Someone to Love

by Melissa de la Cruz

  I show him my portfolio. It’s filled with sketches and photographs of my paintings. He takes out some of my latest colored-pencil sketches of birds. I’ve been experimenting with mixing ink and watercolor to better capture the movement and texture of the wings. I want my drawings and paintings to look like they’re almost their own moving organisms made up of motion and light.

  “Wow, Liv. Look at these. They’re really good.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief.

  I’m so happy he likes them. Danny is a terrible liar. If he hated my work, I would be able to tell. “I don’t think it’s my best,” I say. “I’m making myself work hard though. I’m trying to be as creative as I can. Trying to be unafraid. Trying to find myself in my art.”

  “I think you’ve really figured out something with these,” Danny says.

  He holds up various pieces and gawks at them all.

  “You’re pretending to be excited,” I say.

  I’m kind of embarrassed. Art teachers have always praised my creativity, but I’ve never quite gotten this reaction about my work. It must be getting better.

  “Liv,” he says. “No I’m not. It’s like you don’t even have to go to college.”

  “I don’t know about that... I’m just trying to come up with something I can share with the world.”

  “And you will,” he says.

  Danny’s own work is complex, brave, colorful, bold, sexy and alive. He shows me page after page of lovely art: drawings, watercolors, oil portraits, pen and inks, acrylics, even blends of textures on canvas. He was just working on charcoals of the models, and each one feels so vibrant. The strokes are confident and bold, and the bigger pieces feel like something that could hang in an art gallery or museum.

  “Every line you create is inspiration for me,” I say. “The way you capture the models is beautiful.”

  “I love being able to talk about this stuff with you,” Danilo says. “Seriously.”

  I return his kindness with another hug. “I don’t mean to change the subject,” I say, “but has Jasmine told you anything about her and Royce?”

  “I haven’t heard lately,” he says. “She seems to be constantly studying and hasn’t visited home much. She keeps things close to the chest—I think she doesn’t want to bother us with her problems. I hope they get back together.”

  “Me too.” I start gathering my work back into my portfolio. “I wish they would just realize they’re the perfect couple so I can get my sister back. I miss her.”

  “Believe me,” he says. “I’d like to have my sister back too. Who knows? I can never tell what she’s going through. She doesn’t confide in me.”

  Jasmine and I are the only girls in our families. We formed a special bond when she and Royce started getting serious. Even though they’re away at college, she has been there for me whenever she could. Now everything’s weird.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I think I can understand. It’s hard sometimes to be able to say everything that’s on your mind. Even when you need to.”

  I think about what’s hidden deep inside me. The things I can’t seem to express to anyone. The gemstone that LeFeber mentioned. I need to grow that place within myself, for his memory, for me, for my future. The more I think about what he told me, the more I realize I’m in a special place at a special time because of what I heard from him and saw at that show. I need to make use of this knowledge, this special bond we shared for such a short time. Frida used her pain. LeFeber used his sickness.

  They embraced their suffering.

  Did they ever figure out the balance between suffering and beauty?

  They say Frida died from an overdose. It might have been deliberate. She had been taking painkillers and drinking. Yet her last painting was a still life of ripe, juicy watermelons with the engraving VIVA LA VIDA. Live the life.

  Did she want to die? Or was she leaving a message for the rest of us? Did LeFeber need his sickness to help him create? Was his pain inseparable from his identity?

  Sometimes I think I’ll never get better. Sometimes I don’t want to. Sometimes I want to destroy myself. Sometimes I want to die. Then there are moments when I feel that tiny, nearly imperceptible pulse beating through my chest.

  Viva la vida. Viva la vida.

  Live the life.

  And I think maybe I still can.

  t h i r t y - s i x

  “None of us know how to fix ourselves, at least not entirely, not well enough.”

  —Catherine Lacey

  Mom picks me up from my meeting with Danny to have dinner with Dad.

  I’m eating a Caprese salad, but every bite’s a chore. As I cut slices of tomato and mozzarella, I listen to Dad talk about the campaign. He barely pauses to take a breath.

  “We’re ahead in the polls,” Dad says. “Still a long way to go though.”

  This is his way of making small talk.

  “Oh yeah?” I say. “Were you not leading?”

  He cuts into his steak. Mom’s been trying to get him to eat healthier lately—lean meats like chicken and seafood—but Dad loves red meat. “We slipped a few weeks ago.”

  “But we were still in the lead,” Mom says, spotting someone from the corner of her eye. She turns to me. “Liv, isn’t that the boy you’ve been dating? Zach?”

  I see Zach crossing the restaurant. My skin crawls.

  What a terrible coincidence.

  I still haven’t told my parents about the breakup.

  He’s got none other than Cristina Rossi on his arm. He sees me and starts heading our way. Please don’t. I nearly drop my fork. I down some water.

  “Yeah. We’re not seeing each other anymore,” I say. “Don’t say anything weird.”

  “Weird?” Mom says. “Why would I do that?”

  Zach stops at the table and looks at me. “Liv, Mr. and Mrs. Blakely. Just thought I’d say hello. My dad is very excited that you’re ahead in the race for governor.”

  “Please tell your father I appreciate his vote of confidence and his continued support,” Dad says. “We’re in an uphill battle and could use him on the front lines.”

  “He’s there for you, sir. If you’ll excuse me, we have a reservation. Don’t want to lose our table.”

  “Good seeing you, young man,” Dad says, trying to stay polite. He’s obviously confused about why my boyfriend is on a date with another girl.

  “Great to see you too, Mr. Blakely. Mrs. Blakely.” Zach keeps his focus on my father. He doesn’t bother giving me a glance, but Cristina does. She can’t help herself.

  In fact, she stops in her tracks and says, “I hope you’re not still making yourself throw up all over the place like you did at the boat party. You should really take better care of yourself. You look pretty skeletal.” She glances at both of my parents. “Just thought someone should tell you.”

  Before I can process what just happened, Cristina turns around and catches up with Zach. Mom and Dad put down their drinks.

  Mom stares at me. Dad looks down at the tablecloth.

  I can’t think. I can’t say anything.

  They’re devastated. It’s obvious.

  “I have to go,” I say, getting up, making my way through tables to the restroom.

  Did Zach know Cristina was going to say that? Had she been waiting for the perfect moment to expose me? Did she want to humiliate me all along?

  I don’t even go in a stall. I have vertigo right there at the sink. I can hardly breathe. I can’t even fathom what just happened. I want to be away from everyone. I don’t want anyone to look at me. I’m disgusting.

  Mom comes into the bathroom. All I can do is turn away, horrified.

  “Liv,” Mom says. She’s concerned, but I can tell she’s trying to hide the disappointment in her tone. “It’s true. Isn’t it?”

  I hea
d toward a stall.

  “Liv.” Mom puts a hand on my shoulder. She’s gentle. I could pull away, but I don’t—I feel ready to give in to her. “I already knew. I didn’t tell your father. I should have never let you keep going on like this... I thought you were turning around.”

  “You tried to trick me,” I say, pulling away because I’m too sick to stop myself. I feel the food come up and lurch toward the toilet. I heave and then heave again. Mom is in the stall, holding back my hair. She closes the door.

  “Mason told me,” she says. “He didn’t want me to say anything yet. That’s why I wanted you to come to the therapist. Honey, I’m so sorry. You know how much I love you. I just want to help.”

  Mason promised he wouldn’t say anything. If Mom already knew, why did he want me to tell them myself? Why did I think I could avoid everything by avoiding him?

  Mom and Dad aren’t going to let this go now.

  I’m so embarrassed I just want to die.

  “Everyone has known this whole time,” I mutter.

  I can barely talk. I heave again.

  I feel betrayed by her. By Mason, Zach, Cristina.

  By everyone.

  p a r t t h r e e

  I am not sick. I am broken. But I am happy to be alive

  as long as I can paint.

  —Frida Kahlo

  t h i r t y - s e v e n

  “Of all the liars in the world, sometimes the worst are our own fears.”

  —Rudyard Kipling

  Dad’s livid. Really livid.

  “Then that article with your yearbook photo was true? I dismissed it for regular tabloid trash. Why would you do this to yourself? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

  I want to crawl into a hole and die.

  We’re in the living room. He’s pacing. Is this what he does on Capitol Hill? Pacing back and forth, screaming at his interns before he goes on Fox News and speaks with a talking head, then does the same thing before going on CNN, and again with whoever is filming a video for Politico?

  Mom sits on a chair across from me.

  Fine. Don’t sit by me. I must be contagious.

  I’ll take up the whole couch. What do I care?

  “I just want to know why this was kept from me,” Dad says. He runs his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair. He looks old all of a sudden. I notice the wrinkles around his eyes. The firmness of his neck has begun to go soft around his collar. “Especially when I have a campaign to run,” he continues. “What if news gets out that our daughter has a mental illness?”

  “It’s an eating disorder,” Mom says. “Forget the campaign for a minute.”

  “It’s certainly something that has to be addressed and taken care of immediately.”

  I cross my arms. “God forbid you lose points in the polls.”

  “Why are you being so awful to us when we want to help you?”

  “Because you’re talking about me like I’m a political problem that needs to be fixed,” I say. “It’s not like your campaign hasn’t had something to do with this.”

  Mom turns to him. “I had my suspicions, but I thought maybe it would correct itself. I was trying to help her without stressing you out. It just wasn’t enough.”

  “So you thought you’d just do this yourself?” Dad says, looking at both of us. He shakes his head. “What happened to helping each other get over the hurdles?”

  “By getting into each other’s business all the time?” I shout. “I hate the way you’re so ruthless that you control other people to control me. I hate the way you try to solve things that aren’t even problems. I hate the way you make me say what you want, dress me how you want, while I’m the one who gets ridiculed. I’d rather die. My problems are not your problems.”

  Dad sits down next to me on the couch and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Liv, I love you. You’re my baby. My daughter. I don’t understand what’s happening to you.” He turns to Mom. “Do you?”

  “Of course,” she says. “She has an eating disorder. It’s common for teenage girls.” Mom looks at me. Tears are welling up in her eyes. I hate making Mom cry. It makes me feel like a failure. “I just didn’t think it was this bad. I should have monitored you better. I should have asked you instead of tiptoeing around.”

  “This isn’t about the campaign, Liv. We want to help,” Dad says, turning to Mom. “So where do we take her for treatment? Do we go somewhere right now?”

  Mom rubs her temple like she’s starting to get a headache. “I don’t think tonight is the time to go anywhere. I have some treatment facilities in mind. I’ll contact one of them in the morning. She may have to be admitted.”

  “So you’re going to have me locked up?” I start to stand up, but Dad shoots me a look that means sit down. “Why can’t you talk to me? I’m right here!”

  “Stop. We’re not going to have you locked up,” Mom says. “We’re going to get you help. You’ll probably have to stay somewhere a few days. You’ll get therapy. There might be medication. It depends on the severity of what’s happening.”

  “Medication for what?” I ask.

  I don’t want to be numbed out on pills.

  “Depression. Anxiety. I don’t know all of what they prescribe and what for. You need professional help, Liv. This has been going on for way too long.” Mom gets up, walks over to the couch and hugs me. “It’ll be difficult, but we’ll be your support.”

  “This can’t get out,” Dad says. “You’ll stay here tonight. I can’t have you running around causing problems. We have to handle this carefully.”

  “I’m running around causing problems? I wasn’t the one who walked up to our table. Believe me. I’m not interested in making my problems your problems.”

  “What was that girl saying about a boat party?” Dad asks.

  “It was nothing. A school thing,” I say. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “I don’t remember that,” Mom says.

  Dad agrees. “She didn’t look like the kind of girl who does school things.”

  “Will you both just stop?” I yell. “It’s embarrassing enough that you’re suddenly controlling my life more than you already have been.”

  “Liv, do you think we want you to be sick?” Mom says.

  How can I answer that? If she knew I had a problem, she should have pushed harder. The other part of me feels like a jerk for lying to her about how badly I’ve let my eating habits take control of my life. And Dad? He’s been so wrapped up in the campaign that I’ve practically been invisible to him the whole time. Except for when I’m in the press.

  “No,” I say. “But I don’t think you know what’s going to make me better.” I stand up from the couch. I need to be alone and think. “I need to go upstairs.”

  “You’re not going anywhere. Or you can kiss your future of going to an art school goodbye.” His words gut me. How could he hold that over me right now?

  “What do I care?” I say, calling his bluff. “You were never going to let me go. That’s just a carrot you dangle over my head to get me to do whatever you want.”

  Dad looks flabbergasted. He starts to open his mouth, but he doesn’t end up saying anything. How did our relationship get so broken? How did I get so broken?

  I run up the stairs, wiping the tears from my eyes. I’m on lockdown at my own house. I’m desperate here. There’s going to be surveillance everywhere from here on out. I’m not going to start gaining weight to please my parents. Not after I worked so hard to reach my goal weight. I just wish I’d been more careful that day on the boat.

  I throw myself onto my bed, fantasizing about how Cristina Rossi is going to wake up one day with her fake eyelashes glued shut. If she hasn’t told people already, Cristina will. She’ll brag. Everyone is going to know my personal problems, and I won’t be able to hide. I pull out my phone—they haven’
t taken that away from me yet—and text Jasmine. Her advice would be good to have now. She’s levelheaded. She had everything so together during high school. How did she do it? How did she survive?

  LIV: Hi Jas

  LIV: I know I haven’t talked to you in a while. And now I really need to.

  LIV: Just personal stuff. Girl to girl. Nothing about you and Royce.

  LIV: I’m just stuck. Really stuck.

  House arrest sucks. I feel so isolated. So alone. It makes me feel even worse. I think about calling Sam, but there’s no way I want him to know. But then again, maybe he does by now. Maybe by tomorrow, everyone will. Maybe I’ll just send out a press release to Politico myself. Daughter of Congressman Driven to Purge Over Constant Self-Defeat. Then I can do the talk show circuit and write a book.

  That’s the formula, right?

  Next up, Antonia.

  I don’t want to text her for some reason. Writing things down makes them feel more permanent. More real. I call Antonia’s number, hoping she doesn’t think I’m asking her for a ride again. When she picks up the phone, I can hear her mother chatting in the background.

  “Hey, Liv. Hold on a sec. Let me go somewhere I can hear you.” A moment passes before I hear her voice again. “Sorry. My mom’s back from tour.”

  “Can you talk?” I ask. “I can’t leave the house, and I really need someone to talk to right now. I’d invite you here, but my parents won’t let anyone come over either.”

  “You’re under house arrest?” She asks the question like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. My parents never ground me. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

  “I’ve been caught,” I say.

  “What did you do? You better have not snuck out without me.”

  “Purging,” I barely whisper. “Mom and Dad. They know. It really, really sucks. Cristina Rossi said something in front of them at dinner.”

  Antonia scoffs at the mention of Cristina’s name. “She’s seriously America’s biggest loser. How could she do that to you?”

  I continue with the story. “And Zach was there with her, trying to act all cool. It was awful. I wanted to crawl into a cave and hibernate for a million years.”