“You’re crazy.”
“Your mountain bike,” she repeated.
“Have you been sniffing glue? Those fumes, you know, they can make you nuts.”
Ape Face walked over to the door, placed one hand on the doorknob. “This is my final offer, Belly. Take it or . . . don’t.”
I have never hated anyone so much in my entire life as I hated my sister at that moment. “Get out of my room,” I told her. “Out.”
“Have it your way,” Ape Face said. And here is what she, my own flesh and blood, did: she placed both hands on her nonhips, smiled at me, and started yelling. “Mahhhhhm! Belly’s puking her guts out!”
That’s how it happened. That’s how my ex-sister realized her lifelong dream of seeing me placed under house arrest. That’s how I ended up here, on this pee-colored couch from the disco era, sandwiched between a skeleton and a whale.
2
“GROUP” IS MY PUNISHMENT. As in “Eating Disorder and Body Image Therapy Group.” It is just how you wish you could spend every day for the rest of your life: sitting around in a circle, talking about things you don’t want to talk about, in a room with no air circulation and orange carpet that smells like Cheez-Its.
The first day of Group I wouldn’t get out of the car. My mother had us parked in a ten-minute spot, but that didn’t make me move any faster. I stared out the window at absolutely nothing. Then I fiddled with the radio. When I’m in the mood I can switch stations so fast you can’t even tell what song is playing. It is quite a talent.
Finally my mother reached over and turned it off.
“What?” I said. “I was listening.”
“Isabelle.” She put her hand on my arm. “It’s almost five. You don’t want to be late.”
I moved as far away from her hand as I could get. “Yes, I do,” I said. “I want to be very, very late. You have no idea how late I want to be.”
My mother sighed and gripped the steering wheel with both hands.
I turned the radio on again and fiddled with the buttons like crazy, which you would think would make a mother furious. Not this mother. She is the type that says, in a voice so gentle you want to scream, “Oh, honey.”
“Fine!” I turned off the radio. I unbuckled my seat belt to make her think I was planning on going somewhere. “Just answer me one thing. Why are you making me do this?”
“Because that is the deal,” my mother said.
“Some deal. It’s not like I had a choice.”
“You’re right.” My mother took off the stupid black sunglasses she always has to wear when she goes out, even when it’s raining. She turned to look at me. “About this, you don’t have a choice. You need to do this one thing.”
Now I was the one who reached over to touch her arm. “Mom. Please? It was just that one time I threw up. I won’t do it again. I promise.”
“I know you won’t,” she said.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“So I don’t have to go?”
“No,” Mom said, shaking her head slowly. “You do have to go. That’s how I know you won’t do it again.”
“Huh,” I said. I made my voice quiet and spoke directly to the windshield. The worst words possible. “Daddy would never make me go. Not in a million years.”
The silence was so big it made my stomach ache.
My mother couldn’t look at me. “I’ll pick you up at six thirty,” she said in a wobbly voice. On went the sunglasses.
When I got out of the car I slammed the door as hard as I could. I didn’t care if she cried. She could cry all day if she wanted to. Just for once, though, I’d like her to do it out in the open, not hiding behind something like sunglasses. It’s a wonder she doesn’t go blind.
I stood at the curb, watching my mother fumble with the car keys for about a hundred years until she finally turned on the ignition. I figured I might as well wait until she pulled away, so she could wave good-bye to me like everything was fine. And I could wave back like nothing had happened.
The leader of Group is Trish, who has hair like Orphan Annie and an overbite. I know what an overbite is only because I have one too. At least I used to, before I got braces. Now all I have is a mouth full of metal.
The first day, Trish bounced around handing out three-by-five cards and touching everyone on the shoulder. “Here you go. . . . Here you go. . . .” She’s the camp counselor type. If anyone can make a rope ladder out of dental floss, it’s Trish.
“Welcome to Group!” Trish said. “Why don’t we go around the room and introduce ourselves. . . . Mathilde?” Trish pounced on the girl to my left. “Would you like to start?”
When Mathilde ducked her head, you could see all five of her chins. I’m not saying this to be mean, it really happened. She spoke so softly we could barely hear her. “I’m . . . uh . . . Mathilde.”
“Great!” said Trish. “Hi, Mathilde. Let’s all say ‘Hiii, Mathilde.’”
We all said, “Hiii, Mathilde.”
You have to feel badly for Mathilde. You really do. First of all, she wears things like shorts with little strawberries on them, and T-shirts with iron-on kittens. You can bet her grandmother picks them out. Second, she has the fat-test legs I’ve ever seen. Next to hers, my legs look like sticks.
“Dawn?” said Trish.
“I’m Dawn,” said Dawn, the cute girl sitting across from me. Long yellow bangs, sad eyes, pug nose. I liked her right away.
“Hiii, Dawn,” we said.
Then there was Rachel. Rachel looks like she should be in a gang. She has about ten earrings in each ear and black eyeliner all around her eyes. You can guess what she’s thinking just from looking at her. I don’t need you people! I don’t need anyone!
“Hiii, Rachel,” we said anyway.
Next was Lila, who is superskinny. She’s always tapping her fingertips against her kneecaps. Her skin is white, white, white, and you can count her ribs through her turtleneck. Most people would probably think that’s gross, being able to count someone’s ribs through their shirt, but personally, I wouldn’t mind looking like Lila. It’s better than being fat. Way better.
“Hiii, Lila,” we said.
Finally there was me. Isabelle Lee. Here’s the problem with Isabelle Lee: shorten it, and what do you get? Izzy Lee, which I hate. Or Belle Lee, which is just as bad. And Belly? Well, Belly is unforgivable. I wake up every day ready to kill Ape Face for coming up with that one.
I used to be Bella, Daddy’s name for me. But then he died and I wouldn’t let anyone call me that anymore. If they did I’d bite their head right off.
Nobody in Group knows about that. To them, I’m just Isabelle, and that’s how it’s going to stay.
“Hiii, Isabelle.”
“Hi,” I said. My voice came out so squeaky I didn’t even recognize it.
Trish looked at her watch and said we should wait a few more minutes, there were supposed to be six of us. Right on cue, someone knocked at the door.
Trish said, “Come on in, Ashley.”