Page 9 of Picture Perfect

I don't even know what I ate to cause the gain. Shame maybe? My thoughts drift momentarily back to Dre and his lips on mine.

"I don't know how you expect to keep your figure if you can't even maintain a double zero size," Cheryl scolds. "Do you want to end up some obese, sad sack of a girl?"

I bite my tongue until I taste blood, choking back angry words I know better than to speak. I want to scream that there's nothing wrong with being overweight, not that I am. That I'm already a sad sack of a girl, miserable and unhealthy. Instead I simply nod and apologize for the inexcusable crime of gaining half a pound, likely water weight.

She sighs, as if dealing with the most unreasonable child. "I think we'll start with juice cleanses for the next three days," she declares. "And double your exercise regimen until you shed this weight. Honestly, all that money spent on your gown and glam, wasted on such an ungrateful, undisciplined girl."

I nod meekly and step off the scale, smoothing my protruding hip bones self-consciously. Inside, I weep for the girl wasting away in this house of nightmares. But on the outside, I obediently start planning my additional workout. A fraction of an ounce heavier, and still nothing but skin and bones.

And with that, she turns on her heels and leaves me shivering and vulnerable in her wake. I want to scream after her that I am more than a dress size or number on a scale. That no matter how perfect I look on the outside—and I would hardly call this perfect, I’m borderline emaciated—it could never make up for how broken I am within. But instead, I swallow my words and begin to dress, steeling myself for three more days of misery.

I feel the familiar numbness wash over me as I steel myself for another day. I let the hurt, fear and anger drain from my body, focusing only on breathing steadily. My face relaxes into a neutral expression, blank and unreadable. I am a statue, motionless and emotionless.

As I get ready, I avoid the mirror. I don't want to see the deadness in my eyes, like a doll's glassy stare. Moving through the motions, each action is mechanical and detached. Wash face. Brush teeth. Comb hair. Nothing elicits joy or sadness.

As I choose my outfit from the rows of high-end perfection, I give a grateful sigh that I'm at least allowed to choose how I want my nails. To a degree anyway. It’s the only place on my body where my personality—whatever that was—has a chance to shine.

At breakfast, I eat slowly, tasting nothing of the cottage cheese mixture. The threats and criticisms swirl around me but never penetrate my armor. I am untouchable in my shroud of apathy. When I speak, my voice is monotone, robotic and hollow. My body is a shell, my spirit in hibernation.

This is how I survive. By freezing my emotions, smothering my humanity. I lower my gaze, nod obediently to instructions. A compliant automaton. Better to be an empty vessel than break under the anguish I cannot show. And so I wear this mask of indifference, my only defense against complete despair.

??????

I glide through the polished halls of Saint Ignatius High alone, not that anyone would realize it. Flanking me are Sera and Penelope, carefully selected friends from prominent families my parents approve of. To the outside, we appear an enviable trio—beautiful, pedigreed, elite.

But there’s no true camaraderie between us. They tolerate me to elevate their own status, hoping my Winthrop name will open doors. As for me, I gain nothing but the illusion of belonging.

"Ugh, I'm so tired," Sera complains as we reach my locker. "Daddy is dragging us to the lake house again this weekend. It's going to suck."

"At least you'll get a tan," Penelope says. "We're stuck going to my mom's stuffy gala on Saturday."

Their mundane chatter fades to background noise as I retrieve my books. Part of me aches with loneliness, but I learned long ago not to let anyone too close. My life is too full of facades and secrets. It hurts to be anything more than the pretty little doll my family purchased.

"What about you, Addy?" Sera asks, more out of obligation than interest. "Any big plans?"

I plaster on the expected smile. "The usual—tennis lessons, studying. Maybe brunch with my parents on Sunday." My real weekend will be spent locked in my bedroom, enduring weigh-ins and scrutinizing mirrors. But I would never confess that truth.

As I close my locker, I catch a glimpse of Dre at the end of the hall, blue eyes piercing me even at a distance. A tremor of excitement ripples through me. I wonder if he can see past the act, to the girl crying out in isolation. But I quickly avert my gaze. Such fantasies only led to ruin.

With a smile and air kisses, we part ways for the next period. The halls clear, but I remain adrift in my friendless bubble. In truth, I’m alone at Saint Ignatius...just as I’m alone everywhere else. But maintaining appearances is all that matters.

Thankfully the morning passes in a monotonous blur of classes. I go through the motions on autopilot, speaking when spoken to and completing my work diligently. But my traitorous mind keeps returning to the gala last night—the heat of Dre's touch, the hunger in his icy eyes. A dormant part of me strains against its chains, tempted to pursue that provocative danger.

When the lunch bell rings, I make my way to the bustling cafeteria. I enviously watch my classmates heap their trays with pizza, sandwiches, fries—forbidden indulgences I crave but am denied. I haven’t had bread in years… All I carry is a bottle of cucumber-mint water, part of the meticulously planned juice cleanse Cheryl has prescribed this week.

As I approach my usual table, I see Preston practically draped over Cecily Burke, shooting daggers at me with his eyes. I’m not jealous in the slightest—if anything, I’m relieved. It will be a respite from his pawing hands and sloppy kisses. But clearly he’s trying to punish me for last night's perceived slight.

I sit down calmly, ignoring the theatrics unfolding before me. "Hello Preston, Cecily," I greet with perfect poise, taking a ladylike sip of my water.

"Oh don't mind us, Ice Princess," Preston sneers. "We know you're as frigid as the Arctic." Cecily titters stupidly.

I meet his anger with indifference, which only frustrates him more. Inside, I smile. His wounded ego is not my concern. All I want is to sip my water in peace without his meaty hands upon me.

The bell rings, sending students scurrying to class. As Cecily drags a fuming Preston away, I make my escape. In an unused classroom, stashed behind a dusty bookcase, is a box of granola bars—contraband I had hoarded to keep myself going when Cheryl's diets left me faint from hunger.

As I eat one now, savoring each bite, I think of Dre's smoldering eyes at the gala. Perhaps it's foolish, but something in his darkness called to my own. I’m tired of merely surviving. For the first time, I want to live. I doubted Dre was my way out. He was only indulging me to get under Preston’s skin, but still.

I’m hurriedly stuffing the granola bar wrapper in my bag when the classroom door suddenly swings open. I whirl around, heart leaping into my throat, and come face to face with an unexpected visitor. Chess Ortega.

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