Spectrum

Part One: THIRTEEN-Crimson

THIRTEEN

Crimson

One last chance.

I’ve lost thirteen pounds in a week. If time is money, if seconds are gold, then pounds are torture, ounces are empty life.

At this rate I’ll be fifty-two pounds lighter by the end of this month. It sounds impossible, but I am all but starving myself.

Evelyn is amazed. At lunch, she smiles, impressed. She licks her finger and rubs away the remains of yesterday’s weight on my hand. It’s a little gross, but since it’s Evelyn, I don’t complain.

“One-twenty-eight,” she says, writing the number in slightly neater penmanship than in the past, which I figure is a reward. The ink is crimson like blood.

I smile weakly at the phone as she takes the picture.

“Alanna’s Diet: Day Seven,” Evelyn says proudly. “How do you like it?”

I think of how much I’ve deceived my family. I’ve pretended to be sick twice for dinner; the rest of the time I’ve pretended Evelyn and I are working on a group project and I need to go over to her house and eat dinner there. In the mornings I’ve just been grabbing things as I run out the door and not eating them. For breakfast and lunch on the weekend I’ve pretended to not be hungry or to have wanted to eat in my room. And, despite my loathing of the Fashion Police clothes, I wear the slouchy sweaters and oversized sweatshirts around the house, even though I haven’t yet lost enough weight for it to matter too much.

I think my family is suspicious but supposes my secrecy is just a phase.

Besides the web of lies, there’s the awful feeling of this. After the first couple days the agony lessened, but I’m becoming weak and dizzy, and it's hard to concentrate. I honestly wonder if this is going to kill me, even though I keep telling myself, People do this all the time. You’re going through exactly what they did.

“It’s great,” I think. “I...I just think I need to tell my parents. So, um, they’re not suspicious.”

Evelyn looks a little panicked at this. She pulls nervously at her crimson shirt. “Nah,” she says, obviously trying to sound casual, “I wouldn’t. I mean, I didn’t. Parents get really suspicious of even, like, super-healthy diets.”

I wonder what’s causing her panic. Perhaps she’s less confident without Jade, having ordered her to sit with Sarah for an indefinite period of time--probably until our pact ends. It worries me, though. It really worries me.

“So what did you do?” I ask slowly.

“I just, you know. Have you ever...I mean...” Evelyn stares intently at her phone, scrolling through pictures of her and her friends, her dog, and of course, me. Then she gives an audible sigh and says, “Ever heard of bulimia?”

...Stop...No!...Get away from her!...

I shake my head. It rings a bell, though. Aren’t there news stories about the epidemic of bulimic deaths? There couldn’t be, because Evelyn wouldn’t recommend something dangerous to me, and she’s probably done it herself.

But I’m sure I’ve read something about the dangers of bulimia.

I make the decision to say, “But I’ve heard of people being hospitalized and even, um, dying from it.”

Evelyn shrugs.

“If it’s that dangerous”--I straighten my spine and take a deep breath--”I don’t want to do it.”

Evelyn shakes her head sadly. She leans over and squeezes my arm so tight, I bite my tongue. In my ear, she hisses, “It’s not dangerous if you do it right.”

I  want to scream. But the undertones in Evelyn’s voice scare me.

So instead I mutter, “Anything you say.”