t w e n t y
“Cries for help are frequently inaudible.”
—Tom Robbins
It’s New Year’s Eve.
I don’t know what I weigh. I just know I’m bloated. My insides stretch against my skin. I can’t bear to look at the scale. The entire Christmas break has been one massive binge of baked goods one right after the other. Tonight I’m starting over. I open the cabinet under my sink and find the box of laxatives I’ve stuffed away to hide from Mom.
I unscrew the bottle and scatter five of the tiny blue pills on my palm, hoping that this will be a new beginning. A way to start over. I put them up to my mouth and swallow them with a cup of water. They easily slide down my throat. No more emotional eating. No more letting your feelings control you. You are a new you. The laxatives should take about twelve hours, leaving me enough time to feel empty as I go to bed. That’s how I want to wake up tomorrow. Empty for the beginning of the New Year.
Then I’ll only eat like a normal person. And I won’t purge.
I can’t figure out what to do about Jackson. Is he going to tell Zach about the night at the lounge? It’s been months and I thought he would’ve said something already. I don’t know what Jackson wants from me other than the ability to make me squirm.
Do I tell Zach what’s going on myself and risk him getting angry and ruining our plans? I haven’t been texting him much anyway since his parents have taken him to a chateau somewhere up in the Swiss Alps with barely any reception for the holidays.
The only people I’ve talked to the last two weeks are my parents, my brothers and Jas. I saw her once at the beginning of break at the mall, but Royce was with us and I could tell that things weren’t normal with them. They’re usually holding hands and making inside jokes. Instead, Royce was sullen and Jas was polite but distant. She asked about my art and I talked to her about classes, but the conversation was strained.
I hope they’re able to work things out.
I don’t want to lose the only sister I’ve ever had.
At least I’m finally drawing again. It’s the only thing that helps me cope with my anxiety. I pick up my drawing pad, sit cross-legged on the bed and start working on my most recent piece of a girl. She’s nude and ropes are wrapped around her tiny wrists, pulling her arms up above her head toward the sky. The girl is a skeleton covered by skin. Her concave chest pushes in toward where her heart should be beating, but the girl is dead on the ground, her arms and legs contorted around her. There is a second girl—another version of the dead girl—crouching on a cliff, staring down at her body. Her spine ripples under her skin. Her hip bones jut out and her long spindly fingers are splayed against the ground as she watches the corpse, her dead self, her body crumpled and spent, watching the live girl with her black eyes, silently beckoning her to jump.
This is my self-portrait. One girl is me. The other is my shadow self. Except I can’t tell which one I am right now. My floor is covered with pencils, paper and charcoal. I have an art book open to a print of one of Frida’s self-portraits called The Two Fridas for inspiration. The two Fridas, sitting next to each other, are holding hands. Except the old Frida—the one who’s wearing a stiff-necked bridal dress—has cut one of her arteries with a pair of scissors. The blood spills out onto the white fabric. The old Frida is killing herself, but she’s also running one of her arteries to her double—the liberated Frida wearing bright clothes—pumping her with blood, giving life to a new version of herself. She’s dying and transforming at the same time.
I’m shading the contours of the shadow girl’s body when I hear a knock on my bedroom door. “Liv,” Mom says. “I need your help with a few things.”
She opens the door.
I slam my notebook shut. “I’m working...”
“If I didn’t really need the help, I wouldn’t have asked.” Mom stays at the doorway. She knows how much I hate when someone looks at my work before I’m finished. “Just help me take down the Christmas tree? Dad and I are meeting with friends tomorrow. We won’t have time. I won’t bother you for the rest of the night. Promise.”
“So I can skip game night tonight?” We normally play board games or cards on New Year’s Eve until the ball drops on television, but I don’t actually know what the plans are because no one seems to be at the house right now except for us two.
“Why would you want to skip game night?” Mom asks.
“I’m just not in a very game-y mood,” I explain.
What I really want is to go to sleep early. If I stay up much longer, I’ll start obsessing over how much of a loser I’ve been the whole break.
She thinks this over and says, “I don’t think either of your brothers are going to be around tonight anyway. But there’s a Meg Ryan marathon on you could watch with me.”
“Gonna have to pass on that one.” I stand up from my bed and tiptoe through the pathway around my art supplies. “I’ll start putting away the ornaments.”
Mom and I tackle the tree together. I’m in the middle of pulling the angel off the top when she suggests that we listen to a Christmas album.
“In case you haven’t noticed, Mom, Christmas was over like almost a week ago.”
“So?”
“Haven’t you had enough?”
“You can never have enough Christmas music,” she says, smiling. Without waiting for me to start complaining, Mom puts a record on the record player.
A woman’s voice smoothly sings over some groovy retro-sounding bells while a few backup singers oooh and ahhh behind her. A wistful sax solo follows the first verse.
“What are you playing? It’s so vintage,” I say, laughing at her.
“Oh god,” she says, “I’ve done a horrible job raising you.” She passes the vinyl sleeve to me. It’s called Christmas Portrait. On the front of the album there’s an elf helping Santa Claus paint a portrait of a couple with the most ’70s hairdos ever.
“It’s the Carpenters. Please don’t tell me I’ve failed to expose you to Karen Carpenter.”
“Karen who?” I ask.
“Carpenter.” She fake-slaps my arm with the back of her hand. “She just happens to be one of the greatest singers from my childhood.” She sings along with the record. “The logs on the fire fill me with desire...”
I’m about to slap Mom’s arm with the cover when Royce walks in with this look on his face that’s the same as when his dog, Champ, died. Like he’s on the verge of throwing up.
“Jasmine and I broke up,” he says, hanging his head. “Or we’re on a break, I guess. Whatever that means.”
“Baby...” Mom immediately drops what she’s doing and goes over to him. She hugs him tight. “What happened? What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he says. “I really loved her.”
I don’t know what to say, so I just walk over to them and squeeze Royce’s shoulder. The pain of it hits me in the stomach like I’ve just lost someone too. I can’t believe this is happening. Jas was family. She was his everything.
“I still really love her,” Royce says.
“What’s the problem then?” Mom asks, stroking Royce’s hair like he’s a boy again.
Royce pulls away from her. “We’ve been fighting all semester. Jas wants to apply to med schools. I want to get a bureau job overseas.”
“Can’t you report here?” I offer. “Or maybe Jas could go to school in the country where you get a job.”
“That’s sweet,” Royce says. He’s not making fun or being condescending. It’s genuine. “But we have no idea where Jas will get in or where she’ll get a scholarship. We don’t know where I’ll be offered a job. Everything is so uncertain.”
“Why do you have to break up though?” I ask. “If you still love each other?”
“I don’t want to talk about it right now,” he says. “I tried though. I really tried.”
“I know how much you care for her,” Mom says. “But sometimes people are just ready to move on, whether we want them to or not.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Royce’s breath is sharp, like he’s trying to keep himself from crying. “I just don’t know what to do. I thought I’d be asking her to marry me at the end of college, not breaking up.”
I hug Royce. “I love her too,” I say.
It’s true. How can you stop loving someone who means so much? I had always assumed that she would just be my sister someday. That I’d be a bridesmaid in their wedding. Should I call Jas? Does she need someone to talk to? Would she want to talk to me right now? I can’t call her. Not yet anyway. That wouldn’t be fair to Royce.
We end up abandoning the Christmas tree. Pine needles are scattered all over the floor. Half of the tree is bare while mismatched ornaments weigh down the other half.
Mom convinces Royce to let her cook him dinner, but I tell her that my stomach’s upset and that I’m going to go to my room. She doesn’t argue with me.
It’s Royce she’s concerned about tonight.
As I walk up the stairs, I think about Royce and Jasmine’s relationship. They were more in love than my parents. It’s not like they didn’t have problems, but they always seemed to be able to work through them. Why would anyone want to throw that away?
If Royce and Jas can’t make it, I don’t know how Zach and I will, especially since I barely have any time to spend with him. I’m lucky he still seems to be interested at school, but I have to figure out a way to convince Dad to let me officially date him.
Then it hits me. I’m not really worried about Dad. I’m worried about love in general. Shakespeare may seem cliché, but I love how he seems to be able to capture these big, crashing truths about love. I guess I did learn something in English freshman year when our class read Romeo & Juliet. Maybe Jas and Royce really are meant for each other, but because of family, they’re torn apart, doomed. Or, like me and Zach, family politics and fame are getting in the way like stupid sword fights under stage lights.
How can I fall in love when there seems to be so much in the way? Maybe I’m just being stupid, but love sure seems hopeless when you can’t ever be alone together.