by Ryan Schow
“It’s not like that,” she says.
“It is.” I feel the anger welling inside me. “Everywhere I go people talk about the ugly girl. The fat girl. Atticus Van Duyn’s adopted child, even though I’m not adopted. Do you know what it’s like to be glared at just because you’re different? Because you’re…gross looking?”
Professor Hunnicut, Tuesday, opens her arms and swallows me inside them. She is strong, but there is something else. I think maybe something in her resonates with something in me and that manic part of me ready to come unhinged steps away from the ledge, relaxes a bit. Right about now I should be sobbing, or vomiting, but with everything going on I almost fail to realize I’m no longer so quick to tears, or sick to my stomach. I step out of Tuesday’s embrace and say, “Thank you.”
“You’re already looking better,” she says. “Thinner.”
“I think it’s a combination of diet pills and the stomach flu. I’m down a few pounds.”
“Yeah, well it’s working.”
“It’s working during the day. At night, it’s different.” I’m remembering not to talk about Gerhard’s shots, or the flashes of fire that now engulf me each night. The voice in my head says, “Shut your mouth already.”
I say, “Everything hurts from the treadmill, can I just maybe do weights or walk today?”
“Sure. Whatever you want, just move, and sweat. Make sure to push yourself, but not too hard. Not yet.”
I end up walking next to Laura on the treadmill. She doesn’t talk to me, but just when I’m feeling like even Janine’s ugly five doesn’t want me around, she turns and smiles and says, “How much have you lost?”
“I think five pounds. Maybe more”
“Good for you,” she says, breathing fast, sweat draining down her face. Looking at her, how hard she is working, I admire her determination. If only I had her kind of drive. Or her incentive. If my dad told me he’d stab Margaret to death if I lost fifty pounds, I would totally do it. I would do extra just to make sure he couldn’t welch on his bet.
I thank Laura for her compliment, but inside my head I’m thinking I don’t really want Margaret dead, I just want her to feel the same way I do. To suffer the way I suffer. Maybe then I would be okay with her being alive.
When I’m finished with my workout, me and Laura and the non-triplets head to the locker room where I pray my clothes are still there. Thankfully they are. I don’t expect them to be after today’s incident on the bus, so I’m relieved to find everything safely in its place. I tell myself not to worry about this afternoon. Not to worry about them.
The girls strip down, head to toe, Laura included. The non-triplets are nice to her because she is nice to me and for a minute, we stand amongst each other, polar opposites in the way we look and live, yet all of us friends. It’s almost touching. Then Julie and Cameron come walking in the locker room, talking about Damien and how he’s so bush league—whatever that means—and suddenly all the warm, fuzzy feelings blossoming inside me shrivel and cower.
Why does this always happen to me? Just when I get feeling good, something, or someone comes along and breaks my crayons. It’s unbelievable! Why can’t I just feel good for a day? For just one gosh damn day?
The two nightmares don’t acknowledge me, and I can see from the glimpse I took of them that maybe Cameron has been crying. Inside, I feel gratified, but part of me feels sad for her, too. OMG, what am I saying? It’s totally gratifying! To witness her in pain, after the sheer hell she’s been subjecting me to? This is fabulous! Exhilarating! Her karma is running full circle and her payback is the tastiest treat ever. I glance over at Laura in the shower with the non-triplets and all the other pretty girls, then draw my focus inward. I admire Laura’s courage, being chubby and naked like that around everyone else. Unfortunately I don’t have the guts to pull that off. I change into my regular clothes and that’s when Julie and Cameron stroll by me, their towels pulled around them, heading into the showers.
Julie says, “If you don’t wash up, you’re going to stink up Jake’s room again.” Jake? Oh, yeah. Professor Teller. My sixth period professor. The way Julie says this—as a matter of fact, without anger or malice—I’m wondering if her sharper edges are softening. Let’s hope so. Nevertheless, I do my hair, swipe on extra deodorant and leave before anyone notices I’m gone.
8
Psychology is interesting in that Jake, Professor Teller, says, “You can’t begin to separate yourself from the rest of society, in any capacity, until you understand the psychology of human behavior. Until you begin to understand what makes you do the things you do, or more important, what makes other people do the things they do, you’ll never understand how you’re influenced, or manipulated, into making specific choices and decisions in life. If you want to be a leader, you’ll need to inspire people. To inspire them toward a specific action because most people are cattle and can’t make decisions on their own anyway. They aren’t strong enough. Or driven enough. I hate saying this, but if you understand psychology and have half a spine, then taking the reigns of power shouldn’t be difficult. And isn’t that what you’re here for? To rule the world?”
Everyone sort of gives an agreeing laugh, everyone but Jake. He isn’t smiling. He isn’t cracking a joke. Maybe this is why we’re here. Maybe this is the point of Astor Academy.
Someone raises their hand, a girl I don’t know, and says, “You say we’re talking about psychology from the stance of leadership, but it sounds like you’re talking about manipulation, too.”
Jake smiles, that gorgeous smile that has half the girls in class batting their eyelashes and vying for his attention, and says, “Sometimes the two are synonymous.”
“But we have the freedom to think what we want,” she says, “so doesn’t this act as a failsafe against manipulation?”
Jake says, “Don’t be so naïve. Free will only occurs in those who understand how manipulative the world has become. If you want freedom from influence, turn off the TV, never again watch an advertisement for something, don’t talk to friends with opposing views, don’t listen to politicians, your bosses, me. Either someone is trying to sell you something, or you’re being sold something. An idea, a product, whatever. That’s the point. More often than not, there’s no middle ground, so you might as well be the one selling something. It’s a harsh truth, but the truth nevertheless.”
Total freaking silence.
Finally Bridget says, “That’s pretty brutal, Professor Teller.” Murmurs of agreement filter throughout the classroom.
Nodding, he says, “We don’t candy coat the truth here at Astor Academy. If you want the soft, sweet side of psychology, go to any community college in the country. If you want to rise to power in this world, then knowing the unvarnished truth from the beginning is essential. Any other questions?”
I’m thinking, yeah, I have a question. Can I use psychology as a weapon to get Julie Satan and the Diabolical Three to leave me the hell alone? Some side of my brain, maybe a new side of it, answers my silent, unspoken question: “Yes, you can.”
Interesting.
Tiffany Blue
1
The last person I want to see right now is Gerhard. I feel too thin. I didn’t realize how much weight I lost last night, not until I put on my clothes after PE. I’m practically swimming in them! Then, after Psychology, when Brayden says, “Don’t OD on the diet pills just yet,” I head straight to the bathroom and look at my face. The mirror doesn’t lie. I do look different! Not emaciated, but better. And, oh my God, are those cheekbones? Standing in the bathroom staring at myself, I can’t hardly believe what I’m seeing. All the diarrhea, the puking, how I’ve been sweating a metric ton, it’s all paying off. But how is this possible in such a short amount of time?
Gerhard’s treatments are working too well, that’s how.
Marveling at the changes, I just know he’s going to want to slow the treatment. People are going to notice. He won’t let that happen, not with his whole
speech about non-disclosure agreements and mandatory expulsion for violations of doctor/patient confidentiality.
Walking into Gerhard’s office, I puff out my cheeks, push out my belly, walk like I’m carrying twenty extra pounds. I sit down and he asks about the pills. He says, “How did you do last night?”
“I almost died, but here I am now.”
He doesn’t smile. He does that thing doctors do where every complaint you have makes them look even more distant and unconcerned than ever. “But you took the pills, right? Just two?”
“I waited longer than I should. I was worried.”
The look on his face says he’s shifting gears. “You’ve lost weight.”
“Not really,” I hear myself saying. “I mean, some. Maybe a few pounds.” The lie doesn’t sound right; it’s shaky, my voice too uncertain to even remotely resemble the truth.
He scratches his head, makes a note in a file then says, “It’s a bit more than a few pounds, Savannah. It looks more like fifteen or twenty pounds, which—if you’re keeping to your new diet—should be okay.”
I feel myself relaxing in some areas, but still holding tension in other areas. Is he testing me? If I agree I’ve lost a lot of weight, will he make me stop the shots and pills? He can’t. If I’m losing weight this fast, the truth is, I don’t want to stop.
He prepares his glass of water, and all the while he’s saying, “Your body is not meant to be so fat. You’ve eaten all the wrong things. Foods that aren’t alive with nutrients. Plus the overmedication and the lack of exercise…it’s no wonder you’re at this point in your life. Most of the weight you’re getting rid of now is water weight, toxic waste from your colon, and fat now that your metabolism has been boosted with your treatments. Do you feel more clear headed?”
“Yes.”
He places four ice cubes into a chilled glass tumbler. “So, no fogginess? Increased mental clarity?”
Now that I think about it, yes. “I feel good, Doctor Gerhard. Which is saying something considering I’ve felt like a gluttonous zombie these last few years.”
“Yes,” he says with a polite laugh. “Sadly, this is common for much of America. And especially with girls your age. The bulk of your rapid weight loss has passed, which is why we have you on a nutrient rich diet. We need to replenish the vitamins, minerals and good bacteria you’ve lost over the years, which is to say we are going to restore your body to a natural, more healthy state. You will continue to lose the weight, but at a more reasonable pace.”
All the strain I’ve been feeling, the fear that he would stop my treatments and I would go back to my old weight, it just melts away. He takes a long sip of ice water.
“I’m in hell at night,” I admit. My voice sounds desperate, younger. It betrays my outer façade. “I wake up in puddles of sweat and it’s disgusting. My bones hurt. Even my eyeballs feel microwaved.”
He smiles, like he’s heard this before and it barely concerns him. “That won’t change.”
I feel myself sag inside. “All this to cure my social anxiety disorder?” I ask.
“No, Savannah. All this for a complete restoration of your body. Did you think this was only about your disorder?”
“I wasn’t exactly told what this is all for, just that my dad said it’s okay to trust you.”
“Do you always want to be ugly, fat, tired and plagued with low self-esteem?”
“No,” I say, my voice falling out in a shamed whisper.
“Your regimen will be excruciating at times, but this is what you must do to heal what is broken inside you. What was never right. You have to know why you’re doing this regimen or all this suffering will seem so much worse.”
“Okay,” I say, realizing he’s right. The truth is, I crave mental clarity. I am so desperate to be thin, to feel healthy, I can’t hardly stand it. And more than anything I want to feel good, to be sane, to not be treated like a social leper everywhere I go.
The voice inside my head—my mental dick still in the dirt—it says, “Even with the weight gone, you’ll still be ugly.” The voice is right. Oblivious to my consternation, Gerhard finishes his ice water, then administers the shot. Just like before…
….it stings like hell.
2
As I’m walking across campus, feeling lighter than ever, I actually catch myself smiling, which is in itself, miraculous. Who would’ve thought? People are looking at me funny, not smiling or saying anything. Part of me doesn’t even care because if I can feel good about myself, about my future, then that’s more than I’m used to, and something worth smiling about.
I stroll into the dorms and one of the girls on my floor smiles and says hello as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I’m thinking, did that just happen? Looking around, there is no one else in the hall at the time, so maybe it did. I round a corner and that’s when I see the box sitting at my door. A Tiffany blue box with an oversized silver bow on it. Something inside me awakens, that long held part of me I keep protected, guarded, safe. Nearly overwhelmed with delight, I pick up the box, which is a little awkward and heavy, and read the card. It says: Truce.
What? Truce?
In my room, I set the gift on my desk and open it. It could be a bomb. Or not. So I’m being melodramatic, so what? What’s inside, it could be anything. Putting the bow aside, I try not to tear the paper much as I reverently unfold it. It’s expensive looking with perfect creases at every edge. Like someone professionally wrapped it. My heart throbs with anticipation. A thousand scenarios unwind in my mind, most of them positive, a few of them not so positive.
The unwrapped box says Tiffany & Co. and in that moment my hopes soar and I start thinking it’s Margaret, that she sent me something. A care package, from rehab? No. Okay, my curiosity is killing me!
I lift the lid off the box, startling at what I’m seeing. The stench hits me at once. I race to the toilet and I’m on my knees, coughing up lunch, a full bellied meal soaked with bile and that slippery gunk lining my esophagus walls.
My nose drips clear snot, my eyes water and that part of myself I let peek out from beneath the layers of safety—that frightened, insecure part that needs love and kindness and the opportunity to feel good again—dives into the darkest corner of my mind.
As I retch over and over again, I cry, I calculate, I scheme. That dormant thing inside me that reveled in my first unguarded smile in years, roars up with a vengeance. It seethes with hatred. With rage. It cusses and squirms and revolts. When I wipe my mouth and nose, when I flush my undigested lunch down the toilet, I return to the box and read the note inside.
Truce is what the tag on the outside reads. The note inside reads: Truce? Hell no! You cost me Damien you bloated sloth. I told the girls about your puppy dog eyes for him and this is what we all came up with.
Sitting in a clear plastic bag filling nearly the entire box is a tied-off, very pregnant bag of vomit. I remind myself to breathe. I remind myself it’s okay to cry. And why shouldn’t I? I’ve never been provoked like this before. Not to this degree. Never.
I stare at the puke, my eyes watering, my mind spinning. I’m not a malicious person. Even when Margaret was at her worst, I never considered doing something so low (except for that time when my meds were mixed and fairies wanted me to kill her). This unconscionable gift…this means war! Not just war, but war war. I grab my cell, dial Georgia.
“You have to stop whatever you’re doing and come over right now.”
“What is it?”
“I’ll show you when you get here.”
She sounds nervous. “I’ll be right over.”
The knock on the door comes three minutes later; Georgia doesn’t wait for me, she just walks in. I’m lacing up my gym shoes.
She says, “What is it?” and I point to the box. She peeks in, turns and almost loses it, too. “What the crap?”
“It’s a lot of puke. And not mine.”
She reads the note, then turns to me with same look I had not five minu
tes ago.
“What are you going to do?”
“I have a plan,” I tell her. “It’s a good one.”
3
We act inconspicuous as we enter the elevator and push the third floor button. The doors start to close when a hand shoves its way through, forcing the doors back open. A studious looking girl slides in, says thanks, then presses the third floor button even though it’s already lit. The doors close. I’m watching her reflection in the polished silver surface of the elevator doors. She sniffs once, then twice. Her brows knit together. Making a face, she turns around hunting for the source of the stench.
“Do you smell that? It smells like—”
The sight of me holding an open bucket full of hot vomit gets her stomach churning. The convulsions start low in her. Her spine curling, a hand goes to her lower abdomen. Georgia and I see her make the face. The one that looks like a cat coughing up a hairball. She breathes a tortured, “Oh, Jesus,” and then folds over and slaps the other hand on the wall for support. The violent muscle contractions rock her. She leans over to vomit. I stick the bucket beneath her and out roars the juice. One, two, three full streams.
The chunky content in my bucket just grew in weight and size. New smells hit my nose and my eyes water mightily. My own belly is now trembling.
She lashes out with her free hand, trying to shove me away. The puke level in the bucket rises another inch and though I’m about to add my own special blend to the bucket, I hold my gourd down and somehow remain steady.
The girl is cussing, moaning, asking what the hell is wrong with us. The elevator slows to a stop, a bell dings and me and Georgia exit, leaving the poor girl hunched over in a corner wiping her mouth. However that girl’s day was before, I just wrecked it. Oh, well.
The girl doesn’t move to get off the elevator, but that doesn’t matter because right now I’m focused. Right now I’m vengeful.
People pass us in the hallway—two girls—and they look first at us, then at the sloshing bucket we’re carrying. One of the girls actually squeals. We keep walking.
