Ali cried last night.
Ali did more crunches, too. So many that I stopped counting. The bed creaked every time she moved, and she kept gasping, like each movement hurt her. I wonder if she was pulling at her IV. I wonder if she cared.
I wonder what would happen if I did crunches, too.
Willow would be disappointed.
Mom would get mad.
I can’t get the idea out of my head, though.
It’s like someone drew on my brain with permanent marker, the kind you can never scrub off the sofa, no matter how hard you try.
After Ali finished her crunches, I sneezed. Ali turned over and looked at me. I squeezed my eyes closed, but I think she saw that I was awake.
I think she knows that I know.
I was right. Ali does know I heard her. She pulled me aside before breakfast, right after getting weighed. I moved away from her. I was still in that doctor’s robe they make us wear, and I didn’t want it to fly open in front of Ali. I don’t want anyone to see my body. Not now. Not ever.
“You’re not going to tell on me, right.” Ali didn’t say it like a question. She said it like a threat.
“What do you mean?” I stammered the words, like I used to when Talia and Camille pushed into the lunch line behind me. When they asked me questions about what I was getting, like they couldn’t see right in front of their faces. When I didn’t know what the right answer would ever be.
I never wanted to answer them: not until I started getting skinny.
I’m skinny now, but Ali still makes me nervous. I don’t like people staring at me. I don’t like people not liking me. And Ali definitely doesn’t like me. Her eyes were narrowed and her hands were on her hips. Even her IV pole looked like it was going to attack me.
“What do I mean?” Ali asked. A counselor peeked out at us. Ali coughed. I smiled. Nothing going on here, la-di-da. “You know what I mean.”
I looked anywhere but at Ali. At the picture of the Boston skyline on the wall. At my running shoes, which hadn’t actually run in almost a whole week. At the rain out the window, coming down so hard I couldn’t see across the courtyard.
“Last night.” Ali patted her stomach and gave me a pointed look. “I know you saw me.”
I started to come up with an excuse but stopped. Why bother? Ali knew I’d seen her. And maybe we could help each other.
“Fine, I saw you.”
“Don’t tell.”
In music class last month, Mr. Chase taught us about staccato notes. Those are the ones that are short and sudden. They don’t touch the notes around them. They stand apart, alone. Ali’s words were like that. Ali and I are like that.
“I wouldn’t tell! I’m not a tattletale!” Ali narrowed her eyes even more. “I promise!”
“You better not.” Ali looked satisfied, like she was about to walk away. I jumped in before she could leave.
“How many did you do?” I asked. “I bet I used to do way more at home.” Ali didn’t look impressed. I wasn’t going to let her beat me, though.
“Maybe I’ll start doing crunches, too,” I said. “If it’s so easy to hide.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Just don’t get me in trouble. I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine. And if you get caught, don’t bring me into it. I can cry on cue. They’ll never believe a thing you say.”
“Fine,” I said. It was fine, too. For the first time since I got here, my chest relaxed. It felt like someone had loosened the knots I’d been tied up in.
“We’ll keep each other skinny. Deal?”
“Deal.”
I could almost see the gears moving in Willow’s head at the beginning of our session, could almost hear her therapist motor turning on. Sometimes it feels like she’s asking questions right out of the textbook she had in psychology school.
“How are you feeling today?”
“What thoughts ran through your head during breakfast?”
“Are you having any problems with the other girls?”
I wanted to answer yes to her last question. I wanted to confess how scared I am of Ali. How I’m aching to do crunches tonight, but I’m also scared of getting caught. I’m scared of how guilty I’ll feel afterward.
Because I know what that guilt feels like. It’s how I felt every time I snuck in a run and was afraid Mom and Dad would catch me. It’s the tension in my chest when I waited for Mom to find my sweaty running shorts. The sweaty palms when Dad asked me what I had for dinner at Emerson’s.
I hate feeling like that. I don’t want to feel like that anymore.
I can’t help imagining myself doing crunches, though. I can’t help how good I know it will feel.
I don’t know if I can trust Willow to tell her everything that goes through my head. Willow with her awesome hair and her happy smile and her reassuring answers. Willow who knows all the lessons from her textbooks but doesn’t know anything about how I feel.
I wanted to tell her about Ali, but I didn’t.
“My parents hate me.” That’s what I said instead. Because even though I’m worried that Ali and Josie and Julia all hate me, I’m also worried about Mom and Dad. Maybe I could talk about that one thing with her.
One thing would be okay.
“Why do you think they hate you?” Willow starts a lot of her questions that way, like what I think is automatically wrong. Maybe she’s right. Because a lot of my thoughts don’t make sense. I know I’m not going to gain seven bajillion pounds if I eat a peanut butter sandwich.
But it still feels that way.
I know it’s okay to have a bigger body.
But I’m still scared of changing.
I know my parents don’t hate me.
But Mom sure looked like she did when she caught me on the treadmill that day.
When I got home that afternoon, the house was empty. Mom had left a note that she had a late meeting, and that Julia was down the street. Track practice had been canceled and I was freaking out. I’m usually okay with running in the rain, but that day was super windy, with lightning flashing every few minutes. I wanted to run, but I didn’t want to die.
I got on the treadmill instead. There was a sweatshirt hanging on the side, and I made a note of exactly where it was so I could replace it when I was done. Mom was starting to catch on to my exercise schedule, and she’d made me promise to only run at practice. I promised, of course.
(I lied.)
I ran hard and fast. I upped the speed until sweat dripped off me. I thought about the project we’d done in art class that day, the one I shielded with my body so Talia wouldn’t laugh at it. I thought about how upset Emerson looked when I wouldn’t go over to her house that afternoon. I thought running more would make me forget. Each footfall was a word.
Too fat, too fat, too fat.
Not enough, not enough, not enough.
They’re going to find out, find out, find out.
I sprinted until I gasped for breath. I wasn’t bored by the hamster wheel spinning beneath me. I didn’t need distractions or motivation to run. I ran because it’s what I had to do.
Then Mom came down the stairs. Before I saw her, I thought I could run forever. But when I saw Mom, I pressed the big red button, the one I only press when I’m done with my miles. I never stop in the middle of a workout, not when I have to pee and not when I’m tired. Not for any reason. I have to finish my workouts.
I stopped for the look in Mom’s eyes, though. It was anger and grief and worry and fear all wrapped up in a blue-green package.
“You. Had. A. Meeting.” Each word was a gasp.
“It was canceled.”
“So was track practice.” I stepped onto the floor. I swayed. I caught myself. All of a sudden I wanted to curl up in a ball on the floor and have Mom give me a hug, sweat-soaked clothes and all. I wanted her to tell me that it was okay to stop, that it was okay to rest. That she’d help me, so I wouldn’t have to do all this stuff anymore.
Instead, Mom got mad. “You lied.” Her face was wooden, her words steel.
“I…” For a second I thought of telling her I’d bumped my head and gotten temporary amnesia. I didn’t have the energy to lie, though. Not anymore. Maybe now that things were in the open, Mom could fix me.
She’d fix us.
Instead, Mom yelled about how selfish I was. How it was someone else’s turn to fix me now. How she didn’t “have time for this.”
I’m a “this.”
I don’t want to be a “this.” I want to be Riley.
That’s the problem, though: I don’t know who Riley is anymore.
What if everyone hates the real me, too?
Aisha didn’t eat all her dessert at lunch. She had two cookies on her plate and only ate one, so they made her drink a Boost. We get to choose between chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry. Aisha chose chocolate. (It looked like sludge.) Heather cracked open the can and poured it into a tall glass, then brought Aisha into the hallway to drink it. She was still drinking when we filed past her on the way to group.
When Aisha came back she said it was “barftastic.” (Heather yelled at her for talking about barf. It’s a four-letter word around here, as bad as diet. Two of the girls here purge: Brenna and Laura. They did purge, I mean. Obviously you’re not allowed to in the hospital.)
“Disgusting” is another bad word. That’s what Laura called the cream sauce on her pasta last night. Jean pulled Laura out of the room, then popped back in and started blabbing about how “cream sauce tastes so much like ice cream and cheese. Yum!” She said it like we were a group of two-year-olds learning how to eat. That’s what Aunt Tricia used to do with my cousin Miles when he was a baby: “Oooh, who’s the little baby with the yummy-yummy corn? You are! Yes, you are!”
Baby talk is almost as gross as cream sauce. And who would ever believe that cream sauce tastes like ice cream? Ice cream is delicious! I can write that here because no one’s going to read this. No one’s going to ask me why I don’t eat ice cream if I really like it.
Because I don’t want to, that’s why. Isn’t that enough?
I used to eat ice cream all the time. When I was six, I asked for it for Christmas. It was the top item on my list to Santa. I dictated it to Mom and everything. She brings up the list sometimes when she’s telling her “my kids are sooooo cute” stories.
I got a carton of vanilla ice cream that year. Mom probably bought herself fat-free frozen yogurt.
In Ed Group today, I learned that Ed is the one telling me I’m fat. The counselors describe Ed as a little guy living inside my head and telling me bad things about myself. A demon drawing graffiti all over my brain. A way to see my eating disorder as completely separate from me.
It sounds weird, but it kind of makes sense. That when I physically can’t make myself go through the lunch line to even buy an apple, it’s not me acting so weird. That deep down, there’s a part of me that’s still good, that still wants to do the right thing.
I like thinking that the good parts of me still exist. The counselors say that even if we don’t buy the whole “Ed” thing, it’s important to realize that we’re not to blame. That our eating disorders didn’t pop up because we’re awful people, whether we starve or binge or purge.
It’s in my genes, like how I have brown hair and can curl my tongue. That I was born like this, with my brain chemicals out of balance to make me more worried and anxious than other people. It’s how I am.
Maybe there’s no Ed, no parasite living off my insecurities and fears. Maybe this disease is just part of me, part of me that I need to triumph over and work through. Part of me that I can triumph over. Maybe. If I want to.
“Pretend Ed is your boyfriend,” today’s counselor, Gabi, told us.
We giggled when Gabi talked about boyfriends. Except for Laura, none of us have one. I can’t imagine having the time for a boyfriend. Or the energy. It’s already hard enough fitting in running and seeing my friends and doing homework and figuring out how to keep my food stuff a secret.
Plus, you’re supposed to be honest with boyfriends.
Brenna got angry when Gabi started talking about boyfriends. “We could have girlfriends, too,” she said. “People can like people of any gender. Have you lived in the world lately?” Brenna sat on the edge of her seat. She kept shifting in her chair.
I smiled at her. Meredith gave Brenna a fist bump. I know Meredith is bi, too.
Gabi told Brenna to stop moving around (“That’ll burn calories!”), but then she apologized! She said she was sorry for assuming we were all straight and that she was proud of Brenna for speaking up for herself.
I’m not used to hearing adults admit that they’re wrong. I’m not used to adults treating kids like our opinion matters.
It’s nice. I like it.
“Okay, back to work,” Gabi finally said. “Think about a person you might like.” She peeked at Brenna, who gave her a thumbs-up. “Now pretend that person is mean. Cruel, even.” Gabi’s voice got all serious, like Ms. Moore’s, my health teacher, does when she’s talking about stuff like diseases and bullying. “Pretend they don’t want you to hang out with your best friends anymore. They tell you what to wear and what to eat and where to go.”
“That’s not fair!” Rebecca exclaimed. We all jumped like someone had dropped a tray in the cafeteria. Rebecca’s fists were clenched around the strings of her hoodie. A tear dripped down her cheek. “He shouldn’t do that. He can’t do that.”
“He shouldn’t,” Gabi said. “But does he? And why?” Rebecca really started crying then. “Hold on a second, girls.” Gabi pulled Rebecca aside, and they left the room for an emergency check-in. That’s when the counselors do a quick one-on-one mini–therapy session with us. I haven’t had one yet. I’m afraid to. It’s bad enough that Willow is starting to understand how much of a mess I am. I don’t want everyone else to.
I hope the check-in helped Rebecca. I’ll probably never know, though. That’s what happens here. We’re crammed together like clowns in a minuscule car, living on top of each other and listening to each other count while we pee. We see everyone’s breakdowns. We cry and have nightmares.
But the second something dramatic happens, we’re told it’s none of our business. We’re ordered to concentrate on our own recovery. We’re left in the dark.
When Gabi returned, she went right back to work, with no mention of Rebecca at all. “Pretend Ed calls you names. Names like fatso and loser. He or she tells you you’re weak. That you’ll never amount to anything if you don’t do what he or she says. That you’ll never, ever be enough.”
I imagined myself with a boyfriend like that. I heard insults spewing from his mouth, attaching to me like ticks. “Ed’s a jerk,” I said. Gabi gave me a surprised look. I haven’t talked much during group so far. I don’t want to say something someone will laugh at. But this time I couldn’t help myself. “I’d dump him. Or her.”
Gabi looked around the room. “Does everyone agree?”
Everyone else nodded.
“Of course you would. Because you don’t deserve to be treated like that. Not by a boy or a girl. Not by a friend. Not by anyone.” Gabi paused, probably for dramatic effect. I imagined that dun dun DUN! movie music in the background, the kind that plays whenever there’s something important coming: A villain lurking in the shadows. A steep cliff around the corner.
A life-changing revelation.
“Then why would you let your eating disorder treat you like that? Why do you treat yourself like that?”
There was an alarm during dinner. The sound of running feet. Willow’s voice, louder than usual. The unit door buzzed. A man who looked just like Rebecca power walked past the dining room. We had to stay in the dining room for an extra ten minutes. Gabi made us play a trivia game. I’m usually great at trivia, but I got all the answers wrong. Brenna did, too, even a super-easy one about X-Men.
I stared at Brenna. She stared at me. My stomach churned, but not with food this time. With fear. What was happening?
Five minutes before Gabi let us leave, Rebecca walked by. She didn’t look at us. The man did, though. His face was painted with grief. He sleepwalked to the door, pulling Rebecca’s suitcase behind him.
What happened to Rebecca? Was she hurt? Where is she going?
Everything we talk about in group makes sense. I probably will feel better when I gain weight. I probably won’t hurt as much if I eat more.
It took so long to lose all this weight, though. It took so much work to make the track team. What happens if I gain it all back? I won’t make regionals. I won’t have my body. I don’t even have art anymore.
I’ll just have … me.
Ed might be a liar, but he makes me feel better. He makes me forget about everything else that’s going on. He makes me believe, if only for a little while, that my body will be okay, even if everything else might not.
I need that. I want that.
We still haven’t heard anything about Rebecca.
Ali thinks she had an allergic reaction to something she ate. “Everything’s so gross here, I’m surprised someone doesn’t get sick every day.”
Brenna thinks Rebecca has family stuff going on. “Her dad looked worried. Maybe her grandmother died.”
I keep wondering if it was something worse. Rebecca was so upset during group. What if there’s something even more serious in her life? Maybe Rebecca is sick in other ways and needs more help than she can get here.
I hope she gets better. I hope all these girls get better. Except for Ali (who whispered “friends don’t tell” at me as we were filing out of the dining room), everyone is really nice. I wish they didn’t hate themselves so much. They’re all pretty. Their bodies don’t matter to me.
Their bodies don’t matter. Mine does, though.