THIRTEEN
Rust
Everything felt so wrong.
My cat scratches have dried to four long, rusty scabs. Latex makes me itch--something I hadn’t noticed until fifteen latex strips were plastered on my arm--so I took off the band-aids. The wounds are nasty, though, so I’ve worn Mickey Mouse today, because my trademark flowery shirts expose the edges of the scratches.
On the drive to school--even I don’t want to bike there in weather this cold--I am silent. I’ve been silent a lot lately. I draw absentmindedly in my notebook. Lots of frighteningly skinny figures appear on the page, posing and smiling wide. They’re beautiful, but also so teasing. I glare at the sketches and rub them away with my eraser.
Flowers are a simple, safe doodle, right? If their stems weren’t unnaturally slender. I scribble them out; everything I draw nowadays seems to be on a diet.
I slap my sketchbook shut and slip my pencil into the rings on the spine. “Stupid,” I mutter. Though Mom glances at me, she doesn’t say a word. Usually the only times I get frustrated are while drawing, and she knows the unspoken rule not to nag me about my feelings when I’m sketching.
After meeting Evelyn at the front of the school, she air-kisses my cheek and gives me her usual “Skinny yet, darling?”
Skinny yet. Every time she says that, I have an unnatural urge to shove her. I suppose it’s becoming natural now.
“Day 13,” I say. “One twenty-five.” I hold my hand out to her. Lots of people ask about the numbers, but I just smile and say, “A game.”
“Awesome. But why’re you wearing one of the sweatshirts for around the house? You should get used to wearing tight clothes to school. For when you’re freaking hot.”
I pull back my sleeve. “Cat scratch.”
Evelyn’s icy eyes widen. She gaps. “Alanna?” she says accusingly. “You’re emo?”
I grit my teeth, thinking I probably should have guessed this would happen. “It’s a cat scratch. Just ask Lisa Peters.”
“Whatever! That’s what they all say.” She lightly runs a manicured finger over the wound. “I never thought you were the type.”
“I’m not,” I say, fighting to keep my voice even. “Just ask Lisa.”
“I can’t believe you cut. Sweetie, cutting is bad. Scars are ugly. Do you see models with scars? No. If you cut--”
“I don’t.”
“--I can’t help you anymore.”
Panic rises within me. I search the faces of the people milling around us. Actually, I search their hair, looking for vivid orange. When I spot her, I point and say, “There she is. Ask Lisa--it happened at her house. Please, Evelyn!” I sound only half as desperate as I feel. Evelyn has to help me. She’s an expert. I need her advice.
“No, no, I believe you, sweetie,” Evelyn says skeptically. “Just this once. But if I see cuts again...”
“Okay.” I finally exhale. “Okay.”
You know I totally love you, right?” Evelyn smiles sweetly.
Pulling my sleeve over the scratches, exhausted, I say, “Yes, Evelyn.”
Dad wanted to make sure I know he loves me. Now Evelyn wants to make sure. If they aren’t certain, does that mean they don’t think they deserve my love? Are all relationships like this? Will I marry a man this manipulative?
How can we stand to live in a world like this?
YOU ARE READING
Spectrum
Teen Fiction>>>>TRIGGER WARNING<<<< Alanna Moore has been the ugly, fat girl for as long as she can remember. Evelyn Pry is slim, trim, and beautiful. Who better to ask for advice? Evelyn tells her to eat less. And Alanna realizes that starving herself isn't so...
