awful beyond that. I look over at my journal on my desk, but it’s too far to reach and I’m too tired to get back up. I don’t want to remember today anyway.
I lay staring at the dark ceiling, listening to the sounds of the canned laughter from the TV in the next room. After a moment of blank thought, my arm reaches over to the nightstand for the cupcake, and I eat without tasting it. My stomach rumbles in protest at the additional junk food, but I'm still hungry.
* * *
I can't sleep.
I don't know if it's because of stress or my upset stomach, but normally the one thing I can do is fall asleep. It's been nearly two hours now and I have barely been able to keep my eyes closed.
If it were a different night, I might have gotten back up and watched some TV with my mom. But after our fight, I don’t want to go back out there. Even though I want to yell at her to turn it down. She’s got the volume way up tonight; every word of her show is coming through the walls. I can even hear her smacking her lips as she sips a soda.
I don't get back up. I stay in my room, pretending to be asleep, as I wait. Eventually she turns off the TV and makes her way to her bathroom. I don’t know if she has the door open or what, but she’s extra loud tonight. It must be on purpose. I listen to the sound of her brushing her teeth, going to the bathroom, even flicking off the light switch. Then the groan of her mattress as she settles into bed.
I expect it to be quiet after she’s gone to bed, but now I hear other noises.
Dogs barking. Planes flying overhead. Even ships bellowing off in the ocean, way out in the distance.
At a certain point I just can't take it anymore. I throw off the covers, and I get out of bed.
I'm wearing a nightshirt that used to be big on me, but now is barely more than a tight shirt. I try not to think of it as I creep to the door and slowly open it. I'm quite impressed with myself as I tiptoe my way to the kitchen, managing not to make the floorboards groan like I usually do.
I don't even really think about what I'm doing. That's how habits are: you just do them. I walk to the refrigerator in the kitchen the way you automatically walk on a path to work each day.
Sarah's words echo in my head: "It's your birthday. You can start your diet tomorrow."
It's still nighttime. For me, that counts as not being tomorrow yet.
I find a Sarah Lee carrot cake in the freezer. Surprisingly, it tastes too sweet and artificial, but I'm not really eating it for taste anyway. I stand eating it by the refrigerator, not bothering with a plate or the fact that it’s still frozen.
After the cake is gone, I figure I should have some "real food" so that I don't upset my stomach too much. I'm too lazy to make a sandwich, so I eat some turkey slices with some cheddar cheese on top. It's like a gourmet Lunchable, and I love Lunchables. I'm about to close the fridge after that and move onto the pantry, when just as the door is closing I spot a tube of cookie dough in the back of the bottom shelf. Someone has hidden it behind a gallon of orange juice in an attempt to hide it from me.
"Nice try, Mom."
I take out the tube and slice it down the side with the fork still covered with frosting. As I eat, I stare at the cartoon picture of Poppin' Fresh, the Pillsbury Doughboy, whose pudgy hands reach up to me. Even
he
seems to be thinner than I remember.
"The diet starts tomorrow," I tell him.
I eat the cookie dough, and then finish off the last half of a case of Oreos in the pantry. Then I eat three packets of oatmeal raw because I'm too afraid of waking up my mother if I start the microwave. I keep eating and eating and eating, and it feels good.
But as the sun rises, and the counters are covered with empty wrappers and cartons, I feel even emptier than before. I want to cry but I don't have the energy. The morning light filters in through the kitchen window, and my entire body feels exhausted. I look at the mess I've created, and
I lay staring at the dark ceiling, listening to the sounds of the canned laughter from the TV in the next room. After a moment of blank thought, my arm reaches over to the nightstand for the cupcake, and I eat without tasting it. My stomach rumbles in protest at the additional junk food, but I'm still hungry.
* * *
I can't sleep.
I don't know if it's because of stress or my upset stomach, but normally the one thing I can do is fall asleep. It's been nearly two hours now and I have barely been able to keep my eyes closed.
If it were a different night, I might have gotten back up and watched some TV with my mom. But after our fight, I don’t want to go back out there. Even though I want to yell at her to turn it down. She’s got the volume way up tonight; every word of her show is coming through the walls. I can even hear her smacking her lips as she sips a soda.
I don't get back up. I stay in my room, pretending to be asleep, as I wait. Eventually she turns off the TV and makes her way to her bathroom. I don’t know if she has the door open or what, but she’s extra loud tonight. It must be on purpose. I listen to the sound of her brushing her teeth, going to the bathroom, even flicking off the light switch. Then the groan of her mattress as she settles into bed.
I expect it to be quiet after she’s gone to bed, but now I hear other noises.
Dogs barking. Planes flying overhead. Even ships bellowing off in the ocean, way out in the distance.
At a certain point I just can't take it anymore. I throw off the covers, and I get out of bed.
I'm wearing a nightshirt that used to be big on me, but now is barely more than a tight shirt. I try not to think of it as I creep to the door and slowly open it. I'm quite impressed with myself as I tiptoe my way to the kitchen, managing not to make the floorboards groan like I usually do.
I don't even really think about what I'm doing. That's how habits are: you just do them. I walk to the refrigerator in the kitchen the way you automatically walk on a path to work each day.
Sarah's words echo in my head: "It's your birthday. You can start your diet tomorrow."
It's still nighttime. For me, that counts as not being tomorrow yet.
I find a Sarah Lee carrot cake in the freezer. Surprisingly, it tastes too sweet and artificial, but I'm not really eating it for taste anyway. I stand eating it by the refrigerator, not bothering with a plate or the fact that it’s still frozen.
After the cake is gone, I figure I should have some "real food" so that I don't upset my stomach too much. I'm too lazy to make a sandwich, so I eat some turkey slices with some cheddar cheese on top. It's like a gourmet Lunchable, and I love Lunchables. I'm about to close the fridge after that and move onto the pantry, when just as the door is closing I spot a tube of cookie dough in the back of the bottom shelf. Someone has hidden it behind a gallon of orange juice in an attempt to hide it from me.
"Nice try, Mom."
I take out the tube and slice it down the side with the fork still covered with frosting. As I eat, I stare at the cartoon picture of Poppin' Fresh, the Pillsbury Doughboy, whose pudgy hands reach up to me. Even
he
seems to be thinner than I remember.
"The diet starts tomorrow," I tell him.
I eat the cookie dough, and then finish off the last half of a case of Oreos in the pantry. Then I eat three packets of oatmeal raw because I'm too afraid of waking up my mother if I start the microwave. I keep eating and eating and eating, and it feels good.
But as the sun rises, and the counters are covered with empty wrappers and cartons, I feel even emptier than before. I want to cry but I don't have the energy. The morning light filters in through the kitchen window, and my entire body feels exhausted. I look at the mess I've created, and
Similar Books
Sweet Affection (Truth Book 3)
Grace Henderson
The Headhunter (Shorting the Undead & Other Horrors)
Saul Tanpepper
After the First Death
Robert Cormier
The Root of Thought
Andrew Koob
Enchanted Evening
M. M. Kaye
Mistletoe Mischief
Stacey Joy Netzel
Sinful Deeds
Samantha Holt
When Do Fish Sleep?
David Feldman
Appleby and the Ospreys
Michael Innes
The Dark Is Rising
Susan Cooper