Not Otherwise Specified Read Free Page B

instead of ‘eating disordered not otherwise specified.’ ”
    â€œMy doctor wouldn’t even say that out loud,” I say. “Like, I’ve read the DSM entries, I know it’s EDNOS, but she just says ‘It’s not the diagnosis that’s important.’ ”
    â€œBut that is important to you,” says Angela, our leader. She’s older than we are and licensed or something.
    â€œThere are a billion things about this that are important to me and every one of them contradicts or takes away from one of the other ones. I just want this to add up in a way that makes me look more . . .”
    â€œSane?” Angela tries.
    â€œLegitimate,” says a voice, tiny, in the corner. I don’t even have to look up to know who it is, because even though she doesn’t talk very much, when she does, it’s in that broken, significant voice. If this were a movie, everyone would part around her, but instead it’s just a little shifting around and a few turned heads. You still can’t see her. She stands in the back—I’ve never seen her sit down—and she is the smallest of the small. Blonder than blond but not bleached, I don’t think, too muted and wispy to be intentional. Just natural, a little dull. A lot of the skinny girls are toothpicks. Bianca is smoke.
    I have this fascination with her because she’s young—fourteen—which is one of the few things she’s ever said about herself, and because I can tell by her clothes that she’s poor, and because she just looks so sick and so sad. She’s theTiny Tim of our group, and a part of me maybe doesn’t believe she’s real. She’s just too tragic. She’s the shattered little girl at the beginning of the fairy tale, and I can’t shake this feeling that if she would just get better then we all would. But I also feel so sure that she is never, ever going to be okay. Maybe the fascination is that I’m kind of waiting for her to die. I’d feel worse about this if I didn’t know from experience that she’s waiting for it too.
    Taylor talks some more, but I feel drained and done for the day. I wish I were at chorus instead, which is weird for me because I’ve never been a huge fan of chorus. I don’t even know why I do it, except that it felt weird to be such a ridiculous musical theater geek but not be in any singing group. How am I going to pretend my life is a Special Musical Episode if I never sing? How am I going to even pretend I’m qualified for a musical theater audition if I sit at home and watch Cabaret over and over and don’t at least try to sing? So I get out, I try, I sing.
    The thing is that I’m not that good. I don’t know. This whole audition process just sounds like something they’d do in that episode of whatever that show was when they’re supposed to attempt something they’d fail at, and everyone fails as expected and ends up hating themselves. It feels about that likely that I’m going to get into Brentwood or even get past the first round of auditions, and do I really need to hate myself right now? I have four angry lesbians handling that job pretty well.
    Well, three. I still have no proof Rachel hasn’t forgiven me. I tried calling her last night but she didn’t pick up. Babysitting, I guess. Or strep. Maybe her sisters have strep too, that would keep her busy. Probably that.
    Group ends, and yeah, maybe I creepily watch Bianca a little when she’s packing up, but actually that’s because I want to leave when she’s leaving because she has this ridiculously hot older brother—I thought maybe it was her boyfriend at first, but she actually brings it up all the time, my brother’s picking me up today , all this warmth in her voice, she loves him—who comes and gets her sometimes, and seeing him is depressingly often the highlight of my week, and it