and examined the dozens of food photographs. The one that got to me was all of this half-eaten food spread across a table with all the wrappers—leftovers of a takeout chicken shawarma, a slab of meat lasagna, cookie batter, a chocolate milkshake. I couldn’t stop thinking about how good a nice big binge would feel. Just looking at the food made me feel excited to eat, so I went downstairs and raided the pantry. I took everything that was either leftover or premade: bacon and cheddar potato skins, three microwave burritos, a can of sweet corn, three hot dogs, a container of cake frosting, a quarter of an apple pie, carrots and hummus, a small bag of pita bread and half a jar of peanut better.
Looking at the pictures while eating made me feel so much less alone. It’s not like I can talk to Antonia or Sam about my bulimia. What would I say? That I’ve started wearing ponytails because my hair has thinned out so much? That puking actually feels like a relief? I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. It’s uncomfortable and disgusting. But knowing other girls are bingeing too is so cathartic. It’s the easiest thing to eat.
So simple. So animalistic.
The sensory experience of chewing and tasting was euphoric. Finishing off one thing made me immediately want to start on the next. I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I had to give in to it until I was so full I literally couldn’t stuff anything down my disgusting throat. Then I vomited and vomited until there was nothing left.
I’m almost certain Antonia suspects something’s going on with my eating habits after I kept hesitating every time she asked whether I wanted to eat with her. She knows me too well. I need to throw her off that trail, because she can be relentless.
“Dad says he’s running for governor,” I finally say. “He hasn’t announced yet though. He’s keeping it on the down low until he hires a campaign manager.”
“And that’s a problem?” Sam asks.
“Duh,” I say. “Get ready for your little Liv’s face to appear on the front page of the Los Angeles Times when the announcement happens. It won’t be as easy as his other elections. He’s not going to be the incumbent this time, which means a lot more media coverage. TV appearances. Articles. That kind of thing.”
“That actually sounds pretty exciting,” Antonia says.
“Mason’s coming home next weekend too,” I add. “I’m not looking forward to that either. We’ve had our share of problems.”
“That’s not a big problem,” Antonia says. “That’s just family.”
“I guess you’re right,” I say, but I don’t really agree in my heart. Not when family is my biggest problem next to a certain boy named Zach. Just thinking about him motivates me to keep restricting and purging until I reach my goal weight.
I have to talk to him again.
And I have to look good when I do.
“Most bad behavior comes from insecurity.”
—Debra Winger
“So, Sam told me something interesting,” Antonia says, pulling her messenger bag up over her shoulder.
Even though I want to know the gossip about Sam, I’m having a hard time listening right now. I can’t concentrate. I’m so hungry. I was starving when I woke up this morning, but I stuck to my morning grapefruit and tea. It’s working at least.
“Wait. What?” I ask.
“He joined debate club. Forensics or whatever. Why do they call it that? I thought that was supposed to be related to some kind of CSI crap.”
“He did?” I wonder why he didn’t tell me. I suddenly feel a little hurt—like maybe Sam is getting back at us for going to the party without him. “When did he say that?”
Students are spilling out into the hallway. Eastlake Prep, home of the “most talented student body” in the Los Angeles area. The pressure to be successful, to set yourself apart from everyone else, is ridiculously high. How else are you going to feel, when most of your classmates are actors on cable television and world-class athletes?
I glance around the hall. I’m desperate to see Zach again. I start to feel butterflies just thinking about him—his dark hair, his defined jawline—but then I get queasy.
Antonia slams her locker shut. “When we were walking out to our cars after we studied...I mean, after we drank in your bedroom.”
“That was like...” I start counting in my head “...a week ago.”
“I didn’t think you were going to think it was that big of a deal.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t get so jealous. He just said he forgot to tell us.”
“Him? Likely not,” I say. “He’s been acting weird lately. Did you see how jealous he got when you started talking about what happened at the boat party with Jackson?”
“He’s definitely not the same guy.” Antonia curls up her arm like she’s lifting a weight. “Did you see those biceps? Those surf camp babes must have been all over him.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I say, dragging her toward class, though I have noticed that Sam has begun to fill out the last few months. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Wait a second,” Antonia says. “Zach Park might have a thing for you, but secretly you actually have a thing for Sam, don’t you? Since when? All along?”
“Don’t be stupid,” I say. Antonia has teased me about having a crush on Sam ever since I told her about the one time we kissed on the bench last year. “I mean Sam’s a great guy, but I know him too well. There’s no mystery there.”
I think there was maybe a chance for us once, but after I cried on his shoulder after Ollie dumped me, I felt too awkward to let myself think about Sam that way. My feelings about our friendship were confusing. It felt natural to share the details about my relationships with him, but Sam would get hurt and never say anything. I couldn’t figure out where I stood with him. In some ways, I guess I’m still trying to solve that problem.
As Antonia and I enter the building, Jackson passes by with one of his friends. He doesn’t stop to talk, but as he walks by us he says, “Looking good, Liv.”
I roll my eyes at Antonia, hoping that I don’t look completely awkward. After the way he acted at the boat party, I feel like I’d better steer clear of him for a while. I definitely don’t want Zach’s best friend to think I’m into him. So I pretend not to hear Jackson, but Antonia notices him slapping his friend’s arm and laughing after they pass.
“What was that about?” Antonia asks.
I shrug. “Guys being guys, I guess.”
“Terrible excuse,” Antonia says. “What a creeper.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “Sam has never liked him. Maybe he has something there.”
“I have a theory,” she says. “About Sam.”
“Yeah?”
“I can’t think of any reason he’d ever join speech and debate unless it’s for a...”
“...girl,” we say at the same time.
“Sam doesn’t do extracurricular stuff,” Antonia says. “He’s too busy studying or surfing.”
The greasy feeling in my stomach is getting worse. I want to ditch class, curl up under my blankets at home and fall asleep with my Frida painting watching over me.
“I’m guessing you want me to ask you more about your theory,” I say.
I can’t not ask. If I try to change the subject again, Antonia will really think something’s up with me and Sam, and Antonia is the worst about