Marianne

by Elizabeth Hammer

  Marianne froze, holding the sheet in midair. Oh, no. Danielle must have gone to talk to her brother. Oh, no. The pan was burning her through the potholder. Oh, no. Danielle could absolutely not be trusted. Whatever she had done was bad; Marianne could feel it. She tossed the burning pan on the stove. “What did you say to him?”

  “The truth.” Danielle smiled sweetly, an uncommon look for her. “I fixed it for you.”

  “The truth,” shouted Marianne. “How could you? What did you tell him? Exactly.”

  Danielle looked taken aback by Marianne’s anger. It must have been impressive; nothing ever fazed Danielle. “I told him you were just nervous, and that you’re actually a really cool girl.”

  Marianne chucked the potholder on the counter and advanced on Danielle. She stuck her finger in her face. “What reason did you give for my nervousness?”

  Danielle bit both of her lips in her teeth for a second. “Um... the real one?”

  “What is wrong with you?” Marianne put her hands on top of her head. “Why can’t you just stick to the story? Do you want me to kill myself?”

  Danielle stared at her in confusion. “What was our story again?”

  Marianne spoke slowly, enunciating every word. “That I was nervous because he grabbed my ass.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Danielle, looking away. “That’s what I told him.”

  “You. Lie. Like. A. Fly.”

  Danielle wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, I do.”

  Marianne leaned back against the cabinets and slid down to sit on the tile. If she ever got over this day, it would be an act of God.

  “Come on, stupid,” Danielle put her hands on her hips, “it’s not like he didn’t know already.”

  Marianne sobbed and put her hand over her forehead. Her eyes were totally dry, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t weeping on the inside, anyway.

  “So Patrick knows that you like him. What’s the big deal?”

  Marianne glared up at her. “I don’t like him. I don’t even know him.”

  Danielle coughed. “Nice try.”

  “And!” said Marianne. “Now he feels sorry for me. I’m not just some crackpot, anymore. Now I’m a pathetic, fangirl loser.”

  “Oh, stop whining.” Danielle grabbed a spatula out of the drawer and leaned back against the counter.

  “You’re a horrible person,” said Marianne from the floor. “I don’t know why I hang around—”

  Danielle interrupted Marianne with a hard look. “Stop whining, Marianne.”

  “Psh.” Marianne ignored her and kept ranting. “I’m serious. You’re like death. Slow, snarky death. If I ever actually do jump in front of a train one of these days, you can know that it’s because—”

  “Shut up, Marianne,” said Danielle, pointing to the doorway.

  Marianne whipped her head around to find Patrick watching them wide-eyed from the doorway. “Crap,” she breathed.

  Patrick grimaced and took a step back. “Am I interrupting?”

  “This one is not my fault,” said Danielle.

  Marianne crawled quickly to her feet. “No, you’re not interrupting. I was just, um, joking around.”

  “Oh, I don’t know...” Patrick shrugged slightly. “I think slow, snarky death is a pretty accurate description of my sister.”

  Marianne tried to smile, but she could feel that it was horribly distorted.

  Patrick winked at her. “That’s a nice line.”

  Danielle walked over and slammed the spatula into Patrick’s hands. “Yes, it’s very poetic.” She turned and looked at Marianne. “Get the food on the table outside while I go summon all my flying monkeys.”

  Marianne nodded and swiftly turned toward the stove; maybe Patrick would just leave if she ignored him. She pulled over the stack of plates and started yanking the chicken pieces off the sheet. They burned her fingers and left half their breading stuck to the pan.

  The spatula suddenly appeared in front of her face. “Are you looking for this?” said Patrick.

  “No.” Marianne shook her head and leaned away from him. Another stupid reaction. Thanks, Flustration, way to pull through again.

  Patrick set the spatula down on the stove. “Just in case.” He stepped away but didn’t leave. He just leaned back against the refrigerator with his hands in his pockets; she could see it out of the corner of her eyes. Was he trying to make her head implode?

  Marianne mumbled her actions under her breath just to silence the ringing in her ears. “Five for Mickey. Four for Adam. Four for Wolverine. Ketchup. Where’s the ketchup?” She stuck the pan in the sink and turned toward the fridge, but Patrick had already opened it. He pulled out the ketchup and handed it to her silently. Then he just went back to standing there.

  Marianne started squeezing ketchup on each plate but stopped halfway through. She couldn’t stand it anymore and turned to Patrick. “Um, did you need something?”

  Patrick straightened up. “Do you want me to leave?”

  “No,” she shook her head, trying to act friendlier. “It just seemed like you wanted to say something.”

  Patrick looked down at the tile. “Yes, actually. I wanted to talk to you, but I didn’t know how to start—”

  “Listen,” she interrupted. “I need to apologize again for my behavior outside. And inside, before that. I really don’t know what came over me. I might be possessed—I don’t know. Either way, I’m an absolute, one-of-a-kind freak show. And I’m sorry.”

  “Please don’t keep apologizing,” he said. “I was nervous, myself. That’s why I said that stupid thing about it being interesting to meet you.”

  “Yeah, well, getting accused of sexually assaulting someone will do that to you.” Frick. She’d brought up her ass again. Marianne clamped her mouth shut and turned back to the ketchup.

  “Ah, see—now you’re getting embarrassed again. Please don’t.”

  Oh super, Patrick was a mind reader.

  “I came in here with a mission,” said Patrick, exhaling. “And now I’ve botched it again.”

  “If your mission was to make me feel better, you can just abort.” She turned her head and smiled at him. “I’m a loon, I know it, and nothing you can say is going to help that.” Lovely. That sounded like some sort of manipulative cry for attention. She didn’t want to hear the answer her words must have inspired, so she picked up as many plates as she could carry and walked toward the back door.

  “How about if I ask you to dinner?”

  Marianne stopped dead, and all the chicken dinos skidded slightly toward the edge of the plates. Did he just ask her out? It wasn’t possible; not after everything that had just happened.

  Well, actually he hadn’t asked her out. He’d asked if she wanted him to ask her out. What a wretched question to ask a girl. Marianne turned and cleared her throat. “What?”

  Patrick tipped his head toward her and spoke sweetly, as if he thought she was very sensitive and touchy. “Did you... want to go out with me?”

  Marianne just blinked. What in heck was going on here? Was he serious? Was this a pity date? She was too dumbstruck even to tell him no, or maybe yes, so she deflected. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Patrick instantly made his face blank. “Like what?”

  “You look...” Marianne struggled to find the right word for his exact expression. “Concerned.”

  “Oh.” Patrick tried to smile, but it looked difficult. “I just felt sorry for you. You looked nervous. I came in here to make you feel better, not worse.”

  Sorry for her? Sorry. For. Her.

  There was that urge to stab herself in the gut again. Was she that bad? That horribly pitiful that every man she met felt compelled to humiliate her out of kindness? She realized after a second or two that her mouth was still hanging open in a silent moan. She closed it and shook her head. She looked ridiculous.

  Patrick waited another long moment before speaking. “So... is that a no?”

  Marianne nodded her head.
“Correct.”

  Patrick laughed uncomfortably and looked away. “Okay, then. You’re an honest girl.”

  “No,” she said softly, “It’s just... You didn’t need to do this.”

  Patrick knit his eyebrows together and opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  Marianne waited, but he didn’t say anything, and that faux-confused look on his face was a little annoying. “You don’t have to play dumb,” she said. “You already told me why you’re in here.”

  Now he looked annoyed. “I don’t understand.”

  Liar. “You asked me out because you felt sorry for me.” Marianne stood up straighter and lifted up her chin. Defensive anger was great; she felt clear-headed and coherent for the first time in an hour. “I know I’m a nutcase, but I don’t need a pity date.”

  Patrick gave her another nauseatingly sympathetic look. “I didn’t ask you out because of pity.”

  “No, of course not,” she said. “You asked me out because of my rad social skills and charming demeanor.”

  “I don’t know what’s going on here,” he said.

  “Just admit it, dude.” Marianne dropped the gnarly street punk facade and shrugged. “You saw me make a fool out of myself, and you felt bad for me.”

  “Well...” Patrick stared unfocused at the ceiling. “Yeah, a little—”

  “See.” Marianne pointed at him with the chicken plates. “Pity date.”

  “Isn’t a date just a date?” he said, but he looked almost ready to acknowledge that she had a point.

  “Nope-p.”

  “You.” He paused. “Are a weird girl.”

  Marianne nodded. “I get that a lot.” She turned around and carried the kids’ dinner outside to the patio table.

  When she got home, Marianne went straight to the kitchen. She had the urge to whine to someone, but she didn’t act on it. Mom and Dad weren’t home—not that she’d actually tell them even if they were—and since whining never felt as good as it sounded anyway, she didn’t bother picking up the phone to call Sally. Vegging out was her only alternative. She snatched the container of caramel ice cream out of the freezer, wrapped it in a dishtowel, and headed off for the TV with a spoon. She was surprised at herself because she never ate ice cream, even if it fit inside her tyrannical calorie allotment. She wondered if she was more upset than she cared to admit.

  The remote control found her hand, and the ice cream lid sailed across the living room to land on the carpet. There was nothing on that she wanted to watch, and Dad was too cheap for a DVR, so she settled for VH1’s I Love the 80s. She watched the show for a while, coming up with better lines for today’s conversations than she’d actually used. Ten minutes later, she realized that ice cream sucked. Marianne finished half a bowl of leftover spaghetti and then grabbed the gingersnaps. One show segment and seven cookies later, she decided that gingersnaps were also the worst.

  She got up and went to the fridge. She grabbed a bag of baby carrots and the mustard. Gross, yes. Fattening, no.

  The credits rolled on the TV as she finished the last carrot. She’d abandoned the mustard idea after the second try. Ranch would have been nice, but she was too lazy to get up and get it. Ugh, she was too lame to even binge properly. Marianne turned over to lie on her back, crumpled up the carrot bag, and stuck it in her pocket. She could hear Dad’s voice in her head again. What are you eating carrots for? Aren’t teenagers supposed to eat junk food?

  “Eff off,” she said out loud. She got to her feet.

  And almost started hyperventilating.

  She felt really full. What the fat-gram had she been thinking? She stumbled to the trashcan in the kitchen and tossed in the carrot bag. She closed the lid, then opened it again and shoved the wrapper to the bottom of the heap where she wouldn’t have to see it again. The thought of her binge evidence at the bottom of the bin, right by the SlimFast can from earlier, was plain embarrassing. Diets sucked. What was the point of suffering for thirteen hours if it could all be undone in forty-five minutes? Biology was an unfair system.

  Marianne tried to watch more TV, but she couldn’t get her mind off of the ache in her stomach. Actually, it wasn’t her stomach so much. More like her throat. Even her esophagus felt full to bursting. Crap. Crap. Crap. She was so stupid. And not just for overeating. She was stupid in general. Seriously, what level of fool must one reach to inspire a pity date?

  Stupid Patrick and all his sympathy. Everyone thought charity and compassion were such noble qualities. They were self-righteous morons. Try being the recipient for once. Stupid Danielle and her wild, loose lips. Marianne usually found it endearing, but today it had been next-level annoying. Stupid Marianne and her utter lack of self-control. Maybe she needed medication, except how did one get any if one didn’t have any real problems? She had just settled that she’d have to find some South County trophy wife and get the lowdown on Oxy supply chains when she started laughing out loud like a lunatic.

  Oh, she was the perfect candidate for drugs. Prescription drugs, illegal drugs, teenage faux-drugs like markers or nail polish remover. Bring it on, effers. She wasn’t afraid. No side effect could be worse than the monotonous, defeated tune that played in her head every waking hour. Marianne was so stinking sick of herself. Sick of her dumb face. Sick of her layer of blubber. Sick of her fricking misfiring brain that plagued her with guilt all the livelong day.

  “Oh, shut up,” said Marianne. Her internal bitching and moaning were even getting on her own nerves.

  She stood up and tried to shake off the yuck that was her own thoughts. Easier said than done. Her constricted windpipe just wouldn’t let her forget how she’d blown it. She wanted nothing more than to be hungry again. Right now. She paced around the house, breathing heavily, wishing that someone out there had been smart enough to build a time machine. Wishing that she had some of those mythical pills that stopped digestion. Wishing that she was bulimic.

  Well, snap. What did a bulimic have that she didn’t?

  Fingers to trigger the gag reflex? Check. Courage? Forget that, she had desperation, which was better. Deep psychosis? Bummer. That one had her. She had no mental illness that she knew of, and no childhood traumas that she could dredge up to create one, either.

  Frick.

  No. That was unsatisfactory. She was a person, wasn’t she? She could do what she wanted. Including insanely asinine crap if she so desired. Marianne flicked off the TV and cable box and stuffed her ice cream spoon in between the cushions of the couch. She’d get that later. She checked the front window to make sure that her parents weren’t home yet and loitering on the driveway, then went into the bathroom and plucked her toothbrush out of the cup on the sink.

  Wow. She was standing in her parents’ bathroom, devising her own plan to destruction.

  Never mind that thought. She’d think about that tomorrow. She turned on the water and brushed her teeth. She always gagged when she brushed her molars, so she started with that area.

  Excellent. That got things going. She knelt down on the mint green bath mat and leaned over the toilet. She jammed the toothbrush to the back of her throat, and she had it.

  She puked once.

  She spit out all the gnarly stuff in her mouth and kept going. This wasn’t nearly as hard as she thought it would be. Marianne worked with firm purpose and upchucked every last bite of food that she could. She tried to judge the volume of what she’d gotten rid of against what she remembered eating and stopped when she figured that she was about even. She stood up and flushed it. She rinsed her toothbrush and scrubbed her teeth again. Her face was all blotchy, her eyes were watering like crazy, and her throat hurt—but she felt good.

  All the videos in high school health class about eating disorders had made purging seem so uncontrollable and mysterious. This was not that. This was… positively calculating. Apparently, a person could use the same tricks as the psychos without being one of them—talk about an unfair trade secret. And just like that, Marianne had a new trick. />
  A new, evil trick that nagged at her as she tried to fall asleep that night in her cutsie canopy bed. She didn’t have an eating disorder, so did that make what she’d done even worse than if she did have one? Did it make her a poser as well as an idiot? Whatever, no one had to know. It wasn’t like she was going to start telling people. And it wasn’t like she was going to do it again. Sure, that’s what all people say about dangerous stuff when they’re in denial, but Marianne wasn’t in denial. Her thinking was clear. Clearer than Danielle’s sliding glass door that broke the necks of unsuspecting birds on a regular basis.

  4

  Discomfort Zone

  The next day was pure hell because there were no classes on Mondays. Marianne usually spent her free time with Danielle or Sally, but she didn’t want to see either of them. She wanted to forget about Patrick, and she wanted to forget about the too-small Goth dress. Embarrassed, crash-dieting, and alone. It was a sweet weekend.

  The rest of the week was mildly better. She hadn’t been forced to see any more of Patrick than his truck parked on the street, and she was slowly notching down the scale. Marianne hadn’t chucked up anything all week, of course, but she wasn’t really eating, either. It was odd—she just didn’t want to anymore. Because of that, she had lost four pounds in one week. Four pounds! It was totally unhealthy and totally awesome at the same time.

  The next Saturday, Sally noticed Marianne’s weight loss. Marianne was at cosmetology school with her and had just walked back to their stations from the bathroom where Sally was busy yanking the snarls out of the doll head she was working on. Everyone in school had these life-sized plastic heads with long hair and scary makeup that they had to practice cuts and color on. When most students were working, they looked like little girls playing with toys, but with Sally, it looked more like a horror movie. A witch with some decapitated head.

  “You need new pants,” said Sally, looking up at her. “Those are too big for you. Your backside looks deflated.”