Running Lean (23 page)

Michael! Michael, you went away, and I need you!

As he reached the field and moved between the rows of cotton plants, Calvin’s feet bogged down in the soft soil. This was stupid. He didn’t even know where he was going, and now he’d made a spectacle of himself. He slowed down, stopped, put his hands to his knees and huffed. He heard the whispering footsteps of someone coming up behind him.

“Leave me alone. I’ll be fine.”

“Calvin …” Peyton’s hands were on his back and shoulder before he could straighten to look at her.

“I’m sorry. Just give me a few minutes. I’ll be all right.”

“I don’t think so. Calvin, talk to me. This is more than about Michael, isn’t it?”

He coughed out a laugh. “You don’t know everything.”

“I know you’ve been really down lately. I know we don’t see Stacey come around much anymore. I know you had a fight with her a few weeks ago. And I know she’s not here today. So, come on. Talk to me. Let me help you if I can.”

Calvin stood and looked at his sister. Sudden awareness that his face was soaked with tears and snot made him turn in a circle and mop up the mess with his sleeve. He looked back at the house, at the people milling around the tables of food, and wondered what they were saying about him.
Poor boy. Losing his big brother has been so hard on him
.

Peyton did know more than the others. And maybe—maybe—she’d let go of her judgments for a few minutes to hear him out.

He coughed, stuck his hands in his pockets, and turned to face her. “Stacey is … she’s got … she’s anorexic. And I’ve been trying to help her, but she’s not listening to me. I’m scared …” He sniffed and looked at the sky. “I’m scared she’s gonna die,” his voice squeaked.

“Anorexic? Calvin, are you sure? I mean, I know she’s really thin, but that could be, uh, a thyroid problem or—”

“I’m totally sure.” He looked out over the cotton field, at the rows of green plants. They were doing well. Dad was proud of him. If only the rest of his life could be so simple.

“Do her parents know?” Peyton asked.

Calvin shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

“But how could they not know?”

“She’s good at hiding it. She’s good at lying. She’s got all these tricks to make it look like she’s eating.”

“Did she tell you she’s anorexic?”

“No. I figured it out.” Bones. His fingers touching them where there should have been soft, enticing girl-flesh. No way could he tell his sister how he knew for sure. “I know she is. No doubt about it. Remember that night you thought I was looking at porn on the computer?”

“Cal—”

“I wasn’t, okay. I was looking up anorexia. I wanted to find out everything I could.”

Peyton sighed deeply. “I’m sorry. I saw a picture and I made a mistake. I wish you had told me then what was really going on.”

He squinted into the sun. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter.”

“Maybe you should talk to her parents.”

Calvin shook his head hard. “No. No way. She’ll never speak to me again if I betray her like that. Besides, they have to figure it out sometime if they haven’t already. She’s been sick a lot lately. She’s even in trouble at school because of it.”

“If they take her to a doctor, he’ll be able to see something isn’t right with her.”

“Exactly. That’s what I’m hoping. I’ve begged her to go to the doctor, and she promised me she would, but she didn’t. Just like she promised me she would come to our barbecue today, but she didn’t.”

“Has she said why she’s not coming?”

“No. I haven’t heard from her at all. She probably doesn’t want to see all the food.”

“Wow. I knew there were problems, but I didn’t imagine … Wow.”

“Sweet, huh? Now you know.”

Peyton reached up to stroke Calvin’s shoulder, but didn’t say anything for several seconds. “Would you like me to talk to her?”

Calvin pushed his lips out as his sinuses burned again with fresh tears. He shook his head. “No. She’s not going to want to talk to you.”

“Maybe she will. I’m another girl. She might be willing to open up to me.”

“You’re my sister. She’ll think I put you up to it. Besides, she talks to her friend, Zoe. I think Zoe actually
helps
her, covering up for her and stuff.”

“That’s awful. What kind of friend does that?”

“She’s weird. Uh …” Calvin looked over his shoulder at the people settling down to eat. “We should get back.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. It was, like … it was too much. You know?”

She smiled a little. “You weren’t the only one crying.”

“That makes me feel a
whole
lot better.”

“Calvin, come here.” Peyton pulled him toward her and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

He hugged her back, finding that he didn’t want to let go. So good, just to have someone hold him like this, knowing a little bit about what he was going through.

“Calvin, if you’re right,” Peyton said, her voice soft next to his ear, “she’s very sick. She needs counseling. It’s more complicated than just deciding not to eat so she can be thin.”

“I know that.”

“Try again. Do everything you can to encourage her to see a doctor. And if it doesn’t work, you’re going to have to talk to her parents.”

He sagged. He didn’t want to think about what Officer Varnell would say to him, much less about what Stacey would do. They’d be done. She’d never speak to him again.

Would it be worth it if it saved her life?

T
he collage would certainly push the boundaries of Mrs. Chandler’s instructions for their final assignment. Except for what Stacey had initially sketched on the eighteen-by-twenty-four-inch illustration board, there wasn’t any drawing at all. Rendering, yes, but no actual sketching by pencil, marker, or brush to create the image. Stacey backed away from the easel and nibbled a torn cuticle.

“Should I do some sketching on top, like, with a marker or something, so it’ll still qualify as a drawing?”

“Stop worrying,” Zoe said. “It’s going to be awesome.”

The girl sat cross-legged on a sheet spread across carpet in Stacey’s room, tearing food labels into tiny pieces. She sorted them by dominant colors and shades and placed them into mason jars Stacey had provided.

Stacey knelt down opposite Zoe and sifted through the stack of canned goods labels that remained. “Keep some of these big, so the words can still be read.”

“Pick out what you want, so I don’t tear it up by mistake.”

Canned spaghetti, vegetables loaded with salt, soups full of cream and starch. The colors were all garish and way too bright to be used to depict a human form, but that was sort of the point. It
was all wrong and evil. Stacey sifted through the labels, looking for familiar brand names and icons.

“Thanks for helping me with this,” she told Zoe.

Zoe paused in her tearing and looked up at the image on the board. “So amazing. I would never have thought of it.”

Her knees and ankles complaining, Stacey rolled down to sit on the sheet, where she studied the image from another angle. She’d drawn inspiration from one of those horrible pictures of herself from a few years ago, all pudgy at the beach, wearing a two-piece swimsuit, of all things. She covered the illustration board with torn construction paper in beige, aqua, blue, and white, to represent the sand and the water. When all the glue was dry, she carefully sketched the outline of her figure, and recruited Zoe to help her tear up the labels she took off all the scrubbed-out cans her mother was recycling. Zoe had brought a stack of her own, along with a hilarious story of what happened at home when her mother discovered all her canned goods with the labels gone and Sharpie marker notations telling the contents of the can. Apparently Zoe’s consolation that now their pantry had a unified, modern look didn’t go over well.

“You going to be able to finish it in time?” Zoe asked.

“Thanks to you, I will.” Stacey found enough whole labels she thought would be sufficient to make her point about the conspiracy of the food industry. She pushed herself to her feet, careful to go slowly, and moved to her dresser beside her easel. She placed the labels in the stack with all of Calvin’s recent notes.

He’d made himself her psychologist. With lovely notes of encouragement and his deep, gentle voice telling her how much he loved her and wanted her to be happy and healthy, he tried to get inside her head and undermine everything she was thinking. What, did he read a book or something? Suddenly he was an expert? It was sweet in a way, but mostly it hurt like crazy.

Was it too bold to include his notes with the larger pieces of labels?

They were on white notebook paper. The blue lines with bits of his handwriting showing would be enough. She’d need a lot of white to complete the figure anyway.

Stacey separated the notes from her big labels and started to tear them into tiny pieces. As she tore through his name at the bottom of the first note, she turned her back to Zoe so her friend wouldn’t see her cry.

One week left, with no additional absences that would hold her back. She was going to make it. Too bad that one week was finals week, and she was already beyond exhausted from staying up late to finish her art project.

Grateful to be off her feet for a little while, Stacey plopped into one of the tightly packed desks in the center of her chemistry classroom, next to Zoe. The cold water she’d just swallowed at the fountain trickled through her insides to do battle with the acid burning in her belly. Her fingers trembled as she dug into her purse for one of the brand-new number-two pencils she’d sharpened for her exams. Other students bumped and chattered, milling around their seats as if reluctant to sit. She wasn’t the only one with test-day nerves.

Zoe leaned across the aisle and muttered, “Were you able to study for this test?’

“Yeah. During the day.” While Calvin was at church and studying for his own exams. In her heart she’d been tempted to invite him over so they could study together. But she didn’t want to risk hearing another gentle lecture.

One more week. And then maybe she would have proved to him
that she was okay and he would go back to being her boyfriend instead of her self-appointed savior.

The bell rang and Mr. Emerson loudly tapped a stack of papers against his desktop to straighten them. Desks and sneakers chirped on the tile floor as people settled into their seats.

Breathe. Focus. Be strong and in control
. “Ugh. I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Seriously? Are you, like, really sick or is it just—” Zoe straightened as the teacher moved to the front of her row.

Mr. Emerson handed tests to the person in each front desk. Stacey accepted a stack from the guy in front of her, took one copy for herself, then swiveled to hand the remaining copies to Kenny sitting behind her. She wrote her name on the cover sheet. When the tests were all distributed, Mr. Emerson told the students to begin. Stacey flipped over the cover sheet and stared at the first question. Multiple choice. Her eyes blurred over the words and a sick headache throbbed at her temples. She drew another deep breath and bent closer to the paper.

1. Ternary acids commonly contain which of the following elements?

A. Hydrogen and oxygen

B. Hydrochloric acid and hydrofluoric acid

C. Hydrogen, a nonmetal, and oxygen

D. Hydrogen, a metal, and oxygen

Stacey blackened the circle for answer C and rubbed her eyes with her left hand. At that touch her headache intensified. Acid gurgled in her stomach. Was there a question on the test about the composition of stomach acid?

She grimaced and moved her pencil down to the next question, read it, and answered A.

Sick, sick … she shouldn’t have stayed up so late last night. She
could still smell the odor of white glue that permeated the air of her bedroom.

Question eight didn’t make sense. It should make sense, but the words ran out of her head as soon as she read them.

8. Identify the symbols of the formula used in indirect calorimetry: q=mc
T
.

A. Heat, mass, and internal energy

B. Energy, mass, specific heat, and temperature change

C. Energy, mass, calorie intake, temperature change

D. Quantity, mass, calories, temperature

Her brain buzzed. The test paper drifted away. Her body felt distant, yet thick.

Zoe’s pencil tapped out a beat beside her. The room smelled of pencil lead, chemicals, and Kenny’s aftershave lotion. Stacey focused on these tangible things.

C. No, B. The answer had to be B
. She blackened it in.

She needed water. And Tylenol. Ten minutes with her eyes closed would be a good thing. No way would Mr. Emerson give it to her.

Stacey pressed on and managed to get to page three. She counted the remaining pages of the exam and looked at the clock on the wall. Getting through the test on time would take a gargantuan effort.

Ten minutes with her eyes closed. She’d be golden after that.

She glanced at Mr. Emerson, who was busy at his desk with some other papers. Maybe he wouldn’t notice if she rested for just a moment. Stacey folded her arm on her desk and lay her head down. She closed her eyes and listened to the sound of her breath against the desktop. Her skin felt clammy.

Something nudged her foot. She lifted her head to look at Zoe.

“Hey. You okay?”

Stacey slowly straightened and nodded. She puffed air through her nostrils. What energy was being expended to create the heat she
felt? Maybe the heat migrated out from the churning brain cells and thumping hearts and sweaty palms of twenty-two students in the classroom.

“You look like you’re about to puke,” Zoe whispered.

Mr. Emerson lifted his head sharply. “Ms. Bernetti, is there a problem?”

Zoe jolted. “Stacey doesn’t look good.”

“Shh!” Stacey whipped her head around to glare at her friend.

“I’m sorry! But you’re all sweaty and pale.”

“I’m fine.” She slumped in her seat as more heat rose to her face.

Mr. Emerson leaned forward, his head tilted and his left eye squinting. “Stacey, do you need a pass?”

“No, Mr. Emerson. I’m okay.”

Eyes turned toward her, every student in the classroom taking a peek to see her perspiring like a slob. Maybe they thought she was on drugs.

Don’t look at me!

She bent over her test. Plowed through the questions. Blackened circles, one after another. Fought the throbbing pain and the heat. Control. She needed to be in control.

At last she finished and slogged up to the teacher’s desk with her exam. Mr. Emerson crooked a finger to urge her closer.

“Stacey, are you ill? You know you can arrange make-up exams.”

“I didn’t get enough sleep last night, that’s all. May I get a drink of water, please?”

The teacher rolled his lips inward. “Perhaps you should go to the nurse’s office, just to be on the safe side.” He pulled a pad of hall passes out of a drawer and scribbled information on one.

Stacey didn’t argue. She accepted the pass, and after gathering her books and purse she nodded to Zoe and left the classroom. No way was she going to the nurse. The woman would send her home, and that would be a disaster.

She stopped at a water fountain and drank her fill. It helped. With the hall pass visible in her hand, she walked past the administrative offices and gently pushed through one of the double doors of the media center. The librarian at the checkout desk was zoned in on a computer screen and didn’t look up. Stacey snuck over to a table in the corner, putting a rack of books between her and the librarian. She quietly took a seat and folded her arms over the top of her books.

Just ten minutes with her eyes closed …

“Excuse me. Ex
cuse
me! Shouldn’t you be in class?”

Stacey gasped and jerked her head up. The librarian, Mrs. Patterson, stood over her, one hand planted on the tabletop. Blobs of light and dark morphed into shelves, books, tables, and chairs. A clock on the wall read 10:15. No, 11:15.

Where
was
she supposed to be?

Art class. Oh no! The one class she
wanted
to go to!

“I’m late.” She pulled her books back into a neat pile. “I have to go.”

“I don’t think so. You’re going to need a pass from the office, and they’re going to want to know why I caught you skipping class.”

“No, no, I’m not skipping. I fell asleep. I don’t feel well. Please, can I just go?”

Mrs. Patterson’s face blurred, distorted, looked like someone else. Stacey pressed the heel of her palm into her right eye.

“Your teacher won’t let you come to class late without a pass. Go to the office.”

“Fine.” Stacey loaded her books into her arms and trudged back into the halls. Her involuntary nap hadn’t done any good. She swayed as she walked, and her eyes kept going out of focus. Summoning all the strength she possessed, she filled her lungs and stretched her neck, then walked through the open door to the administrative offices. She marched to the counter and looked straight at the secretary. “I need a
pass to get into my class, please. I was studying in the library and lost track of time.”

She arrived at the start of the critique session. Stacey handed Mrs. Chandler her pass, along with a mumbled apology, then pulled her art project out of her cubby in the supply room, where she’d tucked it before school that morning.

Fearing that the image wouldn’t qualify as an actual drawing, much less a self-portrait, Stacey had used oil pastel to lightly render the features of her face and form. She’d made the decision last night, and the project she should have finished in two hours took six.

The teacher moved on and called everyone to gather around the first easel standing along the walls of the classroom. They were to critique the work of their fellow art student, and those pieces receiving the most favorable responses would be awarded a space in the display case outside the classroom for the start of next year.

Zoe grabbed Stacey’s arm and hissed in her ear. “Where were you? I thought you were going to miss this.”

“Fell asleep in the library. Can you believe it?”

Friends supported friends. And although no one said anything bad about another person’s drawing, it was clear by the volume of comments the pieces received which ones would go into the display case. That is, if Mrs. Chandler didn’t overrule the voting and make her own choices.

Stacey pointed at Zoe’s image, her neck stretched back and hair cascading over one shoulder. Fashion model pose, of course, from a picture Zoe had taken with her cell phone. “I like how her lines fade in and out. Your mind finishes the line. And it’s stylized. Graceful.”