A Really Awesome Mess (6 page)

Yoga turned out to be meditation and some verrrry light
stretching with shavasana—the part where you just lie there like roadkill—thrown in at the end. The instructor chanted a bunch of hoo-ha about loving our bodies and being grateful for their strength, but all I could think was
You got me up for this? Dead people could work out harder
.

Breakfast was another anxiety-inducing feast—scrambled eggs, toast, tomatoes, and slimy canned peaches—that I once again couldn’t dispose of, either before I choked it down or afterward, due to the nosy, ever-present staff. By that point—and it was only eight thirty in the morning—I was so crabby and groggy from too little sleep and too much food I would have loved to spend the rest of the day hiding out under the covers, but instead I had to go to my academic courses. Making a kid go to school in July is just plain criminal. There should seriously be a law against it.

Still, I dragged my ass from class to class, pinching myself throughout the periods just to stay awake. Jury was still out on the subject matter. First days were always the boring-awkward combo platter of talking about what we were
going to
talk about all semester plus the embarrassing get-to-know-each-other games, so I was reserving judgment.

On to lunch. The plateful of greasy tacos, broccoli, beans, and banana was a total gastric nightmare. My stomach felt like a bloated beach ball and there seemed to be a permanent lump in my throat, which was where I figured all the food I’d
been forced to shove down my gullet in the past twenty-four hours stopped.

Afternoon at School for Screwups was dedicated to head-shrinking, so then I got herded off to Adoption Issues group. I would have given my left ovary for a Red Bull Total Zero. Instead, I got a lukewarm bottle of water and learned that I Wasn’t Alone and My Feelings Were Very Normal.

Finally, it was time for Anger Management. In a weird way, I was almost kind of looking forward to it. First, because it meant I’d survived my first full day of classes and therapy bullshit without going totally insane and second, because I’d get to see Justin, the cute guy I’d met in the caf last night. I figured I’d have to dazzle him with my sparkling personality and half-decent bod now, before I pudged out again and he was too disgusted to look at me like that.

I was already camped out on the sagging tan velour sofa when he walked in. I gave him a big smile, hoping for a glittery green-eyed one back. Instead, he blew me off and went and sat on the love seat next to a dude with a mullet. Bummer. More awkward introductions, then a Hogwarts sorting game no one wanted to participate in.

“Come on now, people. Justin said he’d be sorted in Gryffindor because he has courage. How about the rest of you?” Tina, the therapist running the Anger Management group, asked.

Not sure what she was trying to accomplish, because the
odds were Chip the Mullethead was illiterate; Jenny my mute roommate was never going to answer; and Diana (and probably Mohammed, based on his explanation why he ended up in this group) would prefer to beat the shit out of J. K. Rowling than read her books. But I decided to play along anyhow because for one thing, I love Harry Potter and another, I wanted to see how Justin might react when he heard my affiliation.

“Ravenclaw,” I announced, sneaking a look at him to see if he’d give me a thumbs-up or furrow his brow or what. “And not just because that’s where the Asian girl is. But because they’re the brainiacs, the quirky smart kids who are valued for their individuality instead of made fun of for it.”

Justin gave me a little upward tilt of the chin when I was done with my confession, so I figured we were cool despite our different HP houses. Everyone else acted like they hadn’t even heard me.

Seeing as she was getting absolutely nowhere with her attempts to get us to bond in Pottermore, Tina moved on to another tactic. “Fine then. Let’s go at this from a different angle. I want everyone to tell the group what your favorite breakfast is and why.”

We all stared at her. No one said a word.

“I’ll start,” Tina said breezily, like it didn’t bother her we wanted no part of her games. “I love bran flakes cereal because it gets my morning off to a good start.”

“More like a good fart,” Chip hooted. Then he let out a huge
guffaw, cupped his hand under his armpit, and let a few fake ones rip.

“Grow up,” I muttered. I couldn’t believe my parents would pay for this kind of an education—fart jokes were so second grade—and not the college-level one I could have been getting at Simon’s Rock.

“What? You pissed because your favorite thing for breakfast is your finger?” Chip said, squinting. I couldn’t tell if he was making an Asian, sexual, or eating disorder joke.

I tried my best to ignore whichever he had been going for. “Could you be any more of an uneducated, immature, misogynistic pig?”

Jenny whipped her head around, gave me a death stare, and started scribbling in her journal. Then she ripped out a piece of paper and stomped over to give it to me.
Take it back!
it read.

“Why?” I asked “Face it, that’s what he is. A total pig.”

Jenny shook her head furiously. I guess she liked her men dumb and insulting.

“I like breast meat in the morning,” Diana piped in with a demented cackle. “The whiter, the better.”

“Nutritionists stress the importance of protein at each meal, Diana. Chicken is a great source, even if it is a tad unconventional for breakfast,” Tina replied, unfazed by the disturbingly evil laugh coming from such a cute little person.

“Who said anything about chicken?” Diana asked, sticking
her hands on her hips. “I meant, I like to eat human flesh. Not in a sexual way. But for sustenance. Like the Donner Party.”

“Oh please! That’s totally gross, not to mention untrue,” I said. I’d have to let my parents in on this little conversation when I got my first phone call with them next weekend. Then they’d definitely think twice about keeping me here for the actual school year. I planned to lay it on thick, like
I see why you were concerned about me, you were right, I’m eating much more healthfully now. But the kids here are crazy, I mean, one even says she’s a cannibal, don’t you think your money would be better spent on Simon’s Rock?

“How would you know, bitch?” Diana yelled at me.

And she wasn’t the only one who had me on their shit list. Jenny was still fuming and writing away from the depths of her wilted beanbag chair.

“Everyone, take a few deep breaths and count back from ten in your head,” Tina said in a soothing monotone. After the intensity seemed to deflate a bit, she added, “You don’t have to put up your walls in this group, Diana. Everyone here has been extraordinarily traumatized. You use outrageous statements and anger to cover up your grief and believe me, you’re not the only one.”

Diana looked stricken at being called out by Tina. She stared blankly at the wall for a full minute, her eyes glassy and moist, before taking off her oversized hoodie and covering her face with
it. She looked even smaller and younger sitting there in only a striped top and stretch pants.

“I’m not upset,” she sobbed into her sweatshirt. “I’m
pissed
. There’s a big difference.”

Tina knelt down, took Diana’s hands in hers, and pulled the shirt from Diana’s face. “Your tears tell me that’s not true.”

I had to literally bite the side of my cheek to stop from screaming
What the hell happened to you, kid?
There were probably ten red, raised scars starting on the underside of Diana’s left wrist going all the way up to her elbow. And I mean, I knew what happened—that Diana had done it to herself. What I couldn’t imagine was why. At least the ban on tweezers and scissors and razors made more sense now.

“Fine, whatever,” Diana said, sniffling a bit. “The Sorting Hat would tell me to go to Slytherin, but I’d be much better in Gryffindor.”

“Because you want to be like Harry?” Justin asked.

“I think it’s because although Diana might sometimes give off a tough vibe and attract negative attention to herself, she is an honorable, strong, and courageous person underneath it all,” Tina told him. “She often feels misunderstood, so she is working on presenting herself in a true light. Isn’t that right, Diana?”

Diana just shrugged.

“Great work, Diana,” Tina said, like she’d actually helped the poor kid. “Let’s get back to the breakfast question. Anyone care to share?”

“Contrary to what Chip may think,” I jumped in, hoping to move on without any more weird drama, “my favorite breakfast food is actually a bagel with cream cheese and bacon.” I hadn’t actually eaten a “bacon-bagel-burger,” as I liked to call my creation, in over six months, but I sometimes dreamed of them. I’d wake up crying, thinking I’d actually eaten one, then cry some more because I knew I could never really eat one again if I wanted to stay thin.

I was still mourning the loss of the salty, creamy, carbo goodness when a balled-up piece of paper whipped me in the head. “What the hell?” I yelled.

Jenny was glaring at me, her face flushed crimson.

“Ix-nay on the acon-bay,” Chip whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Don’t you have any clue why she stopped talking?”

“No,” I said, uncrumpling the paper to read it. It was a long list entitled
Pigs Rule
. “How could I? She doesn’t talk to me, remember?”

“Jenny, please refrain from throwing things or I’ll be forced to give you demerit points. And Emmy, if it’s okay with Jenny, perhaps you could read from the note aloud,” Tina said, looking over at Jenny for confirmation. Jenny nodded emphatically.

“Uhhh, sure,” I said, scanning the paper. It was actually kind of interesting, if maybe a little unbelievable. “ ‘One, pigs snuggle each other when sleeping, and dream as much as humans do. Pigs like to play, sunbathe, and explore. At farm sanctuaries, they are reported to love music, playing soccer, and getting massages.’ ”

“It’s good to be a pig!” Chip crowed.

Jenny gave him a big smile before frowning again in my direction. Then she rolled her hand and wrist at me in that universal
keep going
sign.

“ ‘Two, pigs communicate constantly and have twenty different vocalizations. Mama pigs sing to their babies when they are nursing.’ Awwww, cute!” I looked over at Justin to see if maybe he thought
I
was cute, but he was staring out the window, totally not listening. I went through the rest of the list without any more of my clearly uncute commentary.” Let me see, ‘Pigs have the mental capacity of a human three-year-old, a great sense of direction, can run up to eleven miles an hour, and are clean, do not sweat, and eat slowly and in moderation.’ ”

Tina was nodding happily. “Great point you make there, Jenny.”

“Exactly what point did she make?” Justin chimed in. If he’d been listening he’d know … wait, no, that wasn’t true. Because I’d read the list and I still had no idea what her point was.

“Seriously,” I agreed. “I have no clue either.”

“Well, that we shouldn’t use the word pig as an insult, of course. Just like no one should ever use the word gay to mean uncool,” Tina explained.

I sighed, more loudly than I intended to.

“You don’t buy into that crap, huh, Emmy?” Diana said, excited to be the one calling someone else out. Her tears were all gone, and the demonic grin was back.

“I guess I was just thinking most stereotypes have some truth
to them. So if pigs don’t eat a lot or sweat, then how did expressions like
pigging out
and
sweating like a pig
get started?” I asked. I honestly was wondering. “And seriously … how could anyone possibly know if pigs dream as much as humans do? Are all the pigs like
I had that nightmare about my teeth falling out again
and then their pig friends are like
LOL, Freud said that one is subliminally about masturbation?
”

Justin kind of gave a little chuckle, which only fueled my desire to keep going. Guys liked funny girls, right? “Also, can you imagine a pig lying on a massage table saying,
Can you work my lower back some more? I must have pulled a muscle scoring that winning soccer goal yesterday
.”

Here Justin actually snorted. There was no stopping me now.

“So sorry, Jenny, that I didn’t know discrimination against pigs was so rampant,” I said, wrapping it up. “I’ll try not to take their little piggy names in vain again.”

Jenny, who looked like she was about to shoot lava out her ears, waved me over. Tina got all excited.

“I think she wants to tell you something,” Tina said, clasping her hands together like she was thanking God for all her wonderful head-shrinking gifts.

I walked over to where Jenny was sitting. She hauled herself out of the beanbag, stood up, whispered “Fuck you” in my ear so quietly only I could hear it, and then socked me surprisingly hard in the gut.

And just like that—barf-o-rama. I couldn’t have stopped the flood even if I’d wanted to. During the past six months of stealth purging, I’d had to learn to puke quickly and quietly by clenching my stomach. Only this time, Jenny had clenched it for me—with her fist.

I wouldn’t have even felt bad about it—score one for me for getting rid of all those calories, and two for getting back at someone who’d just told me to f-off—except for the fact that Justin had witnessed it. Not sexy. No amount of laughs would make up for that kind of gross performance.

Though my lunch got tossed mostly on the floor, some of my regurgitated taco and from the looks of it, banana and broccoli, landed on Jenny’s shoes. She took one look at her defiled blue canvas Toms and tackled me to the ground. At first, I tried to block her kicks and punches without really fighting back, but then gave up the whole pacifist thing and started scuffling hard.

“Pig pile!” I screamed, just because I knew it would piss off Jenny even more. Also I hoped it might be amusing enough to take Justin’s mind off the fact that I’d just vomited extremely uncutely in front of him.

Diana must have felt left out because a few seconds later she came at us full force. “Pigs are delicious!” she whooped, diving in between Jenny and me. “And vegetarians are all ugly pussies with hairy armpits who won’t wear makeup because it’s tested on animals!”