I take a butterfly-printed pad of paper out of my book bag and a feathery pen. I rip out a sheet and begin writing.
I write until my hand is sore, until I can no longer think of anymore rules.
I re-read the list, pretty content with the results.
RULES
1. 880 calories a day, at the max. 500 preferred.
2. Eat enough food to fool everybody.
3. If the maximum intake is exceeded, water for the rest of the day.
4. Recite incarnations to keep the voices away.
I shutter the notebook away. Good timing, too, because seconds later I hear “Emily!” from the bottom of the stairwell.
“I’ll be down in a sec!” I scream back, hopping off my bed.
Heavy footsteps resonate in the downstairs hallway. Seconds later, I hear the sizzle of a frying pan.
I trail down the stairwell, slowly walking into the kitchen. Dad’s standing at the stove, tossing a hunk of greasy butter into the pan. Gross. God knows what else will go into that pan…
I pull out a chair from the table. Dad turns to me. “Emily, can you get me the milk?”
I roll my eyes and step towards the fridge. I haul open the door and a screaming chorus of food calls me. Just the milk… I tell myself, as my hand navigates around meat, butter, and other delicious items.
No. Passing him the milk will be fine; no one gets fat from that. I pass it to him, nearly knocking the container onto the floor.
“Thank you.” He says. “Hey – is everything alright?”
I freeze. “Why would you think everything wasn’t? I’m just a bit tired.”
“Okay…” The 2-percent milk splashes into the glass bowl that’s standing next to the stove.
“Wait,” I stop him. “Why are you cooking? Don’t you remember what happened the last time?”
He laughs. “I’ve been practicing. The food channel is a great teacher.” He scrambles scrambles, scrambles.
Finally, he slides two gooey omelettes onto plates. He passes one to me. I wince and lay it on the table, sinking into my chair.
I stare at my plate. Egg-smell bubbles into my ears, mouth, nose. I divide the omelette into two, four, six pieces. Dad watches carefully as I lift a forkful into my mouth.
It burns my tongue. I drink some water before stabbing the omelette again.
“Are you hungry?” Dad raises his fork at my plate.
“I am… it’s just that…” I trail off, raising the fork to the conveyor belt again, chug, chug, chug.
I bite through some more, and then excuse myself from the table.
Six bites of omelette = 23 calories.
------------------------------------------------------------
“Emily, breakfast’s ready!” Dad yells. I hear noises from the kitchen. I roll my eyes and turn to the mirror.
The fragile princess on the other side blinks her deep blue eyes, pouts and sighs miserably.
I snap out of it, and stomp down the stairs. I smell more delicious scents wafting from the kitchen, but no smoke.
I carefully pad into the room, where Dad is grinning from ear-to-ear. He’s holding a pan in his grip.
“Uh oh…” I mutter. “What’d you burn down this time?”
His grin actually widens. “I cooked – again!” He exclaims.
“Okay, well… congratulations.” I say absently, as I take a bowl from the cupboard. I set it next to the pot on the stove and peer into it – bubbling oatmeal.
I’ve always hated oatmeal.
I spoon some into the bowl, and put it on the table. Dad’s eyes lock on my hand reaching for my spoon.
I force the cement mix into my mouth, swallowing without tasting. Swallow, swallow, swallow.
The beads click in my abacus. A bowl of oatmeal = 150. My hand drops to my waistband, where it closes around my stomach.
Do I really need this? Will this start hacking at my calorie count? Don’t want to exceed it…
“I’m… uh… not all that hungry.” I lie, my stomach growling in protest. I wince at the noise.
“Well, someone seems to think otherwise.” Dad observes, his eyes falling to my stomach.
“Okay, fine… I’ll eat some more.” I grit my teeth as I reach for a bowl.
Dad’s eyes lock on my hand as I reach for my spoon. I stare into my bowl and slowly lift the spoon to my lips. Steam boils around my face.
“I… can’t.” The spoon clatters to the table. I start to push my chair from the table.
“Emily… Are you sure?” He raises an eyebrow. “You used to love oatmeal with strawberries on top. Hey, I think I have some in the fridge…”
I shake my head. “No, it’s okay. I’m fine, I’m not hungry yet.”
Food has calories, and calories will make me a fat-fat-fatty.
