Authors: Diana L. Sharples
“Hey!”
“I’m joking.”
At the sound of Calvin’s soft chuckle, Stacey gazed at the house. In a few seconds, she could be there. She could hold him, press her ear against his broad chest and hear his heartbeat, feel his strong arms around her. Maybe he’d agree to go for a drive with her. In some quiet corner of the county, they could be together for a little while—
Headlights dimmed her view of the house. A car slid past, a light rack on top, Stiles County Police painted on the side. Stacey’s desire choked. Had Daddy summoned his friends at the police department to look for her?
“Still there?” Calvin asked.
“Um, yeah. Calvin, I have to go. M-my father is calling me.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll see you tomorrow morning then.”
She twisted in her seat to watch the taillights of the squad car diminish in the distance then disappear around a curve in the road.
“Stace?”
“I’m here. Yes, tomorrow morning. I love you, Calvin.”
“Love you too. G’night.”
She hung up and stared at the dark road behind her. If Daddy had sent the police after her, they would have recognized her car
sitting alone in the church parking lot. Just coincidence that they’d passed by.
Stacey sat up straight and drew several deep breaths to calm her racing heart. Would she ever be free of Daddy’s controlling rules? Sometimes the urge to leave was so strong. Take the car, drive to California or New York, get a job with a fashion designer fetching coffee or whatever they’d let her do. Start a real life. Maybe Calvin would go with her.
A light clicked on in the dormer windows of his house. His attic bedroom. She’d never been up there; it wasn’t allowed. More rules. A shadow passed over one window. She imagined him there, sitting on his bed, kicking off his shoes, opening a book. Oh, how sweet it would be to snuggle in his arms as they studied together. Even if they could just sit on the porch …
In fifteen seconds, she could be there.
Blue lights flashed in Stacey’s rearview mirror. Gasping, she jumped in her seat and grabbed the steering wheel. Her car was still running. Her right hand leapt to the gearshift lever, pulled on it.
Stacey closed her eyes. She could never outrun a cop cruiser in her little Honda.
She put the car in park again. Her heart thudding in her throat, she lowered her window. A man in a khaki uniform filled her view. “Did my daddy send you? I’m not doing anything wrong.”
“Driver’s license, miss.”
She fished it out of her purse and handed it over.
“Varnell?” he said. “You’re Officer Varnell’s daughter?”
Like he didn’t already know.
“You can call my father and tell him I’m on my way home.”
“Miss Varnell, may I ask why you’re sitting here in the church lot?”
“Just thinking about some stuff.”
Would those blue lights flash against Calvin’s window? If he
looked out, would he recognize her car? Stalker Stacey. Her heart froze at the thought. She had to get out of there.
The cop leaned down to look at her, practically sticking his face in her window. What? Sniffing for drugs or something? Was he going to haul her out and frisk her? Search her car? Call in a K–9 unit? Teach her a lesson for defying Daddy?
“You all alone in there?”
“Yes. I had a fight with my boyfriend today. I’m … I’m just upset.” She pressed the heel of one hand against her forehead. It’d be nice if she could raise some more tears.
His hand came through the window, her license between the fingers. “Think you’d better head on home, Miss Varnell.”
She blinked and grabbed her license back. “You’re letting me go?”
“Any reason why I shouldn’t?”
“Uh—no. No reason. Are you going to call my father?”
“I’m giving you a break because you’re Stan Varnell’s daughter. I suggest you take advantage of it.”
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I’ll go home. Right now.”
Stacey put her car in gear and rolled slowly to the entrance of the parking lot. The blue lights stopped flashing, but the squad car followed her. There’d be talk in the station house tomorrow, for sure.
As she drove past Calvin’s house, she rolled her eyes toward the dormer windows. No silhouette darkened the rectangles of soft light.
What was he doing up there?
Her heart fluttered. If there wasn’t a police car just behind her, she could stop, get Calvin, run away with him. Leave this nightmare behind.
C
alvin paced the floor between his bed and Michael’s. Angry, ugly words assaulted the synapses in his brain and breached his will until they spilled out of his mouth. He punched the air with each phrase. “Freakin’ idiot. Moron. She did it to me again.”
He’d caved. Apologized for everything and let Stacey off. Because her crying had ripped him apart. Tyler was right; Stacey ruled him.
Calvin buried both hands in his hair and pulled. “Argh! I’m such a wuss!”
But what options did he have? If he fought with her, they’d only break up and he wouldn’t be able to stop her from becoming one of those skeleton girls he’d seen online.
He slid down onto the floor and put his head between his knees.
According to Flannery, he was supposed to be nice and loving to Stacey. Too bad it felt false, like he was manipulating her until he could figure out how to get her to see a doctor.
What was a guy supposed to do when someone he cared about was anorexic? According to what he’d read, anorexia nervosa was like an obsessive-compulsive disorder. People who had it convinced themselves they were fat even if everyone else saw them as skinny. He’d watched a video showing a chubby girl looking into a mirror,
then the camera panned back and showed her as she really was, with bones sticking out everywhere.
Calvin pulled his hair until scalp pain drove the image away.
He had to stop this thing, this disorder. Before he had to see Stacey as a skeleton girl.
But he had to go carefully, so he wouldn’t drive her away. He had to stick with her, while at the same time making sure she didn’t distract him from what he needed to do.
“How much am I supposed to take?” he said to his knees. “This is crazy.”
Other guys would walk away. What was wrong with wanting a normal girlfriend?
He sniffed and raised his head. Across from him, Michael’s bed was neatly made up with pillows and a comforter topped by his red, black, and white NC State fleece throw. All arranged as if nothing had happened. Like Michael would come walking up the stairs at any moment, snatch a foam football off a shelf, and launch it at Calvin’s face. “
Think fast, lump!
”
Calvin drew in a sharp breath at the memory of Michael’s favorite nickname for him. Yeah, like Stacey was the only one who’d
ever
been called a name because of her weight. Thing was, Michael never meant it to hurt. What Calvin wouldn’t give now just to hear that teasing name again, to throw something back at his brother, to wrestle on and between the beds until Mom came upstairs to tell them they were keeping the little kids awake with their racket.
But Michael’s bed was empty, and the silence in the room echoed in Calvin’s heart.
He turned his eyes to the ceiling, where a thousand times he’d directed questions asking God why his brother had to die. He’d figured out the only answer anyone could have: Michael was dead because guys died in wars. That was it. Nothing profound. All the causes and slogans and reasons didn’t change the simple fact that
Michael had left home to fight for something he believed in, and he died because someone else in a dusty desert country had buried a bomb along the road.
Leaving a gaping hole in Calvin’s world.
He couldn’t lose Stacey, couldn’t make that hole even bigger.
Calvin’s hands fisted painfully against the floor. His throat closed up just as tightly.
And that man, that uncle of hers. Names filtered through Calvin’s brain that a good Christian boy should never utter. He had to think God would forgive him for it. Maybe. The guy deserved to be in jail. But if he never touched Stacey, how could what he said affect her so much that she would just stop eating?
Too many questions. He’d go crazy trying to figure everything out. Still, there had to be something online that would tell him how he was supposed to watch her body dwindle away day by day without going crazy himself.
Calvin lurched to his feet, pulling his own comforter halfway onto the floor. He left it there and padded softly down the stairs and past the rooms where his brothers and baby sister were sleeping, past the door with light seeping through the crack where Lizzie—and hopefully Peyton—would be reading or polishing their nails or whatever girls did before bed. He slipped past the living room where his father was watching television, and into the dining room, where the computer waited for him, still on, the screen saver shifting pictures. Calvin claimed the chair, and his fingers flew over the keyboard, typing words into the search engine:
my girlfriend is anorexic
. He banged the enter key.
Calvin scanned the websites his search had found. Lots of message boards with guys in his exact predicament, all looking for the same answers. He clicked on the first promising link and squinted at small print against a pale blue background. At least this time anyone snooping around would think he was studying.
He read questions and answers on website after website. All voicing the same worries he had, the same questions he had, and the same answers he’d feared. “My girlfriend is anorexic. What should I do?” was answered with “You can’t fix her” and “This is going to be hard” and “Don’t argue with her, it’ll only make things worse.”
Were these people real? The concerns of guys Calvin would never meet swallowed his sense of himself. He was floating, living their thoughts and fears, sucked up by the same questions. Yet there were no faces or names. Each person told Calvin’s story over and over, with slight variations that warned him of what was to come.
The only definitive thing he learned was that things would only get worse.
The behavior, the symptoms, the damage. Anorexia was a “relationship killer,” one person said. And a problem far beyond counting calories; it was not really about losing weight, but about being in control. Seeing something completely different in the mirror and hating the way it looked, even if other people said it was beautiful. It all meant that Stacey was at the beginning of a terrible ride that could ruin her, even kill her. And Calvin was buckled in beside her. If he chose to stay.
“She needs counseling,” was the only answer that made sense.
How was he supposed to get her to go to counseling? She didn’t even realize she had a problem!
He cussed, and that single spoken word broke the illusion, brought him back to the reality that he was sitting in a chair inside a farmhouse in North Carolina. Air infused with the warm scent of the roast beef they’d had for supper filled his lungs. Dark paneling and cross-stitched decorations surrounded him. The television mumbled in the background. Calvin blinked and sniffed, found tears on his face.
He glanced over his shoulder. His dad snored softly in his chair. A tiny glow through the front window told him Mom was outside
still, rocking and praying or just finding some quiet to end her day. No sound filtered down from the girls’ room upstairs. Each person had retreated to their own little sphere of existence. Not a one of them would have the answers Calvin needed even if he tried to talk to them. He doubted even Michael would have any clue.
He turned around and stared at the computer screen. All those guys with anorexic girlfriends had gone to the Internet for answers rather than their own parents or friends. And what did it get them? Did anyone have
the
answer for them? Calvin couldn’t tell. Because the stories were never finished. No additional posts saying, “She’s cured!” or even “She’s dead.”
Love her through it. But how?
T
he pink tulip petals turned to yellow at their delicate edges without transitioning through orange. They felt like fine silk beneath Stacey’s fingertips. Calvin had clipped the flower from his mother’s garden and had given it to Stacey as he slid into her car, a gift-bearing Romeo chasing away the nervous tremors that had robbed her of sleep and plagued her as she drove to his house.
It wasn’t his only gift, though. He’d also brought her one of Mrs. Greenlee’s big, soft blueberry muffins. The aroma filled her car and eroded her resistance. She had to eat it, couldn’t stop at just a few nibbles. Calvin watched too closely. Now the thing sat like a giant lump in her gut. She could imagine the muffin breaking apart, the calories dancing through her bloodstream like ecstatic parasites, attaching themselves to her stomach, thighs, butt, arms, and face.
Maybe she could use the stench of simmering chemicals as an excuse to go empty her stomach. All around the lab area of the classroom, students were lighting up Bunsen burners and collecting the chemicals they would need for today’s experiment. Stacey’s partner, Kenny, had gone to fetch a beaker of hydrochloric acid and some strips of magnesium.
“What’s that?” Zoe flopped her hands down on the lab counter next to the tulip.
Stacey tilted her chin down and stared at her friend.
Zoe rolled her eyes. “Okay, I know it’s a flower. Does this mean everything is nice-nice with the farm boy again?”
“Yes, we made up. We love each other again.”
“Eww.” Zoe’s eyes narrowed to slits.
Stacey shoulder-bumped her friend. “Come on. Why can’t you be happy for me?”
Zoe sighed and looked off somewhere in the classroom. “I guess I’m just worried that you’ll end up pregnant and then married, and you’ll give up all your plans for college. Maybe you’ll have twenty-seven kids and end up on a reality show.”
“Oh, you’re just so sure I’m going to get pregnant and give everything up.”
“He’s a farm boy. Isn’t that what they do? Marry young, have a gazillion babies, inherit the farm, get excited about things like John Deere tractors and NASCAR?”
“Oh, please. Zoe, stop it. Aren’t you supposed to be at your table working with Ashley?”
“Miss Straight-As likes it when I stay out of her way. Besides, Stace, what’s old Calvin gonna do next year when we’re ready to leave for design school? Cry? ‘Oh, don’t go, baby. I l-l-love yo-oo-oou.’” Zoe deepened her voice and tugged on her hair.
Stacey turned her eyes toward the ceiling. “Zoe, it hurts me when you say bad things about him. Can’t you
try
to be nice?”
Zoe’s breath hissed through the air between them. “Fine. Be with the farm boy. I don’t care.” Yet she pouted, and something like real pain puckered her eyelids.
“I do care,” Stacey said. “Just tell me straight. Please?”
Zoe groaned. “Okay, I don’t
hate
him. He’s a
nice
guy. But boring. I think you can find someone better.”
Stacey brought Calvin’s flower to her nose, inhaling its sweetness. “You don’t know him the way I do.”
Zoe pushed her body away from the counter, looking down at the floor. “I’ll never let any guy tie me down. Ever. They act like they own you, take everything you’ve got to offer, then cry like a wounded puppy when you try to leave.”
Stacey studied her friend. Was she speaking from experience? She’d never mentioned a boyfriend before, and all her talk about this hot guy or that hot guy lasted only a moment.
“Zoe, did you—I mean—did some guy hurt you?”
Her eyes hardened. “No. I learned enough watching my mother get hurt over and over. So no guy is getting close enough to me to hold me back. I’ll get what
I
want, then I’m done.”
Stacey gasped as understanding dawned. “I see. So that’s why—you think Calvin is going to hold me back.”
“Not think. Know.”
Movement beyond Zoe’s shoulders slammed the conversation shut. Kenny had returned, bearing gifts in beakers and vials. Zoe snatched up Stacey’s tulip. “Can I borrow this? Thank you.” She circled behind Stacey. “Ken, darling—”
“What the—that’s mine!” Stacey whirled and grabbed Zoe’s wrist. She pried Zoe’s fingers away from the stem of the flower.
Zoe backed up, giggling, but lanky Kenny didn’t get out of her way fast enough. He lifted the glass beaker up to avoid Zoe’s body, but the liquid inside sloshed over the brim. It made a high, dribbling arch and splashed across Stacey’s arm.
Stacey’s gasp seemed trapped between her ears. The acid immediately turned the pristine ecru of her linen sleeve a pee-yellow color. She felt the heat on her arm. She stared at it, her arm petrified in the position it had been when the acid rained upon her. The tulip slipped from her trembling fingers.
“Sink! Now!” Kenny shoved the remaining chemicals onto their table and grabbed Stacey’s shoulders.
Germs! Acid! Burning, burning, eating away at her shirt and her
skin! Grunting sounds blurted from Stacey’s throat with each crazed step as her lab partner pushed her to the stainless steel basin at the back of the room. Dizziness wrapped clammy tentacles around Stacey’s face and rushed down to her stomach. She tasted bile and pushed it back. Darkness danced at the edge of her vision as her brain fought the urge to purge.
Kenny turned on the water, grabbed Stacey’s arm, and shoved it under the gushing flow.
A distant part of her brain told her she wasn’t going to die. Yet that rational thought couldn’t stand against the onslaught of her phobia, and her body would have its way. Her arm still under the faucet, Stacey pitched forward and dumped blueberry muffin into the sink.
A chorus of yells and groans erupted in the classroom. Heat flooded Stacey’s face in a double portion of sickness and humiliation. Somewhere Mr. Emerson tried to take control of the situation, barking orders at the students. Kenny, the hero of the moment, tried to tell Stacey it was okay, just keep her arm under the water. She crooked her other arm on the edge of the sink and used it to pillow her forehead as sobs took the place of retching.
And that distant, rational part of her brain told her that this time, at least, she had a whole classroom full of witnesses who could provide a very good reason for her purging.
Calvin’s promise to trust her lasted barely a week. What was he thinking? First the blueberry muffin—the memory of which made Stacey’s stomach queasy all over again—and then another note. At least this one, creased and wrinkled from having been forced through the vents of her locker, was in Calvin’s own handwriting.
I love you. Please eat. I want you to be healthy
.
Totally clueless.
I love you, but let me boss you around and think that I know so much better than you about your own body
. He’d never get it.
Stacey sat in a corner of the library, a stack of research books untouched. Starting her report for history class on nurses in Vietnam was the furthest thing from her mind.
Beside the books, Calvin’s tulip wilted, in spite of its rescue from the puddle of hydrochloric acid in the chemistry lab and the wet paper towels she’d wrapped around the stem. Wilting … like his promises.
A tear ran down Stacey’s cheek. She didn’t care if anyone saw it. What could she do? If she ate the way Calvin wanted her to, stuffing herself on blueberry muffins and cheeseburgers and barbecue, all the weight she’d worked so hard to lose over a year would come back. Then she’d have no choice but to marry him and have babies and become a fat farmer’s wife like … like his mother. But if she didn’t do what he wanted, he might get frustrated and dump her.
She knew what Zoe’s solution would be. But she couldn’t dump Calvin first. She just couldn’t. Where would she find another boyfriend who would even put up with her?
Skinny Stacey inside her clenched her fist in defiance, while Sad Stacey on the outside lay her head down on her folded arms.
“Are you okay?” someone asked.
Go away
.
The girl behind her murmured to another person, and they both went away.
What if she showed Calvin the pictures in the family photo albums? All the snapshots of Mommy’s roly-poly sweetheart. The class pictures where she was the fat kid sitting at the very end of the row wearing a stupid fake smile, hurting inside from all the taunts
on the playground. The image of a sad fourteen-year-old whose boobs were already too big, whose parents thought her pout was only some kind of emo phase that would soon pass.
Did Calvin really want her to go back to that? She’d die if she did. Forget it; if Calvin truly loved her, he’d accept her choices and embrace the model-slim Stacey she wanted to be.
Banging, shuffling, and voices surrounded her. Did the period bell ring?
Stacey lifted her head. Black eye makeup had stained her rolled-up sleeve. Her face burned, and that meant there’d be ugly red blotches. She couldn’t go to art class looking like a mess. And the thought of food, of chicken nuggets and greasy burgers and dried-up salad after that—Ugh! Stacey put her head down again and sucked in air from the tiny space between her face and the table.
“Stacey? What’s wrong?”
Go away
.
This time it didn’t work. “Stacey, why are you crying?”
“Go away. Whoever you are.”
“Hey …” The chair scraped the floor as someone brazenly took a seat. Definitely not going away. The person nudged Stacey’s elbow to make sure she was paying attention.
Really?
Stacey lifted her head and sniffed. Her eyelids fluttered and her vision focused.
Flannery.
Stacey’s heart skittered. She snagged and crumpled Calvin’s note before Flannery could see it. “Oh, uh, I’m not feeling well.”
Flannery blinked her huge green eyes. Almost no makeup. She didn’t need it. “You and Calvin okay? I know y’all had a fight. Stace, I’d like to help, if I can.”
Oh yeah, like she was
so
going to talk to Flannery Moore about
Calvin. Might as well give the girl written permission to ruin her life.
“No—I mean, we did, but it’s okay now. See?” She lifted the tulip. Its head drooped pathetically, like her lie. “It’s just, I’m having a really bad day and I’m … hurting. My period.” Stacey put on a trembling smile. “I get cramps really bad sometimes.”
“Gotcha. Can I get you a cold drink? I have a package of crackers in my locker if you wan—”
Stacey jumped off her stool. “Are you trying to stuff me with food too? I eat! Okay? I eat all the time. Did Calvin send you to—”
What am I doing?
“Forget it. I’ll eat during lunch. Thanks for checking on me, though. I’m fine. I have to go to class now.” She grabbed her things. “This happens every month. It’ll pass.”
She hurried out of the library and found a bathroom mirror where she could make herself look acceptable again.
Flannery would tell Calvin.
Heat flooded Stacey’s skin again.
Cramps. That was her excuse after her face-plant on the floor. Same excuse today. Calvin would put those pieces together real quick. Fifteen days wasn’t enough time to repeat the lie. A hundred and six days had passed since the excuse could have been true. What would Calvin say if he got wind of
that
fact?
Scared Stacey in the mirror lifted an eyeliner pencil and drew a wobbly black line beneath her eye.