I must've fallen asleep because I see black all around me. Did I die? I start to panic, but then I open my eyes and see my Pittsburgh bedroom. You're such an idiot, Lilliana. Even a baby would've known their eyes were closed. Depression and sadness wave over me. My wrists tingle in want to cut.
I take a breath, hoping that will clear the bad feelings, but it doesn't. The tingle is annoying and stressful and on the brink of pain. I look at the time on my phone. Four in the morning. I flop back down on the pillow, wincing in discomfort due to the tingle. I try to go back to bed, but I can't.
Finally, I hear my Mom's light footsteps make her way to the kitchen for her coffee and my alarm goes off. At least we're not waking up early to go to Starbucks. That'd be awful to fake eat. Even though I just want to stay under the covers and not face the day ahead, I sluggishly haul my way out of bed.
I grab the clothes that Mom put on my desk. The same ones that I wore yesterday. My leggings are loose, almost enough to go down a clothing size. But A. I still weigh too much to go down a clothing size and B. How am I going to get new clothes as a ten-year-old not really knowing any place more than the block and with no money? At least my Mom takes my measurements every week to make sure the costumes fit okay.
I put my hair back in a low ponytail, apply some face cream and some base makeup to make me not look dead, and brush my teeth, making sure not to swallow my calorie-filled spit. I only have 200 calories, which is a lot considering I didn't eat yesterday. My scars are covered with concealer and foundation. I take my Cymbalta and Fluoxetine and then make my way back to my bedroom to grab my dance bag and phone.
I peel back the phone case and I see my razor. I slap it back on and make my way to the kitchen. I look at the time. 6:00. I have to leave in fifteen minutes. Great. That's enough time for some breakfast. Still feeling a bit nauseous, I pick some plain, unbuttered wheat toast, which is 70 calories. For once, I'm glad Mom gets the wheat stuff because the white bread is definitely a fear food.
The toast is bland, but it calms my stomach. You don't deserve that wheat toast, Lilliana. You haven't burned any calories yet. Isn't walking to your bedroom to your bathroom to your kitchen burning calories?
"What's the carpool situation?" I ask, nibbling on part of the crust.
"We're driving Hannah and Kamryn. She is in apartment 305 by the way in case you two wanted to hang out, and we're meeting up in five minutes so get your shoes on," Mom informs me and I put the now empty plate in the sink.
It feels so weird to have something inside my stomach. But it's only 70 calories. It's a safe food, like eggs. Man, bland breakfast food for the win, am I right? But bland means fewer calories. Fewer calories means more control over how I look.
I grab my shoes and my materials and head out the door. Hannah is already there, but Kamryn isn't. She arrives eventually and we make our way to the car. Normally when two other people are carpooling, I'm squashed in the middle because I'm the shortest. This time, I'm in a window seat because Kamryn is the shortest. You're still too short, Lilliana. You'll never be a successful dancer.
I try to interact with the two other girls, but I find myself staring out the window. I don't want the other girls to get suspicious. I have a feeling that Elliana may be suspicious that I'm bulimic, but I'm not. I'm anorexic, but I don't really care what anybody calls it because it won't change anything. I don't want it to go. Not eating and losing weight will make your life better, Lilliana.
"What's it like working with Ms. Abby?" Kamryn asks us and Hannah and I look at each other.
We want to say, "She can make you seem like a perfect ballerina one minute, and then treat you like a piece of garbage ready to be incinerated." But we don't want to scare her. She seems way too excited.
"It's... a little difficult, and sometimes you don't want to dance anymore after, but she's only doing it for the best and she really wants you to succeed," I stammer, making a lie off the top of my head.
"I'm not ever gonna stop dancing," she promises to herself and I look out the window again.
I don't want to hear it. She seems so happy and chipper, and so confident. It's going to be crushed. I was like her. A naïve seven-year-old getting the opportunity of a lifetime. Then that opportunity of a lifetime gave me an eating disorder. I hope Ms. Abby won't pick on her the same way she did when I was her age.
Kamryn's bouncing in her seat as we pull up to the studio, while my stomach is churning in reluctance. It's crazy what eight weeks will do to a person. I wasn't even afraid to eat eight weeks ago. Now it's a struggle to keep down a piece of plain toast without wanting to throw it up and feeling so much guilt for eating it. Toast, while safe, should not be eaten until you burn calories, Lilliana.
Elliana isn't coming today either. The work permits still aren't for her to really be a part of the Dance Moms crew on the show. At least she won't be able to get even more suspicious if she is at all. I wish I was her. But Mom is making me go so we can pay our bills, for me to be famous, and for her to be famous.
I notice when we are waiting in the dancer's den that Gia and Pressley aren't talking. They always seemed like buddy-buddies. And now they won't even talk to each other. When one sneezes, the other will say, "Bless you," but that's about it. They've also unfollowed each other from Instagram. Their friendship seems donzo. Press and Gia are gonna abandon you next, Lilliana. They hate you and they deserve it. The moms go up to the stands.
"Kamryn, I want you to wait outside. We will signal to your mom to knock on the door. All of you must act as if you've never met each other," the producers explain and we nod in understanding.
We stretch and generally chat for a couple of minutes before we hear a knock on the door, marking Ms. Abby to announce, "Oh, I think our guest is here. Hello sweetie, come on in!"
In walks Kamryn and her mom, Ms. Adriana. We all say our hellos and hug her, welcoming her into the ALDC. Ms. Abby hugs her too before coming over to talk to us.
"You all know Kammy, right? You and your moms met in the final audition. You are going to be doing a solo this week. And you are going to swing Elliana in the group dance," Ms. Abby reveals and Kamryn looks like a mix of scared and excited.
"I think we got this," Ms. Adriana confidently says, and then Ms. Abby dismisses the mother, turning our attention back into the group dance.
"All right, girls. This is called 'Blue Bloods.' You're aristocratic, right? Because you have blue blood. Throughout the routine, it turns dark, and the blood actually gets on your arms and gets on your legs. So it's like all this blue blood has tainted you. Sarah, you are going to be our beginning and end, our unofficial lead if you will. Gianna, show her the choreo," Ms. Abby explains, and we all step to the side so Ms. Gianna can show Sarah the choreography.
It's elegant and royal. You are neither, Lilliana. You are sloppy and clumsy. Ms. Gianna then blocks us in. Kamryn picks up the choreography really well, despite being only seven. She can also seem to block out the muffled argument that Ms. Ashley and Ms. Joanne are currently having. Gia should've shut up. We're supposed to be a team.
"I think we've blocked enough for the day. I want to work with Kamryn with her solo and I want you all to do your school. Dismissed," Ms. Abby says, waving goodbye to us as we walk out of the studio.
"Hey Lilly, want to do school together?" Pressley asks and I nod, walking over to a corner to do schoolwork.
Pressley seems to be doing everything she can to avoid Gia, and it's understandable. She shouldn't have accused us of doing something we didn't do. But at the same time, it's not something worth ending a friendship over. Neither is Elliana.
We mainly work in silence as we listen to a non-copyrighted version of Proud Mary that makes us all laugh. Suddenly, Pressley brings up the events of last week.
"Thanks for saving me from, you know, getting an... eating disorder," she mumbles and I freeze.
"It's no problem. Just talk to me if you feel like you need to do that again. It'll mess with you," I whisper back.
She hugs me tightly and a pang of guilt punches me in the gut. I'm telling her to talk to me like I'm a past victim. Like I'm a survivor. But I've relapsed, and I don't want to get help. Pressley doesn't deserve the pain, Lilliana. You're fat and ugly and dumb. She's not.
Kamryn then comes in through Studio A and retrieves us. I immediately get a bad feeling. Ms. Abby looks cross, but then again when isn't she cross on camera?
"Okay, GiaNina, you are playing Judge Judy. You made an opinionated remark today. You stated backstage in the wings four dancers conspired together to tell you the counts," Ms. Abby recalls and Gia shrugs.
I'm still in a little bit of disbelief that Gia would even be able to think that. She has the right to think so little of you, Lilliana. You're not a good dancer anyway.
"In a court trial, the judge doesn't get to say too much. It's gonna be hard for you, you're gonna have to bite your tongue. Sarah, you're gonna stand in for Elliana. GiaNina, come put on this wig," Ms. Abby demands, and out she pulls Sarah's old Mary Lou Retton wig.
Ms. Abby puts on her own white wig with curls to make it look like a judge. She gets a small wooden gavel from behind her and slams it in front of me, Pressley, and Sarah. As Ms. Gianna starts playing the music, Ms. Abby begins to mouth along, making us die in laughter.
"So this is what you're saying to Elliana. This is your story. 'Say you did it. Say you lied. Say you're guilty.' There you go. Here is your gavel. Get your wig on and let's block this number," Ms. Abby instructs.
We watch as Sarah and Gia block the number. Sarah's choreography is obviously made for Elliana. As Press and I are talking about our duet, I hear Ms. Yolanda and Mom fighting. My stomach churns in nausea, and my eyes well up. I try to breathe. Ms. Abby calls off the rehearsal for the duet.
I feel like I'm going to throw up. I pretend I have to use the bathroom, and I follow behind Gia and Sarah as they go up the stairs to report to their moms. I close the stall and throw up, all the nerves expelling out of my body with the toast. Good girl, Lilliana. You don't need the toast. I thought Ms. Yolanda and Mom were over with it. But it doesn't seem like they're acting anymore.
I wipe my mouth, gargle some water, wash my hands, fix up my face, and go back to the studio. I look at the clock. It's only been three minutes. I didn't have much to throw up anyway. Ms. Gianna, Pressley, Ms. Abby, and I try to block the number, but we're done with it today. Ms. Abby suddenly leaves the studio and I look around in confusion.
"Girls, Ms. Abby is tired, why don't you girls go outside to eat lunch and we'll call it a day, okay? Make sure to do your school," Ms. Gianna tells us and we walk out the door.
Despite throwing up, I feel fine. I could eat an entire salad. It's only 58 calories. And I burned some calories. Mom also sent me a blueberry muffin. But that has to have like, 300 calories plus.
"Anybody want my muffin? I'm not feeling the greatest," I offer, and Hannah's face lights up.
I hand her the muffin and she eats it in a minute flat. She must be really hungry. I smile. At least someone will get to eat the muffin.
"You haven't been feeling well lately. Are you okay?" Sarah asks.
"Yeah, I'm fine," I quickly respond, getting up to throw away my trash.
***elliana***
It's a little scary being eleven and staying home alone until Mom comes home from seven in the morning. Around the middle of the day, I get a text from Gia.
Gia: Okay, so... the girls basically hate me but ill tell u l8r. Lilly hasnt been feeling well apparently a lot and she didnt eat her muffin but she ate her salad.
Ellie: i think I'm just paranoid. I really think she may have had a bad week and she's recovering.
Gia: k...bye...
I don't want to rope the other girls in this. It's wrong. Maybe I'm just wrong. My gut tells me she's not eating for a more sinister reason. But I really hope my gut is wrong. I look on her Instagram and she posts a story with everybody. She looks even skinnier and her face looks even less fuller.
***lilly***
Hannah, Kamryn, and I now have to carpool back to the apartment. It seems that someone caused a bit of drama because Mom is quiet. Obviously, someone caused some drama. I wouldn't have thrown up today from stress. The sick stomach is kicking in now.
"Lilly, are you okay? You seem sick," Hannah mumbles, gaining Mom's attention at a red light.
"Honey, you can't be sick. You have dance tomorrow," Mom decides, scoffing, and continues driving at the green light.
Kamryn raises an eyebrow in confusion. Hannah puts a hand on my shoulder in comfort, and I smile at her before she removes it. I curl up into a ball, feeling ashamed that I'm sick. You shouldn't be sick, Lilliana. Dancers don't get sick. You'll never be a professional dancer if you're so sickly all the time. You were never gonna be a good one anyway, Lilliana.
I don't talk for the remainder of the car ride. I give Hannah and Kamryn a hug to say goodbye, but that's it. Mom keeps glaring at me as we walk up the stairs instead of the elevator, but I can tell she'll be fussing all over me when we get to the apartment.
But the first thing she says to me is, "I know you're faking. You don't want to do the group dance or the duet, do you? Do you know how lucky you are to be here and not dead in a grave?"
I feel betrayed. I immediately break down in tears, racing to the bathroom and locking it. Your mom hates you, Lilliana. You don't deserve her. You have nobody. You're a lonely, selfish, awful, disgusting brat.
I grab the razor and cut three times into my wrist. My wrists are layered with cuts, but they still look relatively normal. The scars blend in okay, but the purple ones don't. I bandage up my left wrist and pick out some sweats. I pull the hoodie over my head and sit in the desk chair.
I end up finishing the whole social studies unit for fifth grade. At least I won't have to do any of it at dance anymore. I can just double down on other stuff. I only got a 92% instead of a 95% or higher, which is what I normally get. You're so dumb, Lilliana. You should go back to kindergarten or even preschool. 92 is not an acceptable number in the Ketchman family.
I give up on school after finishing social studies, so I decide to watch some old Dance Moms clips. Not the ones where I'm in them. That's too triggering. I watch the one with Maddie and Chloe and Mackenzie. They're so much more talented than you, Lilliana. They're doing tricks at eight that you still can't do at ten. To be fair, they can't do the contortion that I can do.
"Lilly, dinner!" Mom shouts from the kitchen.
My stomach aches. Half in hunger, half in pain. On the table are zoodles with nothing on it. I sneak my phone out and look up the calorie count. 20 calories. I can eat the whole serving. But I may only eat half. My stomach hurts a lot. I stir my food around, my stomach making me unable to take a bite
"Lilly, stop faking and eat your dinner or you're not going to dance tomorrow," Mom threatens.
Why is she being so mean? Normally, she's sweet and understanding. But she's being mean and rude and too harsh. I take a small bite of my noodle. As soon as I swallow it, I feel vomit come up. I set the fork down and race to the bathroom, locking it so that Mom can't see only bile come up.
My throat burns. I only had like, an eighth of dinner, plus regurgitation. Like a single calorie. What you're doing is good, Lilliana. You don't need food to survive. I also get a nosebleed. I start sobbing and retching at the same time.
"Lilly? Are you throwing up? Let me in," Mom begs through the door, jiggling the doorknob.
"No!" I yell back in between retches, tears mixing in with the contents in the toilet.
Eventually, I'm dry heaving and I shakily get up. I wipe my mouth and quiet my tears. I stuff a bit of tissue up my nose, making sure it's far up enough that it's not visible. I wash my hands and look at my face in the mirror. It looks dead.
I cautiously open the bathroom door, pull the hoodie over my face, and run past Mom to my bedroom, where I lock the door again. I hear Mom's footsteps descend back into the living room.
I call my brother Caden up again. Of course, I feel emotionally sick from my guilt for lying to him and saying that I'm fine. I'm glad he didn't FaceTime me because I look dead and then he would tell Dad, and then he would tell Mom, and then chaos would ensue in my life.
I hear a knock on the door and I know who it is. I groan and unlock the door reluctantly. Mom thinks I had a bulimia relapse, doesn't she?
She immediately scoops me up into a hug and whispers, "We're gonna get through this."
"Mom, chill, I didn't have a relapse. I told you, I'm not feeling well, and you ignored me," I mutter, going very quiet.
She sets me down quite suddenly, and she kneels to my level, looking at me straight in the eye. I know she's going to make some empty apology.
"I know, and I'm very sorry, okay?" she apologizes, her voice coated with that sickeningly sweet voice that makes her tone sound manipulative, like Nurse Charlotte.
"You sound like Nurse Charlotte," I whisper and her face falls flat.
"I-" she begins to say before I cut her off.
"I'll just take a shower and go to bed. Goodnight early, I guess," I mumble, fidgeting with the drawstrings on my hoodie.
"Oh, uh, okay. Well, goodnight," she mutters before returning to her bedroom, probably to call Dad.
She's gonna pull you from the show, Lilliana. You're an awful liar, and you're an awful dancer. You don't deserve to be here. I, once again, weigh myself before my shower. 66.6. Hey, the devil's number. I'm being controlled by a demon.
I chuckle sadly before I pull my razor out from my phone case. There's a bit of crusty blood, and the razor's getting a bit dull. I don't care, though. I wash my hair and then I cut myself. Tears mix with the blood as I cut once for being dumb, once for being a horrible dancer, once for being a bad dancer, and one more for the hell of it.
Seven cuts in total. I let the cuts stop bleeding, which only takes about five minutes. No bandages, just a long-sleeved shirt. Soon, Mom and the girls will start getting suspicious of why I keep wearing long-sleeves when I'm not in dance class despite it being almost April.
The makeup works pretty well, though. They're not even visible under the layers and layers of foundation and setting powder and concealer that I cake on my wrists. My eyes are red and a little puffy. I put on some lime green matching sweats and go to my room. I'm sobbing in my bed, and I get a sudden text from Elliana.
Ellie: I can hear u crying
Lilly: Sry ill be quiet
Ellie: dont be sry wuts wrong
Lilly: i'm fine i just got into a fight with mom
Ellie: ok... ttm if u need to gn
Lilly: thx gn
She's getting suspicious, I can feel it. If I ask Elliana, she's obviously going to deny it. Elliana is going to tell your mom, Lilliana. And then you're going to have to eat. And you can't eat. I'm beginning to enjoy not eating. The empty stomach has become comfortable. I have a 100 calorie limit tomorrow. I wipe my eyes and stop crying.
I get a really bad stomach cramp before I go to bed. My stomach is begging for more food. But I can't give it that. It's gonna be worth it in the long run. Even if I'm physically dying by the end of it, it will be worth it.
Right before I fall asleep, I look at my naked wrists. The wrists without makeup. Before, they were purplish-red and white, mostly white. Now, there are only ones I cut a few hours ago that are red. I count the number of cuts. Twenty-two. Physical scars are a small price to pay for a sometimes peaceful sleep. But I'm anxious. How do I use my coping mechanism at the hotel in a couple of days? And how do I hide it?
***elliana***
I hate hearing Lilly cry through the wall. She does this almost every night. Why did her mother allow her to go back to this? She's not happy. It makes me want to cry with her. Of course, I can't figure out what the root of the problem is because of the stupid work permit issues. God, why can't I just dance with Lilly? I want to know if one of my best friends is okay, dammit!
~~~~~