“Hello, Elizabeth,” she said. “I assume you’re here for your lunch.” She looked annoyed. “Nurse Keller called in sick today, and I’m in the middle of some business in the office. Can you handle this by yourself, or do you need me with you?”
Sick? Today? That wasn’t part of the plan.
“No problem,” I lied. “I’ll be okay.”
She looked at me, her eyes narrowing. “Are you sure?”
“Yup. I’ll be great,” I lied again. “I have homework to keep me company.” Not exactly a lie, since I did have homework, but I could never focus on it when food was in front of me.
“Okay,” she said. “Keep the door open. If you need anything, I’ll be in the next room. Let me know when you’re done.”
“I will.” I sat down and pulled the lunch box from the bottom of my backpack. It was new and covered with flowers in pink, yellow, orange, red, and green, like something you’d send to school with a first grader. A note from Mom was inside.
Thought you might like a new lunch box for your fresh start. You can do this! Take one bite at a time. Call me if you have trouble. Love, Mom. And, hurriedly scribbled below it, and Dad too!
Beneath the note were a number of small Tupperware boxes, clear with green plastic lids. Too many, it seemed. I looked at the included lunch list: turkey sandwich on wheat bread w/ 1 slice American cheese, lettuce, 2 tsp. mayonnaise, ? avocado, and tomato slice (1), apple (1), Greek yogurt (1), granola bar (1), and milk (1).
For the first time since checking into Wallingfield, I was alone at mealtime. No one would see if I wrapped that turkey sandwich up in a napkin, put it in my backpack, and threw it away in one of the trash cans around school. Same with the apple, Greek yogurt, and granola bar. So much of my brain was telling me to do it, to toss the food. I stared at the sandwich. In my head I heard Mom. You are stronger than you think.
I bit my nails. I shook my foot. I got up and paced. The sandwich just sat there on the table, refusing to eat itself. The secretary’s face popped up at the window. She didn’t bother to open the door. “Good?” she mouthed. I gave her a shaky thumbs-up. She turned back to her paperwork, which seemed to consist of eating a doughnut and looking at Facebook on her computer. I had ten minutes left. Ten minutes. I thought of the jeans in my closet. I thought of the tiny-size clothes in my drawers, the teeny T-shirts, skirts, and yoga pants. I thought of what they would look like if I put them on now. I thought of Wallingfield, of the girls who were on their second or even third trips into residential treatment. I thought of how, over time, the ones who refused to get better seemed proud of their illness, like they thought they were tougher than the rest of us, better even, because they’d mastered the whole eating disorder thing. I thought of Lexi. Did I want to spend my life bouncing in and out of treatment centers, having bone scans and waiting for the bad one? I thought of Margot, who didn’t have what I had—parents who loved and supported me.
If I skipped lunch I’d find a way to skip dinner. Then breakfast, and lunch, and dinner again. It wasn’t a slippery slope. It was a straight free fall, and I knew it.
I picked up my sandwich and took a bite. Mom had bought my favorite French bread from the bakery downtown. It was soft and delicious. I chewed each bite to paste, but I ate it. Same with the yogurt, the apple, the granola bar, and the milk. I finished, exhausted, just as the bell rang.
When the secretary came in, she glanced at my containers, said, “Good work! You’re free to go,” and opened the door. I wanted to shout at her, Do you know what I just did? and for her to at least give me a high five, or a fist bump or something, like they would have at Wallingfield. But she wouldn’t get it, so I kept my excitement and pride to myself.
She held the door with her hip and picked at her fingernails.
After the quiet of the office, the hallway was overwhelming, a rush of kids moving and dodging and making their way to their next class. I hesitated. I was so tired. I didn’t think I could fight my way into that chaotic flow of traffic. It was too much. I wanted to go home.
And then, there he was. Tristan. He stopped and smiled, the only kid wearing a messenger bag instead of a backpack. “Hey, superstar, ready to go?”
He made it sound so easy, like it was a no-brainer. I lingered in the doorway.
And then Mom was with me again. Her voice ran like cough syrup through me, coating my nerves. You have been through a war, and you’ve won. I took a deep breath. The war wasn’t over. I had so much more work to do. But Mom wasn’t totally wrong. I’d won a few big battles, and that counted for something.
“Okay, so we’ll see you tomorrow,” the secretary said.
I put the straps of my backpack on one shoulder at a time. Yes, you will, I thought. Yes, you will.
Acknowledgments
Back in 2012, when I sat down to write for real for the first time, I had no words. Then I joined a writing group and they started flowing. Thank you, Mary Hill, Janine Kovac, Jill Dempster, and Joanne Hartman, for sharing your worlds with me, inspiring me, and believing in me before I did.
Kent D. Wolf, thank you for plucking me out of the crowd and caring about Elizabeth’s story as much as I do. You are the best agent a writer could have, and I am grateful.
Joy Peskin, from the minute I met you, I knew that we were a match (Camby Hall 4-eva!). Your editorial vision, kindness, and all-around smarts made my book come alive and make every phone call and meeting a treat.
I super appreciate the teamwork over at FSG. Elizabeth H. Clark, Maya Packard, Nicholas Henderson, and Nancy Elgin, many, many thanks for everything.
Lisa Staton, thank you for listening and allowing me to be the fourth triplet for all these years. Abby Smith and Jacqueline Caruth, you fill my bucket when I need it the most. Jean and Raleigh Ellisen, someone in the universe was looking out for me when we moved next door to you. Thank you for the e-cards, the lemon curd, the daily hugs, and the love. Rachel Sarah, you read every single page of this book multiple times and probably know Elizabeth better than I do. Thank you for your friendship and your wisdom. I couldn’t have done this without you.