It started with the little things.
She'd get a flash of herself in the mirror, and it'd be just a quick second—maybe she'd get a glimpse of her hair or her face or her arm, something—and in the next moment it'd be gone. But that flash was always enough, always enough to hate herself a little bit more.
No, the truth was it started before that.
It started because she was an outcast and a liar and a whore. That's what everyone said, anyway. They said that she was a good-for-nothing slut whose main goal was to steal Nina's boyfriend and take him for herself.
Nina.
She'd never be perfect like Nina. She'd accepted that. She'd look in the mirror and run her hands down her body, pointing out every little imperfection, wondering if she made her eyes just a little less brown or her lips just a little bit bigger someone would like her more.
So she started.
It wasn't because Joy Mercer thought that she was fat—oh no, Joy Mercer knew she wasn't fat. It was because this was the only part of herself she could control, change, fix. She ate less and exercised more, and told herself she wouldn't do it, she wouldn't puke, but of course she ended up doing so anyway.
Joy Mercer was weak, and she'd accepted that.
The first day she had lost a pound she had sat proud and still at her chair, looking around the dinner table like someone would notice. She had thought, for a second, that Nina had smiled at her—a small smile, a polite smile, but still a smile all the same—but a second later it was gone. She had turned around to engage in hushed conversation with Fabian again, leaving Joy to stare down at herself and wonder blankly if anyone would even notice if she lost ten more.
So she continued.
It was automatic now—eat, purge, rest, repeat—and it became a game, a contest with herself to see how long she could go without someone noticing she was skipping meals. She got to a week and a half—ten days—before Trudy called her out for not eating breakfast. But all she'd said was "You haven't finished your eggs," and then she'd left, and Joy had thrown them in the trash.
Two days before the end of term, a cake was shoved into her hands—chocolate, her favorite—and there was dancing and laughing and pictures, and Joy felt so sure they were celebrating her early birthday—there were balloons and presents and cards… but then Joy caught sight of the girl wearing the neon yellow birthday hat, and she felt sick to her stomach. Nina. It was Nina's birthday too, July Seventh, twelve hours before hers.
The perfect day for the perfect girl, Nina Martin.
Joy had left to get rid of the few bites of cake she had allowed herself, and grimly watched her dreams float away in the toilet bowl.
The day after that, everyone had gone out on the grounds to celebrate the last day of them being together—Patricia had invited Joy along, but Joy didn't want to, Joy didn't belong. So she stayed behind and ransacked the kitchen and ate everything she could keep down—binging, they called it. And afterwards she had sat on the bathroom floor, this pathetic annoying slut that nobody cared about and nobody wanted, and she had forced it all out again.
Somewhere in between the binges and the purges and the sleeping—Joy started to feel dizzy. It was a good dizzy, she had decided, the kind that means you're doing something right. Her throat burned and her head was sore. But she kept doing it because she didn't have any choice. She wasn't perfect , she wasn't good enough, she wasn't even liked.
Maybe if she did it long enough, someone might finally notice.