He stands beside my hospital bed with his arms crossed. His face is hard to read because he does this thing where he can frown and smile at the same time. He says, “Your father says you’ve been housebound for six months.”
“It depends on when you start counting. For five months and twenty-four days, I’ve been too large to get through the door. But my last day of school was two years ago.”
“There are two important things we need to understand here: why you had this panic attack and why you gained the weight. That’s what we need to address. It will be a process and it will take time, but we are going to get you healthy again.”
I glance at my dad, in the armchair across from me. He knows as well as I do what the Why is. It’s everything changing when I was ten. It’s the bullying and the fear. So much fear of everything, but mostly death. Sudden, out-of-the-blue death. It’s also me being terrified of life. It’s the giant emptiness in my chest. It’s touching my face or my skin and feeling nothing. This is the Why of me staying home in the first place. And the Why of me eating. And the Why of me ending up here. But that doesn’t mean I want to die.
On the day before I leave the hospital, the nurse brings me a package, no return address. Most everyone else is sending me letters, not packages, which is the only reason I open it. That and the fact that my dad isn’t here to take it away before I can.
Inside is a handwritten note without a name or signature, and a copy of my favorite book. One of my actual very own copies of my favorite book, with my initials on the cover and my highlights throughout.
I thought you might want this. Unlike the other letters, this one is nice. I want you to know I’m rooting for you. For the first time in a long time, I touch my skin and feel something.
When Rachel Mendes—tutor and caregiver—arrives, I lay the book down and tell her the thing I’ve been wanting to say but no one will hear. I pull up one of the news articles on my new phone, my first phone, the one my dad bought me so I can call him if I need anything.
I enlarge the picture of me, taken the day I was rescued from our house. “This girl,” I tell Rachel. “That’s not what I look like. That’s not who I am.” I have a feeling Rachel will get this because she pretended to be straight all through high school, even though she figured out she was a lesbian when she was in eighth grade.
I say it again, “That’s not me.”
Her eyes light up. “Great. Let’s see if we can find her.”
NOW
* * *
I throw open my locker before first period, and something flutters out and lands on my shoe. It’s a piece of paper folded in thirds. I stare at it for a while because it’s been my experience that pieces of paper folded in thirds are not a good thing.
I finally pick it up and hold it inside my locker, where no one will see.
America’s Fattest Teen Rescued from House
It’s an article from the Internet, and there I am, in a blurry photo, being wheeled across the front lawn by emergency workers.
On the other side is a giant picture of my giant face taken yesterday in the cafeteria. Beside it someone’s written, Congratulations on being voted MVB High’s Fattest Teen!
I close the door and rest my forehead against the metal of the locker because my head is going hot and I feel dizzy, which is sometimes how it starts. Is this what she felt the day she drove herself to the hospital? Is this how it began for her?
The metal cools me for only a second, but then it’s hotter than my skin and I’m worried I’ll burn myself. I concentrate on lifting my head till it’s sitting upright on my neck once again. The hallway tilts. I open the locker door and focus on the jacket hook, my books, my little corner of the universe. I breathe.
In first period, Mick from Copenhagen is talking to me, but I’m too busy to listen because I’m writing my resignation letter from school.
Dear Principal Wasserman,
Thank you so much for this educational opportunity. Unfortunately, I will not be able to continue here at MVB High because it is overrun by imbeciles.
I cross this out and write,
because of an unfortunate epidemic of imbeciles.
Unfortunate epidemic of imbecility?
I say to Mick from Copenhagen, “Which sounds better to you? ‘An unfortunate epidemic of imbeciles’ or ‘an unfortunate epidemic of imbecility’? Or do you think it sounds stronger to say a place is ‘overrun by imbeciles’?”
He laughs, and lines like the sun’s rays frame the corners of his eyes. “Libby Strout. I’m amazed by you. You turn the hell out of me on.”
At least that’s one person.
As far as days go, this is pretty much the worst one ever.
You think it’s funny to harass women?
You think bullying is funny?
Eating disorders aren’t funny, asshole.
I want to go, The whole reason I fucking did this was not to piss you people off.
I’m also getting a lot of:
That was hilarious. You’re fearless, man.
Good one, dude. You’re awesome.
And:
Nice lip, Mass. What’s the other guy look like? Oh wait—the other GIRL.
Hey, Masselin, don’t piss off [insert name of tiny freshman girl], she might kick your ass.
The only good news is that I can’t tell who’s yelling things at me as they pass me in the hall.
Caroline Lushamp holds my hand between first and second period, and when someone shouts at me she says, “Just ignore them.” Suddenly, she’s the sweet Caroline of years ago, and I concentrate on the feel of her hand in mine.
Throughout the day, more printed-out articles show up in my locker. I try to tell myself to look on the positive side—at least my peers are using the Internet for something other than social media and porn. But honestly, it’s not very comforting. By fourth period, it’s clear that everyone, even the janitors, knows me as the Girl Who Had to Be Cut Out of Her House. I’m Indiana’s high school version of Typhoid Mary. In each class, I sit alone, like fatness is catching.
Moons ago, when I was getting all that hate mail, my dad talked to an attorney who told us to hang on to everything just in case something terrible happened, like I was murdered. That way there would be a paper trail to possible suspects.
News reporter: Do you feel worried? Do you fear for your safety?
Me: You know, I’m glad you asked that. Maybe I should be scared right now, but I honestly think the people writing these letters need to be pitied more than feared. It’s been my experience that the people who are most afraid are the ones who hide behind mean and threatening words.
I stuff the articles in my backpack. I don’t think anyone at MVB is planning to kill me, but you can never be too safe.
I return to the cafeteria even though this is the last place on earth I want to be. I walk in, and six hundred heads turn at once. Six hundred mouths start buzzing. Twelve hundred eyes follow me as I walk. I feel my breath abandon ship like it’s saying Every man for himself! Good luck to you, you’re on your own. I move on without it, taking one step, two steps, three steps. I’m counting them the way my trainers and counselors taught me to do.
It is thirty-seven steps to the round table by the window, where Iris, Bailey, and Jayvee De Castro are sitting. I clutch the back of the chair, and it feels so solid and comforting that I almost remain standing, gripping it with all my might. But then I lower myself into the seat and say, “Well, that was fun.”
Bailey says, very low, because, let’s face it, the people around us are trying to listen, “I’ve known Jack Masselin since seventh grade and I can’t believe he would do this. I mean, okay, he’s not exactly a model student, and there was that one time junior year—his junior year, our sophomore year—when he and Dave Kaminski kidnapped a freshman and locked him on the roof outside the second-floor boys’ bathroom—”
“Walt Casey.” Jayvee shakes her head, and her bob makes a swish swish sound. “Poor Walt.”
Iris freezes midsip. “What’s wrong with Walt?”