Icarus

8

"We are reaching the climax, Doc, and there's not much in the way of falling action and resolution." I lean back in my chair, stretching my arms over my head.

"You realize it's taken you eight weeks to tell a story," she deadpans. I have learned that as sassy as Jaeger pretends to be, she really does care for her patients. She wouldn't be truly angry with me if I took eight years to tell her this story. Because it's important to me, she takes it seriously.

"All in good time, Padawan," I chide, wrapping my braid around my hand, a nervous habit. She notices.

"You're doing that thing again with your hair. Anxious today?"

"You could say that."

"Do you want to ease into it? Talk about something else unrelated before we begin?" She decides for me. "What did you and Felix do last night?"

A comfortable topic. "We had a Star Wars marathon. He'd never seen them."

"Hence the reference, I suppose." The woman misses nothing.

"From A New Hope all the way to seeing Solo at the movie theaters that evening."

"And?"

"And he loves them now. We're going as Han and Chewie for Halloween this year."

"My husband showed my daughters the very first movie a few weeks ago." She smiles to herself. "They've been shooting their toy guns around the house for ages, beeping conversations at each other."

"Tell them that Han shot first, okay? Your husband will know what it means."

She smiles, but we're quiet for a moment. "It's better to just rip it off. You've already lived through it, you're just briefing me."

"I know."

"You've survived it."

"I know."

↢ ↣

Three weeks after the shoot, after the conversation with Felix, our portraits were displayed on the American Eagle floors. There were the tiny posters hanging above the jean shelf, sure, but there was also the giant, larger-than-life-sized portrait hanging in the windows, the mannequins in front of them displaying the clothes we were wearing, the clothes I was currently wearing. For the first time in a while, I wasn't upset with how I looked. I wasn't revolted at how much fat I thought covered my stomach, how big my thighs looked in their pants. Proper styling and editing transformed me enough that I looked good without looking that different. I still looked like me.

I passed by that store everyday for a week just to see those pictures, to feel that wave of pride that washed over me every time I saw myself and Kate laughing at each other, saw myself looking into Chase's eyes. My social media accounts got more recognition as well. The four of us were even featured in a small article in Teen Vogue, arms thrown around each other's necks. We were referred to as up-and-coming models. I basked in every single moment of it. Even Amelia admitted we looked good, even though she looked like she was going to vomit while saying it.

I was in the mall for a legitimate reason this time when I passed the portraits, but something was different this time. All the American Eagle employees were standing outside their store, people in the hallway whispering to each other. I caught my name in their conversations. Then, I saw it in the window.

Black spray paint crossed out my eyes in Xs, circled my stomach and my thighs. "Pillsbury," dripped from the canvas, running into "Doughboy" directly under it. The other portraits were fine; Kate was untouched, the boys were spared. It was just me.

A feeling like standing at the bottom of the ocean overwhelmed me. The pushing and pulling of my emotions between rage and sorrow like the tide. The water entering my lungs akin to the disbelief washing over me, crushing me, drowning me.

A group of girls, the clique, stood across the clearing, laughing, Amelia the loudest of them. The video appeared on the advertising screens dotting the main walkway. The clip from seventh grade with the chocolate being poured over my head lights up the mall. The sound of my screams and their laughter echoes in the sudden silence. Every single head was tuned into a screen, all throughout the stores. Hundreds of people witnessing my humiliation. My middle school self continued to shriek as something deep inside me shriveled, and like a wilted petal falling from a flower, died. I lost it.

"What do you want from me?" I screamed at them from where I was standing, shredding my vocal chords with gutturality. The heads turned from the screen to me, connecting the dots that I was the same girl. Slimmer, more made-up, but in essence the same.

I looked at each girl individually, at Carter, at Tamaryn, and finally at Amelia as the mall descended into deeper quiet. "What makes me so different from you that you have to torture me?" My voice was quieter, but colder, shaking with my fury. "No one? Where did I screw up? What did I do wrong?"

They didn't reply, their shocked faces telling me that they hadn't expected to fight back. I was done with being weak, with playing their games. I was not going to cower and take their blows like I always did, like I had been doing since that stupid birthday party. I would show them.

I shoulder checked someone as I ran to the exit nearest my car. Wary chatter resumed as I left, but I couldn't hear past the roaring in my ears. No one stopped me as I threw myself in my car.

Muscle memory had me driving home to the safety of my bed, the road blurry through tears or lack of focus.

↢ ↣

"There's a lot I don't remember about that day, but I remember getting honked at. I remember seriously considering driving off the big bridge right before my house, but I didn't, obviously. I was determined in my temporary insanity to show them that I could be what they wanted, that I could fit in. And I tried, I really did."

↢ ↣

No one was home, unfortunately, but I didn't feel that way at the time. The bottle of appetite suppressants was still in the cabinet where I left them at the beginning of summer. I grabbed them with no hesitation.

"Fine," I said out loud. "They want perfect? I'll give it to them. I'll come back from Christmas break and be so small that I'll have to buy a new wardrobe. Starting now, I'll sustain on my one protein shake, like Amelia does. Starting now, they'll see I can be as perfect as they are. I will be as perfect as they are." I shook a handful of the pills out of the bottle, not counting them, and swallowed half of the bottle with a swig of water.

A sound from downstairs—someone knocking on the door, maybe. Whoever it was sounded frantic, but I was dizzy then, and everything was losing its color. Another handful of pills to feel pretty, a handful of Ibuprofen for the painful side effects that would be sure to come—physical and emotional. Another few Ibuprofen to be on the safe side because the appetite suppressants were no joke when taken in large doses. I closed both bottle and threw them onto the bed.

My room spun like it had been vacuumed into a tornado, and my eyelids dragged like I wore lead mascara. I was so, so tired, so drained. Satisfied with my new resolve and the actions I had taken to get there, I crawled into my bed on top of the covers, a single tear dripping down my cheek. And then I fell asleep.