• Highest Ranking #1 in Bulimia •
•Highest Ranking #1 in Free Mental Illness •
He's a quarterback struggling with a secret eating disorder that's destroying his life.
She's a food-fanatic who loves every curve in her beautiful body.
When their scho...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"So," My dad asks spooning a piece steak into his mouth, "How's spring training going?"
A clear my throat, my eyes averting my father's strict gaze.
I know what he wants me too say. He wants me to say that It's going amazing, that I'm the best one one the team, that I'm being scouted. But I'm not. Not when Will manages to come back from a two month stay at a hospital, and still play better than me. I don't even think he gets it. He has it all, and he keeps throwing it all away. What I would do to play like him, to have his opportunities.
"Um. It's good." I say, stuffing rice into my mouth so I don't have to elaborate.
"Good?"
"Yeah."
My grandma raises her eyebrow, before sitting down next to my dad. She's sitting in her seat.
My mom's seat.
Except it's not hers anymore. It stopped being hers the minute she ran away. Leaving dad trying to find solace at the bottom of a bottle, and me all alone.
"School's okay too sugar?" Grandmas says, her eyes warm and comforting. Her hairs tucked under a black silk bonnet, and she's wearing her ridiculously large night gown that looks more like a tent.
"Mhm."
My grandma grabs my arms and gives it a squeeze. Her face breaking into a toothy grin. I stare at the deep curves of her chocolate skin and try to forget that one of these days she's going to forget who I am. She's going to forget who she is. Grandma has senile dementia, also known as Alzheimers.
"Maybe your good grades will help with a football scholarship." Dad says eagerly. He's not drinking tonight. He's trying.
"Right. Football."
I may be valedictorian.
I've had a few meetings with my counselors about it. Preparing me for next year. Urging me too keep my grades up.
Dad doesn't know. I don't think he'd even care.
He doesn't care that I don't want to be a football player. That in reality I want to be a biomedical scientist. So I can help find cures for diseases like Alzheimer's. That my counselors are helping me apply for some medical schools. That I've already received early admissions to some, and they're stuffed at the back of my drawers. Unseen except for my eyes.
Dad wants my dream to be football. Because it's his dream. Because an injuring in his junior year of collage ended his chances of playing pro. But I don't want it. I never did.
Awkward silence echoes throughout our dining room, the only sound coming from the scraping of our forks against our plates.
My phone beeps in my pocket. I see my father shift angrily.
