by Juno Dawson
Zoë, Nico and Alice were crowding around the bathroom door.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked. You know when you can actually feel the colour draining out of your face? Well, that. I knew, from a primal, instinctual place, something was seriously wrong. My first fear was that Polly had cut herself again – perhaps too deeply this time.
I was wrong. I pressed myself up against Nico to see into the bathroom. Polly was crouched over Daisy who was splayed over the tiles.
She looked dead.
Chapter Seven
Blind
‘What happened?’ I gasped.
‘She fainted or passed out or something,’ Nico mumbled, also pale-faced.
‘Please!’ Polly’s face was wet with tears. ‘Just call an ambulance.’
‘We can’t! My dad will kill me!’ Zoë was crying too.
This wasn’t the time to stand around sobbing or to worry about Zoë’s dad. I had got my phone out of my pocket and started to dial when Daisy stirred. It was so well-timed I wondered for a moment if she was faking in a strange bid for attention.
I dismissed the idea though. Daisy looked genuinely awful – her lips were chalk-white and her skin was sallow. She clung to Polly’s arm, trying to drag herself up. I held off from dialling the third nine.
‘Was she drunk?’ I asked Nico, who only shrugged.
‘Daisy?’ Polly asked. ‘Daisy, can you hear me?’
‘Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Please don’t fuss. I felt light-headed.’ Daisy sat up with our help, her eyes unfocused. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you sure? Should we call an ambulance?’ Polly asked, wiping her tears.
‘No. Don’t be silly. I’ll be OK. Can I please have some water?’
Zoë went to grab a glass. I crouched next to Polly on the bathroom floor. ‘Daisy, have you taken something?’ See? This is why drugs are bad.
‘No, god no.’ She tried to stand but she was unsteady on her feet. It was like watching Bambi learn to walk all over again.
‘Maybe you should sit down,’ I suggested and guided her to the rim of the bathtub.
‘Polly, I want to go home,’ she said, her mouth turning down at the edges, her voice wobbling.
‘OK. Shall I call your mum?’
Daisy nodded and rested her head on my shoulder. I looked to Polly for some sort of explanation, but I didn’t get one – she was already calling Daisy’s parents.
And I didn’t get an explanation for some time. Daisy’s fainting spell signalled the end of both the party and my snogging for the evening. Halloween was on the Thursday and I didn’t see anyone again until the Saturday night when we met up at the crazy-golf course. Daisy was absent.
‘Have you heard from Daisy? Is she OK?’ I asked as we got clubs and balls.
‘Yeah, she’s fine,’ Polly said, not looking me in the eye.
‘Well, was she drunk, or what?’
‘Yeah, and I think she’s coming down with something. She’s not coming out tonight.’
I knew when I was being fobbed off, but I let it go because Nico arrived. Follow-up is always awkward. We had texted, pretty much constantly, since Halloween – apparently we were equally needy and addicted to mutual reassurance: I had such a good time/ You’re a great kisser/ When can we do it again? I guess it’s how you let someone know you like them. Better than being left hanging I supposed.
Still, seeing him again was tricky. ‘Hey,’ I said.
‘Hey.’ He took the initiative and kissed me lightly on the lips. Just like that, the awkward was banished. This was INSANE. How often does the guy you like like you back? This was too good to be true. Or maybe it wasn’t. Perhaps soap operas and teen novels teach us that falling for someone has to be a big three-act melodrama, when actually it’s like falling off a log.
So this is where the story should end, right? The girl got the guy. Wrong. If only it were that simple.
I threw a quick glance to Beasley who was hugely interested in his toes.
We played golf, but we couldn’t keep our hands to ourselves. It felt naughty somehow. We couldn’t stop, however much we didn’t want to rub it in people’s faces. One thing was for sure: although a huge (sensible) part of my head told me this could damage my fledgling friendships, there was no way I could stop it. We were Jack and Jill, tumbling downhill, gathering momentum as we went. By that stage, Nico and I felt inevitable, and I liked it.
He walked me home even though he lived on the other side of Brompton. We held hands. This wasn’t like with Smithy, I wasn’t experimenting or playing at Boyfriends & Girlfriends the way kids do on the playground. This felt real, at least to me it did. The potential was as real as his fingers knotted with mine. It was as exciting as it was scary. The future seemed closer than it ever had before: an approaching tornado made out of mortgages, Saturdays in Waitrose and Highland minibreaks.
I had concerns, of course I did. I think concerns are only natural. It was a lot of change – I’d never had a proper boyfriend before. I was also terrified about the fact he was leaving in a year, but you can’t talk about things like that too early because they make you look like a psycho or a stalker. I told myself to enjoy the walk and stop worrying about a future that might not happen.
When we got to mine, we positioned ourselves behind a sturdy oak tree – so we couldn’t be seen from the windows – and kissed for what felt like hours until my back was bruised from the gnarly tree trunk and my lips were swollen. Snogging: nature’s own collagen filler. Hands down, kissing Nico was my new favourite thing ever. I was resolved. This close wasn’t close enough. I wanted Nico to be My First.
‘But I want to wait a while first,’ I told Polly on the first day back. My fears about her ripping my face off with jealousy were totally unfounded. Quite the opposite in fact. She seemed happy and keen to know all the gory details. We were in the study room, hiding behind textbooks to disguise the conversation.
‘Why?’ Polly asked. ‘You like him? Go for it.’ Her bright red Halloween hair had faded to an orangey colour – not her best look.
‘I dunno, I guess I want it to be special. You know, like, mean something.’
Polly rolled her eyes. ‘Nothing means anything.’
I laughed. ‘Oh that’s deep.’
‘No it’s not. It’s anti-deep.’ She nibbled on a pear. ‘You’re overthinking it. If you like him, you should have sex with him. Why all the drama? It’s like New Year’s Eve.’
‘What?’
‘The more you build up to it, the more of a let-down it is. For realsies.’
I didn’t want to admit that she probably had a point. ‘Also … I’m nervous. There, I said it!’
‘Well, of course you are,’ she said. Then she added, ‘But don’t be. Nico is one of the good ones.’ There it was again, for a split second and gone again: a spectre of sadness at the back of her eyes. Sometimes I wondered if I’d only truly met Polly twice – once when she told me about her cutting and once when she was freaking out about Daisy.
Speaking of Daisy, she rapidly became notable by her absence. OK, I got that she was sick, but when she hadn’t returned to school by the Thursday after the hols I was worried. What was weirder still, no one wanted to talk about her. It was as if she’d been erased from existence. When I brought her up, the subject was rapidly changed. When Mr Gregory took the register, he no longer called her name – he obviously had the inside story. All I got from Polly, Nico and the others was ‘she’s sick’. I sent text after text to Daisy herself and got no response.
On the Friday, I decided I wasn’t going to wait any longer. ‘I’m going to go round to Daisy’s tonight, I think.’ Everyone looked at me as though I’d announced I was about to birth a squid. ‘You know, I might take her some chocolate and magazines or something.’
We were in the common room. Freya lowered her book for a second. ‘You don’t take chocolate to an anorexic person,’ she muttered before vanishing behind the book once more.
My jaw fell. Polly threw
a venomous look in Freya’s direction. Beasley and Alex grimaced. ‘Oh brilliant.’ This was the first time I’d been properly angry since I’d arrived at Brompton Cliffs. ‘Thanks for keeping me in the loop.’ I did something I wouldn’t normally do. I picked up my bag and swished out of the common room like I was effing Beyoncé or something.
I had nowhere to go but I was just so mad. I ended up leaving campus to get a hot chocolate, although the £2.75 price tag did little to calm me down. This proved that my lovely ‘insider’ feeling was an illusion. I’d been left out in the cold, not worthy of such key information. I went to my next lesson and had to hold back tears the whole time. After about half an hour of petulant anger I became angry with myself – more than angry, livid. My own pathetic social status concerns had eclipsed the actual issue – Daisy was anorexic.
Of course, it all made perfect sense. She was clearly ill. She was … frail. I’d sort of thought when I met her, gosh she’s really skinny I wonder if she’s anorexic, and then forgotten it. I loved Daisy and didn’t want to think bad thoughts about her. Or maybe I didn’t want to think of her as a sick person. But sick she was.
Polly came round that night. Judas Cradle were playing a gig in Paignton so I was having a Friday night to myself with some films. It was actually nice to spend some time catching up on my YouTube channels. When Mum called up saying, ‘Vicky, you have a friend here,’ I was shocked. I didn’t even know Polly knew where I lived.
Mum fussed over her. Isn’t it so annoying how your parents are so much nicer to other people’s children? Thankfully Mother didn’t appear too drunk at this stage, although her lips and teeth had blueish traces of red wine on them. This was why I didn’t bring friends home more often. I remember once, back home, I brought Smithy back to mine and she actually flirted with him. I could have stuck my head in the oven.
She sent us upstairs with Doritos and dips and a bottle of Sprite. I abandoned the food next to my laptop. ‘Cool room.’ Polly nodded at my posters and manga figurines.
‘Not as cool as yours.’ My room felt like a kid’s room.
‘Look.’ Polly perched on my bed, which I really wished I’d made. ‘I’m sorry about today, but you didn’t need to throw a ******* ****-fit.’
‘I know,’ I conceded, ‘but I was upset. Why didn’t you tell me about Daisy? I felt like such an idiot. Can you imagine if I’d actually rocked up on her doorstep with a load of food?’
Polly half smiled. ‘That would have been … unfortunate.’
‘Well? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because it’s none of your business.’
I nearly burst into tears at that – partly because I felt excluded and partly because I hated myself for being so self-involved.
‘I’m sorry but it isn’t. Daisy hates people knowing; she’s so embarrassed about it and she’s trying so hard to get better.’
My eyes glazed over and I pinched my nose. Crying is so unhelpful. ‘I wouldn’t have minded … I love Daisy.’
Polly smiled. ‘And she loves you. That’s why she specifically didn’t want you to know. She didn’t want you to think of her as The Anorexic Girl. Everyone else does.’
‘So everyone else knows? Great.’
‘OK, you need to chill the **** out. This isn’t about you, Tor. She’s been sick since she was nine. She’s been in and out of hospital. We all thought she was getting better – we hoped she wouldn’t ever have to go back again – she’s been out for about eighteen months. I thought it was a bit like me and my cutting … I sort of hoped she’d grown out of it.’
I took a breath. This really wasn’t about me. Polly was right, I was being a dick. ‘She’s in hospital?’
‘Yeah. Her body mass has dropped too low again so they’re monitoring her food.’
‘Oh god. Poor Daisy.’
Polly said nothing for a moment. ‘We really thought last time would be the last time.’
She looked like she might cry. I was seeing Real Polly again. I went to sit beside her on the bed. ‘Hey, it’s OK. I’m sorry I gave you a hard time. I’m sure she’ll be OK. I guess she’s in the right place.’
Polly’s blue eyes burned through her smudged kohl. ‘It’s so ******* hard, you know? You just want her to ******* eat. Have you ever had an anorexic friend?’
‘No,’ I admitted.
‘Every day is this … battle. Her versus food. Even when she’s eating it’s a battle. I wish I could take the pain for her, you know? I think I could handle it.’
‘Give her some credit. You said it started when she was nine? She’s made it seven years.’
Polly nodded. ‘Seven years of questioning every single thing she puts in her mouth. It’s not like it is on Tumblr; it’s not all arty black-and-white pictures of ribcages and ******* thigh gaps. I’ve watched her literally sweat over a handful of raisins. You know she’s never had a period?’
Oh god. I struggled to find words. ‘Well … maybe we can take some of the pain. Just by being there for her. Like you said, we can’t make her eat. We shouldn’t make her eat, she has doctors to do that. I suppose we have to give her reasons to eat. We need to be her reason to eat.’
Polly lay down on my lap, resting her head on my thigh. I stroked her ketchup-coloured hair off her face. ‘You’re pretty ******* wise, Grand.’
‘Hardly.’
‘We’re going to the mental-health unit tomorrow if you want to come.’
‘Do you want me to come?’
‘Yeah, I really do.’
Alcohol hand gel and disinfectant. Hospital smell. No flowers allowed; they were a contamination risk. Obviously no grapes or chocolate. The adolescent mental-health unit was trying so hard to be cheery it was depressing. Walls painted the colour of sunshine, but it was so sterile. The ward was in disguise – framed pictures, throws and band posters – but there was no mistaking that smell. Daisy was in hospital. The heating whacked up, she wore just a T-shirt and I saw for the first time how frail she was, little more than elbows and knuckles.
‘This is my collage.’ Daisy showed us a sheet of A2 card with dozens of women cut out of magazines. ‘On one side I have to glue women who look realistic and on the other side I have to glue women that look too thin.’
I was with Polly and Beasley in an activity room. It had the feel of a primary-school classroom. Daisy’s mum was here too, but was presently off talking to the doctor. To my surprise she was very overweight and I couldn’t stop a mean voice in my head from blaming her somehow, like it was her fault for overfeeding Daisy or something. I knew it didn’t work like that. I suppose I needed to send my anger somewhere and screaming into my pillow hadn’t helped.
‘It’s great,’ Beasley said, examining her work.
‘I’ve done it before,’ Daisy admitted sadly. ‘I know how to cheat. You have to make sure you put more on the too-skinny side so they think you have appropriate body perception.’ She spoke so matter-of-factly. Polly had explained to me that, when it came to food, you couldn’t trust a word that came out of Daisy’s mouth. She knew every trick in the book to avoid eating. Seven years of ‘accidentally’ putting too much salt on food so it couldn’t be eaten; seven years of carrying an empty McDonald’s bag around so people thought she’d already had lunch; seven years of lunchtime clubs and crushed ice.
‘Well, cheat,’ Polly whispered. ‘Just get out of here.’
‘I will. I’m gaining.’ The last word was spat out. Daisy looked as if she might cry. ‘Although I got in trouble for trying to put stuff in my pockets at the weigh-in.’
I reached over the table and took her hand. It was freezing cold and as small as a child’s. ‘Do you want us to bring anything?’ I said.
‘You’re very kind, but no thank you. I’m not planning on being here long.’
‘Dais, what’s going on?’ Beasley said, his eyes glistening. ‘You’ve been doing so well.’
Cornered, Daisy’s face changed. She looked hard, vicious and ugly. It was like our Daisy was posses
sed, inhabited by a dark and tormented demon. ‘I am trying, Beasley! God!’
‘We know, we know,’ Polly said soothingly. ‘What he means is: why didn’t you say something to us? We could have helped.’
‘It’s not that easy, Polly. I … I guess I was getting stressed out. Sixth form is harder than before. I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘I just didn’t want food any more. It was easier if I didn’t eat.’
Polly had explained that usually anorexia is about feeling lost and helpless. In a world where everything was so out of control – even her own body – food was something that Daisy could control. I’d tried so hard, but I still couldn’t get my head around it. If I don’t eat every couple of hours I get a) hungry and b) evil. I honestly had no idea how broken Daisy must be to be able to ignore that hunger. So I’d looked it up. Daisy was every bit as hungry as I was; she just chose to fight it. That battle Polly had talked about.
‘What’s it like here?’ I asked quietly.
‘Oh it’s basically Disneyland. What do you think?’ she snapped before cooling. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Toria. I hate it here so much. There’s one other anorexic girl and then a load of horrible boys. I hate them.’ One of the ‘horrible boys’, an exhausted-looking guy with angry cigarette burns all over his arms glared at us from the other side of the activity room. ‘They force me to eat. They sit next to me and make sure I swallow. All they care about is my weight so they can shove me back into the real world. “Quick, feed her up!” I feel like a Christmas turkey.’
‘You know why they do it, and that’s what your therapy’s for.’ When she wanted to be, Polly could be almost maternal. ‘You just tell me if you’re having the thoughts, OK?’
‘I know. I know.’ Daisy explained how her therapists had taught her to recognise the onset of thoughts about food – how to anticipate changes and recognise triggers before she relapsed.