Perfect Read Free Page B

again.
    "What?" I said.
    "Nothing."
    "What!"
    "Nothing, Isabelle," she said. "It's just ... well, lots of
    girls your age begin worrying about their weight. When in
fact it's natural that their bodies start carrying extra fat."
    "Whatever," I said. It gave me the creeps the way she
said that. Carrying extra fat. Like I had a backpack full of
butter instead of books.
    "Anyway," Mom continued, "if you're worried about
it, how about trying to eat more fruits and veggies? Less
junk? We could probably all do to cut hack on our calories
around here, eat some healthier meals." She patted her
stomach and smiled. "Your mother included."
    I looked at her, raised an eyebrow.
    "There are much less dangerous ways to lose weight
than making yourself throw up, Isabelle. How does that
sound? We could do it together. Okay?"

    I knew she wanted me to say okay more than anything.
It didn't even matter if the okay was a lie.
    I didn't say anything.
    "Isabelle? Please. I want to help."
    "Um ... ," I said, like I was thinking it over. "Sure."
    "Great! I'll do the grocery shopping tomorrow. I'll go to
Whole Foods, even."
    "Great," I said, feeling terrible.
    When she leaned over to kiss me goodnight I held my
breath. Even though I'd brushed my teeth twice and rinsed
with mouthwash, I didn't want her to smell what I'd done.
    In the middle of the night, I woke up and couldn't go back
to sleep. This happens a lot but it's worst when I can hear
Moni. Most of the time I just put my pillow over my head
and hum for a while to drown her out. This time I went
and stood in the hallway outside her bedroom. The light
from the crack under the door made a long, skinny rectangle on the wood floor, covering the tips of my toes.
    She was crying. Not loud, but loud enough. And she
was saying his name, over and over again, the way she
always does when she thinks we can't hear her. Jay. Oh,
Jacob. Oh, Jay.
    I waited outside the door for her to stop crying. But she
didn't.
    "Mom?" I whispered. "Mommy? ... Are you okay?"
    She didn't answer, but I know she heard me. I know
because the light went out right away, and everything was
silent.

    "Mum'"
    I waited a while longer. I waited even though I knew
she wouldn't answer, no matter how long I stood there.
    Finally I left. I didn't even try to be quiet. I didn't tiptoe, I walked like a normal person down the hall, down
the stairs, across the living room to the kitchen, and
across the kitchen to the refrigerator.
    Bread and butter, pasta salad, string cheese, strawberry yogurt, applesauce, more bread and butter, cold leftover pizza, olives, peanut butter straight out of the jar. I
ate until my cheeks hurt, until the skin of my belly was
stretched tight like a drum. Then I opened a brand-new
carton of orange juice and drank the entire thing, standing up. Orange juice ran down my chin and onto the front
of my nightgown. It dripped onto my bare feet. Every swallow hurt, but I didn't care. After a while, it almost feels
good, the hurting.
    The first time it happened was the day of Daddy's
funeral. Our house was full of strangers, all of them patting
my head, talking in whispers. Every so often my mother
would come over to me and April and squeeze the breath
out of us with her hugs. "Don't cry," she kept saying. "We
will none of us cry." Finally some lady I didn't know came
up to me with a plate and said, "Here you go, honey. Try to
eat a little something." So I did. I ate cold cuts and salads
and fancy cookies. I ate a whole pile of brownies. Whatever I wanted I ate. I ate until it hurt to stand up. Finally
I went into the bathroom and puked three times.
    The first time is hard because you don't know what
you're doing. Now, in the middle of the night, it's simple.

    I stood over the kitchen sink with my fingers down
my throat, watching everything come back up. Afterward
I went over to Daddy's old chair. I picked up the big pile
of papers sitting there. I walked them into my mother's