Read Online Skinny by Diana Spechler - Free Book Online

said all the wrong things. When she talked with Whitney, she tried to sound like someone from a rap video. Once I’d heard her call out, “Where my bitches at?” No one had replied. Sometimes she said, “S’up,” and sliced the air with her hand. She favored a baseball cap sideways, long basketball shorts, and roomy tank tops. She listened to hip-hop at top volume and tried, unsuccessfully, to dance the way Whitney danced—spontaneously, frequently, and with remarkable skill. But when it came to dancing, Eden had no skill. All this and a Jewish star necklace.
    I wondered which parts of her would have been different had she grown up with our father. Her name, for one thing. When my mother was pregnant with me (following years of attempts and eventual acceptance that she’d never have a baby), she suggested to my father, in a fit of passion, that they name me Silver, whether I was a boy or a girl. “It’s the shiniest name I can think of,” she said.
    But my father was superstitious. “Silver is a thing to steal,” he said. And so they settled on Gray. My father never would have agreed to Eden, a name that invoked perfection. I suspected that Azalea had chosen it to harm him.
    I knew from Azalea’s website that she’d gotten two master’s degrees in Virginia, and from the dates, I’d inferred that she must have left Massachusetts while she was pregnant. Perhaps the affair had ended the way many do—the cheater returning to his wife, closing out his mistress as if she never existed, convincing himself that she never existed. Perhaps my father had vanished suddenly, leaving only a stray sock in the corner, a razor on the lip of her sink. Perhaps Azalea strained her ears day after day, listening for the phone. Perhaps morning after morning, she woke, blessedly blank for the first few seconds, before the memories of being discarded descended, so heavy on her body that she couldn’t move from bed.
    What I would have given for a recording of the phone call—Azalea telling my father, “I’m pregnant with your child,” or, “I just gave birth to your child,” or, “You don’t want me to tell your wife about us? Then you’d better start paying up.”
    I did not blame Azalea Bellham. I could not resent her. I knew how it felt to simultaneously love and hate my father.
    “These letters will set you free,” Lewis said. “If we’re all honest, we can admit that we feel, deep down, that we’re not fat people. The fat people we are . . . they’ve invaded our bodies. They’ve taken over. Secretly, you believe that you’re skinny.” He paused. Then he asked, “Don’t you believe that who you really are is the thin person locked up inside you?”
    “No,” Harriet said.
    “Yes,” said Lewis.
    “I just don’t care,” Eden said, glancing at Whitney. “I don’t care about any of this. My mom made me come here. I don’t even overeat. I basically just chew gum all day and then have a healthy dinner. I’m not, like, one of those people who eats all the time. This camp is so pointless for me.”
    “So leave,” Miss said.
    “I probably will,” Eden said.
    Her words made my palms sweat. I knew about mothers and only daughters. If Eden complained that she hated it here, Azalea would drive down to get her.
    “I’m a chef,” Eden continued. “I should be cooking this summer, not starving myself. I know how to make healthy food. I’m not the type who’s always cooking everything in butter.”
    “You’re not a chef,” Miss said. “That’s so retarded.” Her hair was now coiled into tiny Medusa twists all over her head. “You can’t be a chef in high school.”
    “Why not?” I said.
    “Because,” said Miss.
    “If Eden says she’s a chef, she’s a chef.”
    “No, but I see your point. I guess I’m not really a chef,” Eden told Miss, who ignored her.
    Lewis resumed as if no one had spoken. “You don’t know this yet,” he said, “but getting old feels the same way. You will never