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Chapter 15— Vanilla and Gum
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I was dead. I was deader the dead. I was ‘throw her in the casket, bulldoze a grave, and toss her in’ dead. Standing across from me in the dim light of my bedroom doorframe was my mother holding a metal fork I’d stupidly and accidentally thrown in the trash after I was done scraping the dinner off of my plate. I was normally so good at hiding this sort of thing, discreetly making up excuses for how I’d already eaten or how whatever we were having for dinner made my stomach upset. Wearing baggy clothes while not at shows so as to make the shrinking of my hips and arms not so noticeable. But, now, I was rusty. Now, I’d really fucked it up.
My mother angrily shoved the fork back down into the trash can and sat beside me on my bed. She grabbed onto my shoulders with a vice-like grip and bore her desperate eyes into mine.
“When’s the last time you’ve eaten?” she demanded, nearly puncturing holes into my arm.
My mouth fell open. What could I say? What could I possibly do to make all of this better?
“I don’t…” I started, suddenly completely out of breath.
“Don’t tell me that! Philly Emmett, when was the last time you ate something?!”
I shook my head and felt my chin dip towards the floor. A new gruesome wound was tearing open my chest, ripping holes in my lungs until I was sure I could no longer breathe. My face grew hot and burning red as my mind raced with fear. Every little voice in my head screamed out all at once, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”
“Philly, answer me!”
“Last night,” I babbled, a mess of suffocated breaths. “Last night.”
“And what did you eat?!” Mom pressured, grasping onto my wrists like I would soon be locked away forever.
“The peas,” I moaned, my voice barely above a whisper. “And some of the chicken neck.”
My mom shut her eyes and held in a breath. Her hands slipped away from me and she cradled her head in them. The silence separated us better than any wall could’ve. And suddenly, I felt a million miles away.
“I thought you were better…” she said.
At her words, I pulled my legs into my chest and wrapped them up in my arms, desperate to feel something that reminded me that I wasn’t sinking into the ground.
“It’s not that bad.”
“That’s what you told me the first time, Philly. And I thought it was just a stupid phase.”
“Well,” I said, turning away from her, “We were both wrong.”
“I don’t understand this. You went to rehab. You went to therapy. Doesn’t any of that matter to you? Why would you do this to yourself after you worked so hard to get better?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know…”
“You think I want to see my daughter turn back into the walking skeleton she used to be?”
“No…”
“You think I want to see you half-dead and hooked up to hospital machines?!”
“No—”
“I don’t understand why you can’t just be normal!”
I shot up off the bed, my face lit on fire and my chest tight and burning. “Because I’m not normal! We are not normal! If you’d even taken a second to pay attention to me—not goddamn Jenny Tyler or rock star Philly Emmet—but me, your daughter, you’d know that I hate this! All of this! Controlling what I eat is the only thing that makes me feel like myself anymore. Because I don’t get to be me at school or in public or even at home. I don’t get to be myself anywhere!”
By this time, my face was streaked with hot tears sliding down to my chin. My fists were balled up at my sides and my elbows and knees trembled so hard that I thought at any moment I might collapse…again.
My mother stared at me for a few moments, her eyes wide and her fingers trembling. And I almost thought it was a trick of the light, but then I saw tears fill the corner of her eyes, the same olive-green color as mine. She pressed her fists down into her lap and looked away, trying desperately to control the choking sob rising up in her throat. I knew that feeling. It was the same feeling I got nearly every day living with her. She pursed her lips together, continuing to fight that feeling and that threat of total weakness.
“I just wanted what was best for you…” she said, nearly a crackling whisper from the back of her throat. She fiercely wiped away a stray tear. “I’ve always wanted what was best for you. You’re my only daughter. You have to understand that.”
The tears still trickled down my face, slowly and tauntingly. “Then, be a mother to me when I need one—not a manager or a cheerleader or a life coach. A mother.”
We sat in the silence for a few more moments, the room echoing only with the sounds of sniffles and the low hum of the A.C. I wanted so badly to reach out to her and completely let go, throw myself into her arms and never leave. But, we weren’t there yet. And maybe this was just the first stepping stone.
Finally, after my mother’s tears had been wiped away, she looked up, finally met my watery eyes, and nodded.
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I’d love to say that, after making amends with my mother, my anorexic habits quickly became a distant memory. But, those things only happen in unrealistic fantasies. And as much as it felt like sometimes, this was no fantasy. We spent the weekend taking baby steps; my mother researched eating disorder dietitians and found one who was able to form a meticulous yet easy meal plan for me. The dietitian took it a step further and referred me to several therapists who were very highly reviewed. Mom let me take my pick from the list. It was scary seeing all of this change happen around me again. But unlike last time, I didn’t feel so alone in the process. My mother was a constant presence, checking up on me every few minutes and preparing meals for me just how I liked them when I was younger. It made me feel like a child being babied, but it wasn’t bad. We talked about school and the band, and I’d even gone as far as to tell her about Rodrick. But, maybe she didn’t need to know every single detail.
When Monday morning finally came, I felt exhausted beyond belief. Perhaps it was my body’s way of telling me to take a breath, to chill. But, I couldn’t waste a moment. I had too much to look forward to. I had someone to look forward to.
But, it wasn’t Rodrick that I encountered while pulling into the school parking lot early that morning. A tap on my driver’s side window jolted me out of the English homework I’d been scrambling to finish all weekend. I immediately turned down the Fleetwood Mac purring through my car radio and saw two vaguely familiar teens skulking outside of my car—one with sharply arched eyebrows and a pinched ferret-like face and the other much taller with stringy blonde hair. They were the guys from Rodrick’s van, Rodrick’s friends.
Cautiously, I rolled down my window and glanced around for any sign of Rodrick, but he was nowhere to be found. The two guys glared at me, their frowns sinking into their faces and their eyes dark and almost hollow.
“Um…Can I help you?” I asked tartly.
“You Jenny Tyler, yeah?” Ferret-Face said.
“Yeah…?”
“We got a problem.”
My head cocked back and my eyebrows knit tight together. My mind reeled with wonderings of any possible encounter I’d had with these wannabe metalheads. But, nothing came up. All I could remember them from was the crude way they’d spoken to me and the way they’d referred to me as ‘Rodrick’s girlfriend’.
“Problem?” I continued.
“Yeah, you see,” Ferret-Face said and leaned his arm against the side of the car, bringing his face and his Hot Cheeto-scented breath closer my way, “Rodrick’s our friend. Nah, he’s more than that. He’s our brother. But, more importantly, he’s the hardcore life and soul of Löded Diper.”
“I’m confused how life and soul is the more important thing—”
“Nah, it’s not, cuz he’s like a bro but he’s still the leader of the band and a rocker and all that and…Ah, shit. I forgot where I was going with this…”
The stringy blonde-haired guy leaned over and whispered into his ear, and Ferret-Face quickly nodded, regaining his thoughts as few as they may be.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…I got it. Look,” he said, turning back to me, “the problem is that Rodrick can’t do the rockin’ if he’s doing the talkin’.”
Okay, now I’m really confused.
“What?” I stressed, twisting my face in utter bewilderment.
The blonde guy spoke up from behind Ferret-Face, saying, “Rodrick keeps talking about you during band practice. We can’t get through ‘Devil’s Diper’ or ‘Diper Overlöde’ without him bringing up how cool Jenny is or how she smells like vanilla and…gum, I think. It’s getting ridiculous. He even missed band practice on Friday for no reason—”
“No, that was because…” I stopped myself, remembering how desperate Rodrick was to hide his dyslexia, “…because he had something important to do.”
Ferret-Face slapped the other guy on the arm and hissed to him, “See? I knew this was cuz of her.” He turned back to me, his face twisted and bitter. “Rodrick doesn’t have time for a girlfriend. Löded Diper keeps him busy enough, so just back off.”
“Guys, I admire how dedicated you are to your band. I definitely understand that…” I hesitated and coughed into my hand. “I mean, I can imagine how upset you are. But, I am not Rodrick’s girlfriend.”
Ferret-Face pointed a finger at me and threatened me with his heavy Hot Cheeto-breath, “Keep it that way. Cuz the more you’re around him, the more you’ll be seeing us, Tyler.”
After a few more seconds of confusedly intense glaring, the two guys skulked away from my car. I didn’t realize I’d been gripping the steering wheel until I noticed how white my knuckles had become. The pit of my stomach was a bundle of nerves and shards of glass I tried not to walk on. Rodrick talked about me. He thought I was cool…A silly smile teased on my lips and I covered it up with my palm. My nose traveled to my wrist and I inhaled deeply. Vanilla and gum…
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