A/N: Thank you for all the reviews, I really appreciate them!

After the lunch with Soda and Mark, Sandy insisted that we go to my place. It was weird, but she had been going there a lot lately. I had no idea why; my house isn't exactly a four-star mansion, if you catch my drift. And since I wasn't in the mood for any arguments, I just gave in, even though my house was the last place on the face of the planet I wanted to spend time at during the weekend. Why waste a perfectly good Saturday to come home to a dysfunctional family? Beats me.

On the way, I stopped at the local grocery store to pick up some snacks: a carton of ice cream, beef jerky and a bag of M&M's- what can I say? I eat like there's no tomorrow. Living in Tulsa, you'd never know when that tomorrow was. I ask Sandy if she wants anything, but she just stares at the food like they're the devil reincarnated or something. In fact, she had been acting weird since we left the diner. She kept touching her arms, as if she had some annoying rash, and kept saying over and over, "I shouldn't have had that damn burger…I shouldn't have had that damn burger…" At first I thought she was regretful because it might've tasted like crap, but wow was I wrong.

So we get to my house, and thankfully my parents aren't home. Where were they? I'd never know, they don't tell me crap. My dad's probably out buying booze or something. And my mom's most likely out with her hideous friends, who apply so much makeup they look like clowns. I always prefer to be home by myself; no drunken arguments, no name-calling, no nothing. It's not easy having a dad who's an obsessive drunk and a mom who longs for a beautiful, model-sized daughter. (Which, in case you haven't noticed, I'm the total opposite of.)

I suppose that's why my mom likes Sandy so much- because she wishes Sandy was her daughter. Ridiculous, isn't it? I mean here I am, with enough meat to go around, and my mom chooses to ignore me and pretend my best friend is her daughter. Go figure. She masks the fact that she likes Sandy more than me by saying that she had always wanted more daughters, but that's total bull. Why would she need more daughters when I alone make up two or three?

"Why the hell do you have so many cats?" asked Sandy, as she wove her way through the nine sleeping little bodies.

Yes. I have nine cats, and they're all named George. It's a hell of a lot easier for all of them to have the same name. I'm not too big on fancy names; imagine having a cat named Salvadora or something. I'd never remember it. True, some of them are females, but I named them when I was 11 years old and you just don't check for private parts when you're 11. Well at least I didn't.

So we're sitting on the couch, Sandy sitting quietly with this funny look on her face and me with my feet on a fat cat, basically doing nothing, until she says, "I think I'm going to go to the bathroom."

Well that's great. Thanks for announcing that, Sandy. "Ok, have fun. Go wild."

When she left, I noticed that she still has this funny look on her face. Her arms are red from the constant scratching. There must be some killer mosquitoes I'm unaware of or something.

Five minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.

Either she's taking the longest crap in the world in there, or she's dead.

I walk to the bathroom to check how she's doing, and suddenly I hear this retching noise. The first thought that hit my mind was that one of the Georges were coughing up an extremely huge hairball, but then I realized that the sound was coming from the bathroom. Scared out of my wits, I press my ears against the door.

Sandy was throwing up.

I didn't scream her name, I didn't shout- I was practically mute, my voice wasn't working at all. My first instinct was to open the door, which I tried, but it was locked. My second instinct was to knock it down, which was what I did. Being big does have its advantages, and being strong is one of them.

The door flies open and all I see is Sandy, my best friend, kneeling on the ground over my toilet, barfing and barfing her guts out, her hair wild and clothes matted with vomit and all I could think is, WHAT THE HELL'S THE MATTER WITH THIS GIRL?

I stand there frozen for a split-second and then stepped forward to grab Sandy and pull her away from the toilet. I didn't know what to say, what to think, and I don't remember if I cried or not, but all I remember was shaking her and screaming, "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING? ARE YOU CRAZY?" Sandy was unresponsive, her eyes half-closed, mouth open like she was screaming silently. She was like a Raggedy-Ann doll, her body frail and limp. But I just kept raving on and on. "IS IT WORTH IT TO BE SKINNY? IS IT SO GLAMOROUS THAT YOU HAVE TO RESORT TO THIS?"

And I'm panicking and panicking and suddenly I feel a rush of anger; Sandy was already skinny, was already perfect and now she's PURGING? If ANYONE was to puke their damn guts out to be skinnier, it was ME! My mind was screaming and I couldn't think clearly.

I'M THE FAT ONE!

And I'm just so overwhelmed by the fact that she would vomit to maintain her thinness that I just felt sick all over. I wanted to leave, I didn't care about Sandy then, I just wanted to run out of the bathroom…but when I made a move to do so, she grabs my arm and then starts to cry hysterically. "Don't leave me, Charlie, don't leave me!"

I look down at her, and she's sobbing inconsolably, her lips smeared with her own puke. Was this what she had been doing at my house all along? My thoughts were in a jumble, and I couldn't think clearly with Sandy saying over and over, "You're my only friend, Charlie, you're my only friend, don't leave me…don't leave me…"

And she is right. I AM her only friend. And I've known her far too long to ignore her now.

The last thought that crossed my mind was, I'm never going to look at my toilet the same way again.