the girl who lost things

part sixty-one

Final chapters!!
jessie's pov

the school was only half a day due to report cards; I walk towards the classroom, adjusting my stupid skirt. Everything was so ridiculous. my mom still hasn't talked to me, she's alive, but she can't break her cover. Garcia says she's in too deep, and it will take a while for everything to be solved. It's like I'm losing her all over again.

I take a seat at my desk, bouncing my leg to ease the time until the bell rings. She was talking about different types of law enforcement; I already knew everything about that.

All the days seemed to skew together, Clara moved out to be with her parents.

She still didn't know that her mom was pregnant, but at least she has support, and the kids have grandparents. I missed her presence; now I feel like an only child again.

" Jessie?" I wish Emily were here. I wondered if she misses me or even thinks about me. There's always something with her; it feels like sometimes she wants to be a mother, and sometimes she doesn't.

"Jessie!" I look up at the teacher.

"Yes?" Mrs. Jones was an angry old lady. Despite being married for twenty years, she always had a frown on her face.

" Are you paying attention?" she says; I nod.  " then, what are the three primary functions of police?"

" providing basic social services, maintaining order, and controlling crime." she looks at me in shock. This was a beginner's lesson. She continues teaching. I could see her face morph in defeat.

She went on talking until the bell rang. The homework sat on her desk, and I grabbed my sheet and started making my way to the house.

—
I lock the door and make my way towards the kitchen until a notification pops on my phone.

wantingbones wants to follow you.

It's from Tumblr; I should've deleted it. Ever since i "recovered," then another notification pops up.

wantingbones wants to send you a message

I open the direct message. Why would an eating disorder account want to message me? Now.

Hi Jessie, looking for an ana coach?

I type the words 'no' on my keyboard.

You've probably let yourself go since you've recovered. They type.

I haven't let myself go; I don't think so. I type it.

I haven't let myself go-

ok, prove it.

Huh?

Weigh yourself or send a body check?

Both.

I knew where Derek hid the scale, even though he didn't need to hide it anymore. Since I was "recovered," I was starting to grow to hate that word.

I walk into the bathroom, take off my clothes, and step on the scale; I wait for about a minute. And then the number shows.

128, that's too much- way too much. They were right. I go to their mirror; my stomach was on the verge of hanging. My arms looked huge, and my thighs.