Steve grew up on the lower end of the income scale. He wasn't in poverty, at least not in his own opinion. But he and his mother had nevertheless been struggling to make ends meet for their entire lives. Because of that, the only schooling he had been exposed to were public schools in the worst neighborhoods around.

So one could imagine his shock when he was given his daily schedule for life in his new private school, his new private hell.

The schedule read as follows:

•6:30 Wake up time

•7:00-8:00 Breakfast [Mandatory]

•8:30-11:30 Private Seminar (Mon-Wed)

•8:30-11:30 Group Seminar (Thurs-Sat)

•12:00-13:00 Lunch [Mandatory]

•13:30-15:30 Health Class

•16:00-18:00 Physical Education

•18:30-20:00 Dinner [Mandatory]

•22:00 Hall Curfew

•22:30 Room Curfew

•23:00 Lights Out

Steve found it laughable that it wasn't the classes, but the meals that were "mandatory." So, hypothetically speaking, he could cut class all day and get three free meals out of it.

He was scouring over the schedule, curled up on his mattress, when his roommate approached him.

"Hey Steve," Tony said, assembling his books and whatnot into his backpack, "So, like, whenever we get a new kid or whatever, they still have to attend the meals. Notice how in bright bold print it says–" he put his hands up dramatically, "–mandatory!"

"I see that. But I got here at 5:30."

"Right," Tony said, "So you can still attend dinner. It's in fifteen minutes."

Steve watched from his bed as Tony finished packing his things. He threw his designer backpack over one shoulder and ran a few fingers through his hair, gazing with charm into the mirror. It wasn't until he found himself presentable that he cast Steve a glance over his shoulder, "You can sit with me and my buddies if you want."

Steve felt something heavy in his chest. He loathed eating in front of people. If anyone were to see his disgustingly unhealthy diet, or perhaps his grossly tremendous portion sizes, they would freak out. Steve has seen it before. Sometimes they laugh at him, or maybe criticize and chastise him. A lot of the time they pity him and try to counsel him, as if he's doing something wrong.

He has been eating in secret for years now. He can't even remember the last time he ate with friends or his mother. Hiding his obsession has become integrated to his entire lifestyle. He couldn't–couldn't possibly– even consider eating with–

"I mean, if you want to," Tony muttered, stealing a pitying glance at Steve in the mirror.

Steve's fists were balled tight. He avoided eye contact as he conjured up something to say, "I, uh, I have a call to make. I can't."

Tony just shrugged and went back to fixing his hair, "I get it."

They shared a silence for a few moments before a thought popped into Steve's head.

"Hey, Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"They're not gonna control what you eat or something, right?"

Tony shook his head, "Not for the first week. The first week, you eat however you want."

The weights on Steve's shoulders lightened a bit. But only a bit; the pressure still remained.

Tony started to head out the door when he stopped to say, "Oh by the way, I get you wanna eat how you usually eat, but I really do recommend bulking up on protein a bit more. I mean, you're skinnier than Cher!"

And with that, he left. Steve was left to hate himself in solitude.

He wasn't fibbing about making a call. Steve had promised to call Bucky every day, didn't he? It occurred to Steve, as he was typing in the phone number on his mobile cell phone, that he could use the fact that he's supposed to call Bucky every day as an excuse to always sit alone at meal times. Something about that plan gave him pride, like he was finally rebelling like the way he wanted.

So Steve sat down in the outdoor courtyard, a designated eating area, with his three plates of dinner, and called Bucky.

He only had to wait for one ring before Bucky picked up. That brought a smile to Steve's lips, knowing how anxious his best friend was to pick up the phone.

"Steve! I took today off early so I could talk to you."

Steve rolled his eyes, softly smiling, "Well, Bucky, you do own the mechanics shop. You could probably get off early whenever you feel like it."

"Yeah, I know. But still."

There was a beat.

"So how's the school?"

"Well," Steve sighed, "I have no freedom, no rights, stupid mental health classes, and a jerkoff of a roommate."

"You're exaggerating."

"Only a little bit. Oh yeah, and apparently people die here."

"Wait, hold on–"

"–But the campus is nice. And the food smells good, I didn't start to eat yet but–"

"–Steve, did you say people die there?"

Steve shrugged. Then he realized that he was still only on a phone call.

"I guess so. I literally sleep in the bed of a kid who passed away a while ago."

"Nasty."

"I know right?"

"Creepy too. Doya know what happened to him?"

"I don't know. I guess he was too far gone in whatever eating disorder he had."

"Not like you, though, right?"

…

"I mean, you're okay, right?"

"Of course I'm okay. I told you that before."

"Okay."

"Okay."

…

…

…

"I think I'm going to eat my meal now."

"...Oh. Yeah. Please do. Go ahead."

"K. Bye, Bucky."

"Take care, Steve."

Steve was the first to hang up. He kept his phone nearby, in case he needed to defend his eating alone. But now, he decided, it was time to eat.

On the first plate he had four slices of pepperoni and sausage pizza, two sausage rolls, and three garlic knots. On the second plate he had sirloin, two large butter rolls, two chicken breasts, and a heaping wad of mashed potatoes. And on his final plate, his dessert plate, he had three slices of pie with ice cream on top, two full chocolate bars, half a chocolate cake, and a bag of sour candy.

It took him twenty one minutes to clear it. All of it.

Steve threw up everything in the toilet later that night. He was once again left to hate himself.