Thanks so much for the responses to the first chapter! Welcome back to my faithful reviewers labryinth, happygirl, and Q! And hello to my new reviewers as well. Welcome aboard, everyone! Hope you guys enjoy this chapter as much as the first-it's my favorite one so far. Please review!
Q: All Time Low remains forever relevant in my fanfiction inspiration, as you can see below, lol. And thank you as always for your wonderful words!
And now, onward!
Warnings: trigger for eating disorder.
She wasn't bitter. She was sad, though. But it was a hopeful kind of sad. The kind of sad that just takes time. -Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower
Chapter 2: Weightless
I wanna feel weightless, 'cause that would be enough.
Monday mornings are the worst.
Monday mornings, she wakes up in her own bed after another weekend at the Palm Woods. Another weekend where she's watched like a hawk to make sure she puts food in her mouth at every meal. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. She can't escape it.
Monday mornings, she dreads walking into the bathroom and stepping on the scale. She feels heavy and stiff as she approaches the dreaded place, terrified of the number she will see, but she's unwilling to turn back. Turning back is weakness. Turning back is giving up. She opens the door slowly, careful not to make any noise as she enters, breathing a small sigh of relief as she locks it tightly behind her. She'd told her father she wouldn't do this anymore, but she can't help herself. It's an addiction. Luckily for her, he's a trusting man. He didn't even throw the scale out, or move it to the downstairs bathroom.
She steps carefully onto the scale, closing her eyes for a brief moment before peering down at the number.
One hundred and twelve.
Fuck.
Tears sting her eyes and she backs away from the offending object. She's gaining weight, like she's supposed to, but she hates it. The number is too high, way too high, and everything is wrong. She turns the sink on and splashes some cool water on her face, trying to calm herself down. Her heart is racing and she feels an overwhelming pressure in her chest that seems to be squeezing her lungs. Her throat is tight and she balls her hands into fists, finding the pressure of her nails digging into her palms comforting.
Nothing like an early-morning panic attack to get your day going.
Camille kneels on the bathroom floor, focusing on the clean white tile as she struggles to regain her breath and sanity. She looks down at the watch she's wearing—her father should be in the shower right about now. She lifts the lid of the toilet and stares down at the water inside. Every nerve in her body is urging her to grab her toothbrush and lean forward, to empty herself and flush it all away.
She reaches up for the toothbrush and grips it tightly, staring at the pink and blue against her pale skin. Seventeen days. It's been seventeen days since she last did it—does she really want to ruin all that progress?
No.
Camille slams the lid back down on the toilet, gripping the toothbrush in one hand and a fistful of hair at the base of her scalp in the other before she forces herself to stand. Several deep breaths later, she is unlocking the door and heading back into her room to get ready for school.
By the time she gets downstairs, her father has already finished making breakfast, and Camille's heart drops. She forces herself to remain calm as her dad kisses the top of her head and sets a plate in front of her. Toast, a scrambled egg, two slices of bacon, and a whole pancake. She could cry.
She begins cutting into the pancake, not adding any butter or syrup to it. She pushes the egg around on her plate and looks morosely at the bacon and toast. They seem to be mocking her. You can't get out of this. You're stuck. When she's sure her father is watching, she picks up the toast and brings it to her mouth, taking a small bite and chewing slowly before swallowing and taking a sip of water. He smiles at her, thinking she is making progress, that she's getting better.
Camille always was a fantastic actress.
She manages to eat the toast and the egg, and three bites of pancake before feeling completely overwhelmed. When Mr. Roberts turns his back, she quickly takes one piece of bacon and few more squares of the cut-up pancake and balls it all up in a napkin, which she shoves into her coat pocket.
"Great breakfast, Dad," she says lightly, finishing her glass of water and carrying her dishes to the sink.
Mr. Roberts looks at her plate happily, glad to see so much of the food gone, and bids her farewell as she heads out the front door. Her breathing is shallow and she's trying to think of anything but the calculations of how many calories she just consumed, but it's no use. Breakfast alone has soaked up half of the calories she allotted herself for the day.
She steps out into the cold air and heads for the bus stop. She's one of the few seniors who still relies on it to get to school. Someone on her street has put their trash can out for collecting, and Camille quickly stuffs the napkin with her food into it, ridding herself of the evidence.
The bus finally arrives and when Camille clambers on, she finds that Lucy, Carlos, and Kendall are already there. Carlos and Lucy are sitting together at the back, a few rows away from Kendall, and they both tilt their heads in silent greeting. Kendall does the same, offering a small smile as well. Camille sits in the first empty seat she sees, even though there's one near Kendall that's open.
It's Monday morning, and they're not friends. She thinks it's because they don't really know how to be friends when they're on the outside. School is different than the Palm Woods. They have their own lives here, and it's too hard and too weird to try to reconcile who they are here with who they are there.
School is torturous, as usual, but there are three bright spots to every day. Three things that tell her it's okay to keep pushing forward.
The first is Stephanie. Stephanie King has been her best friend since they were nine years old. They went to the same day camp, they had sleepovers, and they told each other their secrets. Camille was the first person Stephanie called when she got her first kiss, and Stephanie was the only one to this day who knew that Camille was the one who pulled the fire alarm during finals week of freshman year. Stephanie's also the only one who really knows how much it hurt Camille when her mom left. She's the one who pointed out to her dad that Camille's eating habits (or lack thereof) were starting to scare her.
The second is drama class. It's weird how normally she hates to be looked at, but she loves, loves, loves, being on stage. There's nothing quite like being able to dive into a new character, to use all your emotions to bring life to a story. It reminds her that things are universal—her character's problems are everyone's problems. Her sadness, her joys, her triumphs on stage; they belong to her, but they also belong to everyone. It's a nice escape from her real life.
Finally, there's him. The shy, smart, brown-haired boy who's probably spoken a dozen words to her at most this year. He sits exactly four rows to her right and three chairs up, at the very front of the class. He wears sweater vests and button-downs to school. He's always the first to raise his hand when Mrs. Williams asks a question to the class. And he's one of the few people who she feels looks at her instead of through her.
English is the last period of the day. She gets there a little early, and of course Logan's already inside when she arrives to class. They're the only two in the room.
"Hey," he offers her a small smile as she takes her seat.
She shouldn't be speechless, but she is. "H-hi," she replies hesitantly. It's just a greeting, she tells herself. You can manage a simple greeting.
She feels awkward, though. This is awkward. She's always wanted to talk to him, and now that she has this golden opportunity, all she wants to do is run away. She wishes she hadn't eaten so much at lunch, but Stephanie had been watching her. Now she just feels bloated and disgusting, and Logan's finally talking to her and she thinks that none of this was supposed to happen this way. If she had been able to restrict, she thinks, she would feel calmer right now. She'd be able to think of witty and flirty things to say, instead of staring at him like a freak and not saying anything. This is not how she always imagined their first real conversation would go, but she supposes it's better than nothing.
"How are you?" Logan asks casually, turning his body towards her from his chair.
"Fine," Camille lies automatically. It slips out before she can even think about saying something remotely close to the truth. Because she knows she's not fine. Hell, he knows she's not fine, but there's a sympathetic understanding behind his eyes when he looks at her. It's the kind of understanding that can only come from being in the same situation, and Camille is sure that Logan's told the same lie dozens of times, just like she has.
"That's good," Logan says nicely. "Are you ready for this vocab quiz?"
"I think so. Are you?" Success! She's managed to string five whole words together! And even asked her own question. She's grateful that he's keeping up the conversation, despite her complete and utter inability to say anything worth responding to.
"Yeah," Logan says. "I studied a bit last night, after I got home."
Camille looks up in surprise. It's an unspoken rule of the Palm Woods not to talk about being at the Palm Woods. You don't talk about what you do there, you don't talk about who you see there, and you certainly don't talk to the people you see there. Kendall, James, Carlos, Jo, Lucy, Camille, and now Logan might be fairly close when they're on the inside, but here, at school, it's as if they don't know each other. They stick to their cliques and pretend like they aren't aware of each other's deepest secrets. Camille and, Carlos, for example, might pass each other in the hallway and make eye contact. They might wave silently or nod at each other, but that's all. As if Carlos doesn't know exactly how many days it's been since Camille last purged a meal. As if Camille doesn't know that Carlos has been selling his medication instead of taking it.
"Um, me too," she says. She's saved from having to come up with anything else to say, because the bell rings and soon people are filling the classroom. Logan smiles at her again before turning around in his seat to face the front of the room, ignoring the looks and whispers he's getting from his classmates. She watches him tug on his sleeves, ensuring once again that his wrists and forearms are completely covered.
Anxiety weighs on her, and it has nothing to do with the quiz in front of her. She matches words like 'remittance,' 'ersatz,' and 'vitriol' to their definitions with ease, all the while replaying in her head the conversation with the boy four rows away. She should have been nicer, should have made more of an effort, but she was too surprised 1.) that he was actually talking to her and 2.) that he made a reference to where they'd spent the weekend.
Camille halfway listens to today's lesson, but mostly she thinks about Logan. Logan who is probably the smartest person in their grade, who has already finished applying to a dozen really great colleges, who will win valedictorian by a landslide. Logan who slashed his wrists over a week ago and ended up in the hospital.
After school, Camille stands at her locker, gathering what she'll need to do homework that night, when she receives a text from her father. He's working late tonight. She shouldn't be happy about this, but she is, because now he won't be home to make sure she eats something. It would be funny, if it wasn't so sad, how clueless her dad really is. He thought putting her therapy would do the trick—and it has, sort of. She is gaining weight, finally, but she's not happy about it, like everyone else is. The doctors want her to gain a few more pounds before they release her from treatment, but it already takes all of her self-control and will power just to keep what little food she does eat down.
She wishes she could just be normal.
The bus ride home is quiet, since most kids are still at school—sports practices, choir rehearsals, things like that. She should be at the drama club meeting, but since her weekends are now taken up at the Palm Woods, there's really no way she can be of any help. Carlos and Lucy are on the bus, sitting together again, and they get off at the same stop, even though Carlos usually gets off two stops later. Carlos and Lucy knew each other before the Palm Woods, so it's acceptable for them to be seen together in public. It was the same for James and Jo.
The house is blissfully empty, and Camille hurries up to her room to dump her book bag before making her way to the bathroom again. She removes all her layers of clothes slowly and methodically. First boots, then scarf, then coat, then sweater, then jeans, until she is left in only her t-shirt and underwear. She knows she shouldn't do this again, the number won't have changed since this morning, but she has to check, just to be sure.
She steps onto the scale and waits for the number to appear. Still one hundred and twelve, same as this morning. Breathing a sigh of relief, she steps down and goes back to her room, putting away her clothes and finding a comfortable pair of leggings to put on.
For the rest of the afternoon, Camille works on some homework, catches up on her favorite TV shows, starts filling out some college applications, and tries not to feel happy about the hunger pains that pang her stomach. When you're hungry, you should eat, a voice tells her. It's that simple. But it's not that simple, not for her. She simply can't make herself do it.
Her father will be suspicious, but it's easy to fool him. She walks down to the kitchen, her least favorite place in the house, and takes out a pot and a bowl. She pours a large can of soup into the pot and turns the heat on low, letting it warm up. When it's done, she digs through a cabinet, trying to find a measuring cup, smiling to herself when she succeeds. She pours herself exactly one half cup of soup, and dumps the rest of it down the drain.
She leaves the pot in the sink, and the empty can on the counter, where her father will be sure to see it when he gets home from work.
Lunch the next day poses a dilemma. Stephanie has to go to a team meeting for the girls' soccer team, so Camille will be on her own. Normally, she would hang out with the drama club, but they're busy working on the musical, and she doesn't want to intrude on the production. So—should be good and go to the cafeteria, like a normal person, and try to eat a normal lunch? Or should she do what she really wants, and hide in the library until the period is over?
Decision time, she thinks as the bell rings. She picks up the bag containing her lunch and heads towards the café. At least if she's alone, no one will be there to scrutinize her while she struggles with the meal. She sits at a corner table and pulls a book out to keep herself occupied, then takes out her lunch: an apple, a granola bar, and a bottle of water. She immediately unscrews the lid from her water bottle and takes a few sips, but she doesn't touch the apple or granola bar yet.
Suddenly a shadow is covering her table and she looks up.
"Hi," says the boy.
"Hi," she says back, confused by his presence.
"Can I sit here?" Logan asks, gesturing to the seat across from her.
"Sure," is all she says back.
He's got a tray of cafeteria food that he sets down carefully before taking his seat. "How are you?" He asks the same thing that he asked her yesterday, and Camille thinks that this time, she won't lie.
She shrugs in response. "Shitty," is her answer today. It's her answer every day.
Logan laughs at this. "I know how you feel. People have been staring at me nonstop. It's driving me crazy. Well, crazier," he amends. His bandages are peeking out from beneath his sleeves, but he doesn't bother to cover them in front of Camille.
"You're not crazy," Camille says with a small smile. "If you're crazy, I don't even want to know what I am."
Logan gives her that same understanding look from the day before and pops a french fry into his mouth. "You're not crazy either," he tells her.
"No, I am," she jokes. "I'm all kinds of fucked up."
"And… how does that… make you feel?" Logan grins, asking the question slowly, his voice filled with concern, imitating the leader of their group discussion from the weekend.
Camille snorts at his impersonation of Dr. Jacobs. It's scarily accurate. "Like a fuck-up," she replies.
"Well, we're all a little fucked up," he says, referring to their little group of friends from therapy. "A merry band of misfits." He eats another couple of fries and looks down at the lunch in front of Camille. He must notice that she hasn't touched it, but he doesn't comment on it. She sips on her water some more, letting the coolness run down her throat. She can practically feel it when it hits her stomach.
"Only when we're together," she corrects him. "Here we're just random misfits who happen to go to the same school."
"Why is that?" Logan asks. "Kendall and I shared a room all weekend, and he didn't even make eye contact with me when I passed him in the hall earlier."
"It's the first rule of Fight Club," Camille answers. She continues on when Logan only looks at her confusedly. "Never talk about Fight Club. It's just… what we do. We have our own lives here. Like, on what planet would the James Diamond ever talk to me, a random girl from the drama club? Why would Jo Taylor ever be friends with Lucy Stone? Only in an alternate universe, right? That's what the Palm Woods is for us. It's our alternate universe."
"So, what? None of us can be friends outside of there?"
"Well, people like Carlos and Lucy already had the same circle of friends, so it's not that much of a stretch for them. They can have the same relationship outside as they do in. Same with James and Jo. They're both already super popular, so it makes sense for them to be friends. Although, I'm not really sure how Jo is friends with anyone, seeing as she doesn't speak anymore."
"And what about you and me? Does it make sense for us to be friends?"
Camille is taken aback. "You want to be friends with me?"
"Well, yeah," Logan says it like it's obvious. "Look. It's hard for me to be around my old friends after… you know. After what I did. They look at me different. Like if they say or do the wrong thing, I'll snap and try to off myself again. Same with my parents. I need some friends who don't treat me like… like I'm this fragile thing that needs to be looked after."
"I know what you mean," Camille says softly. "Stephanie tries, but she doesn't really get it. She means well, but I can tell it frustrates her that I can't just go back to being normal. That I can't do the same things we used to do, like have sleepovers and order pizza, or go walk around the mall and hang out at the food court."
"Normal's overrated anyway," he shrugs.
Later that day, after English, Logan walks with her down the hallway, until he has to veer off to get to his own locker, but before he goes, he smiles at her with his cute crooked smirk thing that she's always found so cute. She's just reached her locker and opened it when a voice startles her.
"Was that Logan?" Stephanie asks excitedly.
Camille grins. "Yeah."
"And…?"
"And what? We just had class together."
"Please," Stephanie scoffs. "You've had a crush on him since last year. Details! What happened? What did he say? Why are you guys talking all of a sudden?"
"He—we had lunch together today," Camille says, not looking her friend in the eye. No need to tell her that Logan was the only one actually having lunch.
Stephanie isn't fooled. "And did you actually join in on the lunch part?"
"Yes," Camille replies indignantly. Such a liar, says a nasty voice in her head. Some friend you are.
"Right," Stephanie says skeptically. "So if you're so much better now, it won't be a problem if I invite you over for dinner tonight, right?"
"Um…right." There you go again, lying. Camille's heart is starting to beat faster and she has to force herself to remain in the moment, to not give in to the anxiety she's starting to feel.
"Good. My mom's making spaghetti. So come over around 6:30. I gotta go, Coach Carson's gonna kill me if I'm late."
Stephanie walks away and Camille feels like she could break down and cry right there in the middle of the hallway. She's a worthless, lying, disgusting person. How can Stephanie stand to be friends with her? She doesn't deserve it. All she does is lie—lie about being okay, about getting better. She's not okay, and she's not getting better. She's gaining weight, and it's killing her.
She slams her locker shut and speed-walks down the hall and into the girls' restroom, which is mercifully empty. She locks herself in a stall and lets the tears roll down her cheeks, sinking down to ground and hugging her knees. Why would she agree to have dinner at Stephanie's house? She won't be able to do it. They're going to watch her every move. You got yourself into this. Now you have to deal with it. A sob escapes her throat and she covers her mouth, trying to control herself, even while her shoulders shake with the force of her crying.
She doesn't know how long she's in the bathroom, but it's long enough to have missed her bus ride home. She sighs and pulls her coat on tighter, stepping into the winter air resignedly to make the trek home. She barely makes it off school property when a gray SUV pulls up beside her and rolls the window down.
"Do you want a ride?" It's Logan.
She nods numbly and gets in. "Clear Brook Circle," she says. He knows where it is.
She still feels agitated, but Logan's presence is somehow soothing to her. Maybe because he knows what's really wrong with her. Maybe because she doesn't have to pretend to be okay with him. Maybe because he's just as fucked up as she is.
"You're gonna be okay," he tells her. He doesn't even know what's bothering her, but Camille feels grateful for his reassurance.
She thanks him when he pulls up to her house and he waves goodbye at her, idling in the street until she's all the way up the driveway and to her front porch. Again, she hurries to the bathroom and strips off her clothes to step on the scale. Still one hundred and twelve. She hates how high the number is, but at least it hasn't risen. Not yet.
She's too worked up to do any of her homework, and as she sits on her bed with her legs crossed, she looks over at her dresser. A small orange container rests there—it's her anti-anxiety medication. She stares at the nearly-full bottle. She's supposed to take one every night, but she doesn't like the way they make her feel. Her mind and body go numb and slow. She doesn't feel anxious, but she doesn't feel anything else, either. Now she only takes them when she's being watched at the Palm Woods, and the rest she gives to Carlos to sell. He cuts her in on the profits, but she doesn't really care about that.
Carlos won't mind if I take one.
By the time she rings the doorbell at Stephanie's house, she's plastered a smile onto her face. She sits down for dinner with Stephanie's family, and they politely ask her about school and her dad, and not about her eating disorder, which she knows they are all perfectly aware of. She serves herself a large scoop of pasta and even takes some of the fresh garlic bread, commenting on how great everything looks. Stephanie's watching her closely, but Camille's prepared for this. She eats everything on her plate and flashes her best I am totally normal, see? smile.
Afterwards, she makes a big show of claiming that she has to get home to finish working on her college applications, but she thanks Mrs. King for the delicious meal and promises to come back soon, when she's less stressed out about school.
Mr. Roberts is working late again, and Camille is both happy and upset about it. Happy because she won't get caught, and upset because she shouldn't be happy about it. She goes up to her bathroom and locks the door before grabbing her toothbrush and kneeling in front of the toilet.
Don't do it, says the voice. You'll regret it.
I have to, she argues back. I'm disgusting.
But you've done so well! Stay strong!
I'm not strong. I'm horrible. I deserve to feel like this.
Camille hates it, but she has to do it. She sticks the toothbrush down her throat until she gags, purging herself of the heavy meal until she's dry heaving on the ground, crying again.
At lunch the next day, Stephanie's trying to prod her to eat the tuna sandwich that's sitting sealed in a plastic bag on the table, but Camille doesn't want it.
"I'm not fucking hungry," she finally snaps, tired of Stephanie trying to force feed her.
Stephanie freezes. "I'm just trying to help." She looks offended.
"Well, you're not," Camille tells her. "You're making it worse."
"Excuse me?"
"You're making it worse," Camille repeats. "You're not helping! You're making me feel like shit, so just stop." Her voice is louder than she intends, and several people in the surrounding area look up to listen in on the argument.
"Well what do you want me to do? Watch you starve?"
Camille stands quickly, gathering up her things. "I want you to leave me alone!" Even as she's saying it, she knows it's a lie. But she continues on anyway. "I want you stop making me feel like a failure just because I'm not like you!"
"I want you to get better! How is that making it worse?" Her voice has risen as much as Camille's.
"Inviting me over for dinner so that you can make sure I eat? That was torture, Stephanie! I hated it!"
"You didn't hate it while you were busy eating everything on your plate!" Stephanie yells.
"Because I knew I would go home and throw it all up!" Camille shrieks. She freezes and claps her hand over her mouth, wishing she could rewind the moment. A dull murmur washes through the crowd in her vicinity, but she forces herself not to pay attention to their whispers.
"Do you know what it's like watching you do this to yourself? Don't you care?"
"Oh, I'm sorry," Camille says sarcastically. "I didn't realize my eating disorder was such an inconvenience to you!"
Stop talking, Camille, stop talking. Take it back. Apologize. You need her.
She makes you feel crappy. She doesn't understand you. No one does.
She just wants to help. She wants you to get better.
That means she wants you to be fat. Bloated. Gross.
"Okay, you know what? You're right." Stephanie is standing now too. "I'm tired of trying to be there for you when all you do is push me away. Good luck with therapy," she says loudly, and the people eavesdropping immediately look at Camille and start whispering again.
Both girls stalk off in different directions.
After school, instead of riding the bus home, she walks to a nearby park and sits on a swing. The park is empty, due to the frigid February air, but she doesn't really notice. She's thinking about how she's just managed to lose her only friend. Why can't she just be normal? Why can't she look in the mirror and see what everyone else does? Why can't she accept help from people who care about her?
You're alone. Just like you wanted.
And then, suddenly, she's not alone. A brown-haired boy plops down into the swing next to her, letting his body move back and forth for a bit. But it's not her brown-haired boy. It's another one.
"You bring it?" He asks.
Camille dips a hand into her coat pocket, producing the small orange container of pills.
"Sweet." Carlos takes out his wallet and thumbs through the cash, handing her fifty dollars for the whole container.
"Thanks."
"I saw your fight with your friend at lunch. You okay?"
"Not really," Camille shrugs. "She doesn't want to be around a fucked-up weirdo. Can't say I blame her. Are people talking about it?"
"People are always talking," he tells her. "But so what? Fuck 'em. Anyway, thanks for this," he shakes the little bottle of pills. "I gotta get home."
"No problem. See you on Friday."
"Yeah. See you."
How many mistakes can a person make in a single week?
You know what the worst part is? I know what I'm doing wrong, but I can't stop myself.
You're weak. You're a failure. You deserve this. It's relentless inside my head, and the only thing I can do is listen. Therapy isn't helping. My dad isn't helping. My best friend isn't helping. I know they mean well, but they just don't understand what it's like in my mind.
How can I tell them that even though I hate it, this is what I want?
They say when you hit rock bottom, the only place you can go is up. I thought I had gotten to that point, but everything seems to spiraling farther and farther out of my control. I've never felt like this before, not even when Mom took off.
Everyone tells me to stop. They tell me the consequences, but none of it matters. They can't stop what goes through my head every time I look at food. I'm trying to be better, for my dad's sake. Every time I go to the doctor, and I'm a little bit heavier, I want to cry. I want to go somewhere and purge everything away until I feel light again. But my dad is just so happy when I make progress. It kills me to upset him by refusing to eat.
And I do want to get better, I think. It's just that I need to do it on my own time, in my own way. Without everyone judging me for every move I make. I think that's why I snapped at Stephanie today. I know she wants to help, but I need her to understand that it's not a simple matter of wanting to be "normal" and just being it. So I guess until she realizes that… I don't have a best friend anymore.
