, changed my life; my students—at Bentley School, the Clinton School for Writers and Artists, and I.S. 98—who inspired me with their writing and stories; and all the others whose generosity, love, and support made this wacky dream of mine come true.
And lastly, I’d like to thank my family. So much appreciation goes to my in-laws, Roberta and Phil Ballard, for their continuous love, cheerleading, and writing retreats at the ranch; my sister (in-law) Angela, whose wise counsel and support mean everything; and my brother-in-law Dustin, for his medical expertise and friendship.
My parents, Marlene and Doug Cann, sacrificed and worked harder than I ever have to give me a childhood full of wonderful memories. Thanks, Mom, for being my best friend and confidante, and Dad, thank you for the creativity gene and for being my biggest fan. I love you both and couldn’t have done this without you. Thanks, also, for giving me a brother like Max, whose friendship and occasional couch tackle have carried me through the years. And Max, thanks for marrying Caitlin, who finally got my head out of the cake and in general just gets it.
Callie and Eliza—my smart, strong, amazing girls—thank you for cheering me on with hugs, snuggles, trampoline shows, stories, baked goods, homemade signs, and stories of your own. I love you both more than anything.
And to Chris, my brilliant husband. Thank you, thank you, thank you for knowing that writing was what I was meant to do even when I had my doubts. You’re my best friend and an amazing partner. I love you and can’t wait to spend our springs in Paris, writing in coffee shops.
Finally, no thank-you would be complete without including the dog. Thank you, Riley, for always sitting at my feet.
About the Author
Alexandra Ballard has worked as a magazine editor, middle-school English teacher, freelance writer, and cake maker. She holds a master’s degree in journalism from Columbia University and another, in education, from Fordham University, and spent ten years in the classroom, beginning in the Bronx in New York City and ending up in the hills of northern California. Now she writes contemporary YA fiction and spends her days delving into the magic, heartbreak, and everything else that comes with being a young adult. She lives in northern California with her husband and two daughters. You can visit her at alexandraballard.com, or sign up for email updates here.
Thank you for buying this
Farrar, Straus and Giroux ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Farrar Straus Giroux Books for Young Readers
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010
Text copyright © 2017 Alexandra Ballard
All rights reserved
First hardcover edition, 2017
eBook edition, June 2017
fiercereads.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Ballard, Alexandra, author.
Title: What I lost / Alexandra Ballard.
Description: First edition. | New York: Farrar Straus Giroux, 2017. | Summary: When sixteen-year-old Elizabeth is sent to the Wallingfield Psychiatric Facility’s Residential Treatment Center, she encounters girls whose problems seem much greater than her own anorexia. | Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016035895 (print) | LCCN 2017013642 (ebook) | ISBN 9780374304645 (Ebook) | ISBN 9780374304638 (hardcover)
Subjects: | CYAC: Anexoria nervosa—Fiction. | Psychiatric hospitals—Fiction. | Self-perception—Fiction. | Interpersonal relations—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.B358 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.B358 Wh 2017 (print) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016035895
Our eBooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945 ext. 5442 or by e-mail at [email protected].
eISBN 9780374304645
What I Lost Page 25
