The Year I Didn't Eat

by Pollen

  “I see,” Dr. Magnussen says. “You’re getting Max up to speed, are you?”

  I give Ram this just-drop-it look, but he either doesn’t get it or ignores me. “Actually, he was helping me. He told me about Galileo.”

  “Did he indeed? And Mr. Howarth knows a lot about Galileo, does he?”

  Ram glances at me. His expression says, I have no idea what I’m getting you into. “I guess,” he says. Then he adds, “He went to Italy this summer.”

  I’m thinking, Now would be a good time for the ground to open up under Lab 2B.

  “Oh, well then, I’m sure he’s an expert. Max, perhaps you’d like to come up and demonstrate for us.”

  “No thank you, sir,” I say quickly.

  “But I insist. Class, we have a special treat today. Our resident expert in classical mechanics is going to demonstrate Newton’s Second Law.”

  The trouble with Rule Three is, you have to remember to count. And right now, I’m barely even remembering to breathe.

  “Sir, I—”

  “Come on, Max, up you get. We haven’t got all day.”

  I have to use my arms to get up from the stool, because apparently my legs have decided to stop working. I start talking, “Well, as it says in the, uh—”

  “At the front of the class, please,” Dr. Magnussen says.

  I stumble forward.

  I can feel the blood draining out of my head. You know when you’re in a swimming pool, fully underwater, and you stand up quickly, and all the water pours off of you? That’s kind of how it feels. My vision starts to go cloudy.

  “Sir, I don’t feel well.”

  He laughs. He actually laughs out loud at me. And it’s like in a gang film: When the boss laughs, everyone else knows it’s time to laugh, too. The whole class is laughing at me.

  I look back to my bench. Ram isn’t laughing, at least. But Evie is.

  I want to die I want to die I want to die.

  “Max, we’re all waiting. Get on with it.” The way he says the last line sounds really menacing. There’s this edge in his voice, like, Or else.

  I lean against the front bench, because if I don’t, I think I’m going to collapse.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “You don’t know what?”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  I want to cry.

  I want to die.

  I want to kill him.

  I want to kill Evie.

  I want to set fire to the whole laboratory.

  “But you think you can chat all the way through my class anyway?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You think you can turn up a week late—”

  And then I find out what happens when you forget to count to ten.

  “SHUT UP, YOU BASTARD! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!”

  He doesn’t flinch. This little smile spreads across his face, like, Thanks for giving me what I wanted. “Mrs. Richards’s office,” he says quietly. “Now.”

  I’m shaking. I take three big gulps of air, then walk to my bench, and scoop up my rucksack and books, avoiding Ram’s eye. Avoiding everyone’s eye. I want to leave the room calmly. I want to act like it’s all over. Water off a duck’s back.

  But when I get to the door, I glance backward and see Evie. And I can’t stop myself from slamming the door behind me.

  Shit. Shit. SHIT.

  I start counting. One, two, three, four … Then I stop myself, because what’s the point of counting now? It’s too late. It’s like shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted, as Dad would say.

  This was supposed to be the start of my new, healthy life. This was supposed to be the first step toward getting better.

  And it lasted three hours.

  SHIT.

  I know I should go straight to Mrs. Richards’s office, so I can explain what happened before she hears it from Dr. Magnussen, or from someone else. It doesn’t exactly look good to wander off when you’ve been sent to the principal. Not only did he shout and swear at me, he went for a leisurely stroll around the school when he was supposed to be on his way to your office. But I don’t have a choice. I need time to think.

  Maybe the fact that I’ve been a straight-A student since I came to the school will count in my favor. Or maybe they’ll think, Wow, he really must be losing it.

  I walk away from the science corridor into the art department. It’s quieter here. Art is at one end of the main school building, so there isn’t any through traffic. There’s a big square corridor that runs around a little courtyard. We’ve had art lessons out there before, in the spring, painting the tulips that are planted in beds on three sides. You’re not really supposed to go into the courtyard the rest of the time. But hey, it’s not like things can get any worse for me.

  I push through the big glass door.

  I can’t stop picturing Evie. I only saw her for a second, but it’s seared into my brain. She was laughing so much, her shoulders were shaking. Forty minutes ago, she asked me to lunch, and I pretty much started planning our future together. Now I wish she were dead.

  I wish I were dead.

  Then I remember the note.

  I move my hand to my pocket, slowly, gingerly, like I’m not sure it’s going to be there. But obviously it is. I pull it out of my pocket.

  As soon as I see it, I know what I’ve got to do.

  I jump up and race out of the courtyard, across the corridor, through the double doors that lead to the recycling area. I pull the note out its plastic bag, because even in a crisis, you’ve got to separate your recycling. Dad’s brought me up well. I lift the lid on the paper-only dumpster, and start counting to ten.

  One, two, three …

  But then I stop myself.

  I can’t help it.

  I open the note and start reading.

  “Lovely spot you’ve found here, mate.” Ram sniffs, as if he were a hunter walking through a bluebell wood in spring. A long, theatrical sniff. “You really get that fresh dumpster-juice smell.”

  “Leave me alone,” I tell him.

  “I hope you’re not about to throw that away,” he says.

  “Why do you even care?”

  He pauses, like he’s really thinking about it. “One, because I’m your mate. And, two, because I used some of Mum’s best stationery to write that, which was a big risk to my personal well-being, let me tell you.”

  “Stop messing with me. I’m really not in the mood.”

  I still can’t bring myself to look at him.

  “I’m not messing with you.”

  “Yes, you are. I’ve had a bunch of these. They’re all about Evie’s broken family and her deadbeat dad and …”

  And then it hits me.

  It hits me like a freight train.

  It hits me like the meteorite that snuffed out the dinosaurs.

  Evie didn’t write those notes.

  It wasn’t Evie whose dad promised her a super-cool holiday, all on their own, and then decided to bring his new girlfriend along with him. When Evie asked me to lunch, I could barely read her handwriting. Because I’d never seen it before.

  I look up at him. “I thought the E was for Evie,” I say.

  Ram laughs. “Ehtiram Ahmed,” he says, holding out his hand. “Pleased to meet you. Not sure if you remember me, but I’ve been your best friend for, um, like, ten years?”

  “Shit,” I say.

  “I also go by Stallone05, if you hadn’t guessed. I thought you’d get the Rambo reference.” He sniffs and pulls a face. “Okay, we have to move away from these bins. Follow me.”

  So I do. We head away from school, around the playing fields.

  “If I’d known it was you …,” I start to say. Then I peter out. What would I have done if I’d known it was him?

  Ram raises a hand. “If you’d known it was me, you wouldn’t have said anything. And I would’ve freaked if you’d try to talk to me about it anyway. But I thought with the notes … I wanted you to know someone had your
back, y’know? And I guess I wanted to know someone had my back, too.”

  Shit.

  I don’t know how to respond. This whole time, I was only thinking about myself.

  Ram waves a hand, like, Forget it. “It was pretty cool watching you tear into Dr. Magnussen, you know.”

  “I’m going to get hell for it.”

  “Probably,” Ram says. “But he was being a jerk. I’ll back you up, and so will Evie.”

  “Yeah, right,” I say. “She thought it was hilarious.”

  Ram shakes his head. “No, she didn’t.”

  “You don’t have to pretend, Ram. I saw her. She was laughing her head off.” He’s trying to cheer me up. He probably thinks I’m going to lose it again. “I don’t even care.”

  Ram punches me on the arm. If it were Robin, I definitely would have dodged it. But I wasn’t expecting this one.

  “Ow.”

  “Listen to me. She wasn’t laughing … wait, what did you say to her?”

  “What?”

  “You wrote her a message, right? In class. In your exercise book. I saw you. What did you say?”

  “Oh, nothing.” He raises his arm again, fist clenched. “Okay, okay, it was something about …” I trail off, because he’s giving me this pained look, like, Don’t make me punch you again. “Something about her dad. What’s up?”

  He doesn’t punch me. Instead, he slaps himself on the forehead. “You mean my dad. No wonder she is so upset.”

  “She wasn’t …” But then my brain catches up. Head bent over, shoulders shaking. She wasn’t laughing.

  She was crying.

  “Shit,” I say.

  We sit down on the far side of the rugby fields, behind a little hill. You can tell it’s a good hiding place because of all the cigarette butts. It’s quiet—the hill blocks out most of the noise from the fields.

  “Okay, there’s something I’ve got to tell you. Remember after that terrible biology exam when Evie was talking about her parents?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Remember anything weird?”

  My brain churns for a while. “She calls her parents by their names.”

  “Right. Ben and Jacob. You know why?”

  I shake my head.

  “Evie’s in a foster home. Her mum …” He scratches his neck uncomfortably. “Look, I probably shouldn’t be the one to tell you this, but … Evie’s mum walked out on her. Years ago. And then her dad, um …”

  I think back to that day at the zoo, when I asked her why she took so many photos. You don’t know what’s important until later: That was her explanation.

  “Her dad’s dead,” I say quietly.

  Ram nods.

  We sit there for ages. I try to count the cigarette butts on the grass, but I keep losing track. I punch the ground instead. “I can’t believe how much I’ve screwed things up in one morning.”

  “It’s kind of impressive,” Ram admits. “Now, haven’t you got somewhere to be?”

  “Mrs. Richards is going to skin me alive.”

  “Probably. But at least you won’t die alone.”

  I cock an eyebrow.

  “After you left, um … Evie kind of lost it with Dr. Magnussen, too.”

  “You’re kidding,” I say.

  Ram shows me his palm. “Scout’s honor. You can ask her yourself in a sec. Hey, I guess you didn’t read the second half of that yet.” He’s pointing to the note in my hand.

  “Not yet,” I admit.

  He grins. “If you had, you probably would’ve figured it out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He pulls a face.

  I hold his gaze for a minute. I’ve been trying to push Ram out of my life all year, because I thought he’d never understand. I mean, I’ve been doing that with everyone. But Ram and Stu probably got the worst of it. One minute, they had a proper friend who wanted to hang out with them and play video games and share food. And then, they had a ghost. Someone who was there, but not really there. Someone who was desperate for their attention and equally desperate to be ignored.

  I turn the note over. Ram’s actually laughing now.

  I read it slowly, a grin spreading across my face. Then I take off my rucksack, open it, and pull out my lunchbox.

  “Max, you don’t have to,” Ram says.

  “It’s cool,” I say. “Really.”

  I’ve always followed the rules, since as early as I can remember. I’ve never been grounded or had detention. I’ve never stolen anything. But today, following the rules hasn’t exactly worked out for me. I broke Rule One earlier, when I bit off Dr. Magnussen’s head instead of going to see Miss Madeley. In fact, I’m kind of breaking Rule One right now, just by being here. And I’ve already broken Rule Three about fifty times. It was a dumb rule anyway, in my opinion, asking someone with anorexia to do even more counting.

  Well, now I’m going to make it a hat trick.

  I give Ram a serious look. “Are we doing this, or what? I assume you’ve got the usual?”

  Ram grins, then nods. He slides his backpack off his shoulders, opens the zip, and pulls out his lunchbox, too.

  I crack mine open and pull out the little foil package. “Two ham sandwiches,” I say.

  “Two cheese sandwiches,” Ram replies, offering me his little parcel in return. He nods. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

  I nod back. “I guess I better go get my head bitten off.”

  “I think you mean, you better go on your hot date with Evie.”

  I laugh. “See you when I get out?”

  “I’m guessing you’ll know where to find us.”

  I put my lunchbox away, lift the bag onto my shoulder. “See you in a bit,” I say.

  “Wait a second,” says Ram. He goes into his backpack again, and pulls out a Kit Kat.

  “I think I have a Snickers?” I say nervously. To be honest, I don’t really want to trade chocolate bars with him, too. Not because I’m going to freak out, or hopefully not. Just because, well, Snickers are way better than Kit Kats.

  “Good for you,” he says. “But this isn’t a trade. This is a gift of love.”

  “Um, okay.”

  “It’s a well-known fact, Max, that Kit Kats are the most romantic food in the world.”

  “O-kay,” I say. I’m trying to decide if he’s actually lost it.

  “Split it with Evie,” he says. “She loves Kit Kats.”

  For a moment, I wonder how he knows this. Then I remember how much attention he always pays to what everyone else is having for lunch. Ram could probably tell me the favorite chocolate bar of everyone in Deanwater High.

  I take the Kit Kat from him. “Thanks, man.”

  “Don’t mention it. And don’t get used to it, either. I never give away food.”

  “I know. Tomorrow will be different, right?”

  He snorts. “Exactly.”

  29

  Robin insisted on making the spaghetti this year. That’s right, Robin. Robin. The man who has been known to eat Pot Noodles dry because he can’t be bothered boiling the kettle, and who once tried roasting a chicken in its plastic shrink-wrap. He’s now been in the kitchen, alone, for two hours. We’re all kind of nervous.

  I don’t know why, but spaghetti Bolognese is our traditional Christmas Eve dish. Every year, we eat spaghetti, go and listen to the sleigh bells, and then go to bed.

  The only difference this year is, we’re probably going to go to bed with food poisoning.

  Mum gets up, for the fourth time, to ask Robin if he needs any help.

  “I’m fine,” he tells her, and shoos her away from the kitchen. He’s said the same thing every time—but this time, the I’m fine had a definite edge. Less I’m actually managing remarkably well thank you, more For God’s sake, please don’t come in here.

  This morning, I had my session with Lindsay, my first in a month. I’ve put on another two pounds, which means my BMI is now officially in the Normal range again. Lindsay’s always pr
etty careful about how she reacts. She knows that, whatever my weight, I’m usually upset about it. Gained weight? The sky is about to fall in. Lost weight? I’m going to die. Stayed the same? What a waste of time. I feel sorry for her; she really can’t win.

  But today wasn’t like that. Today, she could see how happy I was.

  Okay, so I’m right at the bottom of Normal. It’s a pretty big range. But it still feels good. According to my official NHS chart, my weight is now no longer a big, immediate risk to my health.

  “How do you feel?” Lindsay asked me.

  She’s asked me that in every session we’ve had. And my go-to answer has always been: fine. I feel fine.

  But I’m getting better at being honest. “Scared,” I told her. “Scared to death.”

  And you know what I don’t feel?

  I don’t feel fat.

  I really thought I would. I told myself, If you don’t want to die, you’re going to have to get used to feeling fat.

  I mean, maybe I will at some point. But so far, so good.

  I texted Evie right after my session. Just the number: my new BMI. She replied in about eight seconds.

  Cuckoo: You’re kidding.

  Me: Nope.

  Cuckoo: OMG!

  Me: Yep.

  Cuckoo: THAT’S AMAZING. YOU’RE FRICKIN AMAZING, PACKHAM.

  Cuckoo: P.S. Elephant juice! :D

  Before you ask, yes, Evie’s in my phone as Cuckoo, which definitely sounds like some lame pet name. But the thing is, she really is a cuckoo. Her mum abandoned her. She’s kind of a loudmouth. She came out of nowhere in spring and makes a lot of noise. Okay, she hasn’t killed all her foster-siblings yet. But I’m pretty sure it’s only a matter a time.

  I texted Stu and Ram, too. Stu still hasn’t replied, probably because of the whole no-phones-in-the-house rule. Also, he told us he was going to be on a major Star Trek marathon on Christmas Eve. But Ram replied straightaway, too: Good. Does that mean I can start stealing your food again?

  Robin comes into the lounge. He’s wearing a white apron, and it honestly looks as though he’d slaughtered a cow in it. It’s like a scene from a horror movie.

  “Dinner is served,” he says.

  “Whether we’re ready for it or not,” Dad replies.