Lard collapsed his folding chair and leaned it against the wall. Bones did the same and they headed back to their room. “Sounds like Eve lives here full-time,” Bones said. “That doesn’t inspire much confidence in the program.”
“There’s no magic pill for what we have,” Lard said. “Especially if you don’t admit there’s a problem.”
Bones found this type of amateur therapy annoying.
“Let’s go to the kitchen and see what Gumbo’s up to. Maybe he’ll have a job for you that doesn’t involve food. Last year I composted scraps, even started a vegetable garden on the roof.”
“The hospital roof?”
“Chu Man doesn’t know about it.” Lard shrugged his burly shoulders. “I’d never be in one of those programs with locked doors and alarms. A guy can’t go outside to fart if he has to.”
“I hear you.”
“Come on, I’ll show you around the roof.”
“Think I’ll take a nap.” Bones really just wanted to be alone for a while. The emotional dump in group therapy had worn him out. “Maybe work on my assignment.”
“Okay, suit yourself.”
Bones laid down on his bed and closed his eyes. He remembered the day his sister became editor of her school paper; the day his dad got a bonus for selling the most insurance policies; the day his mom hit the $10,000 mark for donations she’d raised for the food bank.
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, thinking about the A he’d gotten on his mid-term paper and his parents whisking him and his sister off to a restaurant downtown. He’d slumped beneath a crystal chandelier, picking at his chicken piccata, pierced by guilt because he’d copied his essay from Time magazine and didn’t have the balls to fess up.
The next morning Bones woke up in a room too quiet for the amount of light pouring in through the window. He glanced at the clock on his desk: 6:45 a.m. Lard was noticeably absent, probably in the kitchen prepping breakfast.
Bones kicked off the starched sheets. He’d been awake most of the night worrying about his menus. Why hadn’t they shown up yet? He laced his Converse, little one-pound weights on his feet, and ticked off ten minutes of jumping jacks. That burned seventy-five calories. Not enough. Never enough. He went for another ten minutes. He struggled to catch his breath. Flashes of cold hit him. He shivered. His nose ran. Bones needed a scale bad, real bad. There was only one fix—sneaking into the examination room where the scales were kept. He remembered it being next door to the laundry room.
That’s it! He’d act like he needed to do laundry. He studied Lard’s dirty clothes heaped in the corner, sure Lard wouldn’t mind if he washed them.
First he had to shower and change.
Someone knocked on the door even though it wasn’t closed. “Anyone home?”
Nancy, the nurse.
“Yeah?” Bones hugged the wall by the closet, not wanting her to see him all sweaty like this. She’d know he’d been exercising.
“Are you decent?” she asked.
“I was about to hop in the shower.”
“That sounds dangerous,” she said, chuckling at her joke. “Just kidding. I’ll slip your menus under the door.”
“Thanks.” Bones picked them up, staring at lunch. His throat closed up and his heart worked at recalibrating itself as he read the number of calories listed on the menu. Two-hundred-and-fifty: one-quarter-turkey sandwich on whole wheat bread with crust (125 calories), one-half medium apple with skin (40 calories), mixed green salad (40 calories) with one-tablespoon of balsamic vinaigrette (45 calories).
He knew his calories as well as he knew his ABCs. Counting calories usually quieted his brain. But not today. Two-hundred-and-fifty calories were more than he’d consume all day at home. He’d have to jog three miles to burn it off—or find a way to exercise for half an hour by (1) swimming, (2) rock climbing, (3) or ice-skating. Not very likely in this place!
Bones showered and put on his XL sweats, because baggy made him look bulky, and maybe that would be enough to keep Dr. Chu from piling on more calories. He buffed his buzzed head. He’d first shaved it in middle school after reading about a mathematician who’d figured Rapunzel’s fourteen-inch locks weighed fourteen ounces.
He’d once shaved his body too, even his eyebrows, which his friends said made him look like a hundred-year-old baby. He gave it up because the outgrowth drove him nuts.
Bones folded the menus and shoved them into his journal.
He had to find Dr. Chu.
Bones found his office down a long hall past the dayroom. He knocked and waited. Knocked again, waited some more.
Where’s the friggin’ doctor?
Cell phones and laptops weren’t allowed in the program. Except for letters and occasional family therapy nights, any contact with the outside world was highly discouraged, according to the thick paperwork the hospital had had him and his parents sign.
Bones should have at least tried to smuggle his cell phone in so he could text his mom and tell her he was being poisoned or tortured or something. She’d realize the program was a mistake and come and take him home. He knew she would.
Where is he?
Bones didn’t know he’d fallen asleep, sitting on the floor, until he heard Lard’s voice. “You missed breakfast, man,” he said. “You are so screwed.”