Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Sit with her?
Is she out of her mind?
Why would she want to sit with me? Doesn’t she know who I am? Didn’t she hear the whispered gossip in the hallways? Why in the world would Lila Garcia want to associate herself with me?
Almost as if she can read my thoughts, she speaks again, “Look, you’re an outcast and I’m an outcast…” Lila trails off, her gaze sweeping over me and the sandwich I’m clutching to my chest. “We’re not so dissimilar.”
She’s an outcast because she doesn’t belong to an upper-class, wealthy family. I am an outcast for a very different reason.
We are not as alike as she is trying to make it seem.
Lila is lucky she hasn’t experienced Berkshire’s bullies yet. So far, they have left her alone, but if she associates herself with me — they will go after her too.
“C’mon, take a seat,” she encourages quietly. She moves her textbook and pats the grass. “I’m not asking for you to be my friend. But hey, it’s been a lonely few days, and I could use some company. Maybe you need some company too.”
Her words are tempting, because yes — I am friendless and lonely.
I wish I had Maryam with me, but after rehab, she went back home. She has since fixed her relationship with her parents and is now attending a community college for its nursing program. We still talk every now and then, but she’s busy with her classes and meeting new people. I’m happy for her — that she’s out there, living her life, making new goals and achieving her dreams.
But I miss having someone to talk to.
As the days grow colder, I become lonelier.
So, I sit down beside Lila, under my willow tree. She makes a sound of approval in the back of her throat and then goes back to her lunch. She digs her fork into what seems like a taco salad and then brings a forkful to her mouth.
I watch her enjoy her meal from my peripheral vision, but I can’t bring myself to eat my own sandwich. Rehab didn’t magically fix my eating disorder. It has given me ways to cope with it. I don’t binge-eat anymore and I haven’t purged for almost six months now.
But I still don’t like eating in front of people.
And while I try not to focus too much on my weight, it’s hard some days.
Whenever I feel like I’m going to relapse into another binge-eating episode, I write in my diary to clear my thoughts and listen to whale sounds. Just like Dr. Bailey suggested. It has helped me tremendously.
Not fixed. Not cured. Not healed.
But coping — that’s what I’m doing.
I unwrap my cold sandwich and a lump forms in my throat. Bringing it to my mouth, the smell of chicken mayo fills my nose. I nibble on the corner of before taking a small bite. A burst of flavor fills my mouth and I chew slowly.
I am unattractive.
I am beautiful.
I am grotesque.
I am strong.
I am a failure.
I am brave.
I am worthless.
I am worthy.
You will eat, Riley. I remind myself. Another bite. Chew slowly. Breathe. And you will not purge. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Slow bites after slow bites, I eventually finish my sandwich. It settles heavily into my stomach and there’s rumbling inside me. I clench my shaky fists. Breathe, I tell myself.
“So, have you finished the English assignment yet?” Lila asks, forcing me out of my thoughts.
“Huh?”
“English assignment. It’s due next week,” she reiterates slowly.
“No, I haven’t started it yet.”
Her eyes go wide. “You haven’t started it yet?”
“It’s due next week, right? So I still have time.” I frown. Why is she shocked?
Her slack jaw snaps close and then she shrugs. “Fair point. I guess you still have time.”
“You finished yours already?”
“Yeah, the day it was assigned.”
My eyebrow quirks up in question. “Ah, so you’re not a procrastinator.”
“No. My grandma likes to call me a perfectionist.” She purses her lips, in a mock pout. “But I’m just very organized.”
“Miss Perfectionist,” I find myself teasing her.
She smiles, and it’s genuine.
“So, why do they hate you so much?” she finally asks when she finishes her lunch.
I release a shuddering breath at her question. It’s so direct and I wasn’t expecting it. “You don’t know?”
She tears open her brownie packet, tearing the brownie in half, and hands me a piece. I take it, because I don’t want to offend her. But I don’t eat it. A brownie has too many calories.
“I don’t listen to gossip. Most of the time it’s untrue and vile,” she tells me as a response. “So, why don’t you tell me your truth?”
I let out a laugh, but it’s painful and humorless. My truth?
No one has ever asked that. “It’s a long story.”
Lila takes a peek at her phone. “We still have thirty minutes before the bell rings, plenty of time.”