I snap the clove in half, watch the two ends swirl down the toilet bowl as I flush away the evidence.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE RAINBOW DIET IS WHAT DID ME IN.
I’d been gradually cutting back on everything. It started with processed foods, then baked goods, then pasta and rice and bread. I never went to the trouble of pretending to be a vegetarian—even my parents couldn’t argue that cutting out red meat and pork was a bad thing.
But the rainbow diet was another beast. I found it on a pro-ana site. It was easy enough to follow, in theory. Mom already bought most of the fruits and vegetables on the list, and neither she nor Dad would be suspicious if they saw me eating more produce.
It was hard when I had to eat dinner with them every night, so I started staying at the studio late, or saying I’d eaten at Phil’s or Sara-Kate’s, or that I didn’t feel well and it would be better if I went to bed without supper.
I managed to keep it up for almost two straight weeks. The days were separated into colors: red produce on one day, white on another, and green and orange and yellow and purple. No more than 300 calories a day if I planned it just right. Wednesdays were the hardest. That’s when I fasted completely, when I could have nothing more than water. I danced on those nights, too, and I was so proud of myself when I finished, when no one had figured out that I hadn’t eaten since the evening before.
The second Wednesday was the one that gave me away. It was late June but already the days were so hot and humid that you wanted to take a shower as soon as you stepped out the front door. Phil and I had begged his mother to drop us off at the mall instead of the pool with her and his younger brother, Glenn. She protested at first; all of us were getting used to Donovan’s absence and parents were still nervous about leaving their kids unsupervised. He’d only been gone for a couple of months. Almost as long as it had been since I’d last seen Chris.
But we begged until Mrs. Muñoz called Mom to make sure it was okay with her. It was. She was just as nervous as Phil’s mother but I’d heard her and Dad talking once when they thought I was upstairs. She’d said they couldn’t let the fear control us, that we had to keep living our lives and not give anyone that power. So as much as it pained her, she let me go to the mall that day with Phil.
Mrs. Muñoz stared both of us down as she dropped us off in front of the movie theater/food court wing. “You keep your cell phones on and pick up if you see me calling, no exceptions. And do not talk to anyone you don’t know. Also no exceptions.”
“Ma, we’ll be right here at four o’clock,” Phil said before he kissed her on the cheek. “Three fifty-nine, even.”
I was pretty sure she had tears in her eyes as she drove away.
I knew for a fact that Phil had only gotten out of bed at eleven, a half hour before they picked me up, but his first stop was still the food court. I had mixed feelings about the food court. One part of me wanted to stand in the middle and revel in the decadent smells—fried chicken strips and enormous slices of greasy pepperoni pizza and creamy frozen yogurt and thick-cut waffle fries. It wasn’t what I needed to smell on a Wednesday, my fasting day.
But the other part of me was frozen with fear, because everything about the food court reminded me of Chris: the fast-food wrappers balled up in the corners of his car, the fountain sodas that took up residence in the sticky cup holders of the console. Even the stacks of thin paper napkins on the tables made me think of him. He always kept a bunch in his glove compartment; he used them to wipe himself off after we’d finished having sex.
“I’m getting a gyro to start out.” Phil took a step toward the Greek place, but his eyes were all over the food court. “Maybe a corn dog before my mom picks us up. Or tacos. And fries. A shitload of fries. What are you having?”
I didn’t answer. My stomach was growling so loudly, I could barely hear myself think. I pinched. Directly under my ribs on my right side. For one, two, three, then four beats. It was a little after noon, so I only had a few more hours until I could eat again. Seventeen more hours, to be precise. But I’d be sleeping for seven of those, so really just ten more hours.
“Theo?”
Phil’s voice sounded tinny. I wasn’t looking at him, anyway. I was staring at the meat behind the counter of the gyro restaurant. A vertical cylinder of meat turning on a spit. How could anything that looked and sounded so questionable smell so wonderful? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d touched beef or even chicken. Or lamb. Was it lamb? I’d always thought lamb was disgusting but if that’s what they were shaving off and stuffing into the grilled pita bread, it wasn’t disgusting that day.
I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d had anything besides fruits and vegetables. Maybe I could switch out that day for the next one on the diet. Thursday could be my fasting day and maybe a gyro wouldn’t count because Chris and I never ate at a food court. Only in his car or on the swings of the abandoned park or at the picnic table behind the convenience store.
“Theo?”
I pinched myself again when Phil said my name. Harder, to make sure I wasn’t cheating myself. But everything started to get fuzzy. The sounds from the food court grew louder, like they were living inside me, and Phil’s voice got smaller. I was dizzy and warm. My whole body, then the warmth rushed to the tips of my ears. My ears were on fire. I think Phil touched my arm then, kind of shook me to make sure I was okay, but I was too far gone.
I kept staring at the rotating meat and I had to think of something to keep my mind off of how delicious it would taste, so I pictured a lamb impaled on the spit instead. White and fluffy and adorable with big, long-lashed eyes, but still my stomach moaned, so I imagined the man behind the counter slaughtering the lamb with a sharp, shiny butcher knife and I hit the floor when I saw blood.
• • •
Phil ratted me out.
Not that night. Not right away. After I’d finished convincing the mall employees that I was simply exhausted from the heat, that all I’d needed was water and a few minutes to sit down, I had to work on Phil. I pleaded with him to not tell his mother. I talked him into a matinee of the new Wes Anderson, told him that the air-conditioning would make me feel better.
I don’t think either of us knew anything about the movie by the time it ended. Phil spent as much time looking at me as he did the screen, and I was sucking hard on ice chips, pretending I hadn’t just scared the shit out of everyone—myself, most of all. I’d been really weak on the new diet, but it was working. I’d already lost two pounds, so I’d powered through it. But fainting? I’d never fainted in my life.
Luckily no one I knew had been around. A miracle in itself, possible only because Ashland Hills doesn’t have a proper mall and we had to go to the next town over. But what if it happened again? That’s not something I could explain away. If anyone else found out I’d fainted, they’d surely connect the two and take me to a doctor and everything I’d worked so hard for would be ruined.
As soon as the credits began rolling and the lights came on, I’d turned to Phil and clutched his arm in a death grip.
“You can’t tell.”
“Jesus, Theo. That hurts.” He’d yanked his arm out of my hand. Then, “What are you talking about?”
“You know . . . What happened today.” I dug my fingers into the plush armrest instead.
“Theo—”
“You can’t tell, Phil. It was an honest mistake. I forgot to eat breakfast and it’s a thousand degrees outside and it was a mistake, okay?”
“You already said that.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at me and toyed with the sleeve of his vintage Jethro Tull T-shirt. His love for old British rock bands was unrivaled at the time.
“Because you have to believe me.”
“How do you forget to eat?” Phil frowned so deeply at me then that if his mother had been there she would have warned him that his face might stay that way.
“Phil, please. If you tell my parents they’ll get pissed and we’ll have to have another meeting with Marisa.” I squeezed the armrest to hide how badly my fingers were shaking.
“Another meeting?”
Shit shit shit.
• • •
If I’d been paying better attention the next evening, I would have realized Phil had every intention of telling. He came over for dinner and he was overly polite, even with me. Like always, he helped my father with the dishes while Mom and I wiped down the dining room table. And I was stupid not to suspect anything while they were alone together. Or when Phil looked into my eyes a bit too long before he stepped out the front door. He was trying to tell me right then and there that he was sorry for what he had done.
I was too tired to notice. I was too fucking tired of everything. Of pretending to eat, and pretending to be okay with the fact that my friend was still missing and my boyfriend had left me. Of pinching myself till I left plum-colored bruises. I was tired of pretending that I was as strong as the girls on the pro-ana boards: StikPrincess and Dyin2BThinnn and PaperGurl. None of them ever talked about fainting. None of them were sitting there in the second week of their rainbow diet nibbling on a chicken kebab because they were too tired and too dumb to figure a way out of the meal. Thursday was my red day. My dinner was supposed to be half a red pepper, not half a red pepper with fattening meat attached to either side. Or was Thursday orange? I was too tired to get up and check my computer.
It didn’t matter. The damage was already done.
My parents didn’t know what else to do with me. I hadn’t ever been in any real trouble up until then. I was a solid B student, fully dedicated to ballet, and more than capable of taking care of myself in the hours they couldn’t be with me. When they realized how little they’d actually seen me eat in the past couple of months and how worried Marisa and Phil were, they freaked out and sent me away while they tried to figure out where they went wrong.
Because they’d talked to me about Donovan. A lot. They made sure I knew that the case wasn’t closed just because he hadn’t turned up yet. They asked how I was feeling. Constantly. And if they thought I was spending too much time alone, Phil would magically show up at the door, asking if I wanted to go to the pool or see a movie or come over for lunch.
Maybe if I were a better person I would have told them about Chris. But every time I wanted to pick up a pen to confess it all in a letter or tell them in one of the two phone calls I was allowed each week at Juniper Hill, I stopped. I backtracked. I remembered what Chris said, that no one would understand what we had. That we hadn’t known each other very long but our love was irreplaceable and true. He said what we had was special and if anyone else found out they’d try to ruin it for us.
I had seen the look on Donovan’s face when he found us behind the store. I believed Chris. Even after he left me without saying goodbye, I believed him.
Phil wrote me letters. One for each week I was in Wisconsin. The old-fashioned kind, with paper and an envelope. I never wrote him back.
But I read every single note. They didn’t say anything important. He spent the first three apologizing and explaining how worried he’d been, how he didn’t think he had any other choice. The next few were about his summer and those letters are evidence that Phil is a hell of a lot more boring when I’m not around.
I kept them all. In a box at the back of my closet with the articles about Donovan. My parents were especially sneaky back then, and the newspapers would go missing in our house almost as soon as they landed on the front doorstep. But I could still use a computer, so I printed them out and paper-clipped them together under the only thing I have from Chris: a dried daisy.
He’d get them from the store. They were two-day-old flowers, discounted to almost nothing. I didn’t care. We’d be driving out to the park, and when I turned my head to look out the window, a single daisy would appear on my lap. I looked past the curling petals and drying stems because two-day-old flowers were still beautiful in their own way. They were extra-beautiful to me, because no one had ever given me flowers besides my father.
Sometimes I wonder what Phil would do if he knew his letters were sitting next to something Chris gave me. I think about what his face would look like as I told him about my ex-boyfriend, how quickly he would relay the story to my parents.
I don’t know what I would tell him anyway. Phil’s never been in love, so I don’t think he’d understand a boyfriend I had to keep secret. Especially not then. He knew love—just not the kind I did. He would have done anything for his mother, for Glenn. But he didn’t know that the love of someone who isn’t related to you is even better, even more special, because they don’t have to love you. They love you because they want to be with you, because they chose you.
Or at least that’s what I used to believe about Chris.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
STUDY HALL IS A PARTICULAR KIND OF HELL.
It wouldn’t be so bad if the rules were actually enforced. But I’m in a classroom notorious for juniors and seniors who could not give less of a fuck. And it’s not just the students. Gellar oversees this period and he’s useless when he’s not rattling off facts about inorganic and organic substances or slashing a fat, red C-minus on my chemistry midterm.
I usually sit in the middle of the room, in the row closest to the door. Far enough from the slackers to avoid being associated with whatever they’re getting into, but not too close to the front. You miss everything up there and I like to know what’s happening, even if I’m not involved.
Two days after I meet up with Hosea in the science lab, Klein slips into the room shortly after the bell rings. He never carries a notebook or pencil to this period, doesn’t even pretend he’s here to do anything other than act like a total asshole. Gellar’s eyes don’t leave his crossword puzzle. He stopped calling roll and marking tardies the third week of school. It’s a wonder anyone shows up at all.
Klein usually sits at the back with his druggie friends, but today he slides into the seat behind mine. He scoots his desk up until he’s nearly sitting on top of me, then moves his mouth so close to my ear I feel violated.
His breath is on my skin. “You didn’t hear this from me, but Ellie Harris is pissed at you.”
My stomach clenches into a hard knot. I turn my head to show I heard him, but just slightly. I won’t look at him dead-on or he’ll be able to read my eyes. “What did I do to Ellie Harris?”
Besides kiss Hosea and want Hosea and wish that he were my boyfriend? But this isn’t just about hooking up. We have a connection. We have a place.
“She thinks he’s fucking around on her,” he says, his voice low.
“So?” My heart thumps three times in rapid succession.
Klein cranes his neck so uncomfortably close that I have to look at him. Dark circles are lodged under his eyes, and his lips are dry. He looks as if he hasn’t been to bed in days.
“She thinks he’s fucking around with you, Legs.” The desk groans as he leans forward, as he claps a hand down on my shoulder so hard that I wince. “Said she’s seen you guys talking a lot lately.”
A lot? The gazebo at Klein’s party and—
“Where?” I twist halfway around in my seat to get a better look at him. He startles, then his green eyes narrow to slits.
“Well, shouldn’t you know the answer to that, Legs?” I want to slap the smirk off his face.
But shit. Maybe someone did see us around the science lab? But we were so careful. We waited until no one else was around, and left at different times, just like we arrived. Lark. Did she tell Ellie she saw me with the clove? Maybe, but she can’t prove that I got it from Hosea. Or maybe someone saw us driving around that night I saw the video of Donovan? But no. That would be enough evidence for her to confront Hosea, not simply speculate to Klein. If he’s even telling the truth.
“Gossip is gross,” I say, throwing him my hardest death stare. “You should mind your own business.”
He holds up his hands in fake surrender. “Hey, I’m just giving you a heads-up. No judgment here. But Hosea’s my buddy and you’re . . . well, anyway. I thought you should know.”
I turn back around. “And I think you should leave me alone.”
His hand squeezes down on my shoulder again—too hard, again—before he pushes his desk back, stands up, and retreats to the rear of the room with the other burnouts. “Good to see you, too, Legs.”
The classroom door opens and Gellar’s head of wispy gray hair finally shoots up. An office attendant shuffles in with a blue hall pass. Everyone who’s noticed is cringing, praying that pass isn’t meant for them. Blue means Crumbaugh, and in a room like this there’s a good chance anyone could be called up to her office. Gellar glances down at the name before he mumbles, “Theo Cartwright.”
This day is getting worse by the minute.
I have no idea what Crumbaugh wants, but I sigh and tuck everything into my bag and follow the hall monitor out of the room. The only consolation is that I don’t have to feel Klein’s eyes piercing through me for the next sixty minutes. I look back at Gellar. Eyes down, he licks his thumb before turning the page in his book to a new puzzle.
I don’t know what to expect when I get to Crumbaugh’s office, but it is not my parents.
Yet there they are when I walk in. And there’s an extra chair pulled up for me between them. I sit but I don’t have the patience for pleasantries, so when Crumbaugh says hello to me with a weak smile, I look at my parents instead.
“What are you guys doing here?” I push the steel legs of my padded chair back a few feet. Not so close to Crumbaugh’s desk.
“Sorry to take you out of class,” Dad says, and he already sounds unsure, so that’s not a good sign.
“We came right over as soon as . . .” Mom trails off like she doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. Like she’s not even going to try. She’s wearing makeup—a touch of mascara on her almond-shaped eyes, her thin lips a muted burgundy. “And Mrs. Crumbaugh was kind enough to let us use her office to talk to you.”
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