Lola Loud stabbed a piece of hotdog with the tines of her fork, swiped it through her beans to collect as much juice as possible, and shoved it into her mouth. Flavor exploded on her tongue and she chewed it vigorously between her teeth. She swallowed, grabbed her roll, and tore a chunk out of it. Her cheeks bulged and crumbs littered the front of her dress: She looked like a pig, but she didn't care. She hadn't eaten all day and she was so hungry that even now sharp pangs rippled through her stomach like knife blades. She swallowed, took a deep breath like a whale cresting the surface, then dove back in, cramming the rest of the roll into her gullet. It didn't quite fit and she had to push it in with her finger.
Across the table, her mother sat down her fork. "Lola, stop. Eat like a person, not a pig."
She realized that everyone was looking at her, their expressions ranging from shock to bemusement, and her cheeks turned red. She swallowed and looked around, wracking her brain for a barbed retort that would mask her embarrassment. "What?" she asked. "I'm hungry."
"You're worse than me," Lana said.
"Yeah, dude," Luna said, "you got a bean where your boobie should be."
Lola looked down at her chest. There was indeed a single bean on her dress, the fabric around it dark with bean gravy...or whatever you call that stuff. It stared accusingly up at her, fallen from her fat, drooling mouth and no doubt painting her chin with brown syrup. She thought of every gluttonous slob she had ever seen on TV - jiggling stomachs, flushed, bloated cheeks, squinty little eyes lost in the folds of their face fat - and her stomach turned. Hot shame colored the back of her neck and her appetite, ravenous a moment before, fled away. Lowering her gaze like a scolded dog, she plucked the bean off and dropped it onto the plate. The juice soaked through the material of her glove and she felt dirty.
For the rest of the meal, she stared emptily down at her plate, hating herself for what she'd done and feeling two inches tall. Everyone else went back to their food and paid no further attention to her, but she imagined she could feel them stealing disgusted glances from the corners of their eyes and her blush deepened until her cheeks blazed scarlet.
When she couldn't take anymore, she asked to be excused, took her plate into the kitchen, and scraped the rest of the beans and franks into the trash. She sat her plate in the sink and went upstairs, her step unconsciously quickening and her eyes darting to her feet as she crossed through the dining room. No one looked up at her, but she knew what they were thinking, and it turned her stomach.
An ominous hush lay over the second floor hall, and framed photos watched with hateful little smiles as she scurried to the bathroom. Her stomach bubbled and hot acid coated the back of her throat; she clamped her hand to her mouth to keep it from coming out and bolted the last couple of feet to the door. She slammed it closed behind her and knelt in front of the toilet just in time: Burning bile burst from her mouth and splattered the bowl with a wet, sickening plop. She coughed, gripped the rim, and puked again, tears welling in her eyes. Her tiny frame shook with the force of her expulsion, and a miserable moan tore from her throat. Chunky pieces of undigested beans and masticated hotdogs rushed past her teeth and the bitter taste of intestines flooded her mouth, making her vomit even harder.
When her chest muscles spasmed and clear liquid dribbled down the corners of her mouth, she hung her head and sucked great gulps of air, the smell emanating from the toilet threatening to send her over the edge again.
She waited to see if she was going to dry retch like she usually did. When she didn't, she pushed herself shakily to her feet and flushed without looking into the bowl. She went to the sink, stepped onto the stool Mom and Dad kept there for hers, Lana's, and Lisa's convenience, and turned on the faucet. She stipped her gloves off, tossed them carelessly over her shoulder, and cupped her hands under the water. When they were full, she lifted them to her lips, droplets splotching the front of her dress. She swished, spat, then drank deeply.
Done, she reached for the mouthwash, and even though she looked pointedly away from the mirror, she caught a glimpse of her face, and was powerless but to face her reflection. Her skin was pale save for matching circles of red like rouge on her cheeks, and her eyes were bleary and unfocused. The tiara she wore always because it brought her comfort was askew and her blonde hair was rumpled and messy.
Her eyes went to her stomach. Was it bigger now? She laid her hand on it and frowned. It felt flat and taut, but it didn't look flat and taut, not to her; it looked pudgy.
Too pudgy.
She shouldn't have eaten.
She swallowed hard and braved another look at her face.
The image looking back at her was different than it had been. Her cheeks were fuller, her eyes smaller, two shriveled raisins sinking in a quagmire of bubbling fat. A chunk of ice splashed into her stomach and she squeezed her eyes closed.
It wasn't real. It was just in her head. In her head.
She peeled her lids open and confronted the image in the looking glass. Her face was back to normal; her cheekbones were high and delicate, the curve of her jaw soft and frail. She hazarded a look down at her stomach. It still stuck out too much and she swallowed hard. She should have skipped dinner and exercised instead. She was so hungry, though. The last thing she remembered eating was a salad yesterday afternoon (or maybe it was the day before) and by the time she got home from school earlier that afternoon, she was faint and fevered. She tried, she really did, but she couldn't go any longer without food, and like she always did after losing the battle, she pigged out while secretly hating herself for it.
Every time this happened, she excused herself, went to the bathroom, and threw up. Sometimes she had to stick her finger down her throat, and other times, like today, it came naturally. If she waited too long, she would start to feel bloated and disgusting, and if she didn't do it at all, panic would set in. Everyone said she was petite, even her doctor, but she wasn't, and though the scale showed her weight holding steady, or dropping, she was always in danger of getting bigger.
Did she make it to the toilet quick enough this time, or did her traitorous body already start turning the calories to fat?
She glanced at the scale next to the bathroom door, and a lump of dread rose in her throat. She told herself not to, but if she didn't, the uncertainty would bother her for the rest of the evening.
Sighing, she jumped down and crossed to the scale like a woman to her doom. She stopped, looked down at it, and worried her bottom lip between her teeth. Terror came over her and her resolve almost broke. What if she got on and it told her she did gain? What if going hungry and exercising all the time wasn't enough? What if everything she went through, all the physical, mental, and emotional torment, was for nothing and she put on weight anyway?
A vise grip of fear closed around her chest and the walls bore down on her. She started to hyperventilate and the edges of her vision tinged gray. She took a deep breath, got a grip, and stepped onto the scale.
While she waited for the telltale beep that would signify another pound added, she stared straight ahead, a grim expression tattooed on her face. Her throat bobbed up and down and her heart raced in terrible expectation. At the tone, it jolted, and summoning every ounce of courage she could muster, she looked down at the digital readout.
It took a moment for the numbers to register, and when they did, her brow furrowed in puzzlement.
Her weight was down from yesterday.
The scale was busted, she decided.
You broke it, fatty, she thought, good job.
That was supposed to be a joke - she wasn't that big - but instead of laughing, she started to cry.
Later, after the storm had passed, she splashed water in her face and went out into the hall. None of the others had come upstairs yet and she was thankfully alone.
In her bedroom, she changed into a pink nightgown with white lace around the neck, sat at her vanity, and gazed at herself in the mirror. Sometimes, she could just glimpse the pretty that everyone else seemed to see, but those moments were few and far between. She wore make-up to hide her many imperfections and passed herself off as comely when she was not. She was a fraud and didn't deserve the ribbons, trophies, and sashes she had won. Onstage, in front of the judges and the audience, she felt like a liar.
But she also felt good, for up there, the center of everyone's attention, she could forget about her weight and her plain face. The people clapped and cheered, they oohed and awed, and even though she didn't deserve it, she liked it. It made her feel, for that one perfect moment, like she really was beautiful, and that all of the suffering and agonizing she endured was worth it despite the nagging terror in the back of her mind that it wasn't.
A knock came at the door, startling her, and she turned to see Lincoln standing there. He flashed a pallid smile and Lola flicked her eyes away to hide her shame. "Hey," he said. There was a note of uncertainty in his voice, as though she were a fragile flower who would wilt if he made a single wrong move. "How are you doing?"
"Fine," she muttered. She fixed her gaze on a bottle of perfume. It was French and expensive. She rarely used it because it felt like a waste.
Might as well dump it on a pig.
She forced that thought away. It wasn't true. She wasn't a pig. The mirror and the scale told her that every single day. It was in her head and not reality.
Not reality.
"You sure?" Lincoln pressed.
He came into the room and Lola tensed. She swallowed thickly and gave a jerky nod. She didn't have to look up at him to know that he could tell she was lying. "Did you throw up?"
She couldn't tell whether the patronizing hilt to his voice was real or imagined, but it was probably the latter. Lincoln was the only one who knew about her problems and he had always given her as much love and support as he could. Why didn't she trust him? Why couldn't she trust her own brother even after all the hugs, kind words, and encouragement he'd given her? Why did she have to be such a stupid, ungrateful little pig?
An inexplicable sob welled in her throat and she swallowed it down. Lincoln stood over her with his hands awkwardly at his sides and a pained expression on his face. Lola sucked her lips into her mouth to keep from crying and nodded. "I didn't make myself," she muttered, "it's just happened."
Lincoln sighed his disappointment, and Lola's chest pinched. Of all the people in her life, she wanted to disappoint him the least. He was there for her when she needed someone and she appreciated that more than she could ever express; every time she failed, it felt like failing him too.
He knelt beside her and laid a solifiictious hand on her knee. She lowered her head and squeezed her eyes closed. "When's the last time you made yourself?"
"A week," she lied. In actuality, it was three days ago. That was almost a week, though, so it wasn't really that big a lie.
"Do you remember what we talked about the other day?" he asked.
She nodded and blotted her eyes with the heel of her palm. Lincoln's birthday was coming up and he told her the only thing he wanted was for her to go a week without throwing up. Her mind instantly began to work, but he added a second request. I also want you to eat normally.
I can't do that, she blurted. I-I'll get fat.
No, you won't, he said tenderly. Lola, you've lost weight. If you keep it up, you're going to get sick. You're a perfectly normal girl and perfectly normal girls eat.
Deep down, she knew that to be true, but the thought of letting it all sit there in her stomach, heavy and wet and soaking into her body, adding pounds to her frame, sent an arrowhead of panic into her heart. She vowed to do it, though.
For Lincoln.
"I'm sorry," she said wetly.
Lincoln closed his hand over hers and offered a weak, hopeful smile like the rim of the sun peeking through dark and leaden clouds. "Don't be. Just...try, okay?"
"I will," she promised.
He stroked her back, and surprising herself, she threw her arms around his neck. Tears over spilled her eyes and dribbled down her cheeks and her body shook trembled slightly. "Thank you," she said in a hoarse whisper and hugged him tightly.
Lincoln hugged her back and she buried her face in the crook of his neck. She was wrong when she said the only time she felt good about herself was when she was onstage. She felt good about herself when she was with Lincoln, too.
"I'll always be here for you," he swore.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you too."
And for a long time after, Lincoln held her.