someplace where no one could call me names, laugh at me, pity me.
Lara Ardeche
, a voice in my head said to me,
you are not a quitter. You can change this. And you don’t need anyone’s help. All you have to do is stop eating. Totally. No matter how hungry you get, or how bad that is, it can’t be as bad as this is
.
Yes. That was what I would do. I’d just stop eating.
One of two things would happen.
I would get thin again. Or I would die.
Either way, I would win.
“L ara, you can’t not eat at all,” my mother said, sucking on her cigarette nervously.
“Yes I can.”
It was that evening, and my mother and I were in the kitchen after dinner. Her dinner. I had consumed only water. Dad was out of town. Scott was at a friend’s house.
“You’ll get sick,” she said. “Don’t you think that therapist could help you?”
“I hate her,” I said, “and I don’t need her help. I’ve made a decision. I am not going to eat anything.”
“We’ll go to a different diet doctor—”
“No. I’ve made up my mind.”
She inhaled on her cigarette and let the smoke out slowly. “I can’t let you do that, honey.”
“It’s not up to you,” I snapped. “It’s up to me. You can’t force me to eat.”
“What if we don’t keep any fattening foods in the house anymore?” she asked brightly. “I’m sure Scott would be willing to—”
“Mom, when is the last time you saw me eat anything except diet food?” I interrupted.
“I know you try, Lara, but—”
“I mean it, Mom. When?”
“You don’t eat in front of me,” my mother said, her eyes full of pity. “But Tammie told me she found candy-bar wrappers behind your bed.”
“Our housekeeper’s
reporting
to you now? You’re
spying
on me?”
Mom got up and went to the drawer in the kitchen counter. She opened it and pulled out a small package. SKINNY STRIP was the return address. The package was addressed to me.
“This came in the mail last month,” Mom said. “I can’t believe you fell for such a—”
“It isn’t mine,” I protested. “It’s Molly’s! I only agreed to let her send it here because—”
“Lara, this lying has got to stop.”
“I’m not lying!”
My mother rested one palm on her forehead, her elbow on the table. Her eyes peered at me from beneath her shaggy blond bangs. “Honey, I’m just worried about you. You sneak food, you keep gaining. The other day when Jennie Smith stopped over I looked at her and I realized: ‘God, my daughter is twice as big as that girl.’ ”
“Listen to me,” I said, my voice low. “Sometimes I eat candy. Maybe once a week, after I’ve spent days starving—”
“And you lose your self-control, I know.”
I stood up. “You love me, right?”
She stood up, too. “Lara! What a thing to ask!”
“You love me, but you don’t believe me. Okay. I’ll prove it to you. I want you to spend every minute with me for the next five days. I won’t go to school and you won’t do any parties. I’m going to fast. If I lose weight, I’ll do whatever you tell me to do—go see that obnoxious therapist, join Jenny Craig, anything. But if I gain weight or stay the same, you have to believe me: something is wrong with me physically.”
She stubbed her cigarette out. “Lara, we’ve been back and forth to the doctors over and over. It isn’t healthy for you to—”
“Five days,” I said, my voice shaking.
“Your father would—”
“Daddy is out of town. He’ll never know.”
I could feel her wavering. “You’d do it if I was sick,” I said, my voice rising. “Really sick. Dying.… That’s how I feel, Mom. I feel like I’m dying.”
She was silent for a long moment. “
Three
days,” she finally said. “And you have to eat something.”
“Slim-Shake,” I countered, naming a popular over-the-counter milk shake used for weight loss.
“And vitamins,” Mom added. “You’ll take vitamins.”
“Deal,” I agreed.
We shook on it, her slender,
Lara Ardeche
, a voice in my head said to me,
you are not a quitter. You can change this. And you don’t need anyone’s help. All you have to do is stop eating. Totally. No matter how hungry you get, or how bad that is, it can’t be as bad as this is
.
Yes. That was what I would do. I’d just stop eating.
One of two things would happen.
I would get thin again. Or I would die.
Either way, I would win.
“L ara, you can’t not eat at all,” my mother said, sucking on her cigarette nervously.
“Yes I can.”
It was that evening, and my mother and I were in the kitchen after dinner. Her dinner. I had consumed only water. Dad was out of town. Scott was at a friend’s house.
“You’ll get sick,” she said. “Don’t you think that therapist could help you?”
“I hate her,” I said, “and I don’t need her help. I’ve made a decision. I am not going to eat anything.”
“We’ll go to a different diet doctor—”
“No. I’ve made up my mind.”
She inhaled on her cigarette and let the smoke out slowly. “I can’t let you do that, honey.”
“It’s not up to you,” I snapped. “It’s up to me. You can’t force me to eat.”
“What if we don’t keep any fattening foods in the house anymore?” she asked brightly. “I’m sure Scott would be willing to—”
“Mom, when is the last time you saw me eat anything except diet food?” I interrupted.
“I know you try, Lara, but—”
“I mean it, Mom. When?”
“You don’t eat in front of me,” my mother said, her eyes full of pity. “But Tammie told me she found candy-bar wrappers behind your bed.”
“Our housekeeper’s
reporting
to you now? You’re
spying
on me?”
Mom got up and went to the drawer in the kitchen counter. She opened it and pulled out a small package. SKINNY STRIP was the return address. The package was addressed to me.
“This came in the mail last month,” Mom said. “I can’t believe you fell for such a—”
“It isn’t mine,” I protested. “It’s Molly’s! I only agreed to let her send it here because—”
“Lara, this lying has got to stop.”
“I’m not lying!”
My mother rested one palm on her forehead, her elbow on the table. Her eyes peered at me from beneath her shaggy blond bangs. “Honey, I’m just worried about you. You sneak food, you keep gaining. The other day when Jennie Smith stopped over I looked at her and I realized: ‘God, my daughter is twice as big as that girl.’ ”
“Listen to me,” I said, my voice low. “Sometimes I eat candy. Maybe once a week, after I’ve spent days starving—”
“And you lose your self-control, I know.”
I stood up. “You love me, right?”
She stood up, too. “Lara! What a thing to ask!”
“You love me, but you don’t believe me. Okay. I’ll prove it to you. I want you to spend every minute with me for the next five days. I won’t go to school and you won’t do any parties. I’m going to fast. If I lose weight, I’ll do whatever you tell me to do—go see that obnoxious therapist, join Jenny Craig, anything. But if I gain weight or stay the same, you have to believe me: something is wrong with me physically.”
She stubbed her cigarette out. “Lara, we’ve been back and forth to the doctors over and over. It isn’t healthy for you to—”
“Five days,” I said, my voice shaking.
“Your father would—”
“Daddy is out of town. He’ll never know.”
I could feel her wavering. “You’d do it if I was sick,” I said, my voice rising. “Really sick. Dying.… That’s how I feel, Mom. I feel like I’m dying.”
She was silent for a long moment. “
Three
days,” she finally said. “And you have to eat something.”
“Slim-Shake,” I countered, naming a popular over-the-counter milk shake used for weight loss.
“And vitamins,” Mom added. “You’ll take vitamins.”
“Deal,” I agreed.
We shook on it, her slender,
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