Purge Page 8

  I still had a hangover from sneaking multiple glasses of champagne at the wedding and I was hiding in my room, partly to avoid facing the wrath of my parents and partly because I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to show my face in public again.

  Kelsey knocked on my bedroom door and came in, despite the fact I’d groaned “Go away!” and dragged the covers over my head. She pulled them down away from my face and said, “Janie, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

  “Can’t you pick it tomorrow?” I said. “I’ve got a wicked-ass headache, and I’m pretty sure that’s the Grim Reaper standing there in the corner waiting for me.”

  “I’m not surprised you feel like death,” Kelsey said. Her voiced lacked even a smidgen of sympathy. “I think the only thing that surprises me is that Jenny didn’t murder you for causing such a scene at her wedding.”

  “Please … don’t remind me.”

  “Even if Jenny let it slide on account of wanting to jump into the bed of nuptial bliss, I’m surprised Clarissa hasn’t been over here to help you across the River Styx.”

  “Listen, Kels, if you just came over to remind me of all the people who would like to kill me right now, I wish you’d saved yourself the trip. I’m really not up for it.”

  “Actually, reciting the names on the I Want To Kill Janie List — and, believe me, I was only getting started — is just the preview. I came over here to tell you why I’m so pissed at you.”

  I took my arm from over my eyes, where it had been lodged to keep out whatever dim sunlight the curtains let in ever since Kelsey stripped the covers back.

  “You’re pissed at me? What the hell are you mad at me about?”

  For some reason this seemed to piss her off even more. She stood up and started stalking back and forth across the room like a metronome set to presto.

  “What am I pissed about? Hmmmm … let me think …. Could it be that you threw up chocolate cake puke all over the Azzedine Alaia dress that my mom with extreme reluctance agreed to let me borrow to wear to the wedding? Well, yes, I am pissed about that, because now Mom won’t let me borrow anything out of her incredibly pricey and stylish wardrobe when it’s time for the senior prom.”

  She stomped over to the curtains and yanked them open. Sunlight thrust daggers into my eyeballs, intensifying the throbbing in my head, which in turn set my already queasy stomach roiling.

  “Damn, Kels, why’d you have to do that?”

  “Why? Because I’M MAD AT YOU, JANIE!”

  Whoa! Where did that come from? Kelsey and I have spatted plenty, like any friends, but she’d never screamed at me like that before.

  “Okay, okay, you don’t have to shout …”

  “Says WHO? Actually, I DO have to shout. Why? Because I am so damn furious that my SUPPOSEDLY BEST FRIEND has been sticking her finger down her throat to make herself PUKE for the last TWO YEARS and she didn’t even bother to tell me!!”

  I groaned, because each word was like a mortar exploding in my skull. Not just because of the volume — because I knew she was right.

  “Look, Kels, I didn’t tell you because … because I just didn’t know how.”

  Kelsey stopped pacing, stuck her hands on her hips, and rolled her eyes.

  “Last I knew, you just opened your mouth and spoke when you wanted to tell me things. Jesus, you didn’t have any problem talking my ear off about Matt Lewis after the cast party, did you?”

  Ouch. Hearing Matt’s name after what had happened the night before, and especially being reminded of how I’d talked constantly about him in that week after the cast party, was like a sucker punch to the stomach. And I was a sucker all right when it came to Matt Lewis.

  “I … I just … I couldn’t talk about it with you … because, well, because I thought you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Damn straight I don’t understand! What would possess you to do something so incredibly stupid? I mean, Jesus, Janie. It’s dangerous. You could ruin your teeth and your esophagus. You could die.”

  “Now you’re overreacting. There’s no way I’m going to die.”

  Kelsey resumed her staccato steps back and forth across the room.

  “Oh yeah?! How do you know?” Kelsey stopped and sat on the end of my bed. I felt her hand grip my ankle. “I’m worried about you, Janie. Why would you put your life at risk just because you’re trying to lose weight — especially since you don’t even need to?”

  I put my arm over my eyes, because I didn’t want to see the anger and disappointment on Kelsey’s face.

  “You wouldn’t understand, Kels. You’ve got such a perfect body and …”

  “What are you talking about?!” Kelsey burst out, causing more mortar explosions in my head. “I don’t have a perfect body. There’s no such thing as a perfect body.”

  Easy for her to say.

  “Well, at least you’re not fat like I am, and guys like you, and …”

  I stopped because talking about guys liking her reminded me of what had happened the night before and I had to swallow, hard, to keep in the sob threatening to escape.

  “Okay, Janie, listen up and listen up good: (a) You are not fat; (b) Guys like you and —”

  “No, they don’t …”

  “Shut up and listen to me! They do, too. Danny, for one, is crazy about you, which you’d know if you weren’t so busy mooning over that asshole Matt Lewis. Seriously, Janie, I don’t understand why you’re so down on yourself all the time. You’re really pretty and all you do is rag on how you look. It’s getting old — in fact, it’s getting beyond old.”

  In between drumbeats in my head, all I could think was that she was just saying I was pretty and not fat because she didn’t want me to lose more weight because then guys might like me instead of her. I didn’t realize I’d said it aloud until I heard Kels say, “I can’t believe after all these years of friendship that’s how little you think of me.”

  Her hand came off my ankle and it sounded like she was crying.

  I uncovered my eyes and, yes, she was crying.

  “Kels, I’m sorry, I …”

  She waved her hand to shut me up as she got up and walked toward the door.

  “I thought you knew me better than that, Janie. I thought I was your best friend,” she said, swiping away tears with the back of her hand. “I guess I was wrong. I just don’t know you anymore.”

  “Kelsey, wait …”

  But she was gone, slamming the bedroom door behind her. If I felt crummy before Kelsey walked in the door, it was nothing compared to how awful I felt when she left. I don’t think I ever felt so alone in my entire life. It was like I’d burned my last bridge to normalcy.

  Matt Lewis hates me, Danny hates me, Clarissa hates me (even though that’s nothing new), Jenny hates me, Mom and Dad hate me, and now Kelsey hates me, too.

  But no matter how much they hated me, it didn’t even begin to compare to how much I hated myself.

  * * *

  I finally manage to get the quarters in the pay phone slot and dial Kelsey’s number with shaking hands.

  Her mom answers.

  “Hi, Mrs. Critelli — it’s Janie. Is … Kelsey there?”

  Please let her be there and be willing to speak to me. Please don’t let her have written me off. Please don’t let my best friend hate me forever.

  “Sure, honey. How are you doing?”

  I can’t believe how kind and caring she sounds, especially since I puked chocolate cake all over her Azzedine Alaia dress and I can’t imagine the stains will ever come out, even if they take it to some ultra-expensive specialty dry cleaner.

  “Um … well, not so good actually. I’m … in the hospital … for bulimia.”

  I figure my mom’s told her I’m at drama camp or something, so I’m completely floored when she says, “I know, dear. I think it’s terrific that you’re getting help, I really do.”

  “Mrs. Critelli, I’m really, really sorry about your dress. I promise I’ll pay for the dry cleaning and …” />
  “Oh, Janie, don’t even think about the dress. I have plenty more in my closet. But there’s only one of you, and the main thing is that you look after yourself and get healthy.”

  I feel a lump start to form in my throat. I wonder if maybe I’ll be able to cry again.

  “Good luck, sweetie. We’re all praying for you. I lit a candle for you in church on Sunday. Anyway, I know you don’t want to waste your time listening to me jabber. I’ll just call Kelsey — she’ll be thrilled to be able to speak to you.”

  I wish I could be so sure. As I’m waiting to see if Kelsey will come to the phone, I’m trying to get over the amazement that my mother actually told Mrs. Critelli the truth instead of some polite fiction for the sake of appearances. It’s not like Mom to admit that All Is Not Perfect in the House of Ryman. Not like Mom at all.

  “Hey, Janie … how’re you doing?”

  Hallelujah! She’s talking to me!

  “I’m … okay. Well, as okay as I can be in a psychiatric hospital, I guess.”

  Kelsey laughs, and my heart beats faster at the sound of it. Please let it mean she’s forgiven me and is still my friend.

  “Kelsey, listen, I’m …”

  “Sorry. Yeah, I know. So am I.”

  “What the hell do you have to be sorry about? You didn’t puke on your best friend’s designer dress and ruin your half-sister’s dream wedding, disgrace your entire family, and insult your best friend when she came to tell you what a screwup you are.”

  The silence that follows is a few seconds too long for comfort.

  “Well, okay, you’ve got a point. I couldn’t believe what you said to me, Janie. I was … well, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so … horrible … so hurt by someone’s words, in my entire life.”

  I feel like pond scum all over again.

  “I know, I’m sooo sorry. Seriously, I feel awful and —”

  But she cuts off my apologies.

  “And it’s true — personally, I prefer to wear designer dresses instead of puking on them. I didn’t ruin my half-sister’s dream wedding, namely because I don’t have a half sister and the only sister I do have is only twelve, so she’s not getting married anytime soon. I tell you what, Janie, if it makes you feel better, I can try really hard to ruin her Sweet Sixteen party when the time comes.”

  One of the reasons I love Kelsey is that she makes me laugh when I’m feeling sorry for myself.

  “Nice … but I really don’t want your mom thinking I’m more of a bad influence than she probably does already.”

  “Puh-leeze,” Kelsey says. “You know my mother thinks you walk on water.”

  “Nuh-uh,” I say. “Anyway, Nice Jewish Girls — okay maybe not so nice — like me aren’t capable of walking on water. We leave that to your guy.”

  Kelsey laughs. “Seriously, though, Janie — you did hurt me. So bad I thought our friendship was over. But after … what happened … I realized that I didn’t need to come bawl you out the day after the wedding when you were an obvious wreck. It was like kicking a helpless puppy. And you know how strongly I feel about helpless puppies.”

  Kels is a vegetarian and an active member of our high school’s chapter of PETA. She feels pretty strongly about anything to do with animals, let alone helpless puppies.

  “Yes, I do know how strongly you feel. And Kels … I really am sorry for what I said.”

  “Please. Don’t mention it again or else you really will be sorry. Now spill … I want to hear all the dirt about what goes on in a psych hospital.”

  I tell her all about the Barfers and the Starvers, and the stupid rules about mealtimes and how humiliating it is to have to try and perform bodily functions with someone listening outside the door.

  “If it were me, I’d be constipated for weeks,” Kelsey says. “I can’t even go at school when there’s someone in the next stall.”

  I finally summon up the courage to ask: “So, Kelsey … how’s Danny? Have you seen him? Does he hate me?”

  She doesn’t answer right away, and I feel sick to my stomach. I can’t bear to think of Danny hating me. Funnily enough, it bothers me more than the idea of Matt Lewis hating me. I think of Danny’s arm catching me, preventing my fall when I tripped onto the dance floor at Jenny’s wedding. I remember when we were back in fifth grade and he handed me a bunch of daffodils from his mom’s garden the first time I had a part in a play.

  I might have worshiped Matt from afar for years, but I’ve been friends with Danny for even longer.

  “I saw him yesterday at the beach. He was asking about you … where you’ve been. He’s left a bunch of messages on your voice mail and you haven’t responded to his e-mails or when he’s texted you. I … I didn’t know what to tell him. I really wanted to let him know what’s going on, but your mom seemed pretty keen that we keep your location top secret. I feel awful …. I’m sure he knows that I know what’s up and I’m not telling him. You know what an awful liar I am.”

  Ha! I knew Mom would want to keep this under wraps. She probably only told Mrs. Critelli because otherwise she knew Kelsey would be calling every day to ask where I was.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said you were away for a while.”

  “But did he say anything about that night?”

  Kelsey hesitates again.

  “C’mon, Kels. Tell me. I need to know.”

  “He’s worried about you, Janie. You might not believe it, but Danny really cares about you. So do I. You should call him. Seriously.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  And I do, for about a nanosecond, before I know I’m too much of a coward.

  “So … he really doesn’t hate me?”

  “Of course he doesn’t, you jerk. Danny thinks the world of you, and you know it.”

  The sense of relief I feel from hearing that Danny doesn’t hate me is almost as big as the relief I’m feeling that Kelsey is still my best friend. Almost.

  “Kelsey, you’re the best. And I know I’m not supposed to say it again, but I really am sorry.”

  Callie appears behind me. “I hate to interrupt this little lovefest-slash-confession, but is there any danger of you getting off the phone so I can make a call before group?”

  I give her a dirty look.

  “Listen, Kels, I have to go. Call me, okay?”

  I give her the pay phone number and hang up.

  “Why are you being such a bitch, Callie?”

  She glares at me as she feeds quarters into the phone and starts dialing.

  “It’s the only way to get by,” she says. “Now shove off and give me some privacy, please.”

  The morning group is a session with Tina, the nutritionist, about “mindful eating.” She starts off by asking how many of us eat while watching TV or reading or doing something else.

  “We always have the TV on while we’re eating,” says Bethany. “But I don’t mind because it means my mom’s not focusing on what I’m eating — or not eating, as the case may be.”

  “I wish I could watch TV instead of having to listen to my asshole stepfather pontificate about everything from who is going to win the World Series to the political situation in Timbuktu, even though he doesn’t know squat about either topic,” Missy grumbles. “That alone is enough to make me want to puke.”

  I think about my own eating habits. It’s one thing when I eat with my family, because we’re not allowed to watch TV or read anything during mealtimes. We’re supposed to interact and have family discussions, although basically that means listening to Dad rant about what’s going on in the stock market or how a certain politician doesn’t know his ass from his elbow, or Mom blathering on about the Wedding, the Wedding, the goddamn freakin’ Wedding. I wonder what she’s going to talk about now. Probably Harry’s Bar Mitzvah … argh.

  But when I’m by myself I can’t stand to eat without doing something else at the same time — except when I’m bingeing. Then I don’t have time to do much else other than fi
gure out what I’m going to stuff my face with next and how soon I’m going to be able to purge. When it’s just normal eating, like breakfast on the weekend after everyone else has already eaten, I’ve got to read. I’ll read the cereal box if I have to, but I can’t just sit there and look at my food when I eat by myself — no way, no how.

  “People with eating disorders tend to try to distract themselves from the act of eating,” Tina says. “So today, we’re going to focus on what it feels like to be mindful of what we put in our mouths.”

  She stands up and walks around, handing each person one of those mini snack boxes of raisins.

  “I’d like each of you to take out one raisin.”

  “We’re not going to have to eat these, are we?” Tinka says. “Because I’m already on a twenty-five-hundred-calorie-a-meal diet and that’s bad enough. Dried fruit is incredibly high in calories, you know.”

  “Of course she knows, you idiot! She’s the nutritionist,” Callie says.

  “Callie,” Tina warns. “And Tinka, you don’t have to eat the whole box. You do, however, have to eat one raisin.”

  It looks like a mutiny’s brewing over on the Starver side of the room. As someone who has consumed an entire tub of Betty Crocker chocolate fudge cake icing washed down with two glasses of milk (even if I did puke it all up immediately afterward), I find it really hard to understand how anyone can get that freaked out by having to eat one itty-bitty raisin. But I guess that’s why I’m bulimic and not anorexic.

  “First, I would like you to smell the raisin,” Tina says.

  We all sit there snorting raisins. I’m tempted to stick my raisin up my nose for comic relief because all the Starvers are so seriously freaked out about the whole thing. But I don’t.

  “Now I’d like you to feel the raisin … squeeze it and roll it around between your fingers.”

  I roll the raisin between my thumb and forefinger. It’s squishy and plump within its wrinkled outer skin.

  “And now I’d like you all to close your eyes and put the raisin in your mouth. Don’t bite down on it right away. Just feel the taste of it on your tongue.”