It takes me until I'm sitting in my seat to realize I'll fail my English class.
"I hope you all finished your projects. Those of you who didn't bring yours in early, please take them out now," Mr. Clark says.
I watch as the back of the room empties, more and more models and posters coming into view. Even Gio finished the fucking project. His sits in the back with some others.
The frown grows wider on Mr. Clark's face as he eyes me, knowingly. I've disappointed yet another person. "And where is your project, Mr. Petrit?" Malice drips from his words and wraps around my neck.
"I didn't do it."
"You know, slacking won't help you in the long run."
I want to say, "Dad slacked off his entire life, roped my mother in, got a kid out of it, and just replaced her when she left him. I'll have to deal with you for another few months, Dad the rest of my life. I'd rather keep him at bay than you. You won't help me in the long run."
But I just say, "Sorry."
He turns to direct his wrath at someone else, and once he looks everyone over, he calls each of us up to present. I draw in my notebook. Alaska scratches at the chipped desk paint.
When the bell rings, I'm the first one out.
Math and Physics are pretty much the same - the language of numbers with formulas as proverbs.
I think about food the entire time, about how I'm starving, about how I felt when I forced it all up. I don't want to feel that way again, so I won't eat.
I keep telling myself it's easy. Really, all I have to do is not put fucking food in my mouth. Dinner is just seven hours away.
But it's not easy when it's painful. People don't feel pain with adrenaline. People don't have adrenaline without energy.
It's like I'm spilling and melting all over the floor and I have to physically collect myself, shove all my skin back into the correct places and straighten my crooked fucking brain. My eyes are so heavy they might snap from my fucking head. I have to go to lunch soon, but God...if I eat during lunch, then I might binge again later.
It's best if I just don't eat at all.
They say you hurt less when you acknowledge your pain. I tell myself that I deserve it and accepting the fact I deserve it makes it easier to cope with. If I deserve it, there's no point in stopping it. Not stopping it makes me lose weight.
I turn a page in my notebook and start doodling.
Draw happy things, my subconscious pleads. What begins as a flower turns into a shrub of thorns. Soft clouds in orange skies turn into lightning in a black abyss.
You're a big boy now. Put on a band aid and stop crying.
A band aid doesn't stop the pain, just the bleeding. The scar is still there when I rip it off. I can pick at the scar until it opens again because if I was stupid enough to trip and fall, I'm big enough to endure the consequences.
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip.
I deserve the pain. I did this to myself.
Alaska places her hand on mine. "Ty?"
"Hm?"
"Your lip is bleeding."
I run my tongue over my lips, taste blood on my teeth. "Talk about Kurt Cobain to me."
"Why? Not that I need a reason."
"I love seeing you happy."
It's more than that. I love the galaxy twinkling in her eyes, how her smile grows to be too big for her face, the music she makes when she drums her fingers on the table. Her laugh is like wind chimes, peaceful and soft. She's contagious. I'd compare her to the universe, but the universe is too small, too nothing.
She makes me happy.
She talks about Cobain's sunny yellow hair, ice blue eyes, and caramel-coated heart. "I don't care what anyone says, men with shoulder-length hair are fine."
"Not me. I look like a fucking bum," I scoff.
"You look grunge."
"Isn't that kind of the same thing? Besides, the guys are just trying to look like Kurt Cobain or Eddie Vedder and the girls want to look like Winona Ryder or Janet Jackson. It's fucking stupid because the same people who promote individuality unintentionally created a style for everyone else to copy. I only look like this most of the time because I don't care about myself."
"Well, you look laid-back. That's why you're attractive."
"Attractive, huh?" I smirk.
"Yeah. Your eyes aren't a super bright or dark green. They're in the middle. Your freckles are like stars." She looks down. "And I don't have to prove myself to you."
I close my notebook. "Funny, I could say the exact same about you," and I kiss Alaska goodbye.
Lunch is fuzzy. Instead of splitting everything in half, I just give it to Gio.
"You didn't take the Ipecac, did you?" he asks. "It was just cough syrup. I got scammed."
"That explains why it didn't do anything." I blow air from my teeth and clench my stomach. The pain will pass, and if it hurts too much, I can just eat an apple tomorrow. The longer I go without eating, the more I'll get used to this feeling. I might stop feeling hunger all together.
"Does starving work?" I ask.
"The fuck if I know, man. Probably. I dunno how girls do it. If I eat one meal a day, I feel like I'm dying."
"Say, hypothetically, I didn't eat breakfast. Does that count?"
"Don't do that to yourself."
"But would it count?"
"It's not like you're obese."
I want to say something back, something that will piss him off, but I don't. I'd feel shitty after, then I'd apologize and he'd say he didn't care. Even after I apologize, the feeling lingers. It's like I didn't do enough, my words don't matter. Apologies aren't enough, sometimes.
And I might be losing it.
"I need to get out of here," Gio says. "I want a fucking cheeseburger, man."
We leave campus and go to a Burger King up the street.
Gio talks and I listen because I need to focus on something other than the sharp throbbing in my head or how my foot is falling asleep. He goes on about how he wishes he could just smoke weed and pick up boys at the skate park and how he's come to the realization he doesn't know what to do with his life.
"Mami expects me to get a girl and marry her. She wants grandkids so she can keep cooking for people."
"Has she ever thought about opening a bakery?"
"Gave up on that a long time ago, but she always says cooking is in her soul." He sighs, "She thinks I don't need her and I don't have it in me to tell her she's right. I want to run away, even though I'd be a coward if I did." He shovels fries into his mouth.
I tear up a napkin, counting the cracks in the table. I want some fries. God, I do, but they'll take up half my calories. "At least you have a chance at leaving. Something tells me my dad would overdose if I did and I'd be consumed by guilt."
Eating one won't be too terrible. One single fry.
I take one.
And then another, and another.
By the time I stop, I've lost count of how many I've eaten. My stomach goes cold.
Didn't you hear me? You're disgusting.
I go into the sludgy bathroom, where the stalls are tagged with graffiti and gross fluids. Since the fucking cough syrup failed, I push my fingers into that area of my throat. It's softer than the other areas. Repeating something so painful scares me. Because the vomit doesn't come naturally and it's being forced, everything is intensified - the stomach lurch, the acidity, and the sharpness of gagging. It's like I'm a puppet being jerked around against my will, but the puppeteer is me.
I'm walking underwater and society slows down. Gio gives me a weird look and directs me to a park because he wants to smoke.
I'm floating on clouds and the sky is crushing me at the same time. If I didn't have stomach pains (they're all I can think about, all I feel), then I'd be all set.
I lie back on the grass, where there isn't much snow. The breeze whispers in my ears and birds chirp softly. The ground under me is soft, clear of any bumps or dips. Squeezing my eyes shut just makes it worse.
You're fat. Fix it.
My stomach screams at me, punching my insides. Why didn't I just feed off my own body fat? I have more than enough.
I'm fixing it.
I'll stay here and freeze, let the last of the icy snow stab my flesh. It doesn't matter that it's cold, or that my skin is turning red and cracking. Doesn't matter that my lips are turning more blue by the second.
"Hey, do you have any money?" Gio sits next to me.
"You sound like my dad. I don't have money for anybody, and if I did, I'd just spend it on cigarettes. You know you would, too."
"Damn it, I'm out of cigs."
I pull a cigarette from my pocket. "I have a few left, you want one?"
He takes it and mutters, "My life is boring, but I don't know what else I could do."
"I spend way too much time with Alaska and smoke too much. If I'm by myself, I'll self-destruct. It's selfish, I know."
"Why do you think I even bother hanging out with you? I don't have anyone else and if I'm alone, I'm still not. My parents hover and they think you're a good influence."
"Are they crazy? I told you to steal beer from the fridge the second they left me alone with you. When they found us out, they sat us down and forced us to drink and ride out the hangover alone. I'm not a good influence."
"That was fucking hilarious - now, anyway. You were crying and apologizing and Papi just kept giving us beer. We fooled him."
"That wasn't the plan, though. I didn't want to get drunk or sick. I just wanted a beer."
He flicks away his cigarette, stands up, stretches. "We should get back. It's way past lunch by now."
"You go, I'll catch up." I light my final cigarette.
I've got this basic required Debate class last and I never know what's going on. I'm not going to college so I'll never need to debate. The worst part is that the teacher expects us to have a civil political discussion. I can't do that when I don't care about politics or have it in me to think that much about them.
I show up, anyway, and apparently we're talking about feminism. All I know is, there's a difference between a feminist and a man-hater.
I know the chick in front of me is a man-hater before she even opens her horse mouth. It's twisted in her puckered lips, curled into her arched holier-than-thou eyebrow.
"I just don't understand why men think they can talk about rape victims when they're the ones raping women."
"Yeah, teach men not to rape!"
"Has anyone ever heard of a woman raping a man? It's ludicrous. He can just push her off, no big deal, because he's stronger. A woman is weaker than a man, so she usually can't get him off her. Besides, what guy doesn't want sex, anyway?"
I raise my hand. "I...I disagree."
The girl's expression sours even more. She says, "Of course, you do. You're a man. You don't know what it's like to be a woman," as if she knows what it's like to be a man or about anything I've gone through.
"Not with everything you said. You're acting like all men are rapists."
"They all have the potential to be. I've witnessed it."
"That's exactly like me saying all women have the potential to abuse children, since I've witnessed it."
"Not all women abuse children. Obviously."
"Not all men rape women. Obviously. It's a disgusting generalization."
She scoffs, "Sure, whatever. Did you know there are male feminists?"
"The only 'good' men are the ones who agree with you. Why am I not surprised? I hate to break it to you, but those are more than likely the men you're bitching about. They think if they suck up to you long enough, they can get into your pants."
She rolls her eyes. "Like you know what you're talking about."
My eye twitches.
"Daddy said nobody can touch me there except for Mommy."
"Well, your father and I are together. I'm basically your mom, aren't I?"
"No." I was confused.
Her soft demeanor melted a little, voice becoming dangerously low. "Listen, I'm the adult, you're the child. That means I get to force you to do things, even if you don't want to." She went right back to grinning, her wolf teeth glowing in the dark.
All the better to eat you with, my dear.
I'm shaking now, like a goddamn pansy. The six-year-old in me comes out of hiding. "Oh, believe me, I do."
She laughs.
She fucking laughs.
And that's how I know I lost.
With people like this, I never understand how they say a woman can do anything a man can do, unless it's something negative. They pull the "Women are weaker than men" card when it comes to abuse, and it pisses me the fuck off because it's one of the most bullshit excuses for anything I've ever heard.
I can't say that, though, because then I'd be a misogynist or whatever, so I hug myself and turn away instead.
The teacher looks at me and the rest of the class. "Okay, that was, uh, interesting. Does anyone have anything else they'd like to add?"
Most of them act like I'm crazy. I'm pretty positive I might be.
Blood rushes to my head when I stand. I try to get out as fast as I can when the bell rings, but a classmate comes up to me. "I was too nervous to say anything, but I agree with you. I don't know what goes on in that girl's head. I'd never dream of raping anybody. I'm not sure if I could exactly protect, though." He gestures to his scrawny frame.
I'm not in the mood to talk, and I make it blatant enough so he can tell. "I hate when people say you can't have an opinion on something unless it directly affects you, as if they know your experiences. If someone says something ridiculous, I'm allowed to say it's ridiculous. I'm allowed to disagree. That's why we have conversations in the first place."
"I'm sure we wouldn't talk at all if we didn't disagree. Everyone thinking the same way means we're not individuals. Might as well mold into one person." He knocks me in the shoulder and leaves.
I make my way home, pausing every so often to steady myself. At the very least, that debate distracted me from food.
Perfect.
I stop at the cupboard. I know a snack will fuck me up, but I'm fucking myself up and I'm fat, so I shouldn't bitch when deep down, I know I'm doing myself a favor.
That's all it takes for me to go to my room and watch TV until the smell of meat loaf wafts through the door.
Finally.
Now that I'm actually in the kitchen, I'm having second thoughts. What should I take? How much? Should I even eat at all or inhale everything in sight?
(Inhale this shit). No. Portion control. I already fucked up with the fries.
I fill (less than half of) my plate with carrots and meat loaf. I nearly get away with skimming over the pasta salad, but Candace's hawk eye calls me out and she fills the remainder of my plate for me. A whole one fourth of it is dedicated to the fucking pasta.
I pick up my knife and fork.
Don't eat like a pig.
I finish my carrots before anything else and cut the meat into small pieces.
Don't eat like a pig.
I demolish half of the loaf, pushing the pasta salad around my plate.
Don't.
Regret comes as a side dish with the rest of the food. It sits like a rock in my stomach.
Eat.
I would rather be in pain from hunger than be in pain from overeating. It means I'm getting somewhere.
I dump the rest of it and leave without a word. It's like the floor is being ripped from under me. The vegetables, meat, and carbs argue with one another, throwing fists and crashing against the walls of my stomach. I flop onto my bed, ignoring my homework.
There's a mirror leaning next to my closet. I've never liked looking at myself, but to an extent, I used to care about the clothes I wore and how my hair looked.
It's different now, standing as a constant reminder of my flaws. ARMSSTOMACHTHIGHS fill up the glass. They ooze through the cracks. I am not me. I am my skin. It is the first and only piece of me that the outside takes in.
The only piece of me that I take in.
I hold onto every word that's said to me, every crumb of criticism, whether positive or negative. Any of it makes me question all the things I've done "correctly" because I make small, stupid mistakes that could have been avoided. I was almost there, I almost did it right, but I fucked up because I'm a fucking idiot. If I did something right, it's after I've spent so much time doing it wrong.
If I can't do this one thing right, then do I deserve praise at all?
• • •
FEBRUARY
Since I can't find interesting things within myself, I look for quirks in other people. It's something I've picked up working in retail when I get bored on the job. I usually put more thought into it than any normal human being would because it's rare for anyone to come in. The few in here are all I've had after five hours.
The lady I'm helping stutters as she tries to make cheap talk with me and bites her nails every time someone enters the store. A man three aisles down keeps picking at his shirt to hide the fact he's trying to steal a fucking keychain. Some kids knock over a clothing rack and trample on the shirts.
I like to think the lady doesn't have a family to go home to other than prescription meds and cough drops. The man is making it look as though he's just stealing a keychain, but in reality it's a ploy so he can get away with something bigger. Meanwhile, the kids are just getting away with what they can because their Fuck-Up Free Trial doesn't last forever.
My schedule got changed, so I'm wasting the weekend. I'm being kept alive by coffee and the fact I only have a half hour left to suffer through before my smoke break.
The store I work at is called Sun of a Beach. We sell summer clothes no matter the season, so I'm usually stuck in silence fifty percent of the time. I should be grateful I don't work at the food court, though. Looking after clothing and stupid knick knacks may be boring, but the customers who hate their food can tear your head off.
The store remains empty long enough for my patience to wear out, so I bail and call Alaska.
"Hey, you busy?"
"No, just watching River Phoenix movies."
"Can you save me from work? It's life or death. There's no one here and I'm going to die of fucking boredom."
She gives a small laugh. "Oh, yeah. I'll be there."
When Alaska comes, we go into the supply closet. She unzips her jacket, and she's only got on a bra. "You're sure it's a slow day?"
"Always is. I couldn't handle it today." I kiss up and down her torso. "Bossman will get pissed if he finds out I'm gone."
She traces small circles on my stomach. Her hands fumble with the zipper on my pants. "You can be quiet, right?"
"I...what?"
"You know..." Alaska gets to her knees and pulls down my pants. I'm bare and vulnerable and-
Are you ready to be a big boy? Big boys do adult things.
I grab her wrist. "No, please."
She stops.
Look at you. You're so pretty. Such a pretty boy.
I push Alaska against the wall and kiss her with enough passion to make us both forget where we are.
When she goes to shut the door, I panic and stop her again. "I...I'm claustrophobic. I know, it's stupid."
"Oh, okay." She shrugs and I press my lips together. I expected her to make fun of me in some way, even though her reaction to my house should have been enough for me to realize, really realize, that she's not like that. I should be able to laugh off my embarrassment like everyone else, trust others like everyone else, but I can't. It makes me want to distance myself, but I'm afraid everyone will leave me, so I spiral and cling to everyone I possibly can.
It's a cycle of overreacting and feeling stupid, just to do it all again.
"Hello?" a voice calls.
"Damn it," I say against Alaska's cherry-flavored lips. "I gotta get back to work."
I leave the supply closet and see a stick-thin girl at the counter. "How can I help you?"
She holds up a tank top. "Do you have this in a smaller size?"
"It's literally a size zero."
She holds out her wrist to me and wraps her thumb and forefinger around it, showing off her miraculous gap. She smiles, proud of her accomplishment. "You won't understand, but I finally reached my goal weight and I want to show it off. Can you at least check if you have anything?"
I could only hope to be that in control. I have to act like I don't want what she has, like I don't understand. "You'll be like Karen Carpenter if you keep that up, you know," I say as I search through the clothes.
"Really?" She grins and I flinch when I see how fucked her teeth are.
"Yeah, six feet under," I mumble, but I give her some clothes regardless.
She frowns and says, "Whatever," and swings her bony hips as she leaves.
Another employee, this goth guy I haven't learned the name of, comes in after her and makes a face when she's out of sight. "That's some freaky shit. I didn't think anybody could get that thin."
"About time you showed up," I say. "Your turn to suffer."
"And what are you gonna do?" he asks, messing with crap in the knick knack bin.
I scratch my neck. "I've got work in the back."
He spots Alaska. "Sure."
"The back" is a door that heads to the dumpster. I smoke there after taking out the trash.
Alaska joins me on my break. "What do you want to do for Valentine's Day?"
"Is it here already?" I say as nonchalantly as I can.
"We've still got a week and a half."
I'm not attractive enough yet. I need more time. "You wanna just go to a movie or something?"
There's food at the movies. There's food everywhere.
God.
I can't fuck around anymore. If I can't avoid a romantic dinner, I'm going to have to prepare for it. Starve for extra long so that the food won't knock me too far off track.
I inhale the cigarette. I'm used to physical pain, so I don't know why I'm struggling.
I take out a pen and draw stars on Alaska's cheek. "We'll just end up making out during the movie. Maybe we could go dancing?"
"Does it have to be fancy?"
"We could go to The Poetry Hut for all I care, and dance to Love Buzz-"
"Nirvana's Love Buzz?"
"Duh, of course. The point is that we can be together. Valentine's Day was just created to sell cards, anyway, and every single card is the most vapid, mushy, and soulless trash to ever exist. It's so fake."
She wraps her arms around my waist. I've got four fucking hours until the end of my shift, though I'm already mentally clocked out for the day. I keep thinking about the chicken joint in the food court and how I could get something after my shift.
But I shouldn't.
One day at a time, and I'll get there.
I don't need it.
Focus on Alaska, the chatter outside, anything. If I don't think about it, it will go away. I need it to go away.
I roughly surf through the clothes on the rack and listen to Alaska talk. The storage is full of tacky shit that was shipped in weeks ago. We don't have room and it's not like customers are missing out.
I shovel Ibuprofen down my throat. My eyes droop. I push Alaska against the wall and kiss her to keep myself focused and awake. Six months is too short for me to be this infatuated with a girl.
She really is something beautiful, though. She's not afraid to show her soul behind her eyes.
She's the okay one. The one with stability and future plans. The one who's radiant and open, tells me she cares. I know she'd eventually move on to someone better if I left, that she can leave me at any time for another guy who's as grounded as she is. He'll have a football scholarship, she won't be embarrassed to be seen with him, and they can be successful together.
It hurts to think about.
She smiles. "Should I get Superunknown or Badmoterfinger next?"
I sigh, putting my chin in my hands. "Whichever one has Black Hole Sun on it. Jesus Christ."
"Pose?"
"My shift is so fucking long." And I need fucking food.
No.
I'll get the weight off first and deal with everything else afterwards.
I don't need shit.
Alaska holds a shirt against her chest. "When my shift is slow, I talk to the other employees. Nobody's here with you."
"There was another guy. He must've bailed. If I didn't need money, I would, too."
"You never spend money, though."
"Doesn't mean I don't need it. My dad will flip shit if he can't 'borrow' a twenty. I just spend it on cigarettes, anyway. It's not like I need a new car and I've got all the music I could ever need."
I've got enough money to run away, enough music for a road trip. I could survive for months, especially if I limit eating.
Nobody would notice me gone.
"I can't take this," I grumble, heading back outside.
"Hey," Alaska says, smirking. "My parents aren't home."
I blink, a lump forming in my throat. Everyone and their grandma knows what that means.
We can have sex.
My hands start shaking, nerves rushing through my veins. "I mean, we've seen each other naked before."
"Oh my God, I meant we could just cuddle and watch a movie without my parents being passive aggressive at you."
I instantly relax. "That's good. I thought you were saying something else. I'm not ready for sex. At all." The word sex has a grimy taste and wants to spill from my mouth and splatter all over my shoes.
She shakes her head. "Neither am I."
My boss comes to the counter. He looks at Alaska. "Are you a customer? I'm dying here." He says to me, "There's no point in staying open. I already let everybody else leave."
Alaska and I head out. "Thank God that's over. You still wanna hang at your house?"
"Yeah. You sure you have a stable job?"
"If it falls through, I'll just go work somewhere in the food court. The Johnny Rocket's over there hires anybody."
"Did you see that new movie with DiCaprio and Depp in it? The one from a few months ago?"
"Gilbert Grape? Yeah, I've got it on tape."
"Can we watch that? I haven't seen it."
"Mhm. I have to stop at home, anyway."
I'm trying to grab the movie and a new pack of cigarettes as fast as I can. Dad is gone again, and Candace is leaning against the counter, bitching about work to someone on the phone.
The oddest things trigger my memories. One leads to another and don't stop until I slam a door or prick my skin or blare some music. A sharp jolt that strikes the thoughts and slowly drains the blood until it's gone.
Dad worked before Mom left. He would bitch about it as much as Candace, with his seven o'clock whiskey in hand, frown permanently etched on his face.
It was early morning. I was bothering him with all my childish babble, trying to make him smile because I was too young to understand the weight of a job.
Mom's hands shook as she turned on the stove, the boiling black oil of depression dripping down the side of her head. "Stop bothering your dad and I'll make you pancakes." Her voice was slurred.
That was her go-to when she wanted me to do something - bribery with sweets and pastries.
I'm unable to taste the pancakes again before Mom melts and molds into Candace.
I was tangling my Army Men with my Barrel of Monkeys, bellowing out pirate slang from a tree.
I leaned out too far and fell on my elbows and knees, turning them crimson.
Candace didn't respond to my screams, so I cried my way into the kitchen. "C-Candace-"
"Give me a second."
I watched her cook."What are you making?"
"Noodles. Do you want some?"
I nodded, temporarily forgetting my injuries. Food from the stove tasted good. It made me feel better.
Without a word, she turned around and smacked me."Stop crying or I won't fucking feed you."
In retrospect, it worked for a minute, because I was too shocked to immediately resume crying. I held my tears back until I got to my room.
A few minutes later, she came in with a plate. Her softness was back, and she stood in front of me with open arms. "I'm sorry."
When I didn't move, she forced me into a hug. She started by rubbing my back and slowly dragged her hand lower. I froze.
She was testing me, seeing how far she could go before I fought back.
When she unlocked me from her chains, she simply left with a smile.
I didn't feel the pain in my elbows and knees anymore. There was a much worse one in The Spot Adults Aren't Supposed to Touch.
Both times, the food was cold when I finally went to eat it.
Candace hangs up the phone. Bile rises in my throat.
Food is not a reward. It piles up, all gross in your stomach until you can't move, holds you down.
I'm independent. I can tell myself no.
I do not need food.
I light up a cigarette when I get to Alaska's house. I watch her watch What's Eating Gilbert Grape, and give her emotionless responses.
Feeling my eyes grow heavy, I curl her in my arms so I can feel she's there. I know I have someone to hold onto.
"Did you like the movie?" I ask when the credits roll, fully aware of how my voice shakes.
She wipes her eyes. "That was the greatest thing I've ever seen...other than Poetic Justice."
"Isn't it? Everyone else said it was boring and I believed them until I went to see it."
I don't stay for too long after that, making sure Candace is asleep so that I won't have to talk to her, won't have to look at her gnarled, ugly face.
I can't sleep, so I stay up with the window open to smoke and count the stars.
My subconscious listens for footsteps, for the hall light to flick on, even though I know I'm too old to give in to the fear festering in my stomach, revived by the monsters I've met.
The thing about a monster is, it blends in with the dark, and mimics human traits in the light, hiding its fangs.
I was (am) a piece of unprotected fresh meat.
You can't blame a predator for giving into natural instincts.
Or when it snuffs out the stars.