One last weigh-in.
One last vitals check.
One last breakfast.
One last meeting with Willow.
She cried. I cried. We hugged. I wondered if she could feel the new fat on my stomach, the layer that covered my body like a snowsuit, but I pushed the thought away.
Snowsuits are warm and comfy. My snowsuit fits me perfectly.
Willow says she believes in me. She says I’m strong and capable and smart and funny. She says the world had better watch out, because I’m coming for it. Willow’s a cheeseball.
(I love her for being a cheeseball.)
One last group, which turned into a going-away party for me. The other girls made streamers, like we did for Willow’s party. They drew a picture of a cake on poster board and hung it on the wall. We played “Pin the Candle on the Cake” with stickers. I did awful. I’ve always been bad at that game. When I was seven, I almost walked into the pool at a birthday party.
I hugged Brenna. “I’ll miss you,” I said. “I’ll miss our talks. I’ll miss your comics recommendations.”
She giggled and handed me a piece of paper. “Oh, I have a whole list here for you to try. Because I’m not going to see you for a while. You’re going to beat this. You’re not going to come back.”
“She’s not.” Aisha stuck her head between us. Her eyes sparkled behind her glasses. “I know it’s hard not to copy me, since I’m so awesome, but you need to try.”
I stuck my tongue out at her and laughed. “It’ll be tough, but I’ll do my best.”
Brenna wasn’t laughing. “Do it for us. Because we couldn’t.” The words trembled in the air like a baby bird learning to fly.
“You’ll do it, too,” I said. “You both will.”
I’m going to miss Brenna. I’m going to miss everyone. I never thought I’d make friends in here. I never thought it’d be less than 100 percent awful.
I never thought that it would change my life. That it would change me.
Aisha just shrugged. “Maybe I can do it. We’ll see.”
I’m never going to act like that. “We’ll see” won’t get me through the lunchroom. It won’t make me eat my meals when Talia decides pizza is evil or I get frustrated that I’m not a better artist.
“We’ll see” can’t be my armor.
I will do this.
I have to do this.
There’s no way I’m not going to do this.
Those will be my sword and my shield, the words I turn to when I teeter and totter and falter and almost fall.
I’m going to do this.
I am strong. Stronger. Strongest.
Brenna told me we have to stay in touch. Everyone else said that, too (except Olivia, who is still way too cool for me), but Brenna’s the only one I really want to keep in my life. I’m glad to say good-bye to Ali. I understand her more now, but I still don’t want to see her again.
I think talking to everyone else would remind me of how sick I used to be. I don’t want that reminder. I want the present and the future, not the past.
My family is picking me up in an hour. Mom wants to go out for a celebratory dinner. Last night on the phone, Dad suggested an all-you-can-eat buffet.
“Dad.” I heard Julia in the background. “Seriously? No way.” Julia has my back, just like I have hers.
I might be ready for a buffet eventually, but not now.
Baby steps.
Sometimes infant steps, as long as I’m moving forward.
I don’t have to be Skinny Riley anymore. I don’t have to change my body.
I can be a new Riley, a Riley who draws and works on her art and sleeps late and rests. A Riley who’ll probably go out for ice cream tonight, not frozen yogurt. I may even eat the whole thing again, too.
I’m going to see Emerson and Josie tomorrow. We’re going to the aquarium. It’s a little-kid thing to do, but I’m excited. I love the penguins there, and we get to touch real starfish! Josie suggested it because it’s not focused on food.
I love her for that. I love both of my best friends. Emerson promised she’ll sign up for the next community art class with me since I wasn’t discharged in time for the first one. Josie promised she’ll help me catch up in my classes. Emerson said she’ll yell at Talia for me. I told her to beat Talia in a race instead.
My plan is to ignore Talia. I’m going to try, at least. I still don’t know how I’ll deal with the comments on Monday. About how “healthy” I look. How much I’ve changed. How I’m eating “sooooo much food.”
This is going to be hard. These last two months have been hard, though, and I made it through.
We’re going into the dining room in a few minutes, and for me, it’s not just a final meal. It’s time for me to fill out my Elsa snowflake, to tell the world (or at least the hospital) what I’m going to let go of. I’ve thought about it all week. I filled out snowflakes in my mind and crumpled them up. I’ve dreamed of snowflakes.
When I first came here, I couldn’t imagine my name being on that wall. I couldn’t imagine being someone who was actually leaving this place, someone who wanted to let go of her eating disorder.
But I do.
I wish I could tape more than one snowflake up there, because I have a whole whirling winter wonderland of things to let go of. I finally narrowed it down to one snowflake, with a design as unique as me: I let go of fear.
Fear of the world.
Fear of being unlovable.
Fear of weight.
Fear of taking up space.
Fear of being Riley.
It’s okay to be Riley.
I want to be Riley.
I am Riley.