Lizzie slept for a very long time. Her body had been forced to its
boundaries, and it simply shut down. Dreams of all different sorts floated
in and out of her mind. She dreamed of skinny girls in sparkly pink bathing
suits; she dreamed of fat girls that wore lots of black. She dreamed of
Miranda and Gordo, and how they were accepted into the high school world
with amazing ease. She dreamed of herself as an enormous whale at an
aquatic theme park, where people came to watch her like someone in a freak
show. Kate was sitting in the audience, with a sign that said "Chubby
McGuire". Ethan held a sign that screamed in bright letters, "NOT
GIRLFRIEND MATERIAL". Jill Stokes stood by the side of the tank, throwing
fish into Lizzie's mouth and saying things like, "Try harder, Lizzie.
You're even making the freaks look bad."
Her last dream was the strangest, and most vivid. She was inside Aunt Laura's studio, sitting before a blank canvas. She felt Laura beside her, saying softly, "Paint a picture, Lizzie. Paint what's inside your head."
Lizzie looked down at the row of paints on the easel. There were so many colors. Soft pink, the color that made her think of delicate flowers. A petite color. It was not a color she saw in her head. There was also yellow, a fiercefully happy color. And deep blue, a color that pulled you into a state of calmness and stability. Lizzie didn't think that these colors could be used to illustrate what was happening in her mind.
She searched the colors for one that suited her. But none of them seemed quite right. She tried to look inside her head, and see what colors were lurking about in there. But the colors moved too fast, and she was unsure of what was really going on in there.
She touched her hand to the canvas. It felt like human skin. Not just anyone's skin; she immediately recognized it as her own. *How can I recognize my own skin, but not my own mind?* she thought to herself. She realized that at some point, she must have lost sight of who she really was.
"Why haven't you painted anything?" Laura asked.
"There's nothing to paint," said Lizzie. "My mind is just a blank canvas."
"If there is nothing inside of you, then paint whatever you see on the outside."
Lizzie felt nauseated at the thought of this request. The outside was even more difficult to face than the inside. She knew that no color or texture of paint could begin to capture what she saw on the outside. Even if they could, she didn't think she would have the strength to go through the trial of making herself re-create the ugliness she saw.
The paint in the bottles began to rise and overflow. All the colors dripped and oozed from the easel to the ground. They bled together and formed twisting, unrecognizable images. Lizzie knew what that felt like. She didn't need to paint anything at all; the mixed-up, structureless puddle of color portrayed exactly what was going on in her mind.
* * * *
The dream world faded, and Lizzie woke up in her bedroom. She felt a little dizzy at first, and couldn't remember how she'd gotten home. "What happened?" she mumbled aloud.
Mr. McGuire heard Lizzie speak and came into her room. "Feeling okay, honey?" he asked.
Lizzie nodded slowly, with confusion on her face. "What happened?" she asked again.
"Miranda called us and said you'd passed out at the Digital Bean," he said quietly. "The doctor said it was because of fatigue and dehydration."
She remembered. Miranda had seen her. Miranda had found out. She looked over at her dad, who watched her with concern. Did he know? Had Miranda told her parents? Had the doctor been able to figure it out? She felt panicky. She worried that if her parents knew what she had been doing, they would make her stop. And she didn't want to stop. The things she did kept her from drifting into that miserable, uncertain state of mind. When she was busy straining her body, she didn't have to worry about her mind.
Mr. McGuire continued, but his words were slow and uncertain. He seemed unsure of how to talk to his daughter about the subject at hand. "He said it was probably caused by continual vomiting." He paused. "He said you'd probably been... been making yourself throw up." He looked into his daughter's eyes, desperate. "You haven't been doing that, have you, Lizzie?"
Lizzie sunk deeper beneath her covers, wishing she could disappear. "No," she said through a scratchy voice. She swallowed. "Not exactly..."
Mr. McGuire looked away. "Do you... want to talk about it?" It was the only thing he could think of to say. He wanted to comfort her, but he needed her to tell him what was really wrong first.
Lizzie pulled her covers all the way up, right under her chin. "I don't... I don't feel so well. I'm still a little tired. Could we talk later?"
Mr. McGuire seemed unsure, but he nodded lightly. "Sure, sweetie." He stood up and turned out the lights. He left the room, but didn't shut the door behind him.
Lizzie flopped over on her side and let out a sigh. She looked over at the clock on her nightstand. It was 10:30; she had been asleep for nearly five hours. She didn't feel like going back to sleep, but she closed her eyes and didn't make a sound. If she could just stay in bed until the next morning, she could go to school and escape her parents for a few more hours.
She knew she would have to face them sooner or later. And when that time came... what could she possibly say to them?
Her last dream was the strangest, and most vivid. She was inside Aunt Laura's studio, sitting before a blank canvas. She felt Laura beside her, saying softly, "Paint a picture, Lizzie. Paint what's inside your head."
Lizzie looked down at the row of paints on the easel. There were so many colors. Soft pink, the color that made her think of delicate flowers. A petite color. It was not a color she saw in her head. There was also yellow, a fiercefully happy color. And deep blue, a color that pulled you into a state of calmness and stability. Lizzie didn't think that these colors could be used to illustrate what was happening in her mind.
She searched the colors for one that suited her. But none of them seemed quite right. She tried to look inside her head, and see what colors were lurking about in there. But the colors moved too fast, and she was unsure of what was really going on in there.
She touched her hand to the canvas. It felt like human skin. Not just anyone's skin; she immediately recognized it as her own. *How can I recognize my own skin, but not my own mind?* she thought to herself. She realized that at some point, she must have lost sight of who she really was.
"Why haven't you painted anything?" Laura asked.
"There's nothing to paint," said Lizzie. "My mind is just a blank canvas."
"If there is nothing inside of you, then paint whatever you see on the outside."
Lizzie felt nauseated at the thought of this request. The outside was even more difficult to face than the inside. She knew that no color or texture of paint could begin to capture what she saw on the outside. Even if they could, she didn't think she would have the strength to go through the trial of making herself re-create the ugliness she saw.
The paint in the bottles began to rise and overflow. All the colors dripped and oozed from the easel to the ground. They bled together and formed twisting, unrecognizable images. Lizzie knew what that felt like. She didn't need to paint anything at all; the mixed-up, structureless puddle of color portrayed exactly what was going on in her mind.
* * * *
The dream world faded, and Lizzie woke up in her bedroom. She felt a little dizzy at first, and couldn't remember how she'd gotten home. "What happened?" she mumbled aloud.
Mr. McGuire heard Lizzie speak and came into her room. "Feeling okay, honey?" he asked.
Lizzie nodded slowly, with confusion on her face. "What happened?" she asked again.
"Miranda called us and said you'd passed out at the Digital Bean," he said quietly. "The doctor said it was because of fatigue and dehydration."
She remembered. Miranda had seen her. Miranda had found out. She looked over at her dad, who watched her with concern. Did he know? Had Miranda told her parents? Had the doctor been able to figure it out? She felt panicky. She worried that if her parents knew what she had been doing, they would make her stop. And she didn't want to stop. The things she did kept her from drifting into that miserable, uncertain state of mind. When she was busy straining her body, she didn't have to worry about her mind.
Mr. McGuire continued, but his words were slow and uncertain. He seemed unsure of how to talk to his daughter about the subject at hand. "He said it was probably caused by continual vomiting." He paused. "He said you'd probably been... been making yourself throw up." He looked into his daughter's eyes, desperate. "You haven't been doing that, have you, Lizzie?"
Lizzie sunk deeper beneath her covers, wishing she could disappear. "No," she said through a scratchy voice. She swallowed. "Not exactly..."
Mr. McGuire looked away. "Do you... want to talk about it?" It was the only thing he could think of to say. He wanted to comfort her, but he needed her to tell him what was really wrong first.
Lizzie pulled her covers all the way up, right under her chin. "I don't... I don't feel so well. I'm still a little tired. Could we talk later?"
Mr. McGuire seemed unsure, but he nodded lightly. "Sure, sweetie." He stood up and turned out the lights. He left the room, but didn't shut the door behind him.
Lizzie flopped over on her side and let out a sigh. She looked over at the clock on her nightstand. It was 10:30; she had been asleep for nearly five hours. She didn't feel like going back to sleep, but she closed her eyes and didn't make a sound. If she could just stay in bed until the next morning, she could go to school and escape her parents for a few more hours.
She knew she would have to face them sooner or later. And when that time came... what could she possibly say to them?