The second I woke up, the idea popped into my head: Don’t eat breakfast today.
I knew it was Ed’s voice, but he sounded so nice. His voice was sweet and caring, like Mom’s when I don’t feel good. When she rubs my back and gives me ginger ale and those crackers that only taste good when I’m sick.
Not eating made you feel better yesterday. It made you forget.
Remember how restricting made you feel? You can feel like that again if you listen to me.
Last year, Camille had a hypnotist at her birthday party. At first, Emerson and Josie and I made fun of the whole thing. Obviously hypnotists are fake. There’s no way we’d let someone take control of our bodies.
Then Madame Rosita picked Emerson to go onstage. (Camille’s parents rented a stage, of course. And a karaoke machine. I think that’s why she invited us; to show off all her money.) This was after the hypnotist made Luca quack like a chicken and Jarrett burp the alphabet. Madame Rosita did the classic “dangling a necklace in front of Emerson’s face while muttering chants” thing, and all of a sudden, Emerson started singing at the top of her lungs. First “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” Then “When the Saints Go Marching In” and “John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt.” Emerson does not sing, either. She’s almost as bad as me. But that day she sang. She couldn’t resist.
That’s what Ed is like. He chants magic spells and incantations, ones I have to obey.
I’m too tired to resist anymore. I don’t want to fight Ed, especially if no one’s going to fight with me.
So I won’t. I may not recover, but at least I’ll weigh less.
I feel skinnier. My stomach feels lighter.
I feel like I can fly.
I didn’t eat breakfast. I had a Boost drink instead.
I’ve been eating so much in here that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be hungry.
It doesn’t feel as good as I remember.
Brenna’s been quiet all day. She didn’t eat breakfast, either. Well, she ate one bite of toast. But then she crossed her arms over her chest and stared at Gabi like she was doing one of those “save the trees” sit-ins.
She didn’t drink the Boost, either, which was weird. Brenna doesn’t do stuff like that.
I usually don’t, either.
I asked her if she was okay after movement class. We do “gentle” yoga here once a week, which is basically stretching. It’s all the exercise they let us do. (Yoga is so not my thing, which is why I haven’t written about it yet. I’m not bendy at all. Meredith is basically Silly Putty in human form.)
“I’m not okay. I shouldn’t be eating anyway.” Then Brenna ran out of the room. I didn’t know what to do. A good friend would run after her. A good friend would hug her and tell her everything is going to be okay.
I don’t want to be a good friend today, though. And everything might not be okay. I don’t even know what to say to make myself feel better. How can I help anybody else?
It’s hard to see Brenna not eat. I want Brenna to recover. I want all these girls to recover. Even Ali. (Maybe then she wouldn’t be so mean. Maybe then I wouldn’t have to avoid her like I used to avoid Talia.) They deserve a life without an eating disorder. They’re all already perfect.
I wish I could help Brenna realize that even if she is big, she deserves food. Deep down, I know I deserve food, too. I know I’m doing the wrong thing by pushing it away.
But right now, it feels good to be bad.
Still no e-mail from Emerson.
Nothing from Josie.
Mom and Dad are at Julia’s gymnastics meet today, where they’ll sweep her up in a hug after she wins ribbons and medals and probably a trip to Disney World.
Brenna’s been quiet all morning.
I’ve been drawing all morning. Aisha tried to sit with me, but I told her I wanted to be alone. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to listen.
I want to be sad.
I tried to draw myself again. They won’t let me use a mirror for reference, so I’m going on memory. I drew an oval for my face, and big eyes. I gave myself a mouth with a full lower lip and a nonexistent upper one, then slightly rounded cheeks. Shoulder-length hair and a narrow nose.
My drawing looked like a stranger.
The cheeks were too puffy, so I erased them.
The hair was too scraggly, so I erased it.
I drew and erased until the paper ripped. Until my image was as smudged and mangled as I feel.
It’s Saturday. When I was a kid, Dad and I used to wake up early and go to Dunkin’ Donuts every Saturday morning. Dad would get a jelly doughnut and I’d get ten Munchkins: five glazed and five chocolate. Every week, Dad told me I could eat half of them now and half later, but he always caved and let me eat all ten. Then we went to the toy store in the center of town. We both smelled like coffee after sitting in Dunks, and we both played with the train table for hours. It was our special time. I had Saturdays and Julia had Sundays.
Now Dad’s afraid of me.
And I have nothing.
I usually don’t go back to my room after lunch. I troop into the group room with everyone else and we sit together and journal as we digest.
I ate all my lunch today. Part of me wanted to skip another meal, but I was too hungry to rebel. I guess I was too hungry to be careful, too, because I spilled ketchup on my hoodie and had to get a clean one from my room. (I have five hoodies here now. Hoodies are a top priority.)
I thought my room would be empty, but Jean was there. She was bent over, her scrub-covered butt sticking into the air, her hand shoved underneath my mattress.
“What are you doing?” I shrieked. “Do you have a warrant to search my stuff?” We learned about searches and seizures at school this year. That’s when the police go into your house and look through everything. They can only do that if they have proof you’ve committed a crime. Which Jean definitely did not.
These people aren’t the police, either, so it’s extra illegal to search my stuff.
Jean dug deeper under the mattress. “Aha!”
“Aha what?” I don’t keep anything under my bed, not even my journal. I’m not that dumb. I used to keep it there at home, but then Julia found it in third grade and read all about how I wanted to be a famous singer. She made fun of me for weeks because I sound like a frog with a sore throat when I try to sing in tune.
“You need a reason to search through my stuff,” I said. “It’s the law.”
“This isn’t a reason?” Jean held out her hand. There was a smooshed brown blob there. I stepped closer. It was a crushed brownie. I had a brownie at dinner yesterday. Why was there a brownie under my mattress? The two words floated through my head:
Brownie.
Mattress.
Brownie.
Mattress.
The ideas never connected, though, like a Venn diagram that refused to overlap. My mind couldn’t make sense of what was going on—until Jean told me what she thought was going on.
“You hid food in your room.”
What? Why would I hide a brownie in my bed? That’s gross. That’s messy. I like brownies, too. Plus, it’s against the rules.
I tried to tell Jean that.
I tried to tell Heather that, when she came in to see what all the yelling was about.
They didn’t believe me.
“You’ve been acting out all week, Riley,” Heather said. “It would be in your best interest to tell the truth.”
I am telling the truth! Willow isn’t here on the weekends, either, so I don’t even have her to stand up for me. If she’d stand up for me. She would, right?
They’re calling Mom and Dad in for a family meeting on Monday. I wonder if this is what will finally get Dad into the hospital. Not because he wants to spend time with his daughter, but because he’ll get to hear everyone talk about how much of a failure I am.
What if they kick me out? What if I have to go home without finishing treatment? I should be thrilled about that, right? I should be dancing and pumping my fist in the air. I’m not, though. It feels like someone punched me in the stomach and left a crater behind.
If I have to leave, I know I’ll relapse. I’ll stay sick forever.
Yesterday, I was determined to skip meals forever, but today it’s like someone twirled me around to face the opposite direction. Behind me, there’s darkness. Ahead of me is the sunrise.
I want to see the sun come up.
I want light.
I want to recover.