Dietland (2 page)

Luv,

LuAnne from Ohio

LuAnne was my first girl of the day, so I wasn't yet working at the height of my powers. I stared out the window to avoid the anxiety brought by the blinking cursor and started my response in my head.
Dear LuAnne,
I'm sorry your mother doesn't believe you.
Your mother shouldn't be allowed to call herself a mother.
The mothers of Kitty's readers often chose men over their daughters, the desire for romance overwhelming the need to protect their child. I was tempted to respond to LuAnne by asking for her telephone number so I could call her mother and tell her that she was a horrible person.
I'm glad you came to me for help, LuAnne. Contact your school guidance counselor immediately. He or she will be able to help you with your problem.
No, that wouldn't do. LuAnne deserved better than to be passed off like a baton.

With the strange girl in my peripheral vision, like a tiny bug, I placed my hands on the keyboard and began to type, channeling Kitty's voice:

From: DaisyChain

To: LuLu6

Subject: Re: step brother

Dear LuAnne,

I'm *very* upset that your mom doesn't believe you. I believe you! I would definitely lock your door before going to bed at night. If your door doesn't have a lock, then put a chair or a piece of furniture in front of it. Pile books or other heavy items on top of the furniture. If Troy still gets into your room, scream as loud as you can when you see him. It wouldn't hurt to keep a baseball bat or other such weapon with you at night. Do you have a cell phone? If so, call 911 in an emergency like this.

The next thing I want you to do is tell a trusted adult (your best friend's mom or your favorite teacher) what's going on and she will be able to help you with your problem. If you can't find someone like this to help you, you will need to contact the police. Do you know where the police station is in your town? You could go there and explain what's happening to one of the officers. Ask to speak to a woman.

I'm glad you reached out to me, LuAnne. I'm sending you courage through this email.

Love,

Kitty xo

I read through my response and sent it off. I would try not to think of LuAnne again, of her bedroom door with the chair in front of it, of her stepbrother slipping under the covers with her and sentencing her to a lifetime of therapy or worse. I needed to put her out of my mind, and the Internet was convenient in that way—people could be deleted, switched off. I responded to each girl only once, and if she wrote again, I usually ignored her; with the volume of messages I received each day, I didn't have time to become a pen pal. To survive my job I needed the callousness of an emergency room doctor.

Next.

There were hundreds of messages in my inbox. Before continuing on, I wanted to order my lunch, the usual low-fat hummus and sprouts on oatmeal bread (300), but the girl was standing at the counter, paying for her fruit smoothie. Carmen served her without knowing there was an invisible tether connecting the girl to me; wherever I went, so went she.

Carmen's café looked like a 1950s kitchen, with walls painted turquoise, and vintage jadeite teacups on display. The front of it was entirely glass, presenting a view of Violet Avenue that was a moving tableau of people and cars. Carmen needed extra help occasionally and I would work behind the counter or bake for her, arriving before dawn to make cupcakes and banana bread. Despite the temptations, I loved to bake, but I didn't allow myself to do it often.

I met Carmen in college, and although we were merely acquaintances then, we connected again in New York. She allowed me to use the café as an office. We were friends, since our relationship extended beyond the café to phone calls and occasional outings, but with Carmen pregnant, I couldn't help but worry that things were going to change.

The girl returned to her table with the smoothie and sat down. She didn't write in her notebook, which sat unopened in front of her. Instead, she twisted the silver rings she wore on each of her fingers, moving from one finger to the next, looking bored. I had bored her.

Was the girl actually following me? She had seemed genuinely surprised when I confronted her. I couldn't think of a reason why she'd want to follow me, unless Kitty had sent her to spy on me, to make sure I was doing my work. The girl didn't seem like the type of person who would work for Kitty, but then neither did I.

From: AshliMcB

To: DaisyChain

Subject: big problems

Dear Kitty,

This is going to sound strange, but I like to cut my breasts with a razor. It's something I started doing last month, but I don't know why I do it. I like to trace around my nipples and watch the blood seep through my bra. It's an embarrassing problem and there's no one else I can tell it to. I hate my breasts, so I don't care if they're scarred. They're small and mismatched. I've seen porn websites and I know I'm not normal but I can't keep cutting myself because I might bleed to death or get infected. Please help. I can't stop. I know it's weird, but I do it because it feels good. It hurts, but it feels good too.

Your friend Ashli (17 years old)

A cutter. I felt a momentary blip of dismay at the thought of such troubled girls writing to a magazine editor for help, but if they didn't I'd be out of a job. I looked through my computer files and copied and pasted my standard response about cutting, adding a few personalized tweaks.

From: DaisyChain

To: AshliMcB

Subject: Re: big problems

Dear Ashli,

I'm very worried that you're cutting yourself. Many girls do this, so please don't feel that you're weird, but as your friend Kitty, I ask that you stop doing this immediately. I'm not legally qualified to give you advice on this topic, but at the bottom of this message there is a web address that will give you a lot of information and options for getting help from professionals in your local area.

The next paragraph of my message would focus on breasts and porn. I looked through my files: My Documents/Kitty/Breasts/Porn.

Many of us have breasts that don't match. Please remember that women in porn aren't normal.
You
are normal!

To make her feel better, I could have told her that I dared not show my own breasts, nipples pointed toward the floor, to anyone. I hated to even show them to the doctor, though when I was lying down on the examining table it wasn't so bad; only when standing up could one see the full, hideous effect. I couldn't tell Ashli this because I was pretending to be Kitty, whose perfectly symmetrical breasts stood at full salute, I was sure.

For most of the afternoon, the messages I answered fit into predictable categories (dieting, boys, razor blades and their various uses). There was also a string of complaints from Canadian readers of the magazine. (
Dear Tania: Now, let's be reasonable here, I didn't refer to Quebec as a country on purpose.
) There were a few more difficult letters (
Dear Kitty: Have you ever fantasized about being raped?
) but nothing I couldn't handle. As fast as I answered the messages, more of them flooded in, so I rarely felt a sense of accomplishment. While girls in far-off lands had their genitals trussed like Thanksgiving turkeys, Kitty's girls had their own urgent problems. (
If Matt doesn't call me, I'LL DIE.
) I wasn't good with questions about boys.

There was no end to these pleas. They came from the heartland, from north and south and east and west. It seemed there was no part of the American landscape that was not soggy with the tears of so many girls. After writing an email that explained the difference between a vulva and a vagina (
Your vagina is the passage to your cervix. It provides an opening for menstrual blood. To answer your question, no, you cannot shave a vagina. There is no hair there!
), I looked up and noticed that the girl was gone. Relieved, I opened the next message, not expecting something of interest or anything to restore my faith in girl-kind. (
Every night after dinner I go into the bathroom and throw up.
) Before I could slip into despair, which usually happened every afternoon around three o'clock, Carmen surprised me with a cup of black coffee (
FREE FOOD
) and an oatmeal cookie (195).

She was wearing a maternity top in a pastel shade; her enormous belly looked like an Easter egg. She sat down across from me, letting out a huff of air, running her fingers through her clipped black hair. “Go on, read me one.” The messages from Kitty's girls had a car-crash allure.

I looked down at my computer screen. “Dear Kitty, is it always wrong to have sex with your father?”

“You're making that up.
Please, God.
” She was unsure and waiting for a sign from me. When I started to laugh, she laughed too, and I felt wicked, like a therapist mocking her patients. Carmen rubbed her belly and said, “We used to want a girl, but now I'm not so sure. You've scared me. Girls are
scary.
”

“Not on the surface,” I said. “Only when you dig deep.”

“That's even scarier.”

While I had Carmen's attention, I decided to ask her about the strange girl. I hadn't mentioned her before, not wanting to seem paranoid. “Did you see that girl sitting over there?” I said, pointing to the empty chair.

“The one with the eyeliner? She's been coming in a lot lately. Why, was she bothering you?”

“She seems a bit strange, don't you think?”

Carmen shrugged. “Not particularly. You see the people who come in here.” She paused, and I hoped she was recalling something important about the girl. Instead, she asked if I would cover a shift for her next week while she went to the doctor. I hesitated. I was trying to be good on my diet. Sitting at my normal table wasn't bad if I blocked out the sights and smells around me and drank my coffee and tea, but behind the counter was another matter.

“Sure,” I said. On some days, Carmen was the only person I spoke to. It was only small talk, but at the right moments, she brought me out of my head. For that, I owed her.

Carmen went back to work, and since I was being good, I took only a small bite of the oatmeal cookie. Two teenage girls at the next table smirked as they watched me. I set the cookie down and decided to work more quickly so I could leave. The best way to work was to dive headlong into the water, feeling my way in the darkness, not letting anything stick to me, just letting the current carry me along:

Why are all the models in your magazine so skinny girls are so lucky I'll never be anything but fat ass bitch he said to me after class but I still like him and I know that is crazy cuz he is so mean to me and my friend want to get rid of these gross red bumps on our arms can you help me please cuz my legs look so fat in a swimsuit so should I quit the swim team or what should I do if no guy asks me to the dance cuz my cousin asked me to go with him but is that incest or not every guy likes girls with red hair on my vagina is not sexy tits my history teacher said to me when I wore my purple shirt so he is a perv and now I'm afraid I'm going to gain weight on vacation what can I do if I can't afford a nose job no guy will ever like me with this nose I am sure of it is a mystery to me how you can sleep at night you fucking bitch but why did he say that to me I am not a bitch so I don't understand why my mom won't let me use tampons because I told her I would still be a virgin if I use a tampon will you email her for me and my boyfriend had sex because he made me do it but then he said he was sorry so does that count as rape cuz I still love him but I am confused about why every time I wear red lipstick it gets stuck to my front teeth.

And one last message, from a man in prison:
I like to masturbate while looking at pictures of you. Will you send me a pair of your panties?

Delete.

At home there was a package. I sat on my bed, the straps of my purse and laptop bag still tangled around me, and ripped open the puffy brown parcel. Inside was a knee-length poplin shirtdress, white with purple trim. It was even prettier than the photographs in the catalog had been.

In the corner of my bedroom was a floor-length mirror in a brass frame. I kept it covered by a white sheet, which I tossed aside so I could hold the dress in front of me, imagining what it would look like when it fit. When I was done I put it in the closet with the other too-small clothes.

My regular clothes, the ones I wore on a daily basis, were stuffed into the dresser or flung on the floor. Stretchy and shapeless, threaded with what must have been miles of elastic banding, they were not in fashion or out of fashion; they were not fashion at all. I always wore black and rarely deviated from the uniform of ankle-length skirts and long-sleeved cotton tops, even in the summer. My hair was nearly black too. For years it had been shaped into a shiny chin-skimming bob, with blunt bangs cut straight across my forehead. I liked this style, but it made my head look like a ball that could be twisted from my round body, the way a cap is removed from a bottle of perfume.