AUTHOR'S NOTES: Beautiful Girl is an alternative ending to I Will Always that explores the reactions of Carly's friends and families upon her death from anorexia nervosa. You don't need to have read I Will Always to understand Beautiful Girl, but it is helpful.

Beautiful Girl

By L. M. Boulevardes

I: Walk Softly

Mollia non rigidus caespes tegat ossa nec illi,

Terra, gravis fueris: non fuit illa tibi.

O, would that the hard turf not weigh on her soft bones.

Earth, do not be heavy on her: she was not so on you.

~ From Maritial 5.34, translated by L. M. Boulevardes

"Freddie, are you going to say anything?"

"Do you want me to bake more cookies? Because I can do that," my mother says, looking at me and biting her lower lip. She fidgets uncomfortably in her seat, eyes now fixed on her lap because it's too painful for her to look at me in anything other than glances. There's a big part of her that never liked Carly, but there's a bigger part of her that's a mother. And that part? That part is filled with fear and alarm, and incredible compassion for Spencer. That part can't look at her own child without seeing Carly, seeing the girl who has gone and disappeared into herself, turning to nothing but dust and bones.

It started in the summer, when Carly checked into the hospital (screaming and kicking as she was). That's when my mother began cooking with a vengeance. She acquired a taste for gourmet grocery stores and organic-only foods, a dedication to ferreting out impurities. Luna bars are only seventy percent organic, Freddie, she'll smirk, giving me a look of triumph. She's onto them, all those manufacturers. She's not going to consume any of their awful, terrible chemicals. She's a good mother, she's going to protect me from all the bad things in the world.

Mom can't protect me from this.

"Freddie, I'm going to bake some cookies." My mother stands up determinedly and heads to the kitchen, face lined with grim determination. If food is love, than my mother is determined to be a saint. My house is filled with containers of roasted red pepper gouda bisque, and fresh baked kale chips. There are zucchini muffins on the counter, and there is lavender ice cream in the freezer. My mother goes to the store every few days and spends all her free time cooking multi-course meals.

I can hardly complain; being a sixteen year old boy means all you ever want to do is eat eat eat. And Sam likes to eat too, and she's spending an increasing amount of time at our house. We've been dating for eighteen months, and my mother is finally coming around to her. They're connected through the food, through Sam's willingness to take her affection in. Food is love, a full belly is how to say I care. With every bite we take, we ground ourselves to this earth and assure my mother that we're not leaving, that we're not going anywhere. That we aren't going to starve and wither away like Carly, take ourselves away.

"Freddie, I'm going to make oatmeal cookies with craisins and white chocolate chips. And almonds!" my mother calls. I can hear her banging around, the pots and pans clattering in a cacophony. Sam gives me an ambivalent look and I shrug.

"Does she realize that she's just spent the last two hours stuffing us?" she asks, bewildered. No matter how nice my mother is to her, Sam remains suspicious, waiting for the other shoe to drop and my mother to return to her senses. Sam doesn't quite trust that she's got a sane bone in her body, and frankly I can't blame her. My mother is not what one might call . . . well, mentally stable.

"Give her the bacon cupcake recipe tonight. I'm sure she'll be happy to make it," I tell her, smiling. Sam's eyes light up and she throws a glance over her shoulder to make sure my mother doesn't see it as she leans over to kiss me. As usual, even that little bit of contact is enough to make me catch my breath. You would think that after all this time I would be used to having her around, that I wouldn't be so overcome but I still wake up every day and wonder what stars I wished on to bring her here to me, to put her in my arms.

"That might be the best idea you've ever had, Fredward," she teases, ruffling my hair. I shake my head and she giggles, falling back on the sofa. For a moment, we're content and happy.

But reality always wins.

The days since Carly's gone to the hospital are dark. Heavy, too, like taking a too-big bite of a peanut butter sandwich. My mother has even been letting me miss school, something she never does ("Education is the foundation of everything , Fredward"). At first I spent all my time at the hospital, but that ended quickly when I realized how goddamn depressing that was.

You go into the hospital, and everything's white and smells weird. It's all sterile, all super-cleaned and bacteria-free. The nurses smile at you with pity, realizing the awful situation you're in. You try to smile but, the movement never quite gets there. And you avoid their gaze when you can because it hurts, and you don't want their painful pity. You want to curl up in a ball and disappear, make everything go away. You want to start over and have things be as clean and fresh as this hospital isn't.

Go down the halls, go to the elevator and hear it hum to life. Press the little white button with the four on it and watch it light up. Your heart beats and you think that's where the ICU is, remember that that means that your friend is in critical condition. Your heart tightens in your chest and for a moment you forget to breathe. You wonder if you would feel this way if you weren't getting in the elevator, if you just walking down the halls because the psych unit is on the first floor to prevent jumpers.

You acknowledge that at least then she would alive.

As it is, she is but she isn't. You walk down the halls, and imagine that the walls are closing in on you. It gets hotter and you tug your collar, discomfort creeping up under your skin like a case of Morgellon's. You bite your lip, try to keep smiling at the nurses and not think about how scared you are, how worried you feel. Bite your lip, keep smiling in that perfect-fake way that you've learned to do. Funny how much it makes your face hurt.

In the hospital room (you linger in the doorway before you enter, steeling yourself) she's lying on a white bed that consumes her tiny body (in the exact way that she doesn't consume anything). There's a feeding tube strung through her nose, and a myriad of IV's attaching to her hand. Her once-dark hair looks a little grayish now, like her once-porcelain skin. Her eyes are dull, and dark circles hang from them. Sometimes she's asleep, sometimes she's awake. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference between the two.

She always looks so damn little. Which is better than the day when she doesn't look little but just skeletal. God, that's even scarier than her littleness. I didn't realize it at first, but upon later reflection (I-know-I've-seen-this-somwhere-before) I realized that she looks like an escapee from Auschwitz. It's truly sickening to realize.

"Hi, Carly." Sometimes she's strong enough to answer, sometimes she's not. For a while she was strapped to her bed because she would get up and try to exercise ("I'm fine."). That ended pretty quickly; even she's starting to realize that she's too weak and she can't. She lives off of the food pumped into her stomach, refusing to put things in her mouth. She cries all the time, apologizing profusely but never changing her actions. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so goddamn fucking sorry, she says over and over, twin salty lines on her cheeks. I never meant to hurt anyone. I love you all so much.

I'm so sorry.

Why, I ask. Why are you doing this. Please stop. Please stop this now. And I cry too, and she cries harder and hiccups and says I'm sorry again.

You're going to have to be strong, Freddie, she tells me, falling into her (white) pillows and looking so very fragile and tired. Sam can't do this by herself. You're going to have to be strong for her. Carly looks at me with pleading eyes, and I can only nod wordlessly.

Okay, I'll be strong. You're not going anywhere, I say sharply. She shakes her head miserably and cries again.

I'm dying, Freddie, she whispers, the best she can choke out over her feeding tube. I'm dying, and there's nothing anyone can do. She gives me a sad little smile, and my blood freezes in my veins. I want to tell her that that's not possible. It isn't allowed, you see. She had to be okay. She has to survive because I love her. She was my first love, and my best friend, and she can't just die. She/can't/die/she/has/to/be/okay. Sam and I need her. I love being part of a couple, but I want Carly in our lives too. I love her even if I'm not in love with her. She's my best friend.

"You can't do that, Carly, you can't die," I whisper, unable to stop the fresh tears falling down my face. "Sam needs you."

"Sam is strong, Freddie. And you'll be strong for her, won't you?" Carly begs, crying anew. "Please, Freddie, I'm scared. I'm so scared," she whispers. I grab her shoulders, and her tears stain my shirt.

"Carly, you can stop this. You can end it," I plead. "You have to just eat, Carly, just fucking eat. Please, please eat," I beg, touching the side of her face. It's wet and salty and she's hiccupping, crying. She shakes her head and I want to scream why the fuck not.

"It's too late for me," she whispers, her voice hoarse and tired. "I've really fucked this one up, Freddie. I'm going to die." I shake my head, words stuck in the back of my throat but she's nodding, sadly but surely she's nodding. "Yes, Freddie, I'm going to die. It's okay. Oh, Freddie, please don't cry. Please, you have to be strong – "

"If you would only eat – "

"It's too late for that," she says quietly. "Take care of Sam. Do what you want with iCarly. Change the name, if you want. It might be kind of weird to have a show named after a dead girl," she says with a laugh. "Find a replacement for me, if you want. Have a contest. That'll get a lot of viewers," she says brightly. I shake my head.

"Stop that. You're going to be fine."

"The doctor gave me a week to live, Freddie. My body is too far gone," she syas, shaking her head to my wordless no's. "Freddie, please, come on. You have to be the one who takes care of Sam. She'll need it, even though she'll pretend she doesn't. And please visit Spencer, if it's not too much trouble. It will be hard for him to be all alone. Socko will help, but Socko's just one person and not a very responsible one at that – "

"You're not going to die this week, Carly."

"Yes, I am." She says it so adamantly that it's as though I've been thrown into the North Sea at Christmas. It's a cold raw shock and I hate it, because now I'm starting to believe her and that's scary, scary enough to make me want to start screaming. No no no no no . . .

"Carly – "

"Freddie, I'm serious. I need to know that I can count on you. Oh God, Freddie, I'm so scared!" she cries, throwing herself into me. I catch her, cradling her head against my chest and she tiny body shakes with sobbing. "I'm so scared, Freddie, I don't want to die. I can't die, Freddie, I'm too young. I'm so young," she wails, her voice filling the room. "Please, please tell me you'll take care of Spencer and Sam, okay? Please let me know that that much will be alright?" she begs, her bony little fingers digging sharply into my sides. "Oh God, I'm so scared," she repeats. I stroke her hair but the pieces break of in my fingers, scattering over her pure white sheets.

It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, I coo, even though nothing is ever going to be okay again.

"Freddie, the cookies are ready."

"Freddie, what's wrong? What's the look on your face?"

"Freddie, what happened?"

I swallow hard, putting the phone down as Spencer's slurred voice echoes in my mind.

Carly's dead, Freddie.