The Year I Didn't Eat

by Pollen

  “You have something to be getting on with?”

  “Er, I have a book, miss.”

  “Very well then.”

  And that’s it. I sit down with my book—The Life of a Cuckoo, naturally—and read in silence for ninety minutes. To be honest, it feels a lot like being in the hospital.

  I nearly chose the other option. The nuclear option. The red pill. Honestly, I was this close. When Lindsay first suggested it, it seemed like the perfect solution. I’d go into treatment and have people help me get better full-time. And Mum and Dad would have a break. Perfect, right? But after I’d finished talking to Lindsay and the other doctors, I began to wonder what exactly happens there.

  Do you get to read the books you want to read?

  Do you get to go outside if you want to?

  Can I take my computer and a pair of binoculars?

  I googled it.

  Bad idea.

  I don’t know what being anorexic was like before they invented the Internet. I’ve only ever tried it with the Internet. I guess the upside is, you can find people to talk to if you want to. At least, you know other people are going through the same thing.

  The trouble is, you don’t really want to talk about it.

  Also, the people you read about are never actually going through the same thing. Usually, they went through it years ago and have now decided they want to tell their story, and help others with their suffering. I know they’re trying to help, but I end up hating them. You’re better. I’m not. Stop rubbing it in my face.

  Or you read horror stories. Forums full of anorexics whose main goal seems to be to egg on one another.

  What’s the best laxative to use? How can I get it without a credit card? Can I use it every day?

  They’re always girls, with names like Paige and Grace and Lyra. (Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure one of them was called Ana, but maybe that was a joke.) I kind of don’t believe most of the things they say. But either way, I don’t have anything in common with them. Everything they say makes me want to scream, That’s not what anorexia feels like. That’s not how it is.

  The first thing I found when I started googling residential treatment was this blog by some girl called Jenna in Ohio, USA. There were thirteen entries, dating back almost three years. I scrolled halfway down the page and started reading.

  June 16—Group Sessions :(

  We have two group sessions every day, at 11 a.m. and 3 p.m., and they are the WORST THING EVER!! We all sit in a circle and listen to one another as we talk about how treatment’s going, or at least that’s what we’re SUPPOSED to talk about. All people do is complain about the food and talk about how much they miss their boyfriends. I never know what to say. Becca makes stuff up. Yesterday, she told us that her boyfriend broke up with her—which definitely isn’t true—and we all spent like 20 minutes trying to cheer her up. She’s such a bitch.

  I’m pretty mad because I got my first 4 in my Achievement Plan this week. 4 = Unsatisfactory. I got it because one of the assistants saw me giving pills to Becca. I tried to explain they were just Tylenol, but she wouldn’t listen. You get worse punishments for doing stuff to other people than doing it to yourself because you’re “enabling their disease”—which is such bullshit because it was Becca who gave me the pills in the first place!!

  In five minutes, Jenna’s blog put me off residential treatment. I read this thing in the newspaper about how once you go to prison you’re screwed because you’re surrounded by criminals all the time. Residential treatment sounds a lot like that. Maybe it depends where you end up, but I’m worried the only thing I’d learn is how to be more anorexic.

  And I really, really don’t need any help with that.

  “Max!”

  I spin around. I’m kind of disorientated because I’ve stepped out of Mrs. Braithwait’s Silent Victorian Time Warp, and it takes me a moment to get used to things like sound and color again. Stu sidles up to me with this huge grin on his face. “Nice of you to join us.”

  “Um, hey,” I mumble.

  “Hey.”

  I don’t really know what to say next. I honestly, genuinely almost talk to him about the weather, like I’m Bill from the hospital, the eighty-five-year-old man with a garden plot. It’s been rather mild lately, hasn’t it? Good for my petunias! But at the last moment I spot his kit bag. “You have football this morning?”

  “It is my burden,” he says. Stu’s kind of like Robin, in that he thinks he’s funny. The difference is, he’s right slightly more often. We carry on walking in the direction of the playground. “Hey, have you listened to the new Parawax album yet? It’s pretty sweet.”

  And just like that, we’re off. We’re having a Normal Teenage Conversation. It may not seem like much, but over the summer, I kind of convinced myself that I’d never have another conversation like this again.

  “Nope,” I reply. I hate Parawax.

  “Wanna listen?”

  “Sure.”

  We spend break listening to music on Stu’s tinny headphones (apparently, he’s softened his policy on personal technology). When Ram joins us, he does exactly the same thing, i.e., totally ignores two pretty major facts: 1) I missed the first week of school for some reason; and 2) I look like Jack Skellington. I eat my banana and my Go Ahead! bar at 11:00 a.m., in accordance with Rule Two. I notice Ram doesn’t ask me for either, which is weird. Has he finally clocked that I’m ill? Has he realized that I need all the food I can get? I get my answer when he whips out a slice of takeaway pizza and a Peperami. No, Ram has not come to a new understanding about the nature of anorexia nervosa. He’s just been at his dad’s and doesn’t need me.

  There’s no sign of you-know-who. I want to ask about her, but I don’t know how. Maybe they’ve cut her out because she was too much of a weirdo. Or maybe she’s cut me out.

  Stu keeps changing the track. He plays thirty seconds of one song, and then goes, Oh, wait, you’ve got to listen to this, and starts another one. I have one earbud, and Ram has the other—because, when he does use technology in public, Stu’s pretty great about sharing—so it’s not like he can even hear it. But he still sings along in perfect sync.

  When the bell goes, he asks me: “So, what do you think?”

  “It’s shit, Stu,” I reply. I grin at him. “Sorry. See you at lunch?”

  He looks pretty miffed, but nods.

  “Cool,” says Ram. “Max, we’re in physics together for fourth period. Catch you later.”

  “Okay,” I say. I lift my rucksack onto my shoulder and head off toward the languages building, thinking, That was the best fifteen minutes I’ve had in months.

  Third period is German. Our school is a specialist language college, which means we take languages super-seriously. One of the rules is, for GCSE and A-level, the whole class is conducted in whatever the language is: French, Spanish, or German. You’re literally not allowed to say a word of English. If your liver bursts and you can’t explain what’s happened in German, you’ve got to wait for the bell before anyone will call you an ambulance.

  Okay, that probably isn’t true. But you get the picture.

  Anyway, when I walk into my new German class for the first time, I forget about this rule. I go to the front of the class and ask, “Miss, where do I sit?” There are like three empty seats, and one of them is mine. But I don’t know which.

  It doesn’t go well.

  “Ah, Max. Schön dich zu sehen,” Mrs. Müller replies. Mrs. Müller isn’t actually German. Her husband is. So she’s ended up with a British cliché of a German name, the first one you’d come up with if you were trying to name a German person. Kind of funny for a German teacher.

  “Uh,” I say. “Danke?”

  “Bitte fragen sie mich auf Deutsch, Max.”

  “Um …”

  Everyone else has already sat down. They’re watching this whole thing. So Mrs. Müller does that thing teachers do sometimes, when they decide your stupid question is a Teaching Opportunity, and
bring the entire class into your conversation. Even if you really, really don’t want that to happen.

  Mrs. Müller turns to the class, and says, “Kann jemand helfen?”

  I can guess that much. Max is a charity case. For God’s sake, someone please help him.

  And guess whose hand shoots into the air?

  Yep.

  “Wo sitze … mich?”

  “‘Wo sitze ich, Evie. Aber sehr gut. Max, bitte hinsetzen,” says Mrs. Müller, pointing to the empty chair right next to Evie.

  I shuffle down the classroom, trying not to notice that Evie’s laughing at me. That everyone’s laughing at me. In my head, I’m reciting a new personal motto: I want to die I want to die I want to die.

  I start counting to ten. I feel like today, I’m going to need Rule Three a lot.

  Once I’ve sat down, I risk a sideways glance.

  Evie grins. But I can’t tell whether she’s grinning at me or with me.

  I jam my hand in my pocket and trace the corners of the plastic bag with my fingers, to check it’s still there. I don’t know where I was imagining it would’ve gone in the past thirty seconds exactly. Or the thirty seconds before that. But apparently, I need to keep checking that the note is there.

  I’ve still not opened it. I can’t really explain why. Maybe it’s because it’s from before everything happened, and I’m scared that if I read it, it could suck me back into the past.

  Or maybe it’s because I don’t want to know what it says.

  I know that sounds stupid. But think about it. Right now, inside that plastic bag, there could be a check for a million pounds.

  Or a magical incantation that you say three times, under a full moon, to cure anorexia.

  Or a message from Evie, confessing her undying love.

  As long as I don’t know, it can be whatever I want it to be. Which means there’s hope.

  Like before I knew Mum and Dad were separating.

  Like the moment before you step on the scales.

  In my pocket, I have a little bit of hope. And I kind of need it right now.

  “Psst.”

  I look across at Evie, and mouth, What?

  She shrugs.

  Great, thanks, Evie, I think. That clears everything up. Thanks for telling me exactly how you feel about me in such a clear and unambiguous way.

  “Psst.”

  I roll my eyes this time. I’m trying to do a worksheet I definitely don’t understand, on how you conjugate irregular verbs. In German, there’s a rule for irregular verbs, which makes zero sense. Germans are weird.

  What? I mouth again.

  This time, Evie holds up her notebook. There’s a message written on it. I have to peer at it, because her handwriting is so loopy. I lean forward, so Evie gets a really close-up view of my face as it turns scarlet.

  Can I have lunch with you?

  28

  I have the same physics teacher as last year. Dr. Magnussen. He’s pretty much the worst teacher in the world. He always sets us tons of homework—like, crazy amounts. Amounts we can’t possibly do without handing in other homework late. Maybe he’s different when he’s teaching GCSE, but I kind of doubt it.

  The first thing he says to me is, “Ah, you decided to come in this week, Mr. Howarth.”

  Gee, thanks, Dr. Magnussen. Thank you for drawing everyone’s attention to the fact that I wasn’t here last week. Naturally, I don’t say anything, because I know it won’t end well for me. I stroll over to the bench Ram’s sitting at—he’s waving at me like an air traffic controller—and count to ten twice on my way.

  “What an ass,” Ram whispered to me as I sit down, cocking his head in Dr. Magnussen’s direction.

  I laugh. “Totally.”

  We didn’t really talk about it at break, so I ask Ram how his holidays were. Now that I’m also from a Broken Home, I’m kind of interested in how it works.

  Ram shakes his head. “With Mum it was the usual stuff. We went to the beach or the hotel pool every day.”

  “Every day?” I say. I’m used to going on holidays where we look at three museums before breakfast. Garda was the most chilled-out holiday I’ve ever been on. Well, the first part was, anyway.

  “Yup. And, uh, you know all about Portugal …” He trails off. I’m about to reply—Um, do I?—but before I can, he says, “Hey.”

  “Huh?” I say, and then immediately realize he wasn’t talking to me. I wince.

  “Hey,” Evie says, sitting down on the other side of me. “How’s tricks?”

  “Not too bad, Evie, not too bad,” Ram says. He slaps me on the back. “Glad to have this idiot back.”

  “Yeah,” Evie replies. “I just hope he’s kept up with his physics better than his German.”

  Wait. What?

  While Evie and Ram are joking around, I’m sitting there with my mouth half open, like a goldfish watching porn. Because I have questions. For instance, are Evie and Ram best mates now? Has she been writing him notes like she’s been writing me notes? What about Stu and Darren and Dr. Magnussen?

  And was my German really that bad?

  “Right, everybody,” says Dr. Magnussen. “If you’d like to finish off your conversations … thank you.”

  Dr. Magnussen has this high, squeaky voice, like a chipmunk who’s been sucking on a balloon. He kind of looks like a chipmunk, too. He has a beard but almost no hair on his head, which makes his face look really round. And when he’s explaining things, he holds his hands up like paws. Seriously.

  “Now, can anyone give us a quick recap on Newton’s First Law of Motion, for the benefit of those that weren’t here last Thursday?” He looks right at me as he says it. I’m wondering if he knows I wasn’t here because I was in a bloody hospital.

  No one answers. You could honestly hear a ball of cotton wool fall to the floor. Dr. Magnussen pinches the bridge of his nose.

  “Anyone? You may remember I like to call it ‘the lazy law’.”

  Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

  “Very well, I’ll pick on someone.” He looks around, like a meerkat on watch duty, until he locks in on our bench. “Ram,” he says. “Any idea?”

  “No, sir,” says Ram immediately, in a kind of sing-song voice. You can tell he hasn’t really considered the question: it’s just his default response. Like in a TV show, when a police officer asks a member of a gang question after question, and they just say No comment every time.

  But Dr. Magnussen isn’t easily put off.

  “Come on, Mr. Ahmed. The lazy law: The clue’s in the name. What happens to an object when no forces are acting on it?”

  Ram puts his elbows on the desk and leans his head on his palms. “Nothing?”

  Dr. Magnussen sighs. “I was hoping for a little more detail, but I guess that’s basically right. Newton’s First Law of Motion—everyone, listen up, please—Newton’s First Law states that, unless an object is acted on by an unbalanced force, it will remain stationary, or continue moving at the same speed and in the same direction if it’s already in motion. Is that clear?”

  Everyone murmurs a yes. It’s the leastenthusiastic yes I’ve ever heard. It’s the kind of yes you’d get if you were on a spaceship that only had twenty minutes’ oxygen left, and you started asking people whether they’d made their beds that morning.

  “Very well then,” Dr. Magnussen says. “Please turn to page thirty-six in your textbooks.”

  I risk a glance up at Evie. She’s staring straight at me.

  I start scribbling a note in the back of my exercise book. I can’t tell if it’s a good idea or not, so I do it quickly, before I change my mind.

  Has your dad dumped Katya yet?

  I push the book toward Evie. She leans over and reads it, and looks at me, then pushes it back, and stares down at her desk.

  I guess that’s a no.

  No prizes for guessing what Dr. Magnussen moves on to after Newton’s First Law. “The Second Law deals with unbalanced forces. If an unbalanced force acts upon a
n object, that object will accelerate. And we can say three things about that acceleration …”

  He rabbits on like this for ages. I look down at my textbook and realize he’s just reading it out—but the way he says it, you’d think he came up with Newton’s Second Law himself.

  “He really loves the sounds of his own voice,” Ram says under his breath, and I have to concentrate pretty hard on stopping myself from bursting out laughing.

  Once we’ve read the theory, Dr. Magnussen demos it with a tennis ball and a cricket ball. He hits them both along the front bench with a pool cue, so we see how the tennis ball moves faster.

  Ram leans over to me and whispers, “Then how come heavy stuff falls faster?”

  I know this one because I read a book about Galileo once. “It doesn’t. If you drop those two balls from the top of a skyscraper, they fall at the same speed.”

  “Bullshit,” says Ram.

  That’s what Galileo taught us, I think. But then I confuse myself. If acceleration is inversely proportional to mass, shouldn’t the cricket ball drop more slowly? I whisper to Ram, “Wait, I’m not sure I’ve got it right.”

  “Max,” booms Dr. Magnussen. I jump slightly.

  “Sorry, sir, we were just—”

  “Talking in the middle of my demonstration. I know. Given that you’re already behind everyone else, perhaps you’d like to pay attention?”

  I count to ten.

  Once Dr. Magnussen’s stopped eyeballing us, Ram nudges me in the ribs. “What’s up with Evie?”

  She’s still staring at the desk.

  So I write another note.

  You okay? Don’t worry. Your dad’s an idiot. He’ll snap out of it soon!

  She glances at what I’ve written, then looks up at me.

  “Why are you doing this?” she says out loud.

  I put a finger to my mouth because I know Dr. Magnussen is looking for any excuse to bite my head off.

  What do you mean? I mouth to Evie.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “MR. HOWARTH,” Dr. Magnussen shouts. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear before?”

  Ram pipes up. “We were talking about Newton’s Second Law, sir,” he stammers.