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  Christie bit into her cheeseburger said, “I’ve been here three years, and barely scratched the surface of the place.”

  “You really like it here.”

  “I do. It’s rich. There’s something cool behind every door.”

  Cara smiled. This had been just what she’d needed. Getting a cool perspective on a strange new place made it feel more warm and welcoming. It took her mind away from her troubles and stresses in a way that didn’t involve stomach acids burning the lining of her upper digestive system.

  She sipped her drink and nibbled at her food. As she took a bite of her pizza slice, she realized how large it was. This wasn’t a 300-calorie slice. More like 450. So half a slice would be 225, making the lunch total…725 calories. Nearly half a day’s allotment.

  Crap.

  She was so hungry, though. They’d been walking around all morning, and she got the impression they were going to walk around more after lunch. She needed energy. She wondered how many calories were burned per hour of walking. Maybe she could find equilibrium that way?

  The pizza just tasted so good. She wanted another slice. She wanted to eat all the dessert items they had. It was an all-you-can-eat buffet, so it wasn’t like last night, where she rang up a suspiciously high number of purchases on her parents’ credit card. She wondered how she’d explain that. Maybe she could say she wanted to buy snacks for all her friends? Would that fly?

  She looked around to see where the bathroom was on the third level where they were sitting. Still didn’t see one.

  She took another bite of her pizza and estimated the amount that was left. Looked like about 300 calories. Okay, this was easily solved. She looked at Christie, who was focused on her own meal—a huge plate of General Tso’s Chicken—and lifted up her napkin to her mouth and pretended to wipe her lips. She then discreetly spat her mouthful of pizza in there and brought it down to her lap, balled up.

  Cara then took another sip of her soda.

  “I saw that,” said Christie, whose eyes were still on her plate.

  “What?”

  Christie took another bite of her sweet and spicy chicken dish. “Your little sleight-of-hand with the ABC pizza. I saw that.”

  “ABC?”

  “Already been chewed.”

  Cara’s heart raced. She’d been spotted. She was exposed. She’d never been caught before. “What do you mean? You…but…”

  Christie stared at her.

  Cara slumped. “Yeah, you got me. How did you know?”

  Christie took another bite of her Chinese food, closed her eyes, leaned back. “You know I was twenty pounds lighter when I was a first year here?”

  Cara shook her head. “That’s not common knowledge.”

  “Ha-ha,” Christie said and took a sip of her non-diet soda. “I’ve put on a few pounds. I exceeded the Freshman Fifteen. But I’m happier now.”

  “You can be kind of a jerk, too.”

  “How so?”

  “Condescending nicknames. Everything you said about microaggressions and townies yesterday.”

  Christie shrugged. “I say abrasive things now and then. Sometimes I push people away. Nobody’s perfect.” She leaned forward. “But I haven’t binged-and-purged in years. How about you?”

  Cara laughed uneasily. “I don’t…I haven’t…”

  Christie leaned back again. “I’m not here to bust you. I’m not your mom. But I’m gonna guess you didn’t get stoned with your roommate last night?”

  “No.”

  “And you didn’t go out and drink?”

  “No.”

  “So you were extra-groggy this morning because…?”

  Cara didn’t respond.

  Christie shrugged. “This isn’t an interrogation. You’re free to go any time. But I recognize your behavior.”

  “You do?”

  “Yep.” She pointed at Cara’s plate. “How many calories is that?”

  Cara sighed. “650. At least, that was my original estimate. I think it’s actually closer to 725.”

  Christie nodded. “And that’s why you spat out that chunk of food.”

  “Right.”

  “And how many calories did you have for breakfast?”

  “200.”

  “And how many calories did you eat yesterday?”

  Cara opened her mouth, then stopped. “I don’t know.”

  “Really? That’s a surprise.”

  “Well, it’s—I lost track. I had some, lost some.”

  “Ah, one of those days.”

  “I hadn’t done it in months!”

  Christie nodded. “And you can quit any time you want, right?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Question: Do you identify more as anorexic or bulimic?”

  “Neither! I’m just calorie-conscious. Trying to stay healthy. I mean, our nation is in the midst of an obesity epidemic. The American diet is—”

  “Yeah, yeah. That’s all noise. What the American population is doing on a macro level has nothing to do with you. There is nothing wrong with watching what you eat and exercising. It’s when you make that your sole life focus, you start screwing yourself up.”

  “It’s not my…”

  “How much time a day do you spend thinking about it? Are you ever not aware of exactly how many calories you’ve consumed?”

  Cara shrugged. “I just want to be healthy.”

  “What you’re doing is not healthy. There are other ways.”

  Cara tried to articulate her thoughts. Tried to justify herself. Thought of insults she could fire back.

  Christie shook her head. “Look, I passed out at my first party here.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. And alcohol had nothing to do with it. I mean—I had one can of Bud. That’s it. I passed out because I hadn’t eaten anything all day. I didn’t drink more than a glass of water the entire day, either. I wanted to look good at the party, and I didn’t want any extra pounds on me. That included water weight. I worked out really hard earlier that day, sweating off a pound or two of moisture on an exercise bike. Didn’t eat or drink anything afterward. So yeah, I had a low-cut shirt, an awesome purple skirt, and no gas in my tank. I got out there and started trying to dance, then whited out and collapsed after a few seconds.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, shorter than your average bull ride.”

  “You said whited out. Don’t you mean blacked out?”

  “No, my vision faded to white, then I was gone.”

  “Were you okay?”

  “I saw God.”

  “What?”

  Christie waved dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. Everyone laughed, figured I’d just had way too much to drink, and I was carried over to a nearby couch. I was unconscious for a few minutes, then I came to and someone handed me a bottle of water. By that point, they figured I was dehydrated. They didn’t know I’d starved myself, too.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “I’m pressing you on this. You saw God?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I had one of those clichéd out-of-body experiences where I felt like I was rising outside myself, and everything got really bright. And a voice basically told me to get my act together.”

  “Huh. God told you to stop starving yourself?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. That was a long time ago. I believed it at the time.”

  “So you turned things around after that?”

  “Nope. I’d starved myself to the point of maybe dying, yet I still kept under-nourishing myself for a few months after that. I really hit rock bottom one night and freaked out on everyone. I’d rather not talk about that.”

  Cara wanted to press her on that. Maybe another time. “So you started eating whatever you wanted after that?”

  “Change never happens overnight. I kept counting calories. I kept working out more than I needed to. I puked a few more times.”

  �
�Jeez.”

  “Glamorous, right? Humans are dumb. Sometimes we just get smacked in the face over and over with our own stupidity, and we still don’t change. Like I kept punching myself in the stomach over and over and going ‘Ow’ and wondering why my belly hurt all the time.”

  “So I’m doomed to keep going like this, unless if I have a life-changing experience. And even then, I might not change?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Everything takes time. You have a reserve of willpower. You have to figure out how to allocate it.”

  Cara frowned. “You don’t have some magic bullet for me?”

  “I’ve heard hypnosis helps. But only if you want it to. I was just pretty darn stubborn and had to take some time for myself and work through my issues, figure out new ways to deal with life.”

  “And what have you figured out?”

  “Not a whole lot. But overeating at meals and then puking it up is a waste of time. And obsessing over the arbitrary number of calories in what I eat is a waste of thought.”

  “I already knew that.”

  “Yeah, but knowing and understanding are different and blah, blah, blah. Find something you care about and focus on that instead of food.”

  “Like Faulkner?”

  “Exactly like Faulkner. For me, history is my passion. I redirected my energy from food to learning everything I can about this town and this school. Still don’t care much for global or national history, but this place holds my interest.”

  “I never cared for history.”

  “So study writing and storytelling, then.”

  “Easier said than done,” said Cara.

  “I know. I know. Look around you.”

  “Huh?”

  “Look at the students sitting at the tables around us here in this cafeteria.”

  Cara did so. Several dozen young men and women from a variety of races and ethnicities.

  “What do you see?” Christie asked.

  Cara shrugged. “A bunch of people who have their act together much better than me.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Wrong?”

  “None of them know what they’re doing, either. I always thought everyone else knew what they were doing and had some big plan or secret, and I was the only one adrift and not knowing my purpose.”

  Cara said nothing.

  Christie pointed around. “But you talk to any one of these people—or anyone anywhere—and you’ll be surprised and delighted by how completely oblivious they are. We’re just moist robots doing the best we can with our programming.”

  Cara laughed. “So is there some way I can reprogram myself about eating?”

  “Maybe. Just change your habits. Different techniques work for different people. Therapy might help. Whatever works.”

  “I just feel so embarrassed. I mean, I haven’t even told my parents about this. Or any friends. Definitely not my boyfriend.”

  Christie bit her lip. “Is your boyfriend, uh…does he make comments about your weight?”

  “No. Not exactly. I sometimes feel like he does, but it’s always indirect. And he works as a lifeguard at a pool.”

  “Oh, he’s staring at hotties in bikinis all day? No wonder you’re a nervous wreck.”

  Cara rolled her eyes. “Not helpful.”

  “Sorry, just…I get where you’re coming from, is all I’m saying. Other people have been where you are too.”

  “I’m not some kind of pathetic, traumatized victim. I just…I have no excuse for what I do.”

  “It’s not something you should try to excuse. Or justify. It’s a dysfunction. Treat it as such. Did you know there are online groups that will help support and enable bulimia or anorexia?”

  Cara nodded. “I’ve been down some weird rabbit holes online when I tried to find other people going through what I’m going through. There’s some disturbed minds out there.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that. Encouraging self-harm like it’s some kind of a virtue…just pisses me off.”

  “But…” Cara tried to articulate her final defense. “What about drunk frat boys? Or partiers in general?”

  “What about them?”

  “They throw up.”

  Christie laughed. “Yeah, because they drink too much. It’s not a goal.”

  “No, I mean…I’ve heard that hard partiers will intentionally make themselves throw up to make room for more alcohol.”

  Christie narrowed her eyes. “Did you see the movie King Frat?”

  “Never even heard of it.”

  “Well, just trust me. It’s not as common as you think. No one in their right mind uses puking as a standard tactic to aid excessive alcohol consumption.”

  “But for those that do—why isn’t that frowned on the same way that girls’ binging and purging is?”

  Christie thought that over. “Because drunk partiers are one thing. Sober-minded people are another. We have access to food. This is a first world country. Wasting it is stupid.”

  Cara looked around at the people around them again. None of them knew what they were doing, either. What an oddly comforting thought.

  Christie leaned forward. “You don’t have to spiral. You don’t have to hate yourself. You don’t have to hit rock bottom before you change.”

  Cara nodded.

  Christie leaned back again. “All right, finish your lunch. Then let’s explore some more.”

  “Okay.”

  “And don’t spit any more of it in your napkin.”

  “I won’t.”

  Chapter 12

  Christie showed Cara a ton of other cool stuff after that, but it was anticlimactic after having someone give her a reality check on her eating disorder.

  But Cara did her best to share Christie’s enthusiasm for the Fralin Museum, billboards covered with lists of concerts over the next few months, and art installations lining the walls of New Cabell and Rouss/Robertson Hall.

  While looking at a long hallway full of artfully designed old computer hard drives, Cara remarked, “It’s like you could spend all your time exploring this place and still find something new.”

  “You could! This isn’t a huge city, but it jams a huge amount of culture in. There’s a really supportive art and music community here. Local bands play in restaurants and bars every night, in addition to pop-up art exhibits all over the Downtown Mall.”

  Cara was overwhelmed with the sights, sounds, smells, and educational opportunities. It was everything she wanted in a university. It was everything she wanted in life.

  And it might even be enough to take her mind off her little problem.

  They walked up the Lawn together again, and after Christie explained the proper process for streaking—it didn’t count unless you kiss the Homer statue, Cara saw Bill walking toward them.

  She checked her watch. It was almost two, and she had a couple hours left before she had to report to the academic advisors. “Is there anything else you wanted to show me?” she asked Christie.

  “No. I mean, there’s stuff you could see. Like the hidden attics and boiler rooms that are legally accessible here and there. I’ll let you find those on your own.”

  “Okay, I, uh…”

  Christie looked over and saw Bill, who recognized Cara and gave her a wave as he approached.

  Cara waved back, and Christie said, “Oh. Gotcha. You want me to take a hike so you can get your flirt on.”

  “No! That’s not—”

  “You said you have a boyfriend, right?”

  “Yeah…I mean, yes! Of course! Bill’s just a cool guy I hit it off with. I’d just like to visit with him.”

  “Then please do! You should be getting to know as many people here as possible.”

  Cara frowned. “I think I dropped the ball there. Only people I connected with are you, Bill, and my stoner roommate.”

  “I’m all you need,” Christie said with a wink. “See you around, champ.”

 
; Cara started to respond, but Christie was already several feet away. Then Bill came up and started walking alongside her.

  “So how you liking the college so far?” he asked.

  “Ups and downs! But there’s a lot of cool things going on here. My RA just took me on a grand tour of grounds and showed me that there was…a lot of new stuff for me to see. New ways to look at things. I’m…looking forward to it. How about you? Have any luck, uh…finding a good fraternity?”

  Bill winced.

  “I dunno. It’s…it was weird. I mean…never mind. How about that whole class selection process thing? Did you already meet your advisors?”

  Cara shook her head. “Nah, got a couple hours to kill before I do that. I don’t want to press you, but…sometimes talking about uncomfortable things can help. What about the frat? What was weird about it?”

  He laughed. “You really want to hear about it?”

  “I kinda do.”

  “You’re not scared of stories about boys behaving badly?”

  “Mostly just curious. I mean—there will be 20,000 students here. Good chance you’ll never see me again after this orientation session. Might as well vent with me. I won’t judge you.”

  “You make a good sales pitch there. Speaking of sales pitches, that’s basically what it was.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, it wasn’t a party at all. More like this time-share presentation I went to with my parents this one time in Hilton Head.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. Lots of it was stereotypical. Beer pong table, ping pong balls hanging from the ceiling. Skee-ball. Pool table. The usual. Pretty filthy outside, empty pizza boxes and beer cans. Cheap snacks inside and a cooler full of sodas.”

  “Okay, that’s a shocker. Soda?”

  “Exactly. Tall white guy in charge said it was a tradition not to drink the night before Midsummers.”

  “Ah, the big party tonight.”

  “Right. So we all sat down, and the dude asked us if we’ve read Confessions of an Ivy League Frat Boy.”

  Cara had heard of that one, but had no interest in reading it. So she nodded.

  “I had indeed read it, and said so. He proceeded to debunk most of its claims, like the weird hazing stuff.”

  “Like eating gross food and having to pick up eggs with your butt cheeks?”