I shouldn’t care. I don’t care.
I do.
“Girls from families our family is close to. People we socialize with. Occasionally, girls he meets in town.” She laughs, probably at the shock on my face. “That was last year. He slummed with the townies a lot, claiming they never asked questions, so they were the perfect girls to hook up with.”
“He told you this?”
“He told his best friend, Spence, who told me.” Her expression turns mysterious. “Spence and I are—were—close.”
Interesting. “You like him.”
“He likes me. I don’t know how to feel about him. I’m dying you know, so there’s no point.” When my mouth drops open, she holds out a hand, laughing. “I’m serious. I’m in poor health, as mother says, and I’ve been on my deathbed already a few times in my life. I’m only sixteen.”
“You and Whit are very close in age.”
“Lina is fourteen. Mother had us, one after the other, like little chickens. Our eggs dropped, plop plop plop. Her and Daddy must’ve been very busy during that time in their lives. I suppose they were happy. I don’t know. Probably not.” Sylvie smiles. “She was hoping for all boys, so Carolina and I are a disappointment.”
“My father was disappointed I was a girl too,” I say, not knowing if it was true, but it feels better to think that.
“Men and their lineage. I don’t understand. Girls can continue the family as well, we just don’t continue the name, rendering us useless, I suppose.” Her assessing gaze drifts over my room one more time, as if she’s trying to find something in particular. “Want to go to dinner with me?”
“To the dining hall?”
“Ugh, no. How can you eat their dreadful food, day in and day out? Let’s go somewhere.” Her eyes dance and she clasps her hands together. “Please. There’s an Italian place downtown that’s my absolute favorite.”
I haven’t ventured out of here beyond the school, and the upperclassmen are allowed to leave on the weekends, with a curfew in place, of course. Besides, I didn’t know where to go, and had no one to go with.
Truthfully? I was scared to leave. Scared to go somewhere unfamiliar, and chance getting cornered by people who hate me. There are too many people on this campus who despise me. Why give them a chance to do their worst?
“Come on, Summer. Please?” Sylvie says when I haven’t responded. Her hands look like she’s praying as she holds them up to me, a pleading look on her pretty face. “It’ll be fun.”
“Fine,” I say with a sigh and she starts hopping up and down, just before she starts violently coughing.
I guide her to my bed and settle her on the edge of the mattress before I grab an unopened water bottle from my backpack and hand it to her. She cracks the lid open and takes a sip in between coughs. Then another. Until finally, she stops.
“I can’t overexert myself,” she says, wheezing. “Still getting over it.”
“What exactly are you getting over?”
“Pneumonia, and it’s not even winter yet. I usually get it a couple of times a year.” She smiles, but it’s weak. “You need to fix your hair before we go out. It’s a wreck.”
I touch my hair again, looking in the nearby mirror that hangs on my wall. It does look awful. I washed it and immediately fell asleep, so it’s a mess. And still damp. “I’ll braid it,” I tell her, turning to face her. “I’ll change too.”
“Don’t worry about dressing up. I’m going with this look.” She waves a hand at herself. “Oh, this will be so much fun. Be prepared. I’m going to ask you endless questions.”
I smile in answer, but it’s forced.
That’s what I’m afraid of.
Thirteen
Summer
The restaurant Sylvie brings me to is small and quaint. Oh, and packed. It’s Saturday night, and everyone’s out, the sidewalks downtown crowded with people waiting to get into a restaurant or a bar. Sylvie glides into her chosen restaurant as if she owns the place, chatting with the hostess like they’re old friends, and obtains us a table within minutes.
“It helps when you know someone,” Sylvie tells me with a wink just before the hostess leads us to our table. The other people in the cramped lobby glare at us as we head into the dining area, pissed at us for jumping the line.
Sylvie is oblivious to their ire.
Once we’re seated, she tells me her favorite dishes, making recommendations based on what I tell her I like. She orders us strawberry lemonades and fried cheese for an appetizer, my mouth opening in protest when the two words fall from her lips. She silences me with a look.
“Trust me. It’s delicious.”
I’m sure. And I’ll gain five pounds alone from tonight’s dinner.
My mother’s words follow me everywhere I go in regards to food, especially in restaurants. Particularly ones that serve rich, calorie-laden dishes. My mother is so thin, she makes supermodels look fat. Her diet consists of prescription medication and alcohol—that’s pretty much it. She rarely eats. She used to be bulimic, she admitted that to me when I was thirteen and eating everything in sight. During those heroin chic days when she was younger, she referenced them more than once.
Meaning she was quite on-trend in the mid-nineties.
She believed I showed signs of bulimia as well, but it turns out I was eating like crazy because of a growth spurt. I’m prone to weight gain. She told me the summer I was thirteen, when I was lazy and spent the long, hot days in my room, rarely going out. I need to watch what I eat and exercise. She was a food tyrant, monitoring everything I put in my mouth. Griping at me when she caught me eating junk food, which back then was often.
Now I find I can’t bring myself to eat bread or pasta without hearing her voice ring in my head, and that’s a horrible thing. I’m not fat, but I’ll never be as thin as Mother. Or Sylvie. She’s so skinny, I can see the blue veins in her pale, thin arms. Her clothes hang on her, as if she has no meat on her bones, and her face is so angular, her cheekbones are razor sharp. Her pointy little chin and that lush, startlingly pink mouth against her pale skin really stand out. She’s gorgeous, like Whit.
“You’re staring,” she tells me once the server leaves our table.
I blink her back into focus. “I’m sorry. It’s just you’re so—”
“Thin?”
“No,” I deny, though it’s true. She’s thin as a rail. I could crack her in two. “You’re beautiful.”
“Oh.” She appears taken aback. And pleased by the compliment. “Thank you. I haven’t heard anyone use that word to describe me in a long time. Everyone’s always so concerned with my weight. I know I look like a skeleton. Mother called me a bag of bones before I came back to school. I’m on protein supplements, but they’re no use. I can’t keep any weight on.” She smiles. Glances around the room, as if she wants people to pay attention to her, but none of them are, which is fine by me. “Whit worries about me, but I told him there’s no point. I’m dying.”