Girls Under Pressure (14 page)

“But not as thin as I was.”

“Thinner. Much thinner. That’s why you’re here. Zoë, you nearly
died
. You had a heart attack or something.”

“It was just because I took too many laxatives, that’s all. I’m fine now. Well, I would be if they’d only let me
out
. They’ve given me this absolutely ridiculous target weight. They want to blow me right up into an elephant.”

“They just want you to get better.”

“It’s all right for you to talk. You’re looking really thin yourself, Ellie. You’re OK. You’re not forced to eat huge mounds of mashed potato and drink great mugs of milk.”

“Come off it. I’m still huge compared to you. So’s everyone. Zoë, you’re not seeing things straight.
Look
at yourself.” I pick up her stick arm, terrified my fingers might poke right through her papery skin. “You’re literally skin and bone. You’re starving yourself to
death
.”

“Good. I don’t want to live. There’s absolutely no point, not like this, when everyone’s against me and my parents keep yelling at me or they cry and they just won’t understand, and all the nurses spy on me in case I can hide some of the food and they even ration my
water
now, just because I drink a lot before I get weighed. What sort of a life is it when I can’t even go to the toilet without a nurse hanging round outside, listening?”

“So why can’t you eat a bit? Then you can come out of hospital and get back to school. Zoë, listen, there’s this fabulous new art master, Mr. Windsor, he’s really young and good-looking, and he’s great at telling you all sorts of things about art. I made a bit of a fool of myself in our first art lesson actually, it was dead embarrassing––”

But Zoë isn’t listening. She’s not interested in a new teacher, or art, or me. She’s not able to think of anything else in the whole world but starving herself.

She curls up in her ball again, her eyes shut.

“Do you want me to go, Zoë?”

She nods.

I reach out and touch the awful unpadded jut of her hip. She jumps at my touch.

“Goodbye, Zoë. I’ll come back again soon, if you don’t mind,” I say, patting her gently.

A tear dribbles from under her closed eyelids.

I’m in tears myself as I walk down the ward. The nurse looks at me sympathetically.

“Did she give you a hard time? You mustn’t take it personally. Poor Zoë thinks we’re all conspiring against her at the moment.”

“Will she get better?”

The nurse sighs. “I hope so. I don’t know. We try to get the girls to a healthier weight and they have group therapy and individual counseling but so much depends on the girls themselves. Some of them get completely better. Some recover for a while but then go spiraling downward. And others––”

“Do they . . . die?”

“It’s inevitable after a certain stage. The body burns up all its fat and then starts on the muscle. The girls know what they’re doing but they can’t stop it.”

I can stop it. I can’t stop Zoë. But I can stop myself getting to be like her.

I still feel fat, even though I’ve lost weight. I’d still like to be really thin. But I don’t want to be sick. I don’t want to starve.

I go home. Anna is full of questions but she can see I can’t really bear to talk about it. She’s prepared a salad for tea.

“Oh, boring. I want chips,” says Eggs.

“You can have crisps with your salad,” says Anna.

She doesn’t say so, but this is a carefully chosen special meal for me: yogurt, strawberries, avocado, rocket and radicchio. Anna is darting little apprehensive looks at me. I nibble my lip. My head is automatically calculating calories, panicking at the avocado. I put my hand up to my forehead to try to stop it. I look at the plate of lovingly prepared nourishing food, so carefully arranged in rings of red and green around the yogurt.

“This looks lovely, Anna,” I say. “Thank you very much.”

I start to eat it. I bite. I chew. I swallow. Eggs is chattering but Anna and Dad are silent. Watching. Practically holding their breath.

“It’s OK,” I say. “I’m not going to hide bits in my lap. I’m not going to spit it into my hankie. I’m not going to make myself sick.”

“Thank God!” says Dad. “Oh Ellie. I can’t believe it. You’re actually eating!”

“I’m eating too!” says Eggs. “I
always
eat and yet no one makes a fuss of me. We don’t have to have special salads for Ellie every day, do we?”

“Of course we do,” I say, but I wink at Anna to show I’m joking.

Dad gets all fussed and suspicious when I make for the stairs straight after tea.

“Where are you off to, then?”

“I’m going to do my
homework,
Dad. Honestly.”

I’m telling the truth. Well, I’m not that fussed about my French homework. And I’m going to have to bribe Magda to do my maths for me tomorrow morning. But I spend all evening on my art homework, attempting a self portrait.

I don’t just do one, I do half a dozen and they’re all hopeless. I peer into the mirror and I still see this fat frizzy-haired girl staring back at me. When I draw her she gets even fatter and she’s frowning, looking like she’s about to burst into tears.

There’s a knock on the door. Anna.

“OK, Ellie? I’ve just put Eggs to bed. Your dad and I are having a coffee. Want one?”

“Yes, please.”

She comes in the room when she hears me sigh.

“What’s up? Oh, Ellie, these are so
good
!”

“No, they’re not. I look hideous.”

“You’ve made yourself look much fatter than you are—and you don’t look very
happy
.”

“No wonder. I can’t draw for toffee,” I say, and I crumple them all up.

“Oh, don’t! They were so good. Show your dad.”

“No. I’ll have another go tomorrow.” I rub my eyes. “I’m tired.”

“Me too.”

“Anna—thanks for being so nice.”

It’s a silly inadequate little word. Our English teacher always has a fit if I put it in an essay. But Anna smiles as if I’ve declared an entire poem of praise.

She
is
nice. I’ll never love her the way I love my own mother. But if I can’t have my mum maybe Anna’s the next best thing.

I go downstairs for my coffee. I have one of Anna’s homemade cookies too, savoring every mouthful. I’m scared I’ll want another and another, eating until I’ve emptied the tin.

No. I don’t have to binge. I don’t have to starve. I don’t want to end up one of those sad sick girls in Zoë’s ward. I’m going to eat what I want, when I want. I can do it. I
can
.

I sleep soundly for the first time in ages and wake up early, feeling full of energy. I feel like a swim but I can’t, because of Mick and all his horrible friends.

I
can
. I’m not going to let those idiots stop me doing what I want.

I put my swimming costume on under my school uniform and grab a towel. Anna is in the kitchen buttering rolls.

“I don’t want breakfast, Anna.”

“What?” She looks stricken.

“Only because I’m going swimming. I’ll take a roll with me and eat it after, OK?”

“OK,” says Anna.

I don’t know if she totally trusts me. I’m not even sure I trust myself. I stride out toward the swimming pool but as I get nearer I start to feel sick. There’s every chance Mick and his mates will be there. I don’t know what they’re going to say to me, do to me. I slapped his face hard last time. There’ll be a lifeguard on duty so they can’t really drag me into the pool and drown me but they can still say stuff.

If they called Magda a slag they’ll think up something far worse for me. I’m shivering now. I must be mad. I
can’t
go swimming.

I can, I can, I can.

I pay, I go in the changing room, I take off my clothes. I fiddle desperately with my new swimming costume, pulling it down over my bottom, then haul it up to cover more of my chest, tugging it this way and that. I still feel so fat, even though I’m thinner than I’ve ever been before. I feel my figure in the dark of the changing cubicle. I think of poor Zoë and her desperate delusion that
she’s
fat, even though she’s a seventy-pound skeleton.

“I’m not fat,” I whisper. “I think I am, but I’m not, and even if I
am,
it doesn’t matter, it’s not worth dying for. Now, I’m going to get out there in the pool. Who cares if anyone sneers at me in my swimming costume? Mick’s mates can call me the fattest stupidest slag in the world and I shall take no notice whatsoever.”

I walk out determinedly, taking purposeful strides, my head held high. The effect is ruined when I trip over someone’s flip-flop sandals and nearly fall flat on my face. I jump in the pool and start swimming so no one gets a chance to stare at me. I can’t see properly without my glasses. I have no idea whether Mick’s mates are here or not. I gradually get into the rhythm of my swim and stop worrying so much. It feels so good to stretch and kick and glide.

There’s a cluster of boys braying with laughter at the other end of the pool. I’m not sure whether it’s
them
or not—or if
I’m
the butt of their joke. But I swim up to the end and back and no one grabs me, ducks me, tears at my costume. They don’t even come near me. It can’t be the same boys. Thank goodness.

I don’t want to try my luck too far. I get out of the pool sharpish and go and shower, tingling all over, feeling so good. I whistle as I towel myself dry and pull my clothes over my damp skin. I feel Anna’s roll in a bag in the pocket of my blazer. I take it out and munch it gratefully while I’m drying my hair.

I could do with a drink, too. I’ve got money on me. I could go and have a quick hot chocolate in the café. Those boys are still larking around in the pool. They won’t be out for ages yet.

Oh, God, hot chocolate! My mouth’s watering.

I make for the café and order myself a hot chocolate with cream. The smell of it makes me feel weak. I spoon a little of the frothy cream into my mouth and savor the sweetness. Then I take a long swallow of the warm smooth chocolate. It is
so
good, the most beautiful drink in the world. I drain the last delicious drop and get up to go. I get to the door of the café— and collide with Mick.

Oh, help! I’d better get away quick. I dart forward and he ducks.

Hey! He thinks I’m going to give him another slapping!

“You watch it,” he says gruffly, keeping well out of my reach.

“
You
watch it!” I say.

He glances round to see if any of his mates are about. No. It’s just the two of us. And he’s acting like he’s really scared of me!

I grin triumphantly and march outside. I feel like singing and dancing and punching the air. I got the better of
him,
all right. I didn’t let him push me around.
I
did the pushing.

I feel so p-o-w-e-r-f-u-l.

That’s the look I want for my self-portrait. I use dark pastels and big bold strokes for this seventh attempt. I make my hair frizz with life, I stick my chest right out, I stand with my fists clenched and my legs spread out. I work and work at it, adding highlights here, smudging and softening there. My eyes are aching and my hand has got cramp by the time I’m satisfied.

It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.

I hope Mr. Windsor likes it. Well,
I
like it, even if he doesn’t. That’s what really matters. That’s what I tell myself anyway. But I feel stupidly anxious when it’s Mr. Windsor’s art lesson.

He draws his own self-portrait to start things off, taking a black felt-tip and squiggling it all over the page in a matter of seconds. We all laugh when we see the way he’s done it. He’s drawn a big cardboard cutout supercool man in black—but it’s being held up like a shield in front of a nervous-looking boy-man with a twitchy face and knocking knees.

Then he asks to see our portraits. Magda’s first, waving her picture right in his face. She’s copied a curvy black-and-white Betty Boop cartoon, adding her own face crowned with her new startling crop.

“I like it, Magda, especially the head,” he says. “But you above all need the full Technicolor treatment. Paints!”

He gets a pot of scarlet poster paint and dips in his brush.

“Do you mind, Magda?” he asks.

“Be my guest!”

He does several deft flicks with the tip of his brush so that the paper Magda sprouts fantastic flaming-red hair.

“Wow! How about nails and lipstick to match?” says Magda.

Mr. Windsor colors her to perfection. He even does little scarlet hearts all over her dress. Then he dilutes the red to the palest pink and shows us how to get a good natural skin tone.

“Though someone’s just complimented Magda on her hair so she’s blushing a little,” he says, putting more color in her cheeks.

Magda’s own cheeks are pink with pleasure when he gives her back her portrait.

“Who’s going next?” asks Mr Windsor.

There’s a general clamor. Portraits flap in the air like flags. Mr. Windsor picks at random.

Not me.

Not me.

Not me.

Nadine. Her turn. She’s drawn herself very long, very lean, very Gothic Queen.

“Yes, Nadine, you’ve got a very elegant line—practically Aubrey Beardsley,” he says. “I don’t think we should color you in. You’re very much a black-and-white girl. Ah! You were the girl wearing the joke tattoo. Shall we indulge in a little skin art?”

“Yes, please!”

Mr. Windsor takes his black felt-tip and does the most wonderful swirly intricate tattoos up and down Nadine’s drawing’s arms and then he takes a special silvery pen and gives her a sparkly nose stud and earrings from the tip of one ear right down to the lobe.

“I wish!” says Nadine, who has been fighting a battle with her mum about body piercing for months and months.

We’re running out of time. I’m not going to get picked.

I hold my picture up desperately—but he’s looking on the other side of the classroom, about to pick someone else.

“Pick Ellie!” says Magda.

“Yes, you must see Ellie’s portrait,” says Nadine.

“Which one’s Ellie?” says Mr. Windsor.

“Me,” I mumble.

He looks at me and then he looks at my portrait. He looks at it a long long time while I wait, heart thudding.