“Mike,” Mom says, setting down her fork, “maybe we should hold off on that for a while.”
“I thought it would be fun for Ginny,” Dad says. “A reward.”
Mom looks at me. I shrug, as if to say, Don’t ask me . . . I just work here.
“It would be wonderful to take Virginia shopping once she’s slimmed down,” Mom says. “But if she buys things now, they’ll probably be a few sizes too big before long. I think we should wait until she reaches some kind of weight goal. Besides, it can be incentive for her to keep it up. Then it’ll be a real reward.”
“Do you have a weight goal?” Dad asks.
I shake my head.
Dad carves off a generous bite of steak. “Maybe you should make one.”
“I don’t do scales,” I mumble, thinking how Dr. Love said he doesn’t like to focus on weight.
Mom cuts in. “Why don’t we call it a ‘body goal’ instead?”
Dad raises his wineglass. “Once you’ve reached your body goal, we’ll hit the stores.”
“Great,” says Mom. “It’s all set.”
Mom and Dad look over at me. Did I even want to go on a shopping spree? Do I have a body goal? Sometimes my parents are so sure of what’s best for me that I don’t stop to think about what I really want.
I push aside my plate of lettuce.
Saturday morning. I’m sitting on my bedroom floor, flipping through Fitness. All week long I’ve been sifting through magazines, scouring them for diet tips. Whenever I find a valuable one, I clip it out and add it to a pile on my dresser. Mom and Dad are in Connecticut, so I’m blasting the radio and humming along.
I turn the page and stare down at a picture of a waify young model. Her upper arms have the circumference of my pinky. I tear out the page. Then I thumb through the rest of the magazine, ripping out the skinniest girls, the ones I’m most aiming to resemble.
These models will be my Food Police. They’ll be my thinspiration. They’ll help me reach my body goal.
I carry the magazine scraps to the kitchen and stick them to the refrigerator door with magnets.
For the rest of the day, whenever I reach into the fridge for a hunk of cheddar cheese or some boloney, I’ll catch sight of the Food Police.
Don’t do it, they’ll say. Not if you want to be thin like us.
So I’ll chug a gallon of water and find something more low-fat to do.
Sunday morning. My parents return from Connecticut early because Dad has to leave for a business trip to Chicago this afternoon. I’m sitting on the couch, watching TV and chewing my fat-free nails. They say hi to me and then Mom goes into the kitchen to make a smoothie.
A moment later she appears in the living room again.
“Virginia, I’m so proud of you,” she says.
I mute the volume. It’s not every day I hear “Virginia” and “proud” in the same sentence.
“Why?”
“I just saw those pictures you stuck on the fridge.”
Mom, meet the Food Police.
Mom continues. “You want to hear something funny?”
I nod.
“Back when I was . . .”— Mom pauses —“. . . a teenager, I put images of models on my family’s fridge, to keep me from eating too much.”
“Really?”
Mom nods. “Like mother, like daughter.”
As she heads back into the kitchen, I pump the volume on the TV again.
Since when did Mom become Ms. Observant Parent? A few weeks ago, I got an A+ on a language arts paper about One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez. I even managed to include two mentions of “ostracism” and three of “oppression,” so my teacher gobbled it up. I stuck it to the fridge with a few magnets, hoping Mom — a big Márquez fan — would say something, but she never seemed to notice.
So how is it that she’s in the apartment seven minutes and already spots the Food Police?
Oh well. I should probably look on the bright side of things.
Mom has never said like mother, like daughter to me before.
And that in itself is worth one hundred years of hunger.
Sunday afternoon. Mom is taking a step-aerobics class at her gym. Dad is picking up some toiletries so he can pack for Chicago. I’m stretched on the couch, painting my nails and reviewing some chemistry notes.
Diet Tip #3: If you feel the need to feed, grab some polish; by the time your nails have dried, the craving will have subsided.
The front door unlocks. Dad comes in, toting several plastic bags.
I’m about to greet him when I notice he’s not alone. Two men are hauling an oblong object wrapped in brown paper into our apartment. They set it down in the hallway. Dad hands them some money.
“What’s that?” I call out as soon as they’re gone.
“It’s yours!” Dad exclaims.
“Mine? What is it?”
“Come in here and find out for yourself.”
Once I’m in the hallway, Dad says, “Open it up.”
I stare at the object. I’m usually a sucker for presents, but I have a funny feeling about this one. As I sit on the ground and tear away the brown paper, my heart sinks.
It’s a mirror. A tell-all, show-all, full-length mirror.
“What do you think?” Dad is hovering expectantly above me.
“It’s a mirror,” I say glumly.
“I noticed you didn’t have a mirror in your bedroom,” Dad says. “I thought if you could watch yourself losing weight, it might help you reach your body goal.”
Since when did Dad become Mr. Observant Parent? This past spring my computer was constantly crashing, shutting down in the middle of tasks, losing homework files. Whenever I asked Dad to help me with it, he always said things like, I’m so busy . . . I’ll look at it this weekend . . . Sorry, I’ll check it out next week. I finally got Shannon’s mom, a computer whiz, to come over and straighten it out.
So how is it that he suddenly has time to take a complete inventory of my bedroom and fill in all the gaps?
Dad glances at his watch. “I’d better start packing for my flight. Will you help me carry this into your room?”
I remain on the floor, staring at the mirror.
Dad wraps his arms around the mirror and grunts as he lifts it by himself. “Come on, Ginny, give me a hand.”
I’ve barely eaten anything today, so my head feels light. I slowly stand up and help him carry the mirror into my room.
Later Sunday afternoon. Dad is on his way to the airport. Mom just called from the gym to say she’s staying longer to do weights. I’m slumped on the couch watching a Friends rerun. Whenever I’ve seen Friends these past few days, I’ve gotten a pang inside as I remember how Froggy and I sang the theme song together last Monday.
Ever since last week, I’ve been too humiliated to look him in the eye. I mean, he knows I saw a doctor about my weight. What could be more embarrassing than that?
Froggy and I are only in French class together, so it hasn’t been hard to avoid him. Whenever I see him in the halls, I pretend to be fascinated by the cover of my notebook or an imaginary insect whizzing through the air. I’ve steered clear of the cafeteria and the computer cluster. And we sit two rows apart in French, so I’m careful not to glance in his direction. I still haven’t figured out what I’ll do tomorrow, when we usually have our Monday tryst at my apartment.
Once Friends is over, I switch off the TV with the remote control. I’m dying to check my e-mail. I haven’t heard from Shannon in eight days. Last night I called her in Walla Walla, but her voice sounded weird as she rushed me off the phone, promising I’d be hearing from her soon.
As soon as I stand up, my head feels fuzzy, like I’m blacking out. My energy is so low. I collapse back onto the couch, sink my head between my knees, and take several deep breaths. After a few minutes I rise again, but slower this time.
I promised myself I’d only stay in my bedroom long enough to do e-mail. But after I log on — stil
l no word from Shannon — I can’t stop glancing at the mirror leaning against the wall between my desk and bookshelf.
I go over to my dresser, scoop up the pile of diet tips I’ve been collecting, and wedge them into the mirror’s frame. That way, whenever I glimpse my reflection, at least I’ll be comforted by the fact that I’m doing something about it.
I take a few steps backward to admire my work. That’s when I catch sight of myself. I’m wearing baggy sweats and an oversized T-shirt, so it’s hard to get a good reading on my body. I have to admit I’m curious to see how six days of starvation has left me. I know I’m not about to appear on the cover of Maxim, but maybe I’ll have a little bit of a waist or something.
I sit on the edge of my bed and pull down my sweats. I yank my shirt over my head. I pause before unhooking my bra and wriggling out of my undies, but if I’m going to do this, I’m going to go full throttle.
As I walk toward the center of my room, my heart is thumping against my chest. I never, ever, ever look at myself in the mirror naked. When I get into the shower, I always turn the other way as I’m passing the mirror. Obviously I’ve seen myself as I’m lathering up or getting undressed, but that’s different. That’s just a little skin here and there. Not the complete and honest picture.
I take a few shallow breaths before reaching the mirror. This probably isn’t the best idea. Not yet, anyway. But there’s some force pulling me to the mirror, the same kind that makes me finish a jumbo bag of M&Ms when I know I should stop after a few handfuls.
One more step and . . .
Oh no.
This is why Mom dragged me to Dr. Love.
This is why Dad bought me a full-length mirror.
This is why Brie would rather kill herself than be me.
This is why Froggy won’t be seen with me in public.
As I stare at my naked body, I remember an article I once read about a sorority in California. The girls all had to strip down and stand in a line. Then the sorority president went down the row with a big black marker. As she stopped at each girl, she circled onto her skin wherever she needed to lose weight or tone up.
I direct my eyes to my stomach. This’ll be the first to go. I grab a fold of my tummy and squeeze. It hurts, but a good pain, like I’m showing my body who’s boss. I squeeze it once more, so hard that I suck in my breath.
Next, I zero in on my outer thighs. They’re dimpled with cellulite, resembling cottage cheese. I pinch the flesh on my thighs between my fingers and thumb.
I rotate around and check out my butt.
What’s the opposite of buns of steel? Buns of dough. Buns of butter.
I pinch and squeeze all over my butt cheeks, so hard that it leaves red marks. I’m choking back tears, but I keep telling myself that I deserve this. I got myself this way.
I proceed to pinch every unsightly part of my body — my inner thighs, my upper arms, my breasts, my hips. It happens in a colorless blur, like a pinwheel spinning too fast. I’m pinching and crying, crying and pinching. Snot is running down my nose and dripping saltily into my mouth, but I keep grabbing at my skin, harder every time.
I sink onto the floor and curl up into the fetal position. I sob and shake and hug my knees and suck my knuckles.
Sometimes I wish I could just disappear from this earth, float away, like an old plastic bag that gets caught in a gust and carried over the Manhattan skyline.
It’s a drizzly, cold Monday morning. The spots where I pinched myself are now eggplant-colored bruises. Most are located on regions of my body that are easy to conceal, but the big trick today is to avoid gym. I always change in a bathroom stall, so the locker room isn’t a problem. But flouncing around in shorts and a T-shirt definitely puts me at high risk for bruise exposure — especially the ones on my thighs and upper arms.
It won’t break my heart to skip gym. We’ve just started a unit called “Shoots and Ladders.” Typical gym-teacher glorification of tumbling on mats, climbing ropes, and hanging precariously from clammy rings. I hate it. I loathe it. I detest, despise, and abhor it. There aren’t enough words to express how much I dislike clutching a gnarled rope as our pint-sized instructor, also known as Teri the Tiny Gym Teacher, barks, “Come on, Shreves! At least give it a try!” If it’s not bad enough that there’s no way in hell I have the upper-body strength to hoist myself from the ground, factor in Brie Newhart, Brinna Livingston, and Briar Schwartz perpetually smirking at me from the mats.
As the second-period bell rings, summoning me to gym, I head to Paul the School Nurse’s office. Paul the School Nurse is my secret weapon at Brewster. He’s monumentally trying to overcompensate for his male-nurse status. Utter a syllable about cramps or PMS and he’s bemoaning the woes of womanhood, feeling your menstrual pain.
Along with ditching gym, I also have to dodge Froggy. Even if he hadn’t overheard that weight comment, there’s no way I could fool around with him today. Let’s say he lifted up my shirt and saw the welts on my stomach and hips. That would be a fun one to explain. Oh, didn’t I tell you? In my spare time, I like to pinch myself.
We usually meet on the front steps of school and walk to the crosstown bus together. I’ve decided that I’m simply not going to show up. It’s not like we’ve ever made a verbal agreement to both be there, so what’s keeping me from being otherwise occupied? I know I should probably tell him, but I’m too chicken for that. Like, what if he asks for an explanation? Because you know I’m seeing a Fat Doctor. Because I’m covered in bruises. Or worse, what if he says something like, Why are you telling me this? I thought we were just going to keep it casual. I hope you’re not starting to think we’re boyfriend and girlfriend or anything.
No, no, no. That would put me at risk of breaking the Fat Girl Code of Conduct, rule #4. Never make him discuss your relationship. Better to avoid the situation altogether.
My last class of the day is math. Mr. Moony’s heart must be acting up because he’s panting like a golden retriever as he hands out worksheets on the Pythagorean theorem. I attempt to concentrate on a2 + b2 = c2, but I’m growing increasingly anxious about a potential Froggy encounter.
The bell rings. Rather than heading down the front stairwell with the other kids, I slink down a rear flight to the second floor and peek into Ms. Crowley’s office. She’s working at her computer, so I slip inside, remove the stack of books from her extra chair, and sit down. Ms. Crowley holds up a finger to signal that she’ll be with me soon.
After a moment she says, “How’s it going?”
“OK, I guess.”
“Is everything all right?”
“What do you mean?”
“You seem a little distracted recently. Your eyes don’t have their usual sparkle.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m just trying to lose some weight.”
Ms. Crowley frowns. “Is a doctor helping you?”
“Sort of.”
Ms. Crowley pulls a rubber band out of her hair and rolls it over her wrist. “I think it’s great that you want to take control of your weight and I hope you’re doing it in a healthy manner, but I have to warn you that dieting is a slippery slope.”
I pick up a paper clip from her desk. “A slippery slope?”
“I know how difficult it is to be a large woman in this society,” Ms. Crowley says. “Do you think I don’t know that students call me Ms. Cowley behind my back?”
I wonder if Ms. Crowley overheard them the way I overheard the Bri-girls in the bathroom that day. I wonder if it made her gnaw on her cheeks until they were raw.
“I’ve heard everything,” Ms. Crowley says. “You name it, I’ve been called it. When I was younger, it affected me so strongly that I had some close calls with crash dieting, one where I spent a week in the hospital with a tube in my arm, feeding me nutrients.”
“Are you serious?” I unbend the paper clip until it’s a straight line.
“I was in my early twenties. I’m not telling you this to scare you. I’m just asking you to be
careful. Don’t try to change everything overnight.”
I jab the paper clip wire into the palm of my hand, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave tiny indentations. I understand what Ms. Crowley is saying. But that doesn’t take away Workout Fiend Mom and Naturally Thin Dad and Beautiful Anaïs and Built-Like-a-Greek-God Byron.
I stayed in Ms. Crowley’s office long enough to avoid Froggy after school on Monday. But that means I have to face him in French this morning. As I head down the language corridor, I hug my books to my chest.
There are a million reasons why I hate French. First of all, I suck at it, which is so frustrating because it totally pulls down my otherwise straight-A grade point average. I can spend an entire evening memorizing irregular verbs, but when I wake up the next morning, it’s like they’ve leaked out of my brain and onto my pillow.
I really wanted to take Chinese. I thought it would be fun to be able to tell people off in Chinese. Unless you’re in Chinatown, no one will know what you’re saying. But Mom insisted that I have to take French because every other Shreves converses fluently in it. She says I can only take Chinese after I’ve finished my three-year language requirement.
I also hate French because my teacher is evil. Mademoiselle Kiefer — born and bred in Erie, Pennsylvania, but a total French wannabe — wears black all the time and has long spidery legs. I’ve nicknamed them the baguette legs because it looks like her torso is propped atop two narrow loaves of French bread. Mademoiselle Kiefer is certifiably bipolar, except her pole lands on the Arctic side of things 99.9 percent of the time. She’s always swearing at us in French. The only people she’s nice to are the popular kids. There are several in my class, including Brie Newhart and Brinna Livingston. Brie is her pet, probably because she’s named after a French cheese. Last week she let Brie go into the hallway to make a call even though cell phones are banned during school hours.
When I arrive in class, most kids are already seated. Brie and Brinna are milling around Mademoiselle Kiefer’s desk, comparing notes on their favorite Left Bank bistros. Brie twirls her sandy curls into a French twist and says how she knows Paris like the back of her hand. Brinna murmurs and nods. I don’t think Brinna’s family is as wealthy as Brie’s, but she’s always acting like they are.