I was a beast, a force
to be reckoned with. I'd proved something. Random and careless as the incident with Greg was, I'd discovered that I had a
will, something outside of the parameters that she had set. I whispered to myself, giggled maniacally, as I thrashed around
in the covers. I didn't know it then, feeling only the immature joy of a child who discovers the word "no," sensing, for the
first time, the surge of assertion, of ego, despite his mother's quick slap.
My unformed will, not yet a voice, would fail in the short term, my quick hospitalization evidence of this. But it was still
there, like the words uttered in a dream, in the soft sliding sound of Greg's athletic legs twined with mine, in the sound
of the curt wet slice I had made in the frontal lobe of a pickled head in anatomy class earlier that week. My will, my very
own, was gathering strength and speed like the gentle breeze that would eventually break the early-April heat into a wild
tornado wind and slap rain into houses and send people rushing to close their windows.
I slept for days, ruined, starved, empty of all thoughts. I watched the rain pour down the windows, unable to acknowledge
her screams, the fact that I was officially at war with myself.
Areas of incised wounds are inspected daily for warning signs of infection.
— So, you gonna go back to school?
—Maybe, when I'm ready.
— How many ways can you say u self destruction"?
As I was lying there, in the hospital, with a tube up my nose, and cuts on my face, she came to me and pressed her cheek into mine. I tried to explain to the nutritionist, whose slim hands and sad bovine eyes always
put me to sleep instantly; to the other girls in the group, who came around to sulk and complain; to Holly, who didn't even
bother to listen to my wild ravings and instead put on her Walkman and danced around the room doing disco moves. It didn't
matter that they couldn't hear me because nothing ever came out, at least nothing that ever made sense:
Meet me on the corner. . .
Meet me at the Copa . . .
Nothing I wanted to say ever came out right, because she was still screaming so loud in my head.
— What an unbelievable mess you've made. What a supreme fuck-up you are.
I thought if a sound came out and I told them a she-devil had just possessed my soul they'd put me somewhere even worse than
where I was.
Still, I longed for someone to reach inside me and pull her out by her hair, because she took the smallest things from me.
At first, just trying to get up on my elbows was a monumental production, never mind eating or talking. And until I learned
how to back-talk, how to wheedle the tiny incision blade from her hands in order to get my way, she threatened and swore at
me. And while my peers wondered if they should go to Kenya, or assist in a city lab, I lay in a dark corner of their hospital,
sweating about how she might kill me in my sleep.
chapter 8
I dream of racing the way some people dream of showing up to school in their underwear. A week or so before a race, I'll wake
with the sheets sweat-soaked and knotted around my knees and Mom clucking her tongue as she tries to untangle me.
The dream changes. Sometimes I'm on the inside lane on the track, behind all the other runners, and no matter how hard or
fast I run, the distance never gets shorter. Instead, I fall farther and farther back with each pumping stride. Or, I'm on
the outside track, ahead of the other runners, believing in my false lead till the gun cracks and I can't move fast enough;
my ankles buckle under, my bruised and scratched legs collapse into the other runner's lane. Once I dreamt a bird shat on
me right as the starter called: " One . . . Two!" That time I woke up laughing.
Mr. Saleri and I agree that I am no sprinter, that it takes me too long to warm up. My forte, as he puts it, is endurance,
not sudden speed. But I'd had the best time at our school for one lap around the track
to be reckoned with. I'd proved something. Random and careless as the incident with Greg was, I'd discovered that I had a
will, something outside of the parameters that she had set. I whispered to myself, giggled maniacally, as I thrashed around
in the covers. I didn't know it then, feeling only the immature joy of a child who discovers the word "no," sensing, for the
first time, the surge of assertion, of ego, despite his mother's quick slap.
My unformed will, not yet a voice, would fail in the short term, my quick hospitalization evidence of this. But it was still
there, like the words uttered in a dream, in the soft sliding sound of Greg's athletic legs twined with mine, in the sound
of the curt wet slice I had made in the frontal lobe of a pickled head in anatomy class earlier that week. My will, my very
own, was gathering strength and speed like the gentle breeze that would eventually break the early-April heat into a wild
tornado wind and slap rain into houses and send people rushing to close their windows.
I slept for days, ruined, starved, empty of all thoughts. I watched the rain pour down the windows, unable to acknowledge
her screams, the fact that I was officially at war with myself.
Areas of incised wounds are inspected daily for warning signs of infection.
— So, you gonna go back to school?
—Maybe, when I'm ready.
— How many ways can you say u self destruction"?
As I was lying there, in the hospital, with a tube up my nose, and cuts on my face, she came to me and pressed her cheek into mine. I tried to explain to the nutritionist, whose slim hands and sad bovine eyes always
put me to sleep instantly; to the other girls in the group, who came around to sulk and complain; to Holly, who didn't even
bother to listen to my wild ravings and instead put on her Walkman and danced around the room doing disco moves. It didn't
matter that they couldn't hear me because nothing ever came out, at least nothing that ever made sense:
Meet me on the corner. . .
Meet me at the Copa . . .
Nothing I wanted to say ever came out right, because she was still screaming so loud in my head.
— What an unbelievable mess you've made. What a supreme fuck-up you are.
I thought if a sound came out and I told them a she-devil had just possessed my soul they'd put me somewhere even worse than
where I was.
Still, I longed for someone to reach inside me and pull her out by her hair, because she took the smallest things from me.
At first, just trying to get up on my elbows was a monumental production, never mind eating or talking. And until I learned
how to back-talk, how to wheedle the tiny incision blade from her hands in order to get my way, she threatened and swore at
me. And while my peers wondered if they should go to Kenya, or assist in a city lab, I lay in a dark corner of their hospital,
sweating about how she might kill me in my sleep.
chapter 8
I dream of racing the way some people dream of showing up to school in their underwear. A week or so before a race, I'll wake
with the sheets sweat-soaked and knotted around my knees and Mom clucking her tongue as she tries to untangle me.
The dream changes. Sometimes I'm on the inside lane on the track, behind all the other runners, and no matter how hard or
fast I run, the distance never gets shorter. Instead, I fall farther and farther back with each pumping stride. Or, I'm on
the outside track, ahead of the other runners, believing in my false lead till the gun cracks and I can't move fast enough;
my ankles buckle under, my bruised and scratched legs collapse into the other runner's lane. Once I dreamt a bird shat on
me right as the starter called: " One . . . Two!" That time I woke up laughing.
Mr. Saleri and I agree that I am no sprinter, that it takes me too long to warm up. My forte, as he puts it, is endurance,
not sudden speed. But I'd had the best time at our school for one lap around the track
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