Une Fleure Fanée

Week 16 Part 1 (Thursday)

     "How much butter did you use?" I ask, trying to see if I can eliminate any calories.

     "I used the same amount I always do, Lilly," Mom sighs, handing me my plate.

     Still not knowing what's in my food makes me anxious. I've done it for two weeks, but it's anxiety-inducing. I look at my plate. A hard-boiled egg, a mini bagel with what looks like butter on it, and water.

     "This has butter on it," I point out, squishing the bagel with disgust.

     I was never this picky with my food. Why do I feel the need to point this out now?

     "Lilly," Mom sternly reminds me, and I eat the hard-boiled egg.

     The hard-boiled egg is so tasteless and mushy. I would put salt on it, but that will cause me to gain more pounds than necessary. Mom smiles at me as she eats her breakfast: eggs, bacon, and toast. Classic American breakfast.

     I don't want the bagel. It has so much unnecessary fat on it. So many calories. Mom gives me a stern glance. I gulp. I need to do this for dance. This is so much harder than in the hospital because I could just replace whatever I didn't eat with the boost. Now I have limited boosts.

     I slowly start to chip away at the mini bagel. I can taste the fat. Tears well up, but I can't cry. I don't want to look fat for dance. Mom finishes earlier than me and starts making whatever is on my meal plan. By the time I finish my bagel, we have to go.

     "I'm proud of you, Lilly. I know that was difficult, but you still did it. Now go get your shoes and your bag. Start one of your boosts, too! You should be done before the time that we get to the studio," Mom instructs.

     "Do I have to have my feeding tube in?" I negotiate, wanting to pull it out.

     "Yes. Don't even try to pull it out," she says, and I sigh in disappointment.

     "But it will be on national television!" I argue.

     "I'm not taking it out and that's final!" Mom says, letting out an exasperated sigh.

     I don't even try to ask again. It's not coming out. I go to my room and connect my feeding tube to a boost in my backpack. Why can't I have a g-tube? Well, then I'll have a permanent scar on my stomach, and that's bad for crop tops.

     I put on my shoes and I can see the tan liquid on my tube. I want to pull it out so bad. I put on the heavy backpack and I hunch over, adjusting to the weight. I stand back up. It must weigh half my weight. I get dizzy for a second but I'm able to stabilize myself.

     I trudge to the main room and Mom is talking on the phone. Probably with Dad. They're trying to find a lawyer that will take an attempted murder case on a hospitalized ten-year-old. That must take forever.

     I look at the clock. Seven forty-five. We have to arrive a little later so that nobody sees us. I just pray nobody is late. The food is halfway done, and I can feel the backpack get a little lighter as I stand up from the couch.

     "Time to go!" I sing, rushing to the front door.

     Mom smiles as she opens the door. I can't run because the backpack is too heavy, but I get to the elevator as fast as I can. Happy butterflies fill my stomach. For once, I won't get body-shamed by Ms. Abby. She told me she's not going to follow the producer's word anymore on that.

     Mom takes a peek in the lobby and gives me a thumbs-up. This is like a secret spy mission. We sneak through the lobby and take the small walk to the parking garage. I'm practically bouncing up and down.