Valentina seldom dispensed smiles, but when she did, the women acted as though pure love enveloped them. Alice recognized the theory of relativity in action. Give someone nothing but chilly dismissiveness for six days, and on the seventh, a smile will come across like an ascension to heaven.
But it worked.
• • •
“Do you think they’re giving us speed?” Alice held on to the lip of the swimming pool, having just finished twenty laps with ease. “I feel far too good.”
Daphne pulled off her bright-yellow swimming cap and let her hair tumble out, water darkening the ends from strawberry to auburn. Alice wondered what it would be like to let your hair mop up the water without worrying about chlorine levels, without first applying coconut oil and shea butter, though now, with chemical energy flashing and zinging, dunking her head, running in circles, whipping her hair every which way, and then letting it dry however the hell it wanted seemed within the realm of her new possibility.
Invincibility poured out. “I don’t think Valentina fed us vitamins. Not unless vitamin is a new word for illegal-drug-to-make-you-insanely-happy. Is your head exploding?”
“You know what I feel at this moment?” Daphne stretched her arms up as though winning a race. “For the first time in ages, I don’t care about anything but the next minute. And best of all? I’m not hungry. I’ll beg, borrow, or steal to have this shit for the rest of my life.”
• • •
A week later at the weigh-in, Alice’s mood soared. Compared with the women in the other group, who trudged up to the scale, the three of them danced up in their underwear, uncaring about the revelations of midriffs and thighs, grinning as the scales registered the continuing downward trend.
The jumpsuits that had formerly covered them like sausage casings now hung like loose pantyhose. The numbers marking their weight flashed like Las Vegas nightclub signs. Living on an egg a day, along with spinach, dry-grilled broccoli, cucumbers, broth, celery, bits of tofu with mustard, and little else while exercising nine hours a day worked. They shrank. Exhaustion disappeared.
Hania bowed like a beauty queen before stepping onto the scale. The numbers trilled up and down until settling on 141. Beautiful Hania, the poster girl of Waisted, everybody’s favorite, twirled in an imaginary princess dress.
“Congratulations, Hania,” Jeremiah said. “Per the U.S. Army, at your age, you are now seven pounds from the weight they would allow someone your height.”
Valentina grinned as though her daughter had been accepted to Harvard. Coleen threw suspicious glances. The trainers’ competition had become vicious. News traveled quickly among prisoners. When Alice and Jennifer snuck off to the bathroom together, secrets came out. Jennifer revealed that Coleen suspected Valentina of cheating.
With $50,000 on the line, she bet that Valentina hadn’t received those pills from Dr. Ash. The man didn’t appear bright enough to invent a piece of toast.
“Your turn, Daphne.” Jeremiah gestured for her to come forward.
How different from fourteen days ago, when Alice had to rescue Daphne. Now her friend turned, threw her a big grin, wiggled out of her now-floppy jumpsuit, and marched right toward the scale. When 167 flashed on the screen, Daphne raised her arms, Rocky style.
“Not yet ready for the army, but you’re on your way, kiddo.” Jeremiah nodded in approval.
Coleen and her team glared.
Yes, this week had been better. Valentina stopped treating them as primordial ooze. Jeremiah nodded. Dr. Ash drugged them.
Alice stepped forward, aware of the muscles in her legs carrying her. Her waist felt whittled to a size Clancy’s hands could span. As she walked, it seemed within her reach to leap to the sky, weightless and magical.
At bedtime, home truths wiggled in, but if euphoria ebbed away during the night, it reawoke soon after getting her breakfast pill, when her spirit again moved from lead to aerated. Alice was familiar with how drug addicts moved through stages. She worried that Valentina was pushing meth down their throats.
But when she stepped on the scale and saw 184, a whole 19 pounds below her beginning weight, she was ready to fly down to the nearest army recruiting office and enlist. They’d take her in 4 pounds.
She could run fifteen miles, swim the English Channel, and blast Harper to hell. She had become capable of anything.
• • •
At dinner, their clocks ran down. Alice sipped her unsalted, unspiced, and unflavored broth, forcing down the liquid. If she ate only these foods forever, bingeing would never tempt her again. Perhaps this was their lesson: eat only food that tasted horrid. Imagine a life where food didn’t matter.
Alice twitched at her hamster-run thoughts. Addictive pills induced shock or withdrawal.
Hunger gnawed without appetite.
“What if we need this vitamin when we’re home?” Daphne stirred her broth into tiny torrents. “Where do we get it?”
Valentina shook her head. “You ask me every day that same question.”
“And yet you never answer.”
“When the time comes, then I will tell you.”
“When is that time?” Daphne asked. “What do you mean by ‘the time’? The last day? The bus ride home? When we pack?”
“Stop!” Valentina reached into the pocket of her shorts. “Here. Today’s pill, plus an extra for each of you. Now we can do more exercise tonight, and you have one in your bank.” Valentina’s lip turned up as though she were smiling.
Alice knew Daphne and Hania shared her feelings: I don’t want to exercise anymore today. I want to sleep. But I want the pill. And when I get the pill, I will happily swim twenty laps, run five miles, and do a hundred sit-ups.
The three of them received the pills Valentina offered as though accepting superpowers, knowing that when the chemicals kicked in, they’d be able to run to the moon and back. Alice’s hand shook as she reached for water to swallow the capsule.
She shouldn’t take any more pills tonight. Only an idiot would consider that. Think of what your mother, father, and Clancy would say.
She gripped the cheap water glass and stared at the pill. Defined muscles had begun forming in her forearm. Each day, she cared less if she ever tasted sugar again.
Alice swallowed.
• • •
Swimming laps for an hour shriveled their skin—fingertips turned into tiny, wrinkled prunes. After that, they performed a water ballet for their own amusement, sidestroking in circles and diving for invisible fish. But still, despite burning off another ten Waisted meals, when they returned to their bedroom, Alice had too much energy to consider taking the sleeping pills.
She washed her face in the bathroom. As she patted her skin dry, just as Daphne had insisted—pat, don’t rub—she noticed two things: her face had thinned out considerably. She didn’t know what cosmetics would do to this newly hollowed face. What could she look like?
She opened the door and yelled over the music to which Hania shook her hips. “Make us up, Daph! I want to see what I might look like in full face.”
Though forbidden from wearing makeup, they’d been allowed to keep their cosmetics in their rooms. In Daphne’s case, that meant a treasure chest of everything from contouring creams, to eyeliners worthy of the singer Adele, to lipsticks ranging from faint nudes to screaming reds. Like women in purdah, in the beginning, until the novelty wore off, they’d spent hours decorating themselves when alone in their rooms.
Hania struck a model’s pose. “Do something very different!”
“Like what?” Daphne dragged out her tools and potions, setting up a makeup counter in the bathroom. One woman would sit on the side of the tub while the other raised her face to Daphne’s ministrations, a closed toilet seat serving as the throne. Then they’d switch.
“We can each choose who we want to be,” Hania said.
“Sure.” Alice lifted her hair higher, wondering who she wanted to be. “You first.”
“Make me look like
Angelina Jolie in Maleficient,” Hania said.
Daphne considered her supplies and then closed her eyes. “Okay.” She blinked her eyes. “Got it. Without Google, all I have is my memory.”
“No worries,” Alice said. “It all washes away. Hania won’t sue you.”
“What are you thinking of?” Daphne began daubing heavy white base on Hania, mimicking the masklike appearance needed for the dramatic role.
Alice stood and peered at herself. Makeup had always been a question of fitting in for her. Other than combining colors for bold lips, she stayed inside the lines, played with her supposed beauty. Growing up with Bebe meant no dressing tables filled with mystery where Alice could play. Bebe’s idea of making up included brushing on one coat of mascara and spreading a thin layer of tinted moisturizer.
Combining Bebe with anything appearance-related meant watching for hidden mines. Bebe believed makeup to be political, and hairstyling terrified her. Her mother treated Alice’s hair as a challenge to be addressed with caution, using brittle cheer as her cover while dreading doing something wrong. She tried hard, though—even paying black hairdressers to tutor her in the best ways to care for Alice’s fragile curls.
Most of the time, this tentativeness led to Alice assuring Bebe what a great job she did mothering Alice in the girly department—until Alice hit a rebellious streak and made her hair as white-girl as possible, knowing that her mother treasured Alice being natural.
In the end, Alice feared declaring her soul by wearing it on the outside, not trusting anyone’s judgment or taste. She wasn’t even sure what her soul might look like—did it have a color?
When Alice saw Daphne struggle with her curls, using a pick like Alice’s, it surprised her. While it would never be a political issue for Daphne—who’d never be fired for letting her hair frizz out—Alice realized that few women besides Hania, blessed with silk and satin, were satisfied with whatever God gave them.
Hell, even Hania, who, watching Alice twisting exercise-friendly braids, declared that her sheet of hair was boring and complained it would just slip out of French braids.
Alice took out the clip holding her hair. She bent at the waist and ran her fingers through the curls, shaking them out, lifting from the roots until she’d made a nimbus around her head. “Make me Rihanna. Or Tracee Ellis Ross. Lisa Bonet. Hell, make me Meghan Markle. Turn me into a princess.”
Daphne leaned over Alice’s shoulder. “I’ll make you a princess like you’ve never seen. Can I do Cleopatra eyes?”
“Anything you want.”
“I’d kill for your cheekbones.” Daphne leaned toward the mirror. “Look at me. I got my period today. My face is a moon.”
“First days are the worst,” Alice said.
“Headaches. Swollen. I always want chikki chocolate-covered peanuts. Every second.” Hania moaned.
“What’s chikki?” Alice asked.
“The Indian version of peanut brittle. My grandmother always gave it to me when I had my period, so now I’m completely Pavlovian in wanting it at that time of the month.”
“That’s so sweet, going for grandma food. For me, it’s Nestlé Crunch,” Daphne said. “I never want anything elegant or Whole-Foodish during my period. Just crappy candy from CVS.”
“M&M’s. Always. A giant-sized bag that my hand can get lost in,” Alice said. “Why do you think we want our childhood sweets most of all at that time?”
Hania answered from Daphne’s other side. “Because life sucks during our period. Thus, we want the simplest soothing pleasures.”
“I wear my biggest earrings at that time. I swear they hide my puffy face,” Daphne said.
“I miss wearing my jewelry.” Longing wrapped Hania’s words. “I feel naked.”
Daphne’s hands went to her earlobes. “I know what you mean. Even when I’m just lying around on a Sunday morning, I feel better if I at least have a pair of studs. In my ears, I mean.”
They laughed as though her joke had been far funnier than it was. The women were as desperate for fun as they were for food and rest.
“I wonder if women should be divided into earring types. Studs. Hoops. Hanging.” Alice raised her face as Daphne smoothed on primer. “You’re the jewelry store person, Daphne. What say you?”
“You bet there are types, plus a million levels within each one. You should hear my sister talk about it. Marissa thinks women—and men—use jewelry as a shortcut to tell the world who they are. And aren’t. How else could you advertise your values, your worth, your religion, your culture? You name it.
“But there’s also face shape. My sisters, and sister-in-law, they have delicate faces with small features. Studs look fantastic on them. On me? I feel like they’re lost and make me look fatter. That’s why I only wear them when I’m lounging around.”
“I change it up depending on where I’m going. Jesus, I’m a goddamn jewelry chameleon,” Alice said. “Does that make me a phony? Lost?”
Daphne stayed quiet for a moment. Alice realized that talking about culture and race, delicate under any circumstance, became exaggerated tenfold when you had three women of such diverse backgrounds living in the same room, but she wanted to dive into her curiosity about what the other two would say.
“I think we all do it in some way,” Daphne said. “Or at least I do. When I’m with my extended family, I pile on too much bling. To keep them from looking at me. I’d rather have them think I’m fashion stupid than notice that I can’t wear spaghetti straps. As though it works. Hah. I guess it’s my protective gear.”
“When I go to work, I don’t wear bright saturated gold,” piped up Hania. “You know the kind I mean?” When they murmured agreement, she went on. “Work is such a boys’ club. If I could, I’d just shine my stuff in their faces—but I have neither the guts nor enough of a foothold as a coder. I want to fade a bit. So, I have these small, dull gold hoops I wear only to work.”
“Do you keep your bracelets on?” Alice asked.
“No. They’d bang on the computer. I can’t. But the minute I get home, I put them on. I feel naked without my bracelets.”
“Sometimes I use jewelry as a weapon,” Alice said. “To intimidate. I know that being tall can make folks uncomfortable. When I wear my truly big jewelry—what Clancy calls my Queen of the Nile pieces—then I know I tower more than just physically.”
“Do you use it to intimidate white folk?” Daphne sounded hesitant. “Not that I’d blame you. God, you must have to take five steps for every move I make.”
Alice waited a few beats before answering, surprised by Daphne’s words, and unsure if she should be offended or impressed by the chutzpah. “Yeah. Sure, I do. My father taught me to take every legal advantage I could—though I don’t think he meant jewelry.”
“Men are clueless about how talismanic jewelry is,” Daphne said. “How much more it means than decoration.”
“Maybe that’s why Jeremiah won’t let us wear it here. He’s even trying to take away our luck.” Alice stretched her arms and examined her hands. “I haven’t been without my rings in a long time. Even before marriage, I had the ring. I wore my great-grandma’s art deco ring from the day my father gave it to me. I keep trying to twirl it, but it’s not there.”
“Perhaps we can use it as a small bonus, even though Jeremiah means it to break us down,” Hania said. “Maybe we can figure out our naked worth.”
“I don’t even want to think who I’d be without makeup and jewels,” Daphne said.
“Why should we stop?” Hania asked. “Let the men decorate themselves more and give us something pretty to look at. Let them be the ones lining their eyes and wrapping themselves in gold. We don’t need to mimic them.”
“Right you are.” Alice closed her eyes so Daphne could dust on glittery gold eye shadow. “When’s the last time we pillaged a town? Nope. That’s them. I think it’s time to examine all the values we’re twisted up with. They should be copying us. We’re not the ones starting the wars.”
>
CHAPTER 16
* * *
DAPHNE
They’d now been at the mansion for twenty-two days. Speed jitters had taken over Daphne’s body. From waking up, to the hour when they swallowed their sleeping pills, she felt compelled to move. She jiggled and fidgeted, sometimes with knowledge, sometimes realizing it midtwitch. Even now, as she waited to climb the steps to the scale, she shifted from foot to foot in a pill-induced dance, burning calorie upon calorie.
Weigh-ins had become a treat to Daphne. The numbers on the scale tumbled; her spirits soared. Unfortunately, as much as her mood lifted to near euphoria when seeing her falling weight, panicked agitation came over her without provocation. Only bruising exercise relieved the sudden onslaughts of anxiety.
“Come, come, come!” Jeremiah called. His jolly welcoming tone led Daphne to boogaloo up to the scale in imitation of a go-go girl from the sixties.
She skipped up the steps to the scale and smiled in expectation of another happy number. Yesterday, she hit 143.4, for a total weight loss of 39.6 pounds. Frankenstein’s large base had become a platform of joy.
The white metal was icy under her bare feet. She crossed her fingers and prayed to lose over 4 pounds, a not-unheard-of one-day loss in the mansion. And then, to bring karma on her side, she included Alice in her words to God.
• • •
After dinner, stuck in their group bedroom, Daphne drummed her fingers against her chair as she did leg lifts from her sitting position. Her mouth was dry, her armpits were wet with sweat—which seemed an unlikely combination. Slaking her thirst seemed impossible for the past week. “What happens when we don’t have pills anymore?” she asked.
“We fatten up like Thanksgiving turkeys,” Alice said. “Or we find inner strength.”
“Don’t you think this—the pills—are just a boost, and that they just got us on the right track?” Hania parroted Valentina, nervousness coating every word.
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