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whole restaurant can hear us.
    So I can stand up, take her arm, and we both leave. (Leo gives us a dirty look, but hey, he’ll get over it.)
    Maggie doesn’t say a word until we reach the little park at the end of the block.
    We sit on a bench, near some sad-looking hedges.
    005
    006
    Just like that, Nbook. She admits it.
    A BIG step, according to the article.
    I’m seeing something I’ve never seen before in Maggie. She looks venerable.
    The confident, Straight-A Girl of a million. Talents? Gone.
    “I—I wasn’t sure you knew that,” I say.
    “For a long time I didn’t,” Maggie replied, “of if I did, I was lying to myself.
    Then one night it hit me. My mom came home incredibly drunk. Like staggering., she knocked over the angel statue in the family room and didn’t even notice the shattered pieces under her feet. My dad went ballistic,. He told her she needed to face her drinking problem. She just stood there and said she didn’t have a problem. Just denied it, over and over. So I started thinking, am I like that? Am I doing the same thing?”
    “You’re not that bad.”
    (Great work, Vargas. Insult her mom.)
    007
    “I don’t want to me,” Maggie says. “I want to stop before it gets worse. I’m starting to embarrass myself. Like at that restaurant.”
    “Don’t worry. Next time we’ll wear masks so the waiter won’t recognise us.”
    Maggie barely cracks a smile. “I was feeling so much pressure. All that food was going by. Knowing I had to order some.”
    I’m thinking, Pressure? (Don’t worry, Nbook, I don’t actually say that.)
    “What do you mean?” I ask.
    She tells me the vegetarian taco salad is maybe 700-800 calories. The whole-wheat rolls in the bread basket are 100 to 150 each, etc. etc. etc. She knows the calorie count for everything.
    I suggest she should stop counting because she looks great and doesn’t need to lose any more weight.
    She says that everyone tells her that.
    “Maybe they have a point,” I say as gently as I can.
    “Maybe. I mean, I try to believe hem. Sometimes I realise I’m being ridiculous.
    Then I break down and eat something fattening.”
    “Hey, you’re human.”
    “I don’t feel human. I feel disgusting and fat and bloated. I have to skip a few meals just to get back to the way I was.”
    “You could just pick a weight,” I suggest. “You know, a target. Like, 110 or something. If you go below it, eat more; if you go above, eat less.”
    “It’s not that easy, Amalia,” she snaps. “Targets may work for you, but it’s different for me. I have a problem, okay? You don’t know what I feels like.”
    Wrong, Vargas.
    Wrong.
    Wrong.
    I’m contradicting her. Maggie. Giving advice. “You” statements galore. Putting her on the defensive. Getting her mad. Exactly what the article said not to do.
    But I notice what she has said. A problem. Those are her words, Nbook.
    She really knows how serious it is. And that’s important.
    Hope. Hope. Hope.
    I try to be positive. “Have you talked to anyone about your problem?” I ask.
    “You.”
    “What about your dad and mom?”
    Maggie looks at me as if I’m nuts. “My mom hasn’t even noticed anything’s wrong. Once or twice a week, when she’s sober, she says, ‘I am so jealous of your figure.’ Dad knows something’s up. He said I’m dieting too much. But he’s the last person I’d talk to about this.”
    That is so sad, Nbook. I can’t imagine no going to Mami and Papi with my
    problems.
    I suggested she talk to her closest friends like Dawn and Ducky. (I almost mention Sunny, but I don’t. Not the way she’s been these days. She pushes everyone away.) Maggie nods vaguely. “maybe.”
    “One step at a time,” is say.
    “Yeah,” Maggie answers with a sad smile.
    Late
    Don’t know what time it is.
    Can’t sleep.
    Thinking about you-know-who.
    I was lucky today. I could have made Maggie worse. I could have lost a friend forever.
    When I jabber away, I say all the wrong things.